A Supermarket, Type O, and an Existential Crisis

For the first time in—what? Three, four years? I don’t even remember when it started—I finally understood why I’ve been possessed by the need to write this book. And it hit me hard. Right there in the car, in a supermarket parking lot. Blinking back tears.

This story has been clawing at my brain, dragging me under, refusing to let go. I’ve lived with Blackmore and Pembroke, haunted by their voices, their pain, their slow destruction. I knew I had to tell their story. But until today, I didn’t know why.  

Writing this book has never been a choice. It’s been a compulsion. Every time I tried to focus on something else, it pulled me back. Every time I tried to slow down, it refused. It didn’t care about my priorities, my deadlines, or the mess of real life—this book needed to exist, whether I wanted it to or not.  

Writers, you know the feeling. The kind of story that doesn’t ask permission. The one that hijacks your thoughts at the worst moments, that makes you stare at the ceiling at 3 AM whispering, "Why this? Why now?"  

For the longest time, I had no answer. I just wrote. I let it take over. And I got frustrated. Because no matter how much I pushed, no matter how many times I rewrote it, something was missing. Like I was circling the truth without ever quite touching it.  

And then today happened. Totally wrong moment. Totally wrong time. My son in the passenger seat, talking a mile a minute, like he does. Type O Negative playing.  Peter. Oh, Peter.  "The Dream Is Dead."  

And just like that—it clicked.  

This book isn’t just fiction. It never was.  

It was me.  

It’s something I needed to process, something I needed to put into words before I even understood it myself. Every moment of slow-burn agony, every sharp-edged joke, every haunted silence between Pippa and Rupert—it was never just them.  

It was always me. Always. Me.  

Now that I know, does it change anything? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe I’ll still write this book the same way, chasing the scenes that hurt the most. Or maybe now, I’ll write with even more clarity—because I finally see the thing that’s been hiding under the surface all along.

What I do know is that I can’t stop now. This book is happening. And maybe when it’s done, I’ll finally understand myself a little better.  Or maybe I’ll just start writing the next one. Because this shit just got real.  

Have you ever had a creative project consume you like this? Have you ever realized, halfway through, that you weren’t just writing a story—you were writing yourself? Tell me I’m not alone in this madness. Drop a comment below, or come find me on Instagram (@joycebarnacle). Let’s scream about it together.