I’ve always loved writing. During my early school days I developed a love for English literature because of a kindly teacher and every lesson was an adventure I looked forward to.
I wrote a few lyrics for friends when I was an Art student, mostly because I was able to manufacture the most absurd phrases on the spot. This lured me into thinking that maybe I might become a songwriter one day, and after the late John Peel read out some of my lyrics on the radio one evening my confidence soared. However, as a troubled teenager with other mindless agendas, I relegated writing to the something to do later in life drawer.
A few years ago, I duly completed an adult education course at City Lit entitled Towards a Novel. This taught me some important rudiments, including writing without extraneous text and, especially, not to attempt completing a novel in a week! The five hundred words a day writing technique of the great Graham Greene resonated with me (although his words would have been far better crafted than my own). A novel, I learned, is written in the same way a marathon is run, at a regimented and disciplined pace. Even at this stage there was a distinct voice in my mind telling me that I should write. What, however, was unclear.
Deciding to practise what I’d learned, I duly wrote my first novel, a crime thriller. And I learned another lesson, not to get too excited once you’ve finished a manuscript and someone takes notice. A certain company requested the full manuscript and, a few months later, a glossy, impressively bound publishing contract flopped through my letterbox. My delight was soon quashed by someone in the know who pointed out that this company were basically self-publishers offering spurious deals with hidden and costly add-ons.
Having at least proved to myself that I had the discipline to write a book, I self-published the novel independently. Yet the nagging voice was still present, telling me there was something more important I should write. I tried ignoring this but it kept coming back again like a boomerang. In an epiphany one day, I decided to focus my writing on my brother’s story in an attempt to fathom his troubles.
I’d been generally sceptical of my brother’s claims that the cottage we moved into as children was the source of his troubles, and that something had tormented him ever since. This was despite the undeniable truths of his claims: paranormal events were witnessed by others and the eminent priest Dom Robert Petitpierre also documented some of them. By immersing myself in Jason’s perspective and listening to him when he was lucid, I opened my mind to the possibility of this dark influence on his life.
Writing fiction had been far easier than writing something as challenging and raw as my brother’s life struggles. My thoughts on how to approach writing something so emotive and personal changed many times. Once I almost decided to collaborate with someone else, rather than face the buried emotions alone.
Writing is like making a good sauce. Essentially you firstly need good ingredients, ones you’re familiar with that add a definite punch. Then you begin the experiment…
Our troubled childhood years provided a plethora of emotional prompts and motivation to write the book, providing I could manage the emotional rollercoaster throwing me in every direction. Amidst the backdrop of our parents’ volatile and failing marriage and the downfall of my highly sensitive younger brother, these emotions breathed too many ingredients into the writing cauldron. I didn’t expect them to bubble and spit back at me quite as vehemently.
Having too many ingredients, as it turned out, had thrown a definite curveball into the mix of telling this story. As well as an enlightening exploration of how paranormal influences affect highly sensitive people like my brother, I’d wanted the book to be an important contribution towards understanding human consciousness.
Perhaps I was naïve in underestimating the emotional impact of writing a personal memoir. Then there’s also the research to consider, assembling facts accurately as well as transcribing stories from other people personally involved: this perspective is crucial if we want to write something that reads truthfully and has enough emotional impact to leave an indelible message.
The grief that emerged was visceral and hard-hitting, facing the fact that I’d basically failed my brother at the beginning of his troubles. It wasn’t until I was in my twenties, sitting on the edge of his soiled bed, that I did that all-important thing…
I connected with him.
I wanted to help unravel the mayhem his life had spiraled into and he also needed a voice. The question was whether I was up to the challenge. Thankfully, once I’d fully understood the true extent of my brother’s addiction and resultant mental health issues, I was able to fully immerse myself in his story from his perspective.
True, some of the things he professed still seemed too far-fetched and I wasn’t enlightened enough to understand the effects that paranormal encounters, perceived or otherwise, can have on someone like my brother. This became a journey for us both. Just because something didn’t seem possible for me, didn’t mean it wasn’t real for him. And he needed that acknowledgement and empathy, to tame his fear and torment and curb the escape route he had chosen because of a lack of connection.
My brother has thankfully survived, just, and enabled me to tell his story. He’s Not Mad He’s My Brother had several previous titles, each one swayed by my varying approaches and emotions. In the end, the book is his voice, hoping to encourage our understanding of mental ill-health.
Gratifyingly, it won the Local Legend national Spiritual Writing Competition in 2024.
