The knocking and banging noises are now my constant companion. I suppose it’s my own fault really, my curiosity won the match against my common sense and now the unquiet dead are my constant companion. That’s really what they are you know, unquiet. Some can be a bit mischievous, they like hiding things like keys and pens, small items that take little effort to move. The trick to getting that stuff back is staying calm and asking nicely. 99.9% of the time, they’ll give you that final hint to where the item is and you can go on with your life. A rare handful of them are really grumpy with the living and want to do things to make life miserable. Thankfully not many of those ever come by here. What I seem to get are the lonely ones, the ones who just want someone to talk to. For them it’s been so long since someone heard them, since someone could respond to what they had to say that now they just don’t know when to shut up.
It all began when I started getting interested in EVPs. You know, ‘electronic voice phenomena.’ If I was one of the folks on Ghost Hunters, I’d now go into this potentially sonorous explanation of the ‘who, what, where, when and why’ of EVPs. Suffice to say, it really just works out to voices on tape that can’t be explained away by rational, scientific means. I read up on it, everything I could get my hands on. I learned how best to ‘capture’ EVPs, what software worked best to clean up the background noise so you could hear them better, things like that. Before long, it wasn’t unusual to always see a recorder in my hand or pocket. Then I heard about the ‘ghost box’ or ‘Frank’s box’ as some call it.
Some people believe that Ouija boards are dangerous things and that in the wrong hands this mass produced toy made from pressboard and plastic can open a gateway to the other side. I’m not sure I believe that. I do know that it’s harder to gauge something’s intention when you don’t have any inflection to work with and you have no idea what your subconscious is spewing out in the meantime. So as a matter of principle, I avoid them. Part of me wished I’d done the same with the ghost box.
A ghost box starts out its electronic life as a little armband am/fm radio from Radio Shack. Some clever cog named Frank figured out that if you clipped a certain wire you could get it to constantly scan the bands, never resting on one station and ceaselessly spew static and audio clips. What a person is supposed to do then is to ask questions and listen carefully, trying to decide if what they’re hearing is an answer or just the randomness of life. As far as the ghost hunting community in general is concerned, the jury is still out on the veracity of this tool.
Needless to say, it piqued my interest and before I knew it,
Today in local news, the body of a woman was found at the bottom of the ravine near Cliffside Cemetery. Details are sketchy at the moment, but witnesses say that clutched in her hand was a small radio that was still working. The oddest part about it is that all it seemed to play was part of the refrain from “I’ll be home for Christmas…”
Stephen King had it right when he had Mort Rainey (the writer’s block suffering author from Secret Window) use the quote “All that matters is the ending, …and this one is perfect”. I have the perfect ending for a short story, albeit a dark one. It’s the paragraph just before this one and I love it. I know the story is supposed to be about a woman fascinated with ghost hunting. She gets herself deeper and deeper, allowing it to consume her life. Eventually, it ends up being the death of her. I intentionally wanted to leave readers guessing if it was suicide or murder and I didn’t want to fall into the trap of that trash flick ‘White Noise’ by having mysterious shadowy ‘evil ghost’ figures kill her.
However, I’ve run into a problem, namely getting from point A to point B. I have a start that I feel isn’t horrible and certainly doesn’t rank as ‘bad writing’… or at least not in my opinion. Yet, 4 paragraphs in, I’m stalled. Frankly I’m worried that if I keep going in the vein I’ve started in, I’m going to bore the reader… or myself writing it! My mind is already drifting onto other tracks, other ideas, leaving this one broken and discarded on the side of the road.
What happened to me? I used to be a prolific writer! I could crank out chapter after chapter, book after book and still have more ideas brewing that would keep my attention for more than three paragraphs. Now I’m lucky to get one idea a day. Is there some exhaustible source inside us all and I’m finally reaching the bottom of my own idea barrel? What am I going to do if I can’t write anymore?? Dear god, I don’t want to work retail hell again!!!
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Monday, November 3, 2008
This really should be day 3, not 1
I was supposed to start this a month ago and now, here it is three days into yet another month and I’m finally setting pen to paper, metaphorically speaking. Please allow me to start by introducing myself.
I used to be a writer. Once upon a time, I wrote wonderful, intricate stories set in a steampunk world that ‘young adults’ adored. I have the Newburys to prove it. Then IT happened, writer’s block. There’s a quote floating around there somewhere that states working authors never get writer’s block, that it’s a ‘crutch’ of sorts for the dilettante. I beg to differ. I am a working author, or at least I used to be, and I have been hit by the curse of writer’s block. My assistant has gotten me a stay of execution for the next installment of my series, but I don’t know if that will be enough time. Frankly, I don’t know if eternity would be, much less 6 months. My therapist says I’ve developed a fear of rejection from the publishing house turning down my foray into adult fiction. Her thoughts are that I should try a writer’s workshop and once I’ve gotten the ‘thrill’ of acceptance solidly in front of me again, my writer’s block will dissolve. Sure, and I have a lovely tropical island for you in the Sahara.
Since I do have a bit of a phobia… agoraphobia is a lovely thing… I found an online writer’s workshop that would let me blog my entries as a way of participating. So for what it’s all worth, here it is. My prerequisite introduction entry done, we’ll see what I can do for writing exercises. It’s supposed to be one a day and I’m already three behind. Pardon me while I go fire up a little random idea generator and see what my muse thinks of whatever ideas get regurgitated.
Exercise 1:
trip or journey plays an important part, a main char must be a child, takes place at an auction
My mom has a fetish for auctions. Yeah, I know what fetish means. I mean, granted, I'm a kid but when you're a bit g and t with folks who don't know enough to NOT let you read the dictionary cover to cover, you learn all sorts of interesting words.
