Penning the Grayscale

We never forget our first love, do we? Most 'firsts' are clumsy and awkward. They're the beginning of a journey. In love, they're often heart-breaking. We learn their lessons—of love lost, perhaps unrequited, and of own capacity to adapt to change.

My first love was reading. It was all-consuming. And like someone fully in the throes of passion, my thirst was unquenching. It's safe to say I lost myself in it, and I liked it that way. I was an early bloomer (with this kind of love, anyway). Because of a visual impairment, I was taken out of kindergarten to read on the regular. I would relish these hours as my classmates did who knows what... Hobnob with my bullies, most likely. I was more than happy to skip that. But I quickly grew tired with the paltry children's reads, and delighted in the smorgasbord that was my school library. No less than five books a week would do.

But like all loves, this one changed over time. I sought more variety. I wanted more than to be a mere spectator. I wanted to be an active participant. I wanted to be a writer.

And so, I found my second love--penning the written word, and a new series of firsts: my first short story, poem, failed manuscript, rejection slip.

I wish I still had my first piece of writing, but it has been lost through the years. I vaguely remember an illustrated story I had written about a duel between the creatures of Heaven and Hell. Replete with crudely-drawn caricatures of haloed angles and pitchforked demons, it was no doubt inspired by my reading of The Bible, as well as Dante's Inferno. Perhaps both works were a bit heady for a six-year-old, but I have always liked a challenge.

The raw, unfiltered emotions that surged through that first work were palpable. Fear, valor, the endless struggle between good and evil—it was a canvas splashed with the primary colors of human sentiment. I wanted my readers to feel the gravity of the cosmic fight, but my message was not quite as simple as the triumph of good over evil. Even at that tender age, my lens was already tinted with shades of gray, informed by a life that had shown me the complexities of human morality.

My understanding of human nature was far from naive, even in childhood. Before I could tie my own shoes, I had witnessed the juxtapositions of human behavior—persons with criminal pasts extending a helping hand to the needy and ‘good’ men committing dark deeds. I had myself endured abuse, leaving me to question reason, justice, and other elements perhaps before my time (as if there is ever a good time). It left a permanent imprint on my work then and remains a fixture in my work today.

The characters I write are flawed, multi-dimensional, and often lean into the uncomfortable spaces where good and evil intersect. Compassion requires nonjudgement, and I bring this sentiment into my characters. I've come to appreciate the beauty of imperfection, the ambiguity of human experience, and the richness that arises from conflicting viewpoints. I delve into the intricate motivations and justifications that drive people to act as they do, exploring how circumstances and personal history shape decisions. No longer are my characters mere placeholders for ideals or cautionary elements; they are breathing entities with pasts, futures, and most importantly, with choices.

Through honing my craft, I have found healing. I have found a way to give voice to the unspeakable, to gain control over a story that at times felt uncontrollable. I suppose my loves may have broken my heart, but it is more open now.