On Being Jack the Ripper...

 

It’s one thing as a novelist to pen a diabolical character out of whole cloth and type their destruction with abandon.

It’s another thing altogether to create fiction using a real killer who has mutilated real people.

I’m finding this out the hard way.

Enter Yours Truly, palling around with 1888 London’s Jack the Ripper.

It’s not as easy as one might think.

To begin, I shall describe my vision of serial killers. Instead of blood flowing through their veins, they have black ink. In other words, their entire makeup is so dark, so different from those of us who have a conscience, they might as well be from a different planet.

Yet, they look like us; they talk like us. Often, they can be charming, good-looking, great conversationalists, and above all street smart if not academically so.

The only telltale sign I’ve uncovered through my research is their need to keep moving — changing jobs, changing homes, changing partners, etc. They are always on the move. Not out of legal necessity, although that can be a factor. More so from a need not to think. Their torture cell is their own mind, and the quietness, stillness to think. And as predators are, their waking hours are spent targeting their next prey.

Such is the state I find with Jack.

That, and one thing far more dangerous. Like a viper, I never know when Jack will strike. I know, if and when he does, his prey stands little chance of survival.

Writing this book, I, Jack–My Interview with Jack the Ripper, has been so difficult. I will venture to say, this is the most difficult book I’ve written to date.

To be “there” when I’m playing him, it has to be a cerebral flip.

To be “there” at the Unfortunate murder scenes is such an experience I can only describe as adopting a multiple personality — Jack, calm, relishing it all, and me, the core opposite, becoming physically sick.

And coming in and out of those two states, kill scene after kill scene, takes its toll.

My responsibilities.

· To get the facts, details right. Ripper researchers will tear me a new one if I don’t.

· To portray Jack as he would have been, as close as one sentient being can.

· To portray the victims not as such, but as women in their own right, all with value.

· To portray myself, the one who meets with and interviews Jack.

You would assume the latter to be the easiest part of this work, when it can be the hardest part indeed. The need to investigate, question, debate, and yes, to argue with this killer of women. To find a meeting of minds, one century to another. Beyond the murders, we two are cultural chasms apart. Mutual understanding has to be found, and serial killers aren’t well disposed to empathy.

And the emotional and physical reaction to the scenes. The delving into and close examination of said. The forcing myself to really look and listen and yes, to smell. Sometimes I have to get up from the keyboard and escape outside to shake off the mind visuals and body shock.

And although I’ve always been a visual writer, a writer who can jump into another’s skin, writing about Jack I will literally feel cold, and I’m writing this manuscript in the heat of summer. To recover, to repair my soul, I’ll hit my deck and lay in the sun to warm up. I have never before experienced that level of realism.

Jack takes his pound of flesh. The cost is there.

As much as I’d like to race through and finish this manuscript, I can’t. There are too many details, too many nuances, sensory cues. To rush would be to do no justice to this history. I’d produce a farce with caricatures, not people. A slap in the face to all who during the Autumn of Terror suffered under this dreadful man.

And then there’s the heartache. The terrible, gut-wrenching, sorrowful heartache.

And the author guilt I suffer for dredging up, yet again, these women’s final ends.

But art finds the artist, doesn’t it? Something calls, and the creator responds. And nothing will quiet those whispers until the piece is done. The artist, a slave to the bitter end.

I’m close to 2/3rds finished with the draft. You’d think by now I’d have the process in the bag. But I don’t. It gets harder with each typed word. The emotions so heavy to bear.

I know the end will come, and I, the Unfortunates, and yes, Jack, will again be free.

I’m uncertain how I’ll feel when I type The End. Usually, I feel quietly satisfied. With I, Jack, I fear it will be a grieving process, the hurt taking some time to heal.

Being a novelist is not easy. Every civilian paints the métier in such romantic tones. If they only knew. Sleepless nights, constant note taking, checking facts, rechecking, and the deep, scar-making, sympathetic pain if you write on the dead. Real people with real lives cut far too short by the likes of predators like Jack.

I’ll end this post now. I hear Jack grumbling. He’s a moody cuss when I show up late.