I'm putting the finishing touches on my first manuscript, so I've decided it's time to start brainstorming for my second book. For my last story, I saved most of the research until the end, to make sure I had all of my "facts" straight. However, since this next mystery centers around a young woman with schizophrenia, I decided to research first (Though, I have yet to decided if her condition is a plot twist, so you might have to forget reading this blog post).
The plan is to breeze through the basics of the disease in order to help shape the plot and then complete a more thorough research later down the line. So, I decided to check out the book called Schizophrenia For Dummies.
I'm a big fan of the "For Dummies" collection. My favorites including Criminology For Dummies, Forensic For Dummies, and Sherlock Holmes For Dummies. I've found them useful for an overall sweep of information to help jumpstart research (The Sherlock Holmes edition being just for fun, of course).
I popped on by the Midtown Manhattan library to grab the book and as I was walking out, a woman eyed my book and mumbled something angry. She may just been voicing her disapproval at the ridiculousness as a library security guard, but I was convinced she was upset with my book choice. I stuffed the book in my bag and pretty much sprinted to the subway. What if she was schizophrenic? What if she was insulted by my reading material? What were the chances that I'd run into someone with schizophrenia while checking out Schizophrenia For Dummies?
I immediately started practicing excuses in my head. If asked, I'd tell her it was for my sister. Or me. How does she know that I don't have schizophrenia?
Then I'm thinking how do I know that I don't have schizophrenia? What if that woman wasn't even real? What if I hallucinated her?
And now that these ellaborate, paranoid, delusional thoughts are running through my mind, it's time to write. It's one of those times where I run into the apartment, slide into my desk, and snatch up my notebook. I can't type, have to write, and even then my hand can barely keep up with the ideas flowing out of my head.
The plan is to breeze through the basics of the disease in order to help shape the plot and then complete a more thorough research later down the line. So, I decided to check out the book called Schizophrenia For Dummies.
I'm a big fan of the "For Dummies" collection. My favorites including Criminology For Dummies, Forensic For Dummies, and Sherlock Holmes For Dummies. I've found them useful for an overall sweep of information to help jumpstart research (The Sherlock Holmes edition being just for fun, of course).
I popped on by the Midtown Manhattan library to grab the book and as I was walking out, a woman eyed my book and mumbled something angry. She may just been voicing her disapproval at the ridiculousness as a library security guard, but I was convinced she was upset with my book choice. I stuffed the book in my bag and pretty much sprinted to the subway. What if she was schizophrenic? What if she was insulted by my reading material? What were the chances that I'd run into someone with schizophrenia while checking out Schizophrenia For Dummies?
I immediately started practicing excuses in my head. If asked, I'd tell her it was for my sister. Or me. How does she know that I don't have schizophrenia?
Then I'm thinking how do I know that I don't have schizophrenia? What if that woman wasn't even real? What if I hallucinated her?
And now that these ellaborate, paranoid, delusional thoughts are running through my mind, it's time to write. It's one of those times where I run into the apartment, slide into my desk, and snatch up my notebook. I can't type, have to write, and even then my hand can barely keep up with the ideas flowing out of my head.
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