About Me — PJ Jackelman
Being the bumblebee
According to the laws of aerodynamics a bumblebee should not be able to fly; but the bumblebee doesn’t know that, so it flies anyway.
Writing about myself is a miserable endeavour. As a climber, I have stepped off my share of cliffs, but this one seems to leave me feeling like my harness is open.
With each word, I feel more exposed, and the cringe goes deeper. I’m now part turtle and part human. Having said all that, I’m not one to shy away from a challenge, so I’ll keep going — only 928 words to go — if you don’t count ‘words to go.’ (Count subject to change in editing.)
I could write about why I am this way, but that is not who I am, but rather what happened, so I’ll leave that out. I’m not going to go into where I live aside from saying it’s a small seaside community on Vancouver Island, BC, Canada.
Rather than sharing random and disjointed facts about myself to paint a self-portrait and ending up with the worst sort of mangled Picasso image that is simultaneously frightening and boring, I will focus on the facets of my personality that lend to me writing horror.
For most of my life, I have been a closed book. I come across as standoffish, uncaring and cold.
None of these things could be further from the truth. I am painfully shy, and if anything, I feel too deeply, and when I start to feel the ramping up of my emotions, I pass all the stops and sail at light speed straight to overwhelm. Complex-PTSD steps in, and at once, it is shields up. I’m Maxwell Smart walking the hall to the Control Agency, the steel doors slamming shut behind me.
Sadly, I don’t have a shoe phone, although that would be super cool.
What readers fail to see is the shaking hands, anxiety, and sleeplessness that follow hitting publish.
I’m more of a pressure cooker than a crockpot — a whirling vortex of awe, admiration, joy, passion, loathing and outrage, usually at the same time — and keeping the lid on is well advised. So while I may appear the proverbial cool cucumber on the outside, the inside is more akin to a seething cauldron of conflicting and volatile emotions.
I mean, seriously, who wants to deal with that?
I know I sure as hell don’t. So going full Lucille Ball, cramming the chocolates from the conveyor belt into her mouth so as not to deal with them, I stuff, stuff, stuff. I’m good with that. Feel free to judge.
At any rate, it’s a great inspiration when crafting a fiction piece. When the emotions come out, as they inevitably do, they are often raw and unpolished. One of my protagonists said she did not choose horror; horror chose her. Horror lends to the release of the dark mass within as the sting of real emotions howl for a sound bite.
In the last year, I’ve met several writers on Medium who are, in a word, incredible. Many of them bring me to tears daily. Others have me crying with laughter. I know — a lot of simpering and bawling in the Jackelman house, right? No worries, it’s all good.
Reading and writing have opened inner doors, and I’ve glimpsed facets of myself that would have otherwise remained hidden away. Many I would rather not see or reflect on. At any rate, these observances have led me to make some tweaks, if you will.
Too often, I’ve bitten first and asked questions later; and where my bark might be worse than my bite, the insipient yapping was driving even me nuts. Several women on Medium have demonstrated their unique and admirable ability to embrace their feminine softness while simultaneously kicking asses and taking names. One described it as ‘the soft sell.’ The antithesis of my state, but one I would love to embrace.
Recently, when my Achilles tendon was rammed with a shopping cart three times while waiting in a lineup, I was able to avoid going full William Wallace on his ass by turning the air blue in a barely comprehensible expletive-laden assault.
I stepped forward — again. Who knew it could be so easy? Due to my newfound, otherworldly mastery of self-restraint, I limped out of the grocery store, bleeding into my shoe, heralding myself (silently, of course, because I’m not weird) a genius, a savant of social niceties. It was then I realized writing and reading had impacted my daily behaviour.
Thanks for that, ladies of Medium. Lesson learned.
While growing up, where trust for humans failed, my love of animals stood firm. They are the one thing I return to daily, often hourly, when a smile or some unconditional love is needed. Animals are attracted to me, and I to them, in ways that have provided endless wonder.
Where I have strong opinions, I will frequently change my mind when the opposing argument justifies it.
If changing my mind causes you to believe I lack focus or sufficient intestinal fortitude to stay the course, I encourage you to tell me. Of course, don’t expect me to do anything with that bit of trivia, but if it makes you feel better, by all means, fill your boots.
With eighty-eight words to go, I’ll wrap this up.
What do I hope to gain from coming to Medium? I wish to hone my craft and become the best writer I can be. But as I write horror, I’ve come to accept this quote by Stephen King:
“Reading at meals is considered rude in polite society, but if you expect to succeed as a writer, rudeness should be the second to least of your concerns. The least of all should be polite society and what it expects. If you intend to write as truthfully as you can, your days as a member of polite society are numbered, anyway.” Stephen King
I’ve gone my whole life questioning the rules of polite society, so I’m not concerned now. They probably don’t read horror anyway.
Thanks for the time.
