Please Kill Me,
I’ve been having a tough time figuring out what to write lately. Like a lot of you, I had some big plans before this whole Covid-calamity—the unveiling of which has deemed much of my previous endeavor moot. No, I wasn’t planning some apocalyptic storyline (anymore). Neither was I too deeply invested in exploring the inner-workings of politics and ostensible corruption. Rather, my thoughts have changed. I’ll also assume that’s somewhat affected my creative “spark” (so to speak). The flame’s not gone. It’s just a different thing now.
I think it’s safe to say that everything is a different thing now. Prior to the last few months, society was already kind of on its hind legs, kicking and screaming, while we all watched. To be fair, there was nothing much that any of us could have done (other than #Vote). As perilous as the situation could be made to seem (and is), it was a time of relative consistency. The president’s a dick (sure, but the government as a whole has always been kind of a dick). Work was work. Play was play. And people were relatively predictable—as units or factions for one cause or another.
This new thing hasn’t just knocked the pieces off the metaphorical gameboard. It set the board on fire, covered our walls with feces, and currently beats us with a metal bedpost–as we lay doggy-style with our teeth latched onto a cement curb. The game has changed. We have changed. I have changed. The most depressing fact is that I’m not quite sure what we’ve all changed into.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not one of these “truthers” (on either side), looking to “blow this whole conspiracy wide open” or rush back to “the way things were.” Life is a constant flux. I’m used to that. I’m not overly nostalgic for any particular past or too committed to uncertain futures. What I am, however, is a writer who’s just not quite sure what to say. I wouldn’t call it writer’s block. More like writer’s-vomit. I at once have nothing and everything to spew. And zero idea what to spew it into. That feeling is different.
Sure, I could take a cue from the creative “don’t” list and dive into a narrative, laced with social metaphors. But let’s be honest, how many Covid-tales are we in for over the next few years? Dozens? Hundreds? Thousands? Movies, books, and shows are all about to get very pandemic-focused, very fast. Chasing trends is quite often a bad idea—because we can rarely keep up with them. On the flip side, at some point, the market will be inundated—with better and worse than anything I’d likely do. No thanks. I could do without further sleepless nights of worry (about being overlooked, underexposed, or otherwise lost in a sea of “meh”).
So, I’m taking a break from the apocalyptic-tales of creatively named parallel-thought. It’s just not my thing. It could be yours. I just don’t see myself committing to it when it matters. Maybe someday. Not now. The situation is all I can really think about as it is. I don’t need weeks of research shot to the wind by the near-certain anxiety-attacks that come with (essentially) planning a hyperbolized worst-case scenario. I wouldn’t enjoy it. “Enjoying it,” has always been most of the fun. Trends be damned. Not myself.
All of that brings me here—a bit listless, tired, and searching for the next thing. Maybe I’ll write something hopeful. It feels like we could all use a bit of hope right now. Probably not (#SadisticAF #TeamHorror), but we’ll see.
Wash Your Hands,
Welcome to the depths of chaos. After exploring themes of humanity and destruction in the previous two installments, Antwan Crump furthers the “A Collection of Things” series with six thrilling new tales that redefine life, death, desire, and consequence. Do we dare to face the darkness or will it devour us before we can question its purpose?