The profound nature of life.

Here’s a fictional character. I’m creating. In a novel. That I’m writing. The character gives me a direct quote. About his true nature. Which I use. To open the novel’s first chapter.

Here it is: “I think I’m in depression. So maybe I’m not. I’d know it. If I were. I feel out of sorts. Pessimistic. Can’t offer an explanation. I’m thinking. In negative terms. Much of the time. Maybe it’s a form of panic attack. Anxiety. That really isn’t depression. What’s the difference anyway? Between anxiety and depression. Let’s call it foreboding. Bad vibes. A premonition. That something awful is going to happen. And I can’t stop it. I’m not smiling. Not laughing. I’ve dropped off an edge of a precipice. I’m trying to figure this out. By talking to myself. Trying to get a firm hold on what’s happening. To me. Maybe I need to go for a long walk. To clear my mind. Get away. Get away. Taking a long trip. To Europe. Will that be the cure-all for my blues?  Have to convince myself. That I’m a strong guy. Able to cope. With almost anything. If only I were more creative. Someone I could imagine myself being. Fictional, of course. And brutally honest. With himself. It’s easier that way. Trying to live. Temporarily. In the shoes. Of a make-believe character. That I could play. For the fun of it. In a stage play. Played with vim and vigor. Passionately. Sure. Maybe the character ends up being part me. And a blend of friends and acquaintances. Don’t novelists and playwrights do this all the time? Without driving themselves crazy.  Instead, the novelist gives himself uncanny insights. Into the profound nature of life.” --Jim Broede