I’ve heard voices inside my head for as long as I can remember. While walking to school, back when I was a teen, I’d even catch myself having conversations with them. These voices slaved me, but I neither feel oppressed nor depressed because of them. I learned to manage, as I grew older. And that is how I discovered fiction.
The voices inside my head belonged to people, real people, but there were certain aspects of those conversations that required secrecy and anonymity. In other words, to say what I really wanted to say, without filters, might not always be the right way to approach a situation. Some folks will get offended if I come out and say precisely where everything I hear comes from.
In many ways, writing is like gossiping, but on paper. The only difference between me and everyone else is that I gossip way too much.
Take Waterless, for example, a novel I wrote almost a decade ago. It takes place in a dystopian Santa Barbara (one none of us would ever want to see), where someone tried to keep a decent group of Christians from performing a charitable community work only because an ill-intentioned message spread around the city, claiming that there was something fishy in the works.
Something was in the works, but there was nothing fishy about it.
More than a novel, Waterless is a possible, yet unwanted reality. People don’t want to face this weird idea because it is terrifying. Now, imagine that you combine that with a group of citizens who, despite living together, have different opinions on the subject? When one spouse seems to worship the water, the other doesn’t give a flying fuck about it.
Anyway, we are always going to have Coca-Cola, right?
Yeah, but, what if all the liquids evaporate at once?
Waterless is the product of a nightmare I had five years ago, a night when I actually had to sleep naked because it was so fucking hot.
Don’t sweat it. Just read it.