V. H. King's Ink

The more I work on illustrations for LitMiH, the more I’m grappling with the anger in each piece. I thought that would come next, when I decided to tackle defiance. They teach that grief comes in stages. but really it’s all out of order. Feelings come as they will–whether we’re ready for them or not. 

LitMiH, by the way, is the abbreviation for what I used to call “The September Project”. As my ideas are wont to do, this particular project has evolved and expanded into a series. I hope to have the first volume, Late in the Midnight Hour, finished by the end of the year. And what will you find in the pages?

Hurt and Rage.

I don’t know which one runs deeper. I used to think that my anger would fuel me until the day I died. I saw anger as a boiling storm. An all-consuming tide I could barely keep behind my teeth. I did not like to speak, knowing what might come out of me at the exact wrong moment. I often felt so strongly that the words were lost. 

Many days, of late, I still feel that way. 

I have learned to blend my words and my artwork. I alternate between them, I incorporate one with the other, I dig through the connecting threads to see what I can discover. And in this latest project, I found there’s far more anger left in me than I had anticipated. 

There are some things I just can’t get over.

Not yet.  Not anymore.

Events aren’t lost to a collective memory, as I might have assumed when I was younger. No. We remember. And yet the space to hold grief is not infinite; there are new tragedies by the hour. So where do I release the hurt?

How do I hold this: the stark reality of despair, the teasing tickle of hope in my heart, the impatience for reprieve and the certainty that it will only come with death? 

And why must that be? Why are answers hidden, with no guarantee of satisfaction once they’re finally found? I can’t tell you. But I can say this much: every time I create something, it builds space.  Whether it’s to grieve hurts too deep to name or scratch my nails digging for hope, every poem and painting means reaching for a reason to keep living.

I don’t have the luxury of dreaming about success.  I create because my life depends on it.  Without my writing and art, I would have been dead a long time ago.