NOTES FROM THE “AUTHOR”
This Novella and its overarching creative process were catalyzed after a personal tragedy, having left me in a highly dissociated, psychotically reactive state in which I could do nothing other than write.
I cannot take credit for the artistic merit behind the invention of these Notes. Truthfully, I spent no time scheming, crafting, or mapping out a narrative structure… nope, none at all… for upon that break, this entire tale – its dialogue, themes, and the intertwining tapestry of symbols – each of them, in totality, were made known to me in an instant. A transient distillation, snatched out of thin air. Therefore, the only material factors restricting my composition of this story were the physical speed & time constraints under which this literary essence could pour through me. The scene was known in completion, from the very beginning; and so, these Notes might be considered akin to a singular, fleeting whisper. An artifact of subjectivity, a remnant of dissociated conflict between the temporal and cerebral. I will not venture to elaborate on some grand diagnoses. Rather, it should be clear – upon sufficient engagement with and apprehension of this book’s (true) intended nature – exactly the sort of lines that are blurred when one attempts to neatly categorize and interpret certain psychosis-induced experiential states.
I estimate my original draft of ~ 24,000 words to have been written within 72 hours’ time: straight-lined, in an obsessive, stream-of-consciousness-style fashion over the course of a late summer weekend. This was followed by one or two lighter days of touching. Ultimately, this creative process was halted by my standard work / life / time restrictions having been precipitated by that following Monday, and effectively snapping me back into the “real world.” Winding down this frenzied mania, however, I correctly decided to distance myself from the creation. Surprisingly, I managed to forget about the whole ordeal for a while. Roughly a month later, however, after having been entirely removed from the experience as well as its corresponding headspace, I decided to sit down, strap in, and read through my narrative in full. My reaction after doing so might be accurately described as rather… distraught.
That weekend, I made the decision to complete whatever was necessary in order that I might morph this story into something cleaner, something potentially “readable.” This effort resulted in another briefly reactive state, although this instance seemed more “fluid” and less jarring; certainly nowhere close to the level of intensity characterizing my initial episode. Another ~ 8,000 words, in effect to help ground the narration through the addition of cleaner, more linearly anchored prose. These implementations hopefully serve to offer a rhythm of subtle contrast to the more viscously abstract sections of the book.
While this adjustment was originally intended to be my final touch, my kiss of completion, I consequently realized that despite having written these Notes myself, the conceptual density of the prose – especially as it unravels later in the narrative – still felt almost intractable. Opaque, at the very least; arguably reading as though it were intended as a spiteful, existential chore – though it is. Therefore, my second act upon revisiting these Notes came in the addition of another section altogether: the “extended notes” section. These ancillary notations do not alter the narrative in any material way, but rather aim to provide an optional ledge of respite for those (such as myself) who may inevitably seek some form of shade amidst the scathing density of prose.
At the time of and following my drafting this story, I had entirely imagined my behavior to be nothing more than an odd mode of cathartic expression. Yes, a reactive, chaotic mess of rambling delusion (and quite admittedly, it was); however, it also became clear to me that embedded within these rantings was a sort of strange cohesion, a unique and subconsciously manifested apex, a psychological synthesis beyond what I had ever imagined myself capable of producing. And now, I could not recreate the endeavor if I wanted to, if I had all the time in the world.
Throughout the ‘revision’ process (which was effectively just two consecutive weekends of obsessive immersion and self-isolation) I could not count the number of instances in which my immediate glance at a phrase, or a certain word, impulsively felt as though in error, only for me to eventually realize there had been a deeper intention behind the words, running beyond the level at which I was subconsciously engaging them. In other words, it was incredibly difficult – if not impossible – to edit or improve upon the nature of my initial writing removed from the immediate experience. Many of these layers carry a much deeper intentionality than even what I had readily observed on my first re-readthrough. Therefore, my rigid editorial strategy consisted of nothing other than effectively leaving the original source untouched, revising only as necessary in order to maximally ground and entrench the work’s conceptual breadth through use of an unintrusive, neutral backdrop.
Now, there are certain implications one must face upon entering and emerging from this state, and this novella can be acknowledged as my final articulation & memorialization of those implications. This was a sort of precision I had not imagined to exist. A mode of creation, beyond my capacity for description, and as stated, I could not even fathom doing it again.
This behavior more closely resembled a possession, a force reaching through me, in an effort to alchemize something beyond my understanding. I met this force, communed with this force, and now feel as though I have been used and wrung out as a vessel of something… cold, humbling, and deeply unforgiving. That is simply how it feels.
All I know, personally, is that I need to wash my hands clean from this nightmarish endeavor before the date of my 25th birthday. This surreal reckoning must be left with that self, and this has been clear since my realizing this book’s true nature.
Surrounding the creation of these Notes, I wrote rather little context meta, other than this description. No need, for these Notes are the purest, most chiseled expression of whatever ‘meta’ I could ever seek to provide. I do have art, sketches, and diagrams from the thick of the experience, although I think it may be best if those were kept in the archives for infinity.
If nothing else, I hope these Notes might serve as an example and demonstration around the sheer ineffability of certain mental ‘illnesses’. This, in addition to highlighting our truly abysmal lack of collective empathy/understanding surrounding individuals often prone to and consistently operating within these experiential states. If nothing else, my message is this: all these mental health labels, all these stigmas and assumptions… they are far from black and white.
Please know, as well, I am using the aptest labels at my disposal in an attempt to describe an ordeal that is nothing short of indescribable. I’m no scholar, I’m far from an academic, and I make no prescriptive claims as to the technical accuracy behind the artistic liberties taken within these Notes. Rather, every word is a tool, a brush, a precise and essential component of a deeply layered vision.
I’ll admit, there has been a recurring weight of denial, repression, and self-dismissal characterized in my efforts to make sense of this experience. I suspect there are others who might read my words and envision this ‘mania’ as something to idealize, to cast over it some veil of poetic, artistic rationalization. I believe this is a mistake. Understand, I am not “thrilled” that this is a vision having been incurred on me. In the weeks leading up to publicizing this whole ordeal, I genuinely was not sleeping, and abruptly discovered the rather critical role sleep plays for one’s health – physical and mental – as well as the truly wild experiential phenomena that emerge when one’s sleep is significantly neglected.
Now, at least there is something tangible. Something other than the fleeting memory of the impossible. Therefore, I might also suggest this story as a lens into the “truth” of what can result for those who walk this line of existential romanticism too closely.
Lastly: from this state, I arguably retained some insights, one of which being the definitive realization that raw literary instinct is often far ‘truer’ than the cleanest, most grammatically meticulous prose or mathematically constructed ‘narrative’ one could ever dream of algorithmizing. And remember: these experiences, this journey, and its resulting implications – they are not things one should aim to fit neatly into a box.
Good luck, and thank you for your valuable time.
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