Been thinking about the breakthroughs I had while writing Hell Chose Me.
Nothing major, just the weird realization that I put a lot more of me into that book than I originally intended. Isn’t that sort of the way it should work, though? We take what we love and embrace and the only way to really make it our own is to inject our love or happiness or pain into it.
I mean, holy hell, the way Bryan describes his grandfather? The things he consumed because of the man? All me, my friends.
Hell, my grandfather’s name was Marcelo – take a wild guess how long it took me to find the proper spelling of the Irish version?
Anyway, writing about those things – my grandfather, my relationship with my mother and my brother – some of the most difficult and strange moments of my life were at a keyboard bathed in the light of this damn screen and realizing through revision how many things I’d never properly worked through before. There’s a lot of anger and sadness and confusion and that can lead to so many negative things, but to be honest, it all led to something I felt was healthy.
I’m absolutely never going to be “okay” but I’m a lot better now than I was when I started writing Hell Chose Me.
That’s pretty big.