“Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.”
― Anton Chekhov
It was a chilly January day. I will never forget the stress I was under, having to write diploma exams. The anxiety I was going through didn’t help my complexion much, I had a large pimple on the side of my face and I think I might have scratched it until it bled. Still, there was my former French teacher, the one who used to wear these killer tight sweaters, and she looked at me and smiled. That did so much for the rapidly beating heart in my chest, I don’t think she could have ever known how much I needed a smile from a sexy teacher at that point.
Finally, the tests were passed out. I was as prepared as I could ever be, I had worked hard all semester to bring in a university-entrance level grade that I needed to match with this test to ever have a hope of going to the U of A where my sister and her boyfriend were already studying. There were three things I had to do, write an outline, write a rough draft, then write a final draft of an essay. It actually went fairly easily, it was a tough exam and without preperation I would have blown it, but I was ready and I can actually remember enjoying some parts of it. What I didn’t realize that this final bit of education in English would have to carry me through many years of reading on my own and eventually becoming a well-known writer (at least in my home city of Edmonton).
I still use everything my high school teachers taught me. Writing an outline can be so essential to a good piece of writing work. When you are writing a book, it becomes something that is more work than writing the book itself, and it can also mean that once you are done outlining, all you have to do is fill in a few thousand words explaining everything for each point made in your outline. Easy Peasy.
The man who does not read good books has no advantage over the man who can’t read them. -Mark Twain
It was only 2 years later when I began my journey to becoming a professional writer. I had some loose leaf paper and I wrote a story about a man in a psychiatric hospital going to see his psychiatrist. The patient got a little angry at his doctor and the doctor pulled out a gun. I think in the story the patient took the gun, shot the doctor and then made good his escape. I can only imagine how many times people who had been former patients in a psychiatric hospital had written violent stories based on things they wish could have happened instead of what often did happen in such occasions—the doctor had no gun, likely wouldn’t know what to do with one, and getting angry at anyone on a psychiatric ward would only end up with a person being given major tranquilizers by injection and given a few hours in the isolation room.
I imagined that after I moved out, my short story being part of the clutter on my floor that my roommates found the pages, put them in order and sent them to a publisher or hollywood director. Again this is a very common delusion among former patients, especially ones that are no longer on their medication.
The truth is, I struggled a lot. I ended up moving away from the coast and back to Edmonton. I spent more time in psych wards and psych hospitals. I spent years reading every possible book and poem I could and tried my hand at writing many times. I often fell victim to vanity presses that promised publication of a poem I wrote—if I purchased a copy of the book it was to appear in.
It is funny because although I wouldn’t call myself a womanizer, there were a few females in my life I was very close with and who were able to make some pretty impossible sounding things sound possible. The first was a friend I had known since age 20 who had been my girlfriend for a short time. 10 years after the fact, she handed me a copy of a manuscript I had given her at a time when no other copies existed. I worked on it for a very long time, then another female friend told me she could help me get it edited. It wasn’t very long after her doing this for me that I had a real book in my hands. I borrowed money to print up copies and went about haphazzardly trying to sell them. Eventually, I learned a lot about sales and marketing and had a steady income from selling my self-published books. As things seemed to peter off, I wrote a second book and then short story collections, poetry collections, even a couple of novels. One of the most amazing things that happened was that I met a writer who had many books out and for some reason seemed to enjoy what I had done. Not only did he like my work, for a long time he was my closest friend (I still like to think best friend, but I will allow his wife that role, she is amazing as well).
Now, so many years after my first angry attempt at getting back at psychiatrists, I am often asked to do public speaking engagements, I have had some wonderful chances to travel, and I have made some incredible friendships with people I know who also are afflicted with mental health issues. I like to think all of these wonderful things have happened to me not only because I have found how much I love writing, but also because schizophrenia, even my own specific illness, schizoaffective disorder with anxiety, is not the end of a person’s life as long as they are willing to accept treatment and have people in their lives who believe in them.
There is of course another aspect of my writing that I think should be mentioned. Three of my books are memoirs of my lived experience with mental illness. These books, the connections I made as I distributed, marketed and sold them, have opened so many doors. One of them was getting a job in a psychiatric hospital I was once a patient in as a creative writing teacher. The next one is a bit sad. My dad, who was my most important caregiver who I dearly loved, passed away almost three years ago. But one of the things he did before that was to write the introduction to my book, “Alert and Oriented x3” where he talked about my miraculous recovery and all that I accomplished beyond any expectations. It gives me joy to know that, in some way because of the work I had done and how far I have come, that my dear father, whose name I carry (first, middle, and last) can now rest in peace.
