Last week, I attended dARTspeak, a local group of writers getting together to read each other’s work. I had so much fun. The variety in writing styles was unparalleled. They had poetry, short stories, novel excerpts, and even a couple of villainelles (if you don’t know what those are, look it up; they’re kinda brilliant).

For my part, I read an excerpt of a new Armadillo Mystery, continuing the adventures of Dilbert Pinkerton, the mutant armadillo private detective. His friends call him Dill. It was my first attempt at returning to writing novels again after many years. I was overjoyed by the reactions from the crowd. They laughed at all the parts I wanted them to laugh at.

I nearly cried by the time I was done because, you see, I’m trying to get back into writing…and it’s all Dill’s fault.

I haven’t updated this website in years, but I’ve talked before about giving up on writing. That topic became past tense: I GAVE up on writing.

Oh sure, I did the odd creative thing, like commissioning a one-page comic or trying my hand at YouTube essays. But I didn’t feel like they really “counted” like my past writing. They weren’t short stories. They weren’t novellas. They certainly weren’t novels. When I was knee-deep into novel writing, I even referred to myself as a novelist. I had dreams of winning writing awards, giving interviews or public signings, seeing my books in bookstores, etc.

Very little of that happened when I tried being a writer. I had one signing at Chapters with a big stack of books bought by me at a discount from my publisher. I had a few small interviews, but they didn’t really move the needle in sales. I tried getting an interview with, say, CBC Books, but they explicitly said they only interview “established” writers. I wasn’t “established” by any stretch. I had one book published, later two, through a small print-on-demand publisher who primarily focused on selling e-books. I tried getting my books in local bookstores through things like consignment deals, but they either weren’t interested or sneered at the idea since it was through an Amazon subsidiary (and Amazon’s business practices kill local bookshops).

I learned about myself that I absolutely suck at self-promotion. Crippling insecurities meant I felt my work was “unworthy” of not just being read, but existing at all. I struggled to promote my book because I had no clue on where to start. We were expected to do the lion’s share of promoting and I failed miserably at that. I tried getting interviews, articles, reviews, and it mostly fell on deaf ears. Friends would tell me they started reading the first book…and then I’d never hear about them finishing it. I had to beg some people to leave a review if they, by all miracles, finished the book. I heard from most people that they read the first few chapters and then forgot about it. While it may not be the case, that felt like they didn’t like it and were too polite to tell me. I took it far too personally, feeling like they encouraged my work but didn’t have the heart to tell me it wasn’t good. To be clear, I don’t blame my friends and family for any of this. This is where my insecurities and poor mental health thinking led me.

I wrote a third Armadillo Mystery, but it’s sat on my computer as a first draft for years. I tried writing a young adult novel before realizing the concept needed a complete overhaul, so I gave up on it after completing a first draft. I tried writing a memoir on my battles with depression, and gave up on it after a few chapters.

Imposter syndrome hit me hard. Despite several friends praising my writing and encouraging me to keep going, I felt less joy with the writing process itself. Everything felt like garbage. Everything I previously wrote, including published work, felt like garbage no one wanted to read. I’d try getting back into writing, but I felt like I was wasting my time. Why bother writing if all it leads to is rejection and no significant income?

I’ve been fighting depression for years, even during all the times I’ve been writing. I’ve gone to the hospital multiple times for suicide attempts or suicidal ideation. This was new. I felt nothing but hopelessness and despair. I came to one clear conclusion: I would never make it as a writer.

So I gave up. For years, I whined online about giving up on writing, probably much to the annoyance of people reading my social media posts.

And yet…I kept asking for sketches of Dill from artists online. I never stopped thinking of how Dill would handle situations if I put him in one. I never got tired of pictures or videos of armadillos (because come on, armadillos are awesome). When I talked about Dill, it was always with a smile. People pointed out I’d become more energized just talking about Dill or my favourite moments while writing his books.

