I can’t sleep. I should have fallen asleep six hours ago, and I should have slept at least four of those. I have a rather severe case of insomnia, and all I’m doing about it right now, is having a cold slice of pepperoni pizza, and writing this.
David Gahan sings, “I’m waiting for the night to fall; I know that it will save us all; when everything’s dark; keeps us from the stark reality”. How true is that for anyone? It isn’t true for me at all. When everything is dark, my brain burns hotter, and I think too much.
A thought that occurred to me a while ago had to do with my writing, and stagnation. When this contest was announced, I thought, pfft! That has nothing to do with me. I’m a gentle giantess, cruel stories are not my bag, etc. But I’m a damned liar, and none of that is true.
The truth is, I want to grow as a writer. I want to force my mind to see beyond what it normally sees, beyond its sunny paths and cooing streams. I want more. I always want more. So I decided to thrust myself into a story cruel by my own definition.
When I think about cruelty, I’m knee-jerk thinking a foot crashing down onto a defenseless little guy. I’m thinking buildings and occupants being savaged by a colossal woman. I’m thinking tender little people being devoured by a giantess with a peculiar moral compass. But there are more norths than one.
Cruelty doesn’t have to mean any of those things, or any of the things to which we are most accustomed when we read stories classified thusly. I define cruelty as I see fit, and this is my Cruel North: