The Witching Hour

"The moment came quietly and without warning. On a still black night, seemingly the sole soul awake at the witching hour, sitting on my bed, only the soft blue glow from the TV illuminating the room, shadows bouncing and shimmering against the pale wall, I thought of taking my own life."

My debut novel is officially available for public consumption. When I began this journey, I was solely focused on telling the best compelling, universally relatable story I could. When I arrived at the end, however, I was surprised to find I was actually at the beginning: looking for an editor who could give me an assessment, deciding whether I should find a traditional publisher or self-publish, realizing that I can’t afford an editor, choosing the self-publishing route, rereading and polishing certain sentences, paragraphs, going over every word with a fine tooth comb, finding and correcting frustrating minor spelling and grammatical errors, learning how to self-publish, how to design a paperback cover, how to create an e-book, deciding whether or not to create an official company, developing company website, company logo, joining social media for networking, promoting, and crafting a Digital Identity, to connect with fellow lit enthusiasts. I can go on but I’m sure you get the point.

It is a tired cliche but I can think of no better way to describe it: I poured my heart and my soul into this project. I dove into a mental space I feared venturing into for fear I would not be able to pull out of the nose dive once I was in it. Turns out, writing this book was the best form of catharsis I could’ve ever experienced.

Allow me to elaborate.

Halcyon Suicide is the story of a man who has convinced himself he is purposeless. He holds down a meaningless, monotonous job, has no talent or ambition, no long term goals or passions, has no need for friends, family, fame or fortune, and absolutely no need for love. All he wants is to come home after work, cook and eat a simple meal, watch a good movie, and get a good nights rest. When a series of odd events disrupts his daily routine, he forms a fast bond with his neighbor Thaleia whom he doesn’t realize is the key to breaking down his emotional guard, forcing him to unleash and face his innermost demons. 

At its core, the story is about purpose. I wanted to explore the question: Is it possible to live a happy and fulfilling life without an assigned purpose?

In order to tell this story I had to reach into my own experiences, specifically, a very dark period in my life that no matter how deep I've tried to bury in the depths of my memory, continue to emerge in my subconscious. As I eluded to in my previous blog post The First Question…, my love of writing and storytelling was born in my love of cinema. However, while my goal at the time was to write screenplays and make films, I didn’t have the focus or the commitment to achieve it because I failed to prioritize film. I was in a purgatory of my own making. 

I was in my early twenties. I had dropped out of community college for the 3rd time. I was working as a security guard, stationed at the guard houses of affluent communities. I worked the overnight shift, from 10 p.m. to 6 a.m. and my only job was to check in guests of the residents, which, since I worked overnight, I encountered very few. I spent most nights watching movies, or reruns of old TV shows, focusing on not falling asleep on the job. Then when my shift was over, I’d go home to my one bedroom apartment, down a breakfast of buttered cuban bread with a glass of orange juice (because I didn’t have enough money for anything else on most days), and fall asleep on my third hand couch watching SportsCenter.

I didn’t have much of what you would call a social life. I didn’t date, because I loathed myself so much that I didn’t feel worthy enough to burden anyone. I spent most of my time watching movies and visiting with my friend Numa and his girlfriend at the time. They were my second family, and if it weren’t for them, that period in my life could’ve been much more darker.

After years of struggling, fighting with my employer to get paid, having to borrow five dollars for gas for my car to get to work, getting arrested and taken to jail for being unaware that I had an expired tag, living off of a steady diet of ramen noodles, spaghetti and rice, having my power cut off for late payment, being worried about receiving notices for late rent payments; each day that passed sent me spiraling deeper and deeper into depression.

Then the moment came when I hit what I now recognized to be the first stages of rock bottom. One night, a night I didn’t have to work, instead of cooking myself a meal, I drove over to McDonalds and ordered the biggest size meal they had. I drove back to my apartment and scarfed it all down. Then I drove to Taco Bell, ordered more food and scarfed that down as well. I was so disgusted with myself afterward, I began to wonder aloud, just what the fuck had become of my life. Each morning I woke up and looked around, the question became louder and louder. At my lowest, the question then evolved from what has become of my life to if this is all there is to this life for me, why live it? 

The question became a noose around my neck, and with each passing day the noose became tighter and tighter. I was suffocating in this life I had carved out for myself with a plastic spoon. The situation didn’t improve. I lost my job, and thus my apartment. I had to move back in with my parents. That was it for me. I sat in my room on most days, watching movies and sitcoms, battling insomnia, trying to drown out the voice, and the gripping questions.

The moment came quietly and without warning. On a still black night, seemingly the sole soul awake at the witching hour, sitting on my bed, only the soft blue glow from the TV illuminating the room, shadows bouncing and shimmering against the pale wall, I thought of taking my own life. 

For five minutes, I reflected on the choices I made that led me to this point, all of my failures, and all the love lost. I considered the most painless way to do end my life. For five minutes, I thought of everything I would leave behind, and hope that I could rest in peace without this constant pain and hollowness that consumed me. I broke out in a cold sweat, fear gripped my heart, not because I was afraid, but because it was starting to make sense. By the fifth minute my mind was made up. My time was up.

Then in the sixth minute, I saw my mother’s grieving face, and I returned to my senses. It scared me that the single seed of a thought could grow and blacken my heart and mind. Thankfully, things began to take a turn for the better as I pushed through the pain. Still, that night stayed with me. 

It is not uncommon for authors to draw inspiration from their own experiences to tell a story. Fitzgerald often used his life with his wife Zelda to tell stories, as did Hemingway and Sylvia Plath to name a few. In order for me to tell the story I needed to tell, I felt it necessary to draw from this experience, and in doing so, exercise that demon that had been feeding on my blood for years.

That is why the book is titled Halcyon Suicide. The the word halcyon denotes a period of time in the past that was idyllically happy and peaceful. I have fond memories I hold on to, but to never leave them is to become a prisoner of those moments. This means never being able to move forward and progress in the present. Love those moments, cherish them, hold them dear to your heart, but in order to live, to truly live and fulfill your purpose, you must commit Halcyon Suicide.