I briefly toyed with the idea of rewriting the first book, The City of Smoke & Mirrors. I re-wrote the first two chapters, really liked the result, and gave up because I didn’t see the point.

I toyed with the idea of making graphic novels of Dill’s adventures, not unlike Darwyn Cooke’s amazing Parker adaptations. That required an artist, though, because I can’t draw. I couldn’t afford to pay an artist, and artists deserve to be paid.

I briefly tried writing a short story with Dill to submit to a submission call, but I gave up on it early on. Whatever spark I had with Dill just wasn’t there anymore.

But then…earlier this year, I joined a tabletop role-playing group who played the old Palladium Books system, Heroes Unlimited (and Ninja Turtles). At the encouragement of the game master, I created Dilbert Pinkerton. It wasn’t a perfect one-for-one re-imagining, but it was damn close. As I played him, it felt like slipping into a pair of comfortable pajamas. I knew exactly how he would react at any and all times. Many times, I surprised the DM because, well, Dill has a habit of surprising everyone (including myself). Much like my books, he was put into ridiculous, life-threatening situations and every time, I had an inventive, and often hilarious, solution. Guy with a gun behind Dill? He’ll use his armadillo leaping ability to jump up and dropkick the bastard. Guy with a protective helmet? Dill wrestles with him and uses his prehensile tongue to disgust himself to rip it off (I’m particularly proud of that one).

I had so much fun, slipping right back into a “Dill groove” l without missing a beat. It was like writing the character all over again. One of the players had a small side business of crocheting various nerd things…and crocheted my very own Dill stuffy! The GM picked up on the vibe of the character. Nearly every character thought Dill was a pest, but the good ones begrudgingly thought he wasn’t that bad once they got to know him, even if he was still a trigger-happy asshole. It was exactly how I wanted characters to view Dill.

I thought to myself, “God, I miss writing you, Dill.”

During and after each game session, Dill’s voice nagged me at the back of my mind. “Hey kid, get back to writing me. My trigger finger is itching to shoot something.”

Dill’s itch to shoot something was similar to my itch to write. Then I remembered an old idea for an Armadillo Mystery. So, on a whim, I went to the Halifax Central Library, sat down at the Ampersand Cafe…and banged out a first chapter for a new novel. It was only 1,500 words, but it was the most I’d written in terms of prose in a long, long time.

It was refreshing. It was exhilarating. I couldn’t believe it. It was sloppy, but it felt just like old times. Dill was back, baby! For reasons I can’t explain, I actually cried a little when I wrote “I pulled out The goddamn Daymaker.”

I’ve only written about another 2,000 words since then and haven’t finished the second chapter, but that’s still about 3,500 words more than I’d written in a long time.

I’ve realized that, of any writing I’ve ever done, I genuinely find more joy writing Dill than anything else. I never know what he’s going to do at any moment. He constantly surprises me at every turn. I’ve seen writers talk about their characters taking over and that couldn’t be more true than with Dill. I realize now what it’s like for someone like, say, Stan Sakai, to write Usagi Yojimbo almost exclusively for a large portion of his life.

I just wish I could find an audience just large enough that shares my love of the character so I could maybe make a small living. Not necessarily enough to give up my current job, but at least some income. I wish I could find an artist who is as enamored by Dill as I am that we could go off and create some crazy comics about him (I have an idea with Dill “going home” that I would LOVE to see in graphic novel form). My absolute dream would be to do a series of Armadillo Mysteries in the same format as the late Darwyn Cooke’s Parker adaptations.

That’s not to say I don’t want to write other things. I have ideas for a solarpunk concept. I wouldn’t mind trying to visit that YA novel concept, or my memoir, or the small assortment of other things that were shelved when I gave up.

I don’t know if this surge of new writing will last. My insecurities tell me they won’t. But I’m sure as hell going to enjoy the ride while it lasts. I just know that DIll has unequivocally dug his claws into me and won’t let go.

This time, I don’t think I’m going to let him.