Insanity is everywhere. No matter where you run, where you hide, it will find you.. Why? That is quite simple. Most insane people run free. True, those who are possessed with its most obvious forms are locked away. However, very few people with broken minds actually get locked up. Movie stars, politicians, and even government employed economists roam free…but they are the least of your worries (unless of course you care about your money). One faction, the most dangerous and insane of all, roam free. You know them as writers. “Writers!?” You may scoff. “But aren’t they the ones who write those cute little stories about nuclear wars, demons, and children’s dogs dying?” If you think that, then I bet you naively believe that anyone can write, that to become a writer, you simply have to practice and work hard. You might laud the creativity and beauty of the ideas that flow from the sharply honed imaginations of successful authors. Well, I hate to break it to you, but if you think that, you are wrong.

But who am I to testify of their insanity? I forgot to introduce myself, I am Spencer Conrad, a writer (gasp). That is right, I am a writer. But unlike my fellow madmen, I am saving you all from a terrible fate. How do I know what every other writer is like? What qualifies me to judge them. Oh, an excellent question indeed. I mean, who would have ever imagined that a writer might actually know what goes on in the mind of a writer! That’s even more insane than the idea of a politician knowing anything about the economy. If this concept seems too difficult for you, too crazy, I am going to ask you to do something called “suspend your disbelief.” Now if you’ve heard this phrase before, you know that it’s a fancy way of saying “believe whatever I tell you.” If you find that hard to do, just pretend you’re watching the news, it should feel natural.

I stared out of my window, hoping the poetic images I saw would help my insanity take hold. Images of trees blooming in the spring time. Images of birds flitting through the air. Images of old sweaty gardeners slacking off when they think no one is looking. But neither sweaty gardener nor flitting birds caused the hallucinations to come; I had writer’s block. Now, you may have heard some of my kind say that there is no such thing as writer’s block, that you simply have to sit down, and write even if what comes out is terrible. Well, most writers are not only mentally unstable, but they’re liars too.

Most of us want to disguise the fact that all successful writers are actually insane, so we cover our tracks. We write books on how to write, making it sound so blasted difficult that no one would want to try it. The few that do try simply conclude that they just need to practice, or trudge through writer’s block. I, and other writers, find this hilarious, so we encourage these wannabes. (If you doubt me, think of how often successful writers tell stories about how they trudged through a difficult part, and were rewarded with a finished manuscript at the end). Cruel, am I? I guess you could say that. But it’s not my fault, I am insane. After all, I do see worlds that don’t exist.

I slunk through the nonexistent stairwell of a castle that isn’t real. I’d been following a man for days. Yes, that’s right, we writers are stalkers. But before you give me a horrified expression and run away, just remember we only stalk these people for your reading pleasure. (now if we stalked “real” people for entertainment, we’d either be arrested, or be called a reality TV show) I’m sure if these nonexistent people could perceive writers, they’d call for the fake guards in the nonexistent castle to throw us into a dungeon that isn’t really there. But they don’t, so we get to sit in on private conversations, listening to their private and intimate details. It’s kind of fun, really…well, at least if you’re insane.
As I walked through the dank stone tunnels, whistling cheerfully as I watched the castle guards drag a lanky man towards his miserable cell, I suddenly realized something. I am not only insane, like other writers, I’m also considerably creepy. I could be stalking a nice person as they prance through fields of daisies. Or I could stalk young lovers who run away into the forest at night, and have a run in with the fairy nobility. But instead, I stalk murderers about to be thrown into prison. My psychiatrist tells me I should blame my parents for things like this. After all, everything is my parent’s fault. I personally blame my psychiatrist that I’m insane. If you want to become a writer, I recommend seeing a psychiatrist; they are even creepier than I am.

So you’re probably wondering what happened to the man I was stalking (Hey, I may not be creative, but I do know how to annoy people by leaving details hanging). I bet you’re also annoyed that I haven’t told you his name yet. Well, I’m not going to tell you his real name…I will call him Fred. It’s a nice name, and isn’t a ripoff of Tolkien’s elven language.
Fred grunted in pain as the guards shoved him into the cell, slamming the iron door behind him. He rushed to the door, his face red with anger. “So I wanted somebody murdered?” He slammed his fist against the door. “So I called upon demons to kill him, is that a crime?” Almost screaming, he cursed (what a foulmouth). “By the Seven Runes, how is that a crime!?” Seven runes…hmm, I sense a plot point. Whenever someone mentions something in a set of seven, it’s always important. Maybe I should call the story “Fred’s Chronicles: Quest for the Seven Runes”…(I told you writers aren’t very creative. We are insane, we get all our ideas from these hallucinations)

“Called upon demons, did you?” A raspy voice said. Fred whirled towards the source, and you would not believe what it was! Ok…so actually it was very mundane, just some ragged prisoner. Not very interesting, is it? Maybe if it’d been something like a talking pretzel. But alas, it was a mere cell-mate. He looked remarkably like a stock character, I wonder how many dungeons this guy gets thrown into.

Fred glared at the man. Angry little fellow isn’t he?

“Who did you want killed? What did they do to you?” The stock character said, in a voice that made me wonder if he regularly sandpapered his throat. Maybe it was considered good hygiene in whatever culture he was from. I’ll have to be sure to talk about that culture somewhere in Fred’s Chronicles.

“Someone who claimed to be my friend, but he betrayed me. Thanks to him, everything I ever cared about was taken away from me.” Oooh, it’s getting juicy. I sense an interesting revenge subplot coming on. I wonder who he wants revenge on, don’t you? I can’t wait for the flashback!

“Ah, one of those. I understand.” The sandpapered-throat stock character said, chuckling.

“Why are you in here?” Fred asked, sighing, seeming to calm down a little.

What, no flashback? Don’t waste time trying to learn the back story of this stock character, he’s not interesting enough to be a big part of the story. (even if he does sandpaper his throat)

They continued on with their boring conversation. I began fuming. Here was a perfectly good subplot opening: the perfect time for an intrusive flashback. I demand a flashback!

Despite my mental commands, the characters continued with their conversation. Quite rude if you ask me. If you think about it, I am the god of their world. It is my insanity that brings them to life, after all. I want my flashback.

Or maybe that’s just it. Fred can’t have flashbacks. His best friend took the ability from him. Oh ho ho, I’ve figured it out now. Characters in stories stand around having flashbacks all day, so now that Fred had his power of flashbacks stolen from him, he cannot function in society! I just had an epiphany. The main plot is not about finding those seven runes. They must have just been a curse word after all . The main plot is Fred getting his revenge on his friend, and regaining his ability to have flashbacks. The story should be called “Fred’s Chronicles: Journey to Memory Lane”.

But that story can wait for another time, I’m bored of listening to their jail conversation. I left the insanity fueled dream, and returned to the chair, watching sweaty gardeners and birds. My stalker skills are finally paying off, I’ve found an interesting story in my hallucinations! After a few years of being a writer, you get really good at stalking people. Remember, writers don’t write, we just have hallucinations. How else would we come up with characters who can no longer have flashbacks, or a society that sandpapers their throats as part of personal hygiene? Every word I’ve written is true, why would I lie about me and my fellow writers being insane? My purpose in confessing is quiet selfless, I want to crush the hopes and dreams anyone hoping to be a writer. Remember, I’m trying to help everyone. After all, as everyone knows, the only way to become a writer is to go insane. Going insane is expensive; not everyone can afford a psychiatrist.

Confessions of a Deranged Writer by Spencer Conrad is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.