It's like you guys imagine I set out to do weird shit on purpose or something. NO, I DON'T! C'mon. The sad truth is I am just weird. It kinda spills out when I'm not paying attention. So it's hard to say I've done anything specifically for writing. Everything is for writing.
That said, it's possible I've sought out a few experiences for story purposes. Kitting up and going into a cavern where I learned to rappel, got to zip line, and walked the same path, in a limited fashion, as Mayan sacrificial victims. Yep. This cave was an active archeological site and included human remains in caverns below us. We remained on the first level of this particular representation of Xibalba - sacrifices were made in this part of the cavern system, but they were all agricultural. People brought offerings of corn. Some of the clay containers still remained - with intricate art still visible on them. The most disconcerting part? All of the containers tested, tested positive for human and/or animal blood. Apparently, one didn't enter these caves without paying one's way.
It's possible I smeared a little blood (from a scrape, I swear) on a stone. What? Old gods would be mighty hungry, don't you think? Besides. Little did I know I was sponging up details to use in a series I hadn't yet started when these photos were taken: Nightmare Ink and Bound by Ink.
But really, deliberately weird? I don't know. Was going to a tiny, expensive college in order to break open my emotional life so I could pour that out on the page as needed weird? I didn't know that's what I was doing at the time. And there's my problem. Nothing I do for writing seems weird to me. So I asked my family. "Hey. What's the weirdest thing I've ever done for writing?" Each of them looked at me for several seconds, and then looked away, pressing their lips tight. Never did get an answer.