However, we're talking about my mom, not me. She's got this huge thing for auctions and every Friday night she pours over the paper to see who is auctioning what off where and that's how we spend out weekends. We load up in the car and go from auction to auction. Personally I find it boring and it's worse when we're somewhere my laptop can't pick up signal. Verizon network has you covered my Aunt Fanny!
This leads us to today. I'm once again sitting here in a freezing cold barn while my mom drools over some broken thingummy or another. She's hoping for that Antiques Roadshow find of the century I think. I have this image of her in my head, she's standing on that stupid show beaming when they tell her the antique whatchamacallit she bought for fifteen cents is worth fifteen thousand dollars. "Congratulations Mrs Smith, you can now sent your daughter to college next year." Uh huh, sure.
___
Ok, that didn’t take long at all, did it? Two paragraphs and I’ve already run out of steam with my muse off and running looking for a different idea to play with. Drat.
On to exercise 2.
wheelchair plays an important part/main char must be performing a public service/take place in a bathroom
She could see that the girl in the chair was trying very hard not to burst into tears of frustration. Ever since the mid-80's, places theoretically went out of their way to make their bathrooms handicapped accessible. Celina sighed as it became highly apparent that the restaurant had done the bare minimum. There was no way the petite girl's wheelchair was going to fit into the small supposedly handicapped accessible stall without a lot of lubricant. She winced at the less than p.c. tone of her own thoughts.
"Um, I don't mean to be rude or pry, but do you need a hand?" Celina chewed on her lower lip, figuring she was going to either get her head bitten off or asked to perform a task she'd have no idea how to handle.
An expression somwhere between mortification and frustrated anger twisted the young woman's face as she turned to look at her theoretical savior. "What I need is a place where they do more than a lick and a promise for upholding the law." Merry took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment. There was no need to snap at the now startled looking woman standing in the doorway. "Sorry, I shouldn't snap at you. It's not your fault.”
__
Oh good lord, that was even worse. Not only did the brief three paragraphs bore my muse, they bored me! Calgon, take me away!!!!
I used to be a writer. Once upon a time, I wrote wonderful, intricate stories set in a steampunk world that ‘young adults’ adored. I have the Newburys to prove it. Then IT happened, writer’s block. There’s a quote floating around there somewhere that states working authors never get writer’s block, that it’s a ‘crutch’ of sorts for the dilettante. I beg to differ. I am a working author, or at least I used to be, and I have been hit by the curse of writer’s block. My assistant has gotten me a stay of execution for the next installment of my series, but I don’t know if that will be enough time. Frankly, I don’t know if eternity would be, much less 6 months. My therapist says I’ve developed a fear of rejection from the publishing house turning down my foray into adult fiction. Her thoughts are that I should try a writer’s workshop and once I’ve gotten the ‘thrill’ of acceptance solidly in front of me again, my writer’s block will dissolve. Sure, and I have a lovely tropical island for you in the Sahara.
Since I do have a bit of a phobia… agoraphobia is a lovely thing… I found an online writer’s workshop that would let me blog my entries as a way of participating. So for what it’s all worth, here it is. My prerequisite introduction entry done, we’ll see what I can do for writing exercises. It’s supposed to be one a day and I’m already three behind. Pardon me while I go fire up a little random idea generator and see what my muse thinks of whatever ideas get regurgitated.
Exercise 1:
trip or journey plays an important part, a main char must be a child, takes place at an auction
My mom has a fetish for auctions. Yeah, I know what fetish means. I mean, granted, I'm a kid but when you're a bit g and t with folks who don't know enough to NOT let you read the dictionary cover to cover, you learn all sorts of interesting words.
However, we're talking about my mom, not me. She's got this huge thing for auctions and every Friday night she pours over the paper to see who is auctioning what off where and that's how we spend out weekends. We load up in the car and go from auction to auction. Personally I find it boring and it's worse when we're somewhere my laptop can't pick up signal. Verizon network has you covered my Aunt Fanny!
This leads us to today. I'm once again sitting here in a freezing cold barn while my mom drools over some broken thingummy or another. She's hoping for that Antiques Roadshow find of the century I think. I have this image of her in my head, she's standing on that stupid show beaming when they tell her the antique whatchamacallit she bought for fifteen cents is worth fifteen thousand dollars. "Congratulations Mrs Smith, you can now sent your daughter to college next year." Uh huh, sure.
___
Ok, that didn’t take long at all, did it? Two paragraphs and I’ve already run out of steam with my muse off and running looking for a different idea to play with. Drat.
On to exercise 2.
wheelchair plays an important part/main char must be performing a public service/take place in a bathroom
She could see that the girl in the chair was trying very hard not to burst into tears of frustration. Ever since the mid-80's, places theoretically went out of their way to make their bathrooms handicapped accessible. Celina sighed as it became highly apparent that the restaurant had done the bare minimum. There was no way the petite girl's wheelchair was going to fit into the small supposedly handicapped accessible stall without a lot of lubricant. She winced at the less than p.c. tone of her own thoughts.
"Um, I don't mean to be rude or pry, but do you need a hand?" Celina chewed on her lower lip, figuring she was going to either get her head bitten off or asked to perform a task she'd have no idea how to handle.
An expression somwhere between mortification and frustrated anger twisted the young woman's face as she turned to look at her theoretical savior. "What I need is a place where they do more than a lick and a promise for upholding the law." Merry took a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment. There was no need to snap at the now startled looking woman standing in the doorway. "Sorry, I shouldn't snap at you. It's not your fault.”
__
Oh good lord, that was even worse. Not only did the brief three paragraphs bore my muse, they bored me! Calgon, take me away!!!!
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