Subjective Safe

sites@tailorbrands.com — Mon, 13 Mar 2023 15:20:19 GMT

I'm not safe, and neither are my characters

I'm not safe and neither are my characters.

No, I'm not going to physically hurt you—that I'm confident on. I’m as gentle as they come.

But mentally, I have hangups.

And those hangups can be damaging. Safe is one of those words that can hold many connotations. I daresay it's even subjective. Yeah, safe means secure. But safe can apply to both physical and mental security. It's not just being in a sound environment, it's being in sound company.

And if I'm to be frank (which is the plan), then allow me to own up to something unflattering: I’m not safe.

I'm insecure.

Broken.

Sensitive

I get in my head FAR too often.

And allow those voices to influence me. I don’t need anyone to break me down, chances are I’ve already done it myself.

Ladies and gents, allow me to introduce you to my anxiety.

It unravels me in ways no one else can.

And then words come into play. And words are powerful creatures. How we use them. Withhold them. Wield them. Hear them. It’s a wild concept. Something we use daily, often with little forethought and effort—yet they remain crucial to how we build relationships.

Or tear them down.

And if the person projecting those words is in pain, destruction can happen in mere sentences.

Powerful stuff.

Small moments with big impacts—because words can never be unsaid. And their message goes far beyond the physical, they are insidious and deep and unlike a physical wound, time doesn’t always heal.

Sometimes they grow stronger.

And I’ve unfortunately been the giver (and receiver) of harsh words. I’ve also been the deliverer of good ones too.

The former breaks me. The latter heals.

So now that I've owned up to being unsafe, allow me to digress—I’m also pretty great when it comes to kindness.

I love with all my heart. I’m quick to compliment and bestow as much good as I can. I smile at strangers. I stop to rescue dogs. I’ll find a penny facedown and flip it over—so the next person to find it is bound for good luck. I hold doors and put my shopping cart away.

Nurturing joy is kind of my thing.

But I'm still me, and even amidst all the kindness, I screw up.

My characters do too.

They say the wrong thing, they misinterpret tones, they are both heroes and villains within their own story.

They're like me.

Flawed and real.

A mosaic of moments and words.

I will never write the perfect character, nor will I ever aspire to. I will always write what suits me.

And that's honesty.

And ugly.

With lots of words ... even the unsafe ones.

©J.M. Muller

Don’t Read My Books

Fri, 23 Nov 2018 23:15:04 GMT

Don’t read my books.

Gah! I can’t believe I just wrote that. Actually, yes. Yes I can. This totally sounds like me. This sounds like something I would say, especially when I’m in an argumentative mood—like I am right now.

You’ve all been warned. *Cue evil laugh*

But I suppose I’m jumping the gun. I need to add a teensy caveat to my original statement, one that will make all the difference. The opening line should actually say: Don’t read my books if you’re looking for a flawless hero.

Because you’re not gonna get it.

I simply don’t believe in it. It doesn’t sit well with me, and I can’t make my art reflect something that doesn’t feel right.

In my world, we could all use a little love.

Because we’re all broken.

We’ve all made mistakes.

Every one of us has regrets.

Every one of us is trying to feel our way through life.

So it’s only fair for my characters to have the same experiences. And, yes, that includes my hero.

It’s true what they say, authors put pieces of themselves in their books. I’m no different. My characters all reflect me in a way, and sometimes I draw on moments from long ago. How I reacted. How I felt.

And not all of it was good—or even right.

Especially in my teenage years. Back then, I was a walking, talking struggle . I didn’t know who I was, and I let the voices of others drown out my own internal dialog. I was immature. I was impulsive. I was young. I was quick with my heart—both on giving it away and taking it back. I was incredibly human.

So when I write, when I build a character, I draw off who I once was. I draw off experiences. On the things I saw, felt, feared.

And at times, it can be terribly abrasive.

And I understand how that can ru b people the wrong way. We pick up books to escape. To dive into a world that’s not only different, but gives us something—or someone—to root for. A cause. A reason. But when that someone isn’t the best person, when their thoughts are flawed and perspective inherently wrong, there’s a desire to toss the story. Pretend we never met. Tell that character to grow up, get a life, and not to waste our time.

I get it. I really do.

But it’s not that simple. Even though it’s fiction, and these characters are a creation of my imagination, through time and writing, they begin to develop a very real edge to them.

I swear they start to breathe.

They start to talk. To think. To be.

I want my readers to see their transformation, the metamorphosis that takes them from dull to shine, and there’s only one way to do that: give them their shortcomings. Let them be selfish. Let them stumble. To be vain and preoccupied with image. And sometimes, when faced with tough decisions, let them make the wrong choice. And if they’re young—the learning curve only deepens, because it often takes time to gather wisdom.

And if you’re the right reader for my stories, you’ll stick around for the journey—even the ugly parts

And if you’re not, that’s okay too.

We’re all in this together.

Let’s find our happy place. Let’s find our hearts. Let’s find our way to joy, wherever that may be.

Happy reading, my friends.

Sincerely,

J.M. Muller

Author of The Colors of Immortality Series

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Subjective Safe

I'm not safe, and neither are my characters

Don’t Read My Books

Don’t read my books.