Elizabeth Massie

RETURN TO THE STORYTELLERS HOMEPAGE

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On any given day I’m writing for pay. Gotta do it. Got bills. ‘Tis me job, and I do love it. I might be working on a novel, a short story, a poem or two, a radio play, a comic book, an article, a chapter for a history textbook, you name it. Most of my work falls in the horror/fantastic realm, though some does not. (History can be classified horror, though, if you really look at some of the shit that went on long ago…holy mackerel!)

I spend most of my time at my computer writing things that accomplish two goals – 1. they are things I want to write and 2. they are things an editor wants, or I’m pretty sure an editor want. Most of the time both goals are met. On occasion, #2 wins out over #1, but once I’m into the project, I usually end up liking it even if I wasn’t that keen on it to begin with.

With the incredible pace that full time writers often have to employ to survive, there hasn’t seemed much time left for just writing whatever I feel like writing. In fact, I’ve recently realized that my own personal writing has taken a back seat…like way back in the back of the bus back seat…to the more count-on-able gigs. I have a feeling that there are other full timers (and even part timers) who have found this to be true once you been relying on your to make or help make ends meet.

An aside: I’m sure there are writers who would say I should only write whatever I want to write and screw the rest…and those are more likely the writers who have a million dollar bestseller out of the gate each time, newbies who are still much more starry-eyed than I am, or those who have a significant other who can provide a financial safety net. But back to the point of this essay…

There’s an idea for a novel that has been rolling around in my gut, mind, and heart for a good many months now…close to a year. It is unlike anything I’ve written before, but over those months when I’ve sat down to type out a ghostly scene or creepy poem or article on elephants, it scratched at the base of my neck, reminding me it’s there, asking for a bit of my time. It’s been a very patient friend, this idea, even though I kept telling myself, “I don’t have time to get into this right now!”

But I finally gave in. About three weeks ago, I pulled up a fresh page on the computer screen and started hammering away. Today, I’m more than 20,000 words into it. And I absolutely love it. I love working on it. I love thinking about it. It may sound corny, but it moves me, it resonates in a deep, emotional place in my heart that few writings have. (And no, it’s not a romance!)

I can’t spend a great deal of time on it each day; for the time being it must remain in the back seat, though it’s not as far back as it used to be. But here’s the thing…I have to admit, my other writings are benefiting from me giving in to this patient, persistent, very personal project. I find myself rejuvenated about my work when before I’d been feeling less than energetic. I’m excited about writing again, when for a while I’d been feeling what I can describe most accurately as “content enough.”

Ah, sweet surrender. I’ve discovered ‘tis good for the soul. And in being so, good for the writer as a whole.

Beth

Most writers who have been in the biz for a while and have scored some decent sales to decent publishers that resulted in decent books will be asked by those who want to join the game, “How do you get published?” It’s inevitable. It’s also a fair question, because those who don’t know want to know, and who better to ask than those who supposedly DO know? And sharing information does not lessen another’s success.

But herein lies a myth. Those of us who have had our novels published by decent publishers know how we got where we are. We have heard our well-published friends talk about how they got where they are. But we can’t tell others with any certainty how to get where they want to be. That’s because there are so many factors that might be involved:

*People you happened to meet at a convention.

*An editor you happened to impress with some of your short stories.

*An editor you happened to impress in person by something you said or did.

*A submission that, for some reason, was picked up by a first reader who was in a particular mood on a particular day, and what you had to say in your novel was exactly what he/she wanted to read at that moment.

*A big-name writer who, for some rare reason, was willing to read your manuscript and give valuable, constructive criticism.

*A big-name writer who agreed to tell a particular editor what a great writer you are and that you should be given close consideration.

*Any combination of the above, or none of the above.

Over the last couple of weeks I’ve been asked by several unpublished people, “How do you get published?” One has written a slew of poetry. Another has written a memoir. Yet another is cranking out a series of science fiction novels. I may not be able to map out all the possible steps to success, but there are some important basics. I ask such people if they’ve looked at the most recent edition of The Writer’s Market. Most have never heard of it. Then I ask if they’ve taken a good look around a bookstore recently. Surprisingly enough, many of them haven’t.

So, for those of you who don’t know the first step to take in finding a publisher for your work, here’s a little self-guided field trip you should take.

First, find a bookstore. A real bookstore, not an online virtual store, because on this field trip you’re going to want to have the opportunity to touch real books, to flip them over, flip them open, hold them, maybe even take a little sniff. Forget the school field trips of your childhood to museums or historic sites where you were warned time and time again, “Don’t touch anything!”

Second, you’re going to want to allow yourself some time in this bookstore. You don’t want to rush through.

