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Welcome back, for part two of M is for Meaningless. This part is where we really begin to kick into gear, and I begin to learn a lesson or two about writing. Of course, as always everything is laid bare, and my own lessons are shared here for you. Along with my open book attitude to how mental health struggles moulded my journey. Read on, and if you haven’t yet read Part One, now is the time.

I drank pretty much every day through my twenties. Other family members continued to make attempts on their own lives. Having returned to the UK with nowhere to live, I sheepishly moved back home. Overdoses and slashed wrists greeted me at every turn. Promises made to me, that weren’t kept. Inside my mind, the packing tape on the box that I had hoped to keep the dark thoughts within, began to detach. The adhesive no longer viable. Unwanted thoughts arrived with soaring regularity. My mind-box was perishing. Depression and anxiety came in waves, each time medicated by more alcohol, more drugs.

I had rediscovered Roald Dahl’s Tales of the Unexpected collections. Wonderful short stories that blew my mind in my teens and were now having the same impact again. I was transfixed by the way that Dahl held the readers hand, gently guiding them down a path that felt familiar. And then, from nowhere he suddenly left you alone in the wilderness with story endings that no-one could have anticipated. Story twists that wouldn’t have been out of place on a 1960s dance floor. (If you’ve never read these stories, stop reading this right now and go and read them. Like, now.)

My desire to write increased. I wrote poems, and framed them. My favourite, and surely a red flag for any parent, was the largest picture with a simple poem:

“Raison d’etre

Nil.”

Having spent six months deeply depressed and alone in my bedroom, an accidental meeting took place. I was downstairs making toast, when my sister’s friend called with her one-year-old daughter, Alex. I fell in love with Alex instantly. Her enthusiasm and simple innocence blew me away. I suppose something in me wanted to feel that way again. I thought I had the solution to my problems. Before I knew it, her mother had talked me into buying a house together and soon after I married for the first time. I knew it was a mistake at the time. Life was like a twister, my head spinning from high winds and self-medication. I simply wasn’t able to formulate my own thoughts, instead I was pulled along as if on a sledge. I just said yes to everything and we were married eight months after we’d met. In my head, it was an attempt to try and do what everyone around me did. To be what society wanted. My parents were happily married, and their unity inspired me. Perhaps a union would help to remove the dark thoughts that crept in each time life slowed to a pace to give me a moment to think. I began to write my own short stories, desperately trying to emulate Dahl’s mastery. The stories were dark in nature, but always written with the purpose of tricking the reader into becoming comfortable with where the story was going before pulling the rug from under their feet. Disorientating them. A written conjuring trick; a sleight of hand, so when they reached the end there would be an audible gasp, they’d throw the story down and shake their heads in disbelief.

My stories were ‘okay’. If I was particularly happy with one I would feed it to friends and family and get their feedback. Of course, everyone would say they were fantastic. Lesson Two learned. Never take the opinion of someone who loves you when it comes to your writing. Of course they’ll say it’s good. They love you. They don’t want to see disappointment on your face. They want to see you smile. They’ll tell you what you want to hear.

I didn’t realise I was making a mistake at the time. The stories I wrote were, so I thought, ready for publication. None of the feedback I’d received suggested any changes at all. Thus, to my mind they were perfect. They were of course, far from that. I was writing for publication. I wanted the world to hear the stories. Of course, they were flatly rejected by the publishers I sent them to. They were raw. Disjointed. At times they were rambling, nonsensical. The rejection just added to the depression which added to the self-medication. I needed help and I needed a wider audience.

(Of course, when I look back now, I was honing my craft. I was getting the words on the page which was better than them spinning out of control in my mind. It was all good practice. This was my Lesson Three. Practice. It seems crazy to say, but nothing comes without time, effort and patience. You don’t just pick up a guitar and become a rock star. You have to spend years and years of strumming and picking to even get to a standard where you could perhaps write a song. You don’t make the perfect sculpture the first time you pick up a chisel and work a piece of marble. It takes practice. Lots of practice. The same is true for writing novels. You have to give it your time. You have to throw yourself in and caress and love each and every sentence).

And then as I turned thirty, Simon killed himself.

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Note from the author:

If anyone wants any clarity on anything written in this series please don’t hesitate to make contact. By arrangement, Richard can pass on my email address.

Jonathan