On Writing SLEEP ALONE
Written by J.A.W. McCarthy
I have to be honest: this has been harder to write than I anticipated.
I’ve written several versions of this blog post. Stopped and started and deleted and started again. Every time, I’ve delved farther into my personal life than I intended. I’ve revealed too much about myself, gotten too close to the vulnerable gooey bits that I don’t share publicly. So I delete and start over, but it’s the same result every time: too personal, too vulnerable, too much. That’s because Ronnie, the protagonist of my novella SLEEP ALONE, is the closest I’ve come to a character that represents me.
Almost everything I write contains a small detail from my life, but I—like most writers—am not my characters. I should shout that now, make that clear: Ronnie is not me. The decisions she makes are not ones I would. I do not consume the memories and skills of others. I would never create a family without their consent. But, still, Ronnie is a piece of me. What makes her different is how close she is to my heart.
Ronnie’s been along for the ride in my head for twenty years, only crystalizing into the person you see in the pages of SLEEP ALONE in the last five years, when I started to feel the effects of aging and how that relates to music, literature, art. When you’re nineteen, late nights, skanky bars, cheap motels, and traveling the country in a van are adventures. When you’re in your forties, not so much (for me, anyway). Ronnie created this family of succubi because she was so lonely and lost that she’d rather have a crowded life than a comfortable life. Then, as time passes, she finds how truly lonely a life in motion can be. She realizes the cost of her selfishness, including the cost to those she loves.
I share some of Ronnie’s experiences: the assumptions, the “ma’am”s, the sexism and ageism in a music scene that often feels like it was built for young men. I was an awkward kid, and my family moved often due to my father’s job, which only made things worse. I was a “snob” because I was shy, a “bitch” when I wouldn’t engage with bullies, a curiosity because I was an Asian kid who didn’t fit the stereotype expected by the people in my mostly white school. High school seemed like an opportunity to redefine myself, to finally be seen as “cool” because of the music and books I liked, but when boys noticed me, I was nothing more than a “slut”. I learned quickly what my currency was, and that carried into early adulthood. But what happens when your worth shrinks as you age? What happens when forty no longer looks twenty and those eyes once filled with lust turn to bemusement or pity? I never felt cool enough for any of this.
Even in my adult life, I still often feel like the kid wandering around the junior high cafeteria with my tray in hand, desperately searching for a place to sit, a group that would either welcome me or simply ignore me. Like Ronnie, I wanted to be noticed, but I also needed to be invisible to survive. Really, I longed for my people, the ones who liked PJ Harvey and James Dean, the ones who were curious but weren’t daring enough to do the “scary” drugs, the ones who buried themselves in books but weren’t studious enough to get into the Ivy Leagues. The ones who would understand me. Unlike Ronnie, it never occurred to me that I could simply make my own family.
I also share Ronnie’s hunger. I, too, have always been hungry to be Somebody, even when I thought I was too cool to admit it. When I was a kid, I wanted to be the next Tori Amos, but I couldn’t carry a tune (I still can’t) and years of piano lessons didn’t take. Then I wanted to be a painter, but my skills were mediocre despite schooling and years of practice. Writing is the only thing that’s come naturally to me. Writing these stories feels right, feels like the most effective way I can communicate. Still, despite how well it’s been going for me, the impostor syndrome never lets up. That piece of me is in Ronnie, and she needed out of my head. She needed her story told.
The idea of succubi who not only consume people’s life-forces but also their memories, skills, and talents came to me perhaps because I lacked the skills and talents of the people I most admired. What if you could not only fuck the rock star but become the rock star? Sounds great until you think through the consequences of obtaining that power. Where’s the satisfaction once the powers you’ve taken have worn off? The thrill quickly becomes a rote mechanism of survival. And what of those you take from? What happens to them once you’ve consumed all that you love?
If Ronnie had thought through these consequences instead of rashly acting on her desires, SLEEP ALONE wouldn’t exist.
Obviously, I changed the rules of the classic succubi story. Much like vampires, Ronnie can sire others through the sexual acts of feeding on and feeding parts of herself to these people. She does not see herself as a beautiful demon seducing men. The succubi she’s made do not feed on only women, same as she does not feed on only men. Gender is irrelevant. Their hunger and desire are unlimited, yet they are so much more than hungry mouths. They long to be understood. They want love.
SLEEP ALONE is a love story. There’s copious body horror with all its gore and fluids and innards spilling onto the outside, but this is also a story about family love, romantic love, motherly love, and learning to love yourself. I hope that comes across. I hope anyone who’s felt a hunger they couldn’t articulate or tame finds a kindred spirit in Ronnie and her band of succubi.