The Ingenious Mind of a Staged Schizophrenic

If you are keeping up with my blog, you should know that I actually have disciplined myself enough to begin writing a semi-autobiographical novel. It's autobiographical in the sense that I'm going to use many stories from my own life to write this book but of course, it's not my life.

I find that writing from personal experience and turning it into a novel is actually a lot harder than just writing a fictional story. It's harder to put the pieces of the puzzle together since there is so much to remember and it's hard to maintain the authenticity of the emotions and thoughts when many of my experiences have become distant memories.

Although my novel is not the topic for today, as I mentioned, I will continuously update my readers regarding my current projects. I have decided to rename my novel (and by the time I finish writing it, I'll probably rename it one hundred times over). I decided that I was going to develop a more cynical voice for the main character as opposed to a lyrical one like I posted in my previous entries. I started rewritting it, although, I still will use the exerts that I previously posted but they will be included in a different sequence in the novel.

So far, this is how I rewrote the beginning:

Title: The Ingenious Mind of a Staged Schizophrenic

"I thought the therapists would be my savior. I thought that they could help me. I thought that they could give me some understanding as to why things were the way they were. I wanted to stop escaping the world by living through other people’s eyes. I wanted my perspective to take hold of the reality that was in front of me. I wanted to be free. Most importantly, I wanted them to tell me that I was crazy…to give me some reason for the disparity between me and everyone else. Diagnosis: Sane. Was I crazy or was I just a good actress?

Despicable. Taunted. Ostracized. Trauma. Unrequited. Suzanne Vega’s Small Blue Thing. Insanity. I stared infinitely at the blank page that lay before me as the task that Dr. McCorbin gave me reverberated through my head…using the front of a page only, describe the most elusive memories of your childhood. One page? All I needed were five words.

12:43. I had been staring at this vacant space for the past forty minutes and the only expression that intertwined the uncharted depths of my dysfunctional psyche were nothing but a string of liberal spirals and uncolored hearts along the margins to replace the indistinct and sordid discussion of my past. In less than twenty minutes, I would have an ill at ease face-off with Dr. McCorbin who I mockingly referred to simply as Jane.

Last week’s writing attempt ended in a nineteen-year-old’s two-year-old temper tantrum where I attempted to obstinately fume out of Jane’s wonderful violet and beige world of psycho babble only to be gently pulled back by the arms and led into a prayer. What could I possibly write in ten minutes that would keep me from subjecting myself to more Kumbaya? The laughableness of Christian counseling was far from astounding. After all, who is supreme enough to be mediator when you are beefing with God, Yahweh, the man upstairs?"


I will post today's topic later on tonight...right now I'm working on my writing....