The Runny Pen

“A Memoir Of Moods, Masochism and Murder” stamped across the cover of Stephen Elliott’s new book gives strong indication of where it leads.

We humans are not entirely afraid of the dark. That’s why kids love Halloween. Recently, I watched every episode of Snapped (the stories of women who commit murder) on hulu.com. Couldn’t help it. I still listen to Slayer and Marilyn Manson. Stephen Elliott’s new book is a small candle in the dark.

He weaves a tale that is 2/3rds memoir and 1/3rd reporter covering a Bay Area murder trial in 2007. The telling of his drug abuse and familial alienation would be boring, heavily treaded territory if it weren’t for a twist; his role as a submissive in a variety of S&M relationships with women.

Elliott sounds rational and even-keeled as the narrator of Adderall. And that’s what throws you when the book explores his masochism. He experienced a terrible home life growing up in Chicago during the 80’s and turned to the streets (eventually becoming a ward of the court), music scene and drugs. A fractured relationship with his disabled mother and abusive father manifests itself as pleasure in the grip of leather clad women who wrench his nipples until they bleed.

This revelation isn’t exposed until a few chapters into the book and Elliott is matter-of-fact when detailing his fetishes. But fetish isn’t the right word, it implies sex and his compulsions don’t read the slightest bit sexual. There is no eroticism of the S&M nor apologies for it. And he lacks the desire to change or heal. Elliott simply re-lives his comfort in rejection and abuse. But these dominant women quickly lose interest in his willingness to be humiliated, discarding him like broken hand-cuffs.

You sense regret in respect to his estranged relationship with his father and the chronic drug abuse. But you get the feeling that even if he mended things with his father or if Elliott achieved sobriety he’d still be seeking women to beat the shit out of him. He is compelled to share with the reader his life-affirming need to be dominated by women in the style of a “heavy player” (a person in the S&M scene who endures/administers blood, bruises and welts). And his need parallels the trial he covers.

Elliott is a byproduct of the world he describes and this is what makes the book so compelling. Because even though our negative behaviors may not surface in the same manner, he captures the insanity of modern America’s fascination with its underlying ugliness. And there is no doubt that Elliott is a dexterous writer who peels another layer of the story just as we’re dismissing him as a pathetic weirdo. A hallmark of great writing is the ability to make a reader sympathize with the narrator even though they don’t think they share commonalities.

His strong writing style must be partially credited to his use of the prescription drug Adderall. Doctor approved speed used to treat ADHD and depression, you feel as if you’ve snorted a few lines of the stuff while reading Elliott’s prose. Still, he is engaging and lucid. Political and sporting events pepper the book rooting you in 2007. Like Jack Kerouac’s “On The Road” (written in three weeks under the effects of Beanzadrine, another stimulant) you can pound through this book in a couple of days. But unlike a speed freak’s disconnected ramblings, Elliott’s story is concise and resonant.

You find yourself looking at life through his dilated pupils, until you remember that he will soon be ass-up at the mercy of some dominatrix. And then you try to disconnect from him. But it’s difficult to do. You understand that Elliott’s pursuit of emasculating women will be life-long, there are no behavior-altering Tony Robbins seminars in his future. He is so fucked-up that a murder trial is welcomed relief from Stephen Elliott’s life. We may want to distance ourselves from this protagonist, but The Adderall Diaries remind us that we are all at the mercy of something or someone.