I’m in the middle of a story. In the middle of writing one I mean. I just had to take a quick break to tell you of the most surreal experience I have been having with this story. An article caught my eye last week as pages of newspapers rolled by on film. It was the story of a man who at the time was on death row in South Africa. What made me stop and read the story, although it was completely irrelevant to the subject of my research, was the headshot of the convicted ‘felon.’ He was so young and so sad!
Subsequent research revealed that he was perhaps 24 years old at the time, but he looked 17 at most. His eyes were so sad, like the lame dog in my story (which by the way actually existed). I printed out the article and re-read it last night whilst sitting in my favourite comfy chair facing the massive windows that give an excellent view of the mountains. Suddenly, I started to feel like this man. I started to live him. I’ve always written for the sake of the story. I want to tell a story and I tell it, but it’s always been about the story for me. Last night it was about the man who I was attempting to immortalise with my words. Later that night I was sitting on a park bench, taking a break from my story and thinking the usual melange of thoughts that run through this crazy head: am I really letting my hair go natural? What is the meaning of life? I need money. What am I going to write in my letter to my son?
Screeching halt! I have a son? Why am I writing to him? Becasue I’m a man on death row and I want him to know why I’m here and that he must never give up the fight we have started. Is this what a multiple personality disorder feels like? Was that guy in my class right when he said he read somewhere that 90% of all writers have mental issues? No matter! All I know is that I have become this man. I’ve researched into his life and seen pictures of where he lived. Between last night and now, I have eaten, slept and breathed James Mange, and I’m not sure I want to die.
I got up from the park bench to head back to my room and on the way I was chased by two mad skunks. I turn twenty on Sunday and there is no way I will be smelling like skunk juice then. 90% of all writers huh? I like to think I’m in the 10% 
I'm in the middle of a story. In the middle of writing one I mean. I just had to take a quick break to tell you of the most surreal experience I have been having with this story. An article caught my eye last week as pages of newspapers rolled by on film. It was the story of a man who at the time was on death row in South Africa. What made me stop and read the story, although it was completely irrelevant to the subject of my research, was the headshot of the convicted 'felon.' He was so young and so sad!
Subsequent research revealed that he was perhaps 24 years old at the time, but he looked 17 at most. His eyes were so sad, like the lame dog in my story (which by the way actually existed). I printed out the article and re-read it last night whilst sitting in my favourite comfy chair facing the massive windows that give an excellent view of the mountains. Suddenly, I started to feel like this man. I started to live him. I've always written for the sake of the story. I want to tell a story and I tell it, but it's always been about the story for me. Last night it was about the man who I was attempting to immortalise with my words. Later that night I was sitting on a park bench, taking a break from my story and thinking the usual melange of thoughts that run through this crazy head: am I really letting my hair go natural? What is the meaning of life? I need money. What am I going to write in my letter to my son?
Screeching halt! I have a son? Why am I writing to him? Becasue I'm a man on death row and I want him to know why I'm here and that he must never give up the fight we have started. Is this what a multiple personality disorder feels like? Was that guy in my class right when he said he read somewhere that 90% of all writers have mental issues? No matter! All I know is that I have become this man. I've researched into his life and seen pictures of where he lived. Between last night and now, I have eaten, slept and breathed James Mange, and I'm not sure I want to die.
I got up from the park bench to head back to my room and on the way I was chased by two mad skunks. I turn twenty on Sunday and there is no way I will be smelling like skunk juice then. 90% of all writers huh? I like to think I'm in the 10% :-)
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