Why I Write Dark
“I don’t know how you do it,” she said to me. “Write all that dark shit. I couldn’t do it. I don’t like to be in that mindset and I definitely don’t want to willingly go there.”
I know she didn’t intentionally mean anything by it, but the insinuation still stung. As if by writing dark and being able to “go there” and maybe even like it, there was something wrong with me. To be fair, she wasn’t the first person, and she won’t be the last who have made statements like this. I’ve always skewed dark. At least always since I can remember. I loved to watch horror films as a child. I was reading Stephen King before understanding half of what he was actually saying in the books. My grandmother and I would curl up on the couch and watch true crime shows together. My poor mother. She probably had no idea whether to be frightened or proud that her daughter won first place at a state speech contest presentation on serial killers.
Darkness has always been part of my life. And growing up, I didn’t fear it, even when I was told I should. Perhaps, that is why I feel so aligned with it. Over and over again, I was told that the darkness was to be avoided. That to dwell in the dark corners was to go where I shouldn’t (which made me want to go all the more). The dark corner held secrets and shame and loneliness and pain. Most people wanted nothing to do with those things.
I wanted it all.
Welcomed it all. I was not afraid. I’m still not.
I think that could be the difference, to be honest. I’ve lived my life half in and out of the shadows and the darkness. It doesn’t scare me to write dark. To go there. To try and push myself to the places I’m not supposed to go. I also don’t think it’s a coincidence that so many trauma survivors turn to the dark subject matter as a healthy coping mechanism or representation of their own abuse.
It wasn’t until I started designing my own MFA program that I started to dig into the actual science, psychology, and studies around the intersectionality of trauma, violence, the horror genre, and darker subject matter. What I’m finding is incredibly validating. Not only am I starting to feel vindicated in my ability to skew dark… I actually feel like I’ve started to reclaim a part of the “self” that has always been a natural (yet muted) part of me.
“Dark” Jade has sat on my shoulder, always a part of me but never fully integrated, but the more I learn about her, the more I see that she’s always been there to help me see what I needed to see to grow. Even when it’s painful and shitty, she’s the “Kali” of me.
But what I think is sad is that some of that darkness from trauma can only be earned through trauma and no other way. And I don’t wish that. But I am grateful that I have responded the way I have to my trauma. That I’ve broken cycles. Mended bridges. Extended olive branches. And I’m also grateful that it has allowed me to weave in and out of shadows more quickly than others think.
I know so many trauma survivors who share this trait with me. We lovingly call it the “dark passenger” (points to you if you get the book/show reference). Once in a while, when a conversation turns gritty, a comment is made, and if you’re with a trauma survivor, they might look at you with knowing, dark passenger eyes and feel the connection.
There’s also the truth and reality of plain ole life. We weren’t born just to be happy. I think my minimal time studying Jungian Psychology has taught me this, and I would wager a bet that if I spent more time in that realm, I would find more evidence of this. We cannot have light without dark. We are not supposed to have just the good. This is why not only is it possible to delve into the darkness — it’s crucial for understanding our depths. We can’t fully understand ourselves or our true nature if we never meet or touch those parts of us we are afraid of. Those parts that we think are “wrong” or “bad.” As for how you get to them…well…
I wish I could tell you that there’s some secret to it. That there’s a process, ritual, or a spell to diving deep into those shadows and pulling out the gifts of the darkness — but I wouldn’t be honest then. I don’t know exactly how I can do it — just that I am.
It works very similarly to the actors and actresses who can snap in and out of their characters when they step in front of a camera. One moment they are themselves, and the next, they are not. They can fully embody and be the person they need to be to fulfill the role they are playing. It’s similar to writing for me. When I’m writing from the POV of a character, it almost becomes a skin-shifting exercise.
Like Wednesday with the snap of her fingers.
And I’m changed.
Snap the fingers again.
And I’m back to me.
I can’t explain it. But that’s how it is.
It’s how I wrote from the POV of a bank-robbing stripper and a domestic abuser and a psychotic serial killer, and a vigilante.
It wasn’t that I didn’t feel things when writing — quite the opposite! It’s just that, for some reason, I cannot bring it back into my life in a way that incapacitates me. Perhaps it’s the opposite effect that method acting has had on actors like Heath Ledger, for example.
At any rate — I find that thinking and talking about why we write the things we write about is essential. Not only to discover why we gravitate toward it but how we process it outside of writing it. What do we need to do to support ourselves as we do it? How can we help others understand that we may or may not need extra support when we delve into specific subjects?
But more than that — the darkness is not something you should fear diving into. It has far more gifts for you than you realize if you’re willing to do the work to find them.