article by Heather Quinn, photos by Amy Kaplan

I am a bitter, resentful person most of the time, and I am usually filled with nothing but envy and ill will toward writers like Adam Alva. See, to me, writing is a tedious, hateful process. You sit hour after hour glaring at an empty screen, full of self-loathing and anxiety, until you finally break away to guiltily watch some YouTube or dust off your desk for the fiftieth time.

Then along comes Adam Alva, who says, in the introduction of his book “writing (is) therapy for me.” My immediate response is “are you kidding me?” Writing is the reason I need therapy in the first place, not some kind of escapist's dream come true. How dare he? Eager to direct the full weight of my bitterness and frustration at the hapless Alva, I read the offending “therapy.” Unfortunately for me, and luckily for Alva, it's quite as enjoyable to read as it purportedly was for him to write.

Alva recently self-published his first book, a collection of non-fiction, poetry, and one piece of fiction called “Silent Screams and Shattered Reflections.” Alva said that the work is semi-autobiographical, and most of his readers assume he's writing from his own experiences, but many pieces are merely inspired by the experiences of people close to him. He prefers to leave it open to interpretation.

“I'm not sure I want my readers to read my writing any specific way,” Alva said. “I just want them to experience something strong - some strong emotion.”

Alva said he was initially drawn to writing because he needed a way to vent his problems. Expressing his feelings helps him cope with frequent bouts of depression, and he hopes that through his writing, readers who have some of the same problems may find some comfort, as well.

“I've been through more than my share of stuff and it sucks, yes, but if I take the time to relive it through writing I can give the opportunity for someone else to see they aren't alone. And I want people to know they're not alone.”

Initially published for a school assignment at Cal State San Marcos, where he's working on his master's degree in literature, Alva said publishing his own book was something that he had been wanting to do for a long time. While the book is currently available for sale on the self-publishing site Lulu.com, Alva has stopped advertising it, pending the completion of a second edition that will be greatly revised and based more on non-fiction.

“It is going to be filled, from cover to cover, with stories about the things I've seen, the things I've been through, the hurts, the pains, the joys and the celebrations,” Alva said. “It will be filled with stories I've told a million times as well as stories I've never told anyone.”

The revised book may or may not include work that was published in the first edition, and Alva said the new version is tentatively titled "A Journey, Interrupted: The Stories I Have to Tell” and will be more of a memoir than the current collection. He hopes to have the new book ready within a year.

Below is some of Alva’s writing. More work is available at his website, here.

He Is a Liar
by Adam Alva

I don't sugar-coat anything, and I don't beat around the bush, so let me just come out and say it. . . HE IS A LIAR!!

Over the last month everything seemed so confused and comfortless, so violent and vacant of any joy or happiness. His eyes were always glazed over with bitterness and broken dreams. His mind was flowing over with hatred and heartbreak. Yet there was not a damn thing that he could think about doing to change it.  He was NEVER tired enough to sleep, but NEVER awake enough to live either. He was perfectly paralyzed by the pain inside his heart, inside his head. And the only escape from this, or so he thought, was that of his own bloodshed.

Everyday he woke up more hurt than the day before. Each and every second a mighty thunder pounded in his chest and rattled the life he had never lived, the heart that no longer thrived within him.  He felt that everything was missing from what he needed to live. His heart, his soul, his mind – they had all been lost inside the hurt.  Yet, he did not know how to cry for any of this.  He did not know how to cry for a life that was so lost, one that he never lived.  He had, in fact, wasted his entire life.

But anytime he was seen, he acted happy. He put on that mask so that it seemed as though he was living and enjoying life.  But deep down, he knew that each time he said “I'm fine” or “I’m great” or anything like that, he knew he was completely lying.

I know all of this simply because this man is close to me, and yet, somehow, I don’t really know him at all.  This man is me!  I am alone and broken and I am this liar!