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Swimming in the Murk: On Being a Dark Writer

I stand at the edge of a cliff. Fear grips the pit of my stomach. I inch my feet forward, despite the fear. When I glance down, I spy my toes dangling over the grass and rock where I am looming. My fear oozes through me, snakes around me, binds my arms and legs. Frozen, I grow as afraid of self discovery as I am of the height where I stand. But, I'd climbed the cliff to bring myself to this moment. I have to complete the journey, or try to, at least. If I back down, now, then I'll never know; I'll never be sure.

Wind swirls around me, and I begin to sway. My jump is inevitable. The wind blows harder, whistling pass my ears. Vertigo threatens to overwhelm me. I bend my knees slightly, and then push off against the cliff.

I dive into the sea before forces beyond my control shove me over.

My descent goes smoothly. The water approaches fast.

I crash into the sea, my outstretched hands and arms guiding me into the cool water. The momentum of my dive propels my body downward until I regain control of my arms and legs. I paddle my feet and swim back to the water's surface.

While treading water, I spy dolphins up ahead. Their trademark clicks, pulses, and whistles echo through the air as they communicate. There's a Blue Whale in the distance, also, its mouth stretched impossibly wide while it feeds on tiny plankton along the water's surface.

The sun's reflection shimmers across the sea, and the sky is a watercolor painting of stark white clouds against a light blue background.

I liken this spot in the water to most inspirational writing where readers can usually feed their souls. As a reader, I enjoy visiting here. As a writer, I am uncomfortable here.

I propel myself beneath the water, again, and then swim lower.

Long, thick, swaying kelp leaves threaten to reach out and snag me. My heart palpitates, and I swim faster for a moment, paddling beyond the kelp, abandoning the sea snails and sea horses crawling and hiding along the kelp leaves.

A sponge garden appears. This underwater garden blooms sea sponges that produce toxic chemicals which causes the sponges to taste awful to their predators. Some sponges also have sharp spines that stop fish and sea urchins from feeding on them.

I am beginning to feel more comfortable here, but questions about my sanity and thoughts of self-doubt crowd my mind as it feels like I'm approaching familiar territory. Why do you write this stuff? Can't you write something nice for a change? The voices of all those who've caused me to doubt myself and caused my inner critic to grow increasingly negative echo through my mind.

Soon, the sun's reflection grows dim, and the blue-green water darkens to liquid onyx.

I swim within the darkness.

Until something snags my attention. Something visible even within this void of light.

I do the backstroke on my way to investigate.

My inspection yields a gruesome find--a body in the water. The corpse is bloated and decomposed beyond recognition. Not even the clothes reveal clues about whether it is a man or a woman wasting away in the water.

I spend a bit of time wading and swimming in circles, wondering who this could have been, and what was his or her story in life. Was it his own hands that brought him to such a demise? Was she someone's victim, discarded to hide an awful truth? Was his death accidental? Is someone missing her, desperate to learn of her whereabouts, of what happened to her? Whose lives have been turned upside down, or right side up, since his disappearance? Was she brought to such a grim existence by human hands, or was she brought here by something normally unseen by human eyes?

With my mind overflowing with questions, I swim to the surface. I squint as sunlight bathes my eyes, once again, and then walk onto the sandy shore beneath the cliffs where I'd taken the leap. There is a story I would like to write. A dark story where I am comfortable exploring and exposing the darker side of human nature through speculative and crime fiction.

No longer concerned about what some might think about me because of the type of fiction I write, I have accepted that this is me. I am a dark fictionist. I have found my niche. I hope all writers who pen dark fiction are either comfortable with their craft from the beginning, or if they're not, that they grow to become comfortable.

? C. M. Clifton

C. M. Clifton is a published fiction author as well as an author at http://www.Writing.Com/ which is a site for Creative Writing.

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