Crawling Out of the Shadows (For a Minute)

My posts have been coming from the dark lately. Not literally—I haven’t taken up residence in a cave, nor am I writing this with a candle while bats hang over my head—but my stories have been lurking in the shadows, where secrets fester and relationships come apart in slow motion.

I go there willingly. It’s a choice, not a personal cry for help.

Still, when you’ve spent weeks weaving tales about fractured love, killers who blend in with the crowd, and silent domestic stalemates, it can give readers the wrong impression. People might wonder: Is he okay? Should we send someone over with a warm lamp and a puppy?

Rest assured—I’m fine. More than fine, actually. The truth is, writing on the dark side is fun. Deliciously fun. It’s like eating chocolate cake for breakfast: a little wicked, a little indulgent, and not something you confess. But once you’ve tasted it, oatmeal never looks the same.

The only problem with marinating in gloom is that it starts to colour everyday life in peculiar ways. A couple argues at the supermarket? In my head, it’s the beginning of a long psychological war that’ll end with a broken plate and an ominous silence at the dinner table. My neighbour trims his hedges a little too neatly. Obviously, he’s hiding something. Even my cappuccino froth isn’t safe—if the barista makes it too thick, I start wondering what dark secret he’s trying to distract me from.

This is the occupational hazard of writing thrillers: you stop taking things at face value. Every pause, every sigh, every shadow cast by the afternoon sun—plot material. My brain can’t resist.

That said, I’m not actually living in permanent gloom. I laugh. I sail. I fish. I complain about cling wrap not tearing where it’s supposed to. These are not the habits of a man unraveling—they’re the signs of a writer who occasionally pokes his head above the shadows, squints at the daylight, and mutters, ah yes, the normal world still exists.

Sometimes the ordinary is where the best humour lives anyway. A crab escaping from the bucket on a fishing trip? Comedy gold. Watching someone try to fold a fitted sheet? Pure slapstick. And don’t get me started on boat names. (Whoever thought “Catatonic” was appropriate for a catamaran clearly shares my appreciation for dark humour.)

So why keep returning to the shadows? Because that’s where the drama is. Light is beautiful, but darkness is interesting. Characters reveal themselves when things break down, not when everything is humming along smoothly. Besides, what’s more satisfying than giving readers goosebumps, making them squirm, and then watching them come back for more?

It’s not depression, it’s design. My writing desk isn’t a padded cell—it’s a stage, and the spotlight just happens to shine best when the rest of the set is in shadow.

But every so often, I like to step out, wave to the audience, and assure everyone I’m not trapped. Think of this post as that wave. I am alive, well, and grinning (a little too broadly, perhaps). The darkness will call me back soon enough—it always does—but for now, I’m content to let the sun in for a moment.

If my next story starts with a lost wedding ring and ends with a tombstone, don’t worry. It doesn’t mean I’ve gone over the edge. It just means the shadows are funnier than they look from the outside.

–Michael (Dark fiction. Author of SEETHINGS (the first book), free for a limited time)