When I had journeyed half of our life’s way,
I found myself within a shadowed forest, for I had lost the path that does not stray.
Ah, it is hard to speak of what it was, that savage forest, dense and difficult, which even in recall renews my fear: so bitter—death is hardly more severe!
-Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy
The source of dreams are often dreams themselves; cerebral matter that presents our sleeping minds with indelible images that, when we wake, may seem at first thought to be of little consequence or sense. That was the exact case when I awoke one morn almost ten months ago.
I had slept soundly the night before, a cold December eve. My eyelids presented me with the vague feeling of being present in a grey-walled room, submerged in a vast tub, similar to those one would bathe in during mid-to-late 19th/20th century before running taps were the norm in modern homes. As I floated in this space that my subconscious convinced me was warm water, a man my age (28, if you must know) approached and sat on the edge of the tub. His features were soft and wispy but brightly tinged in painterly colors, rendering them indiscernible enough to never truly capture who he was. He looked at me so longing. Half-smiling, he slid into the tub with me, unfurled his arms and enveloped me in a warmth I could feel penetrate the dream.
The dream ended with the dawn and my sudden awakening. Unlike other dreams that faded rapidly away and became instantly forgettable, this one left me with the same mysterious longing I had witnessed. For what, though, an unreal figment of dreams? Who was he? What did he want? Why did he choose to visit me? The vision was truly unshakable. That is when you know it was destiny and you are to answer to your brain.
Pondering the dream further, it was decided that it was not just the man who was important. It was the feelings he aroused. There was longing, yes. There was also intimacy. Fleeting comfort. Disappearance. And, eventually, remembrance. They were all notions of mortality bred from connection between two people and the possibilities that come with that connection suddenly being severed.
This is the spark that became SCRY FOR HELP: A Novella of Grief. I found myself in mourning for a vision taken swiftly from me and found it had to be answered by exploring what it means both for a love to be gone and also to live on forever in the realm of fantasy where everything is not what it seems…and carries more power than even our imagination can fathom.
To descend into this story, I recalled the eternal classic THE DIVINE COMEDY by Dante, where the legendary author follows alongside Virgil to journey down to Hell and, across two other segments, experience the tortuous monotony of Purgatory and ascend to the holy throes of Paradise. The structure is as classic as the epic itself and became a natural template for what was to become SCRY’s main character’s surreal journey towards acceptance of both death and life beyond death. Grief manifests in no singular way and is as much as a journey as any other. It is full of horror and joy that often co-mingle to form an experience that always haunts you long past the point of being able to live with it.
In fact, as humans, we live with death every day. It is inevitable and potentially frightening, depending on your perspective. Mine definitely falls within the occasionally scared territory and I am not ashamed admit it. As writing began on this tale, it jointly became a healthy exercise to work out some of my preoccupations with death and find the way to best confront it or, at the very least, openly discuss it before the day I rest in peace.
Let me tell you, there was much catharsis in doing so. 30,000+ words later, much freedom was felt and it is a pleasure to share what began as an almost throwaway dream and ended as a queer tale of love, resurrection and The Other Side.
Many thanks go to the people who supported me along the way: my beautiful boyfriend Pedro, my enormously supportive family, my closest friends who never cease to be the best cheerleaders, Clive Barker for his eternal wisdom and mentorship, all the coffee shops/restaurants/AirBnBs that had space to work for long hours, the eclectic musical soundtracks that spurred me on (like seriously varied) and, of course, the dream boy whose name fictitiously became Jamie.
It is my sincerest wish that you enjoy this ghostly novella and join me on the quest for dives into the vast unknown, for more horror awaits us on the horizon of the setting sun.
PRE-ORDER your copy of SCRY FOR HELP today at Amazon.com (available in both paperback and Kindle) and Barnes & Noble.
More behind-the-scenes info, launch party details and beyond to come, stay tuned!
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