Blogs are deceptively hard to write. Trust me. I’ve re-written the same introduction at least a half dozen times, traumatized my pets on as many occasions, and gone through a pot of tea. With that said, welcome to the preliminary post of Arsenic, Spite and Old Scars.
Writing introductions to new readers is a lot like
introductions at support groups. Hi, I’m Tatum and I’m a writer. There are days
when saying that feels like I’m admitting that I’ve done or said something
awful. Given enough time and motivation I probably have. Filters are few and
far between in my world and all my stories start in the middle.
I seldom take my own advice, even when I know the results
will be socially off-putting. Pretty girls shouldn’t write the things I do, but
I’m like Vivienne Leigh without the consumption. Jury’s still out on the insanity part.
I write the sort of things that make normal people want to
shower after reading. I don’t mean to, but I do. There’s a beauty in the
grotesque that only some of us can see. It’s not that I’m rejecting literary
concepts like love or sunshine and puppies. In fact, the sun always shines on
the graves in my work, the puppies are werewolves, and love- well, I tackled
that one with a grief stricken mortician giving her lover one hell of a send
off. Yes, this is the infamous necrophilia piece and I am its author.
Just like those awkward moments at support meetings, I’m
going to tell you something else I don’t tend to share. As a writer, I’m afraid
of myself. Speculative fiction allows me to take risks and experiment, but I
always hold myself back just a little. It’s in my horror/romance lovechild that
I let myself go bananas and create with reckless abandoned. As a result, when
playing submittal roulette, I tend to receive rejection letters asking, “What
the hell is wrong with you?” This was actually asked of me. I framed it.
There are times when I wish I could be the hearts and
flowers kind of writer, but then I finish sharpening my machete and remember
that I’m the kind of writer that frequently takes a hard left at reality and
just keeps going. What’s to stop me? The question of could versus should doesn’t
trouble me. Much. When it does, I drown it with more coffee. Always more
coffee. Let me give you another example and maybe then you’ll truly understand
why I tell people I’m one cat shy of being ‘Willard.’
Sure there are consequences to what I do, but learning to
accept them is like living with your demons and loving them nonetheless. Mine
even have names and they come out to play often. I wouldn’t be who I am or
write what I do without them. In your personal life the trick is to find
someone that loves your scars because theirs match. When it comes to writing,
you find the world is lonelier. Letting people in makes it better and reminds
me that there are in fact still people that find things like cannibalism
charming. (Remember to pass the Chianti.)
So, please enjoy the ride. Lord knows I will.
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