Third, go into the bookstore with a clear idea of what kind of book it is you’ve written. Is it science fiction? Is it horror? Is it an inspirational novel? Is it a graphic novel? Is it a fantasy, a children’s picture book, a nonfiction book about your experiences on the Appalachian Trail? Now, go to the section that shelves your type of book. The science fiction section. The horror section. The inspirational section. The graphic novel section. The children’s book section. The nature or travel section. If you don’t know what your book “is,” you’re going to have a terrible time trying to tell an editor what is “is.” Grant it, there are some folks who will disagree with me on needing to have a specific genre or category in mind. They may fuss, “I can’t pin it down. It’s a nonfiction horror/science fiction memoir about the time I was abducted by aliens and tortured with anal probes!” Okay, maybe so, but if you want to get published, you need to pick one and go with it. At least at first. Let an interested editor who handles either science fiction or horror or nonfiction narratives discover all the wondrous variations in your work and, if the book is any good, how it might be marketed.

Fourth, look closely at books that are similar to what you have written. Similar approach, similar content. No, of course no one has written a book as unique as yours (!) but still. Now, flip through those books. Do you like the cover art? Do you like the quality of the package? Are you impressed with what the publisher has done for this author? If so, write down the name of the publisher. If not, ignore them. Spend time on this; there are many books in a particular category and many different publishers (though, sadly, less than there used to be.)

Fifth, go to the resource/research section in the bookstore. Find the newest edition of The Writer’s Market (or the Novel & Short Story Writer’s Market or the Children’s Writer’s & Illustrator’s Market or Jeff Herman’s Guide to Book Publishers, Editors & Literary Agents.)

Sixth, buy that resource book. Take it home. Get one of those bright yellow highlighter pens. Look through the book and find the listings for the publishers whose books impressed you. Highlight their listings. Take note of what they want to see and what they don’t want to see. Find out how many books they publish a year. Learn whether or not they want to see a whole manuscript or sample chapters and an outline. Do they require submissions to be done through an agent or are they willing to read un-agented works?

Seventh, take a deep breath and then prepare your manuscript or sample for submission.

Does this take time? You bet. Is it daunting? You bet. Can you find a quicker pathway to publication? Well, if you want to pay a company to “publish” your book, sure, you can have it between the covers and in hand in less than a year. But you asked, “How do you get published?” Not “How do you get printed?”

And in the meanwhile, let me suggest conferences and conventions. Meet other writers. Meet editors. Meet agents. Go to panels. Listen to the advice. Some of it may actually be helpful. Get ready for the journey of a lifetime that may actually feel like a lifetime.

Bon voyage.

Beth

Some of the best things about my childhood were the unencumbered expanses of time I was able to devote to making stuff and making stuff up.

When I was about 11, my sisters and I created a room-sized map in our basement out of countless pieces of poster board and cardboard taped together. We spent literally months putting it together – drawing roads, rivers, railroads, ponds, and forests, constructing small paper houses, stores, and even putting up a miniature screen for a drive-in movie theater. My favorite part of the map was the camp in the woods, with its mess hall, tents, stables, and hiking and riding trails. This map eventually was rolled up into a huge carpet sized roll because my mom got tired of not being able to walk around on that side of the basement anymore. And by that time, we were ready to move to another project.

I remember my sisters and me spending day after day recording a Batman story script we’d written, and interjecting short bits of songs from records to help move the story along. We invited our friend Marsha over to help. What wild interactions those were; what a blast.

We made up our own board games complete with cards and spinners. We made our own magazines and comic books complete with stories and hand-drawn artwork.

In a nutshell, we used our creativity to enhance and embellish our world. In doing so, we learned the power of the individual to dream and then bring the dream to fruition. We learned that from very little, something new and fresh can evolve with a little imagination, desire, and drive.

Okay. So fast forward to the present. Last weekend, Cortney and I were having dinner at Shenandoah Pizza with friends, writer/illustrator couple Matt and Deena Warner. At some point, Cortney did that finger thing that boys do in elementary school; you know that finger “goal post” at which another boy will then flick a folded, triangle-shaped paper football. I mentioned how, when I was a teacher, those paper footballs drove me crazy. At that point, either Matt or Deena said they’d seen those folded paper footballs for sale on the Internet.

I stopped mid-pizza-chew.

What? People can buy paper footballs and not make them? I was stunned.

Now, I’ve not seen them online yet. I don’t even want to look. The idea that what kids used to do (and some probably still do) is now being snatched out from under them and pre-packaged for sale make me feel three things – anger, sadness, and frustration. Suddenly, I had a new affection for those irritating handmade paper toys that used to fly about the classroom.

I understand that people will try to sell anything that might sell. It’s the nature of the beast. We have to make livings and in this world, things are fiercely, brutally competitive.

