In its pursuit of scientific legitimacy, the modern psychedelic movement has become remarkably good at explaining itself. We can map brain networks, measure neural plasticity, publish clinical outcomes, debate public policy, and even attempt to quantify mystical experiences. Together, science, memoir, journalism, and philosophy have transformed psychedelics from the cultural margins into a legitimate frontier in medicine and consciousness research. 

Yet, for all of this progress, fiction has remained surprisingly unexplored. What if fiction is uniquely equipped to explore dimensions of consciousness that other modes of inquiry cannot? 

It was this question that brought me to filmmaker and novelist Lindsay Kent. Her debut novel, My Twin the Murderer, unfolds as a crime thriller, complete with neuroscientists, law enforcement, psychedelic experiences, queenpins of the underground, fractured identities, and government conspiracies. 

A murder may propel the plot, but the real subject is the power of narrative. Long before we understand the world through science, we understand it through stories. They demonstrate how reality is interpreted, remembered, and understood. They can also expand the boundaries of what we believe is possible. 

So, it begs the question, why is fiction an important modality for storytelling?

“Fiction lets you tackle complicated subjects like addiction, PTSD, and trauma in a more accessible way,” Kent told DoubleBlind. “People aren’t being told what to think or how they should treat themselves. They’re simply following the characters. Their guard comes down. They get pulled into the story. And maybe, along the way, they come a little more curious. And when it comes to psychedelics, there’s still so much stigma for people who aren't already in the scene. That roadblock prevents a lot of people from accessing that information.”

Accessibility, however, is only part of the story. Lowering our defenses explains why fiction works, but it doesn’t explain what fiction can do once we’re experiencing it. Fiction can help us access and explore things that nonfiction can’t.

“Narrative stories create feelings,” she said. “I don’t think you can change anyone’s mind without an emotional connection… or without connecting to something deeper than what the conscious mind is already thinking about. I don’t think nonfiction can accomplish that in quite the same way.”

Fiction offers another way of arriving at truth. For Kent, the truth she wanted to explore was around how psychedelics can alter perspectives. And the exploration begins with Evelyn Malcolm, the novel’s protagonist. A neuroscientist whose confidence in the explanatory power of science is gradually destabilized by psychedelic experiences that refuse easy categorization.

“I loved making Evelyn a complete materialist who thinks psychedelics are a waste of time, only to force her into experiences she can’t possibly quantify in the ways she’s been taught everything can be quantified,” Kent said. “The more she encounters things she can’t explain, the more she begins to see how vast reality really is beyond what we can perceive.” 

Throughout My Twin the Murderer, characters are repeatedly confronted with experiences that resist easy explanation. Consciousness itself comes into question, forcing them to reconsider both what they know, and how they have come to know it.  Kent explained that  our desire to explain consciousness can ultimately limit our ability to experience it. 

“Before I had these experiences, it’s like living in a prison cell. If someone had tried to explain what the world outside that cell was like, I would have thought they were crazy,” she said. “I think that’s what scientists are doing sometimes. They have a map. And they’re trying to draw what they think the world looks like while still staying inside the prison cell. You can leave the cell yourself. You can experience it. Then come back and ask, ‘What tools do we have, and which ones fall woefully short?’ But first, you have to leave the prison cell.”

If consciousness is one of the novel’s central preoccupations, identity is the other. Psychedelics are often described as dissolving the ego, temporarily erasing boundaries of the self. Yet, Kent focuses on doubles, mirrors, fractured identities, and characters divided against themselves. Rather than erasing identity, Kent seems more interested in exposing how many identities we carry. 

Inspired by her own experience of having an identical twin, Kent explores the relationship between ego dissolution and split identity.

“My experiences with LSD and ayahuasca allowed me, even if only for a moment, to separate from ‘Lindsay,’”, she said. “I think we’re all Jekyll and Hyde beings. We live in a society that expects us to participate in very specific ways. We suppress the parts of ourselves that we fear people won’t accept. But especially as women, there’s a power that’s been suppressed through storytelling for generations. Psychedelics allowed me to witness that—to realize that it was a story, a program, and that it could be changed.” 

If identities are constructed through stories, societies are shaped by the stories they choose to institutionalize. That idea is ubiquitous throughout Kent’s novel. Between government agencies, law enforcement, the underground, neuroscience, and pharmaceutical companies,  each represents a different system attempting to define reality on its own terms. 

Another reoccurring theme in Kent’s book is women occupying spaces traditionally reserved for men. There’s a pharmaceutical laboratory led by a woman, a female chief of police, and a queenpin running the underground. Even the novel’s language subverts convention by replacing masculine expressions with feminine ones. 

“One of the biggest bones I had to pick with all my favorite thrillers is that I felt like men got to do all the fun things,” Kent said. “They’re the heroes of stories about government psyops, aliens, and conspiracies, while women are usually fighting men or escaping abuse. What if women occupied those same worlds? They’re still operating from within the patriarchal system, but they’ve learned the rules of the game and are playing it their own way.” 

Gender, however, is only one expression of a much larger concern. Every institution in the book operates through narratives of authority, legitimacy, and control. Power is one thing. Who gets to define reality, and whose version of events everyone else is expected to inhabit, is another. Kent sees that same issue running through the psychedelic space, where the institutions that once weaponized these substances are moving to claim them again.

“Theres a lot of evidence of what happens when Big Pharma or government entities become involved,” Kent said. We know substances have been used as weapons, and now we’re watching corporations re-enter the space through a completely different narrative. The stories we’re being told to create, for better or worse, define our society and the limitations we live within. Until we understand that, we can't start to make real change.” 

One of the creative goals for this book, Kent explained, is to inspire critical thinking about the types of stories we — as individuals and as a society — have been telling ourselves. These narratives ultimately shape the architecture of our lives.  

“We have to become more curious about the stories we’re telling ourselves,” Kent said. Otherwise, we’re constantly reacting instead of asking, ‘What is this trying to make me think or feel?’I want readers asking, ‘What is my story, and is it serving me? What have I been telling myself on repeat that may be limiting me in meaningful ways?’ I’d also invite that same curiosity towards the psychedelic renaissance itself. Who are the main players? What are their agendas? What stories are they telling? Are we getting the whole story?” 

As the first installment of a planned four-book series, My Twin the Murderer invites readers to remain curious and continue asking questions. It suggests there is a discipline in resisting premature certainty, and wisdom in holding our convictions lightly. 

"The word 'enlightenment' has the word 'light' in it for a reason,” Kent explained. “I think sometimes we take ourselves so seriously in these spaces that we forget to lighten up. There has to be room for play, humor, and absurdity. Otherwise we're just creating another dogma."

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