But jeez, Louise. pre-fab paper footballs? Let’s take all possible creative activities out of the hands of the children and give them pre-fab entertainment and recreation. Let’s see what kids enjoy, snatch it up, cobble it together, then give it back all neat and prepared and cold and dead. Don’t allow the kids to imagine or dream or think or plan. Don’t let them make a mess or, heaven forbid, let them mess up. Make sure the toddler’s toys have electronic music and lights that flash whenever they touch a button, ‘cause we don’t want them making music with pots and pans. Make sure the kids have video/computer games, especially when they’re babies, so they can learn to stare at screens for long periods of time without interacting with others from an early age. Make sure older kids don’t have to think, or time to think; that they don’t have to problem-solve, don’t have to draw on their imaginations to get things done, because some product is there to do it for them. What a relief, huh?

When my sister Barb and I were teaching, both in the same county, we attended a day-long teacher workshop. One of the first activities had teachers choose from a list of 15 things what they felt was the most important thing found in a successful classroom. You had choices such as “literacy,” “orderliness,” and “updated materials.” One choice was “creativity.” Out of about 50 teachers, Barb and I were the only ones to list “creativity” as the most important element for a successful classroom. I was, quite honestly, surprised. It’s not that I don’t think the other things are important, but with creativity, you can address and incorporate all the other elements in new and exciting ways. Kids will find themselves as active participants in learning, not just going along for the ride.

Some people reading this might think I’m just some lady reminiscing about the old days, some old grump who doesn’t understand that the world changes and marches on and that we need to get with the program as it has been laid out for us. Oh, I understand, all-righty. I know that while some technology is wonderful, some will strip the drive and creative hunger right out of you. I know that sometimes a kid will have more fun with a stick in a muddy yard than an expensive, do-it-all toy that performs every trick in the book. I know that ten-year-olds, when given the time, the space, and the freedom to dream, can come up with amazing things that will not only become favorite childhood memories, but will lay the groundwork for future confidence and competence with his or her innate creative abilities. I don’t believe true creativity dies, but I do believe it can be ignored, neglected, and starved until it lies in a coma. Then it is hard to reawaken.

What does this have to do with creative writing? Oh, I bet you can figure it out.

We’re writers. We work with words. Words are our tools, along with our imaginations, out knowledge of the craft, our reference books, and our pens, papers, and computers. You’d think that because words are so important to us, we’d be sure that not only did we work with words but also that words worked for us.

You think by now, after 23 years in the writing biz, I’d know better.

When I consider contributing a story to an anthology, one of the first questions I have, besides what is the word length limit and when would it be due, is “what does this pay?” That’s not being mercenary, it’s dealing with business.

I understand that some brand new writers aren’t as concerned about what a publisher pays as much as they hope their work will be deemed publishable.
That’s understandable. My first two years “breaking into the biz” had me selling stories for contributors’ copies or ¼ cents a word at times. I was just thrilled to see my name, and my words, in print. This isn’t to say I didn’t want more $$ for my efforts, but I didn’t avoid a magazine (some were, almost literally, “rags”) because the pay sucked. But I always knew what I was getting into when I submitted. It was there in writing, in the guidelines. These days, I not only want to know what the pay is going to be, I have to know what the pay is going to be. I need to know how much is coming in when. I need to know that the bills will be paid, I can put gas in the car, eat, and occasionally go to conventions.

Now, a public library isn’t a publisher. A public library is our friend, full of books we can’t afford to buy or have no room for in our homes, a place where we can go to research, can relax with a magazine, and pick up some good reads. I’m all for supporting the library.

Last spring, I got asked to be the keynote speaker at our public library’s annual “Friends of the Library” dinner. Cool, sounds like fun. A chance to chat to people who love books, to do a little promotion myself. To talk about the craft of writing. And, the guy told me on the phone when he invited me, “There is a $100 honorarium.” It’s not a windfall but it’s a very nice offer, and I’m always calculating how each bit of income will be used for the aforementioned bills, gas, etc. (Cue tiny little toy cash register: cha-ching!)

So I prepare my talk. I focus on my historical fiction. I bring props from different time periods to add some nice visuals. The talk runs about 45 minutes. I even do a sample activity with the group to show how ideas are generated. Everyone has a good time and say so after the talk. Then the president of the Friends of the Library gives me a card and a medium-sized, nicely wrapped box.

I go home and open the box. Inside is a lovely hand-carved wooden bowl from the local Artisan Shop. Nice, an extra goodie! Then I open the card. Inside is a note saying “Thanks for being our speaker!” and signed by all the FOL members. Hey…wait a minute. Where’s my check?

Maybe they plan on mailing it, I think. I wait a week. No check. I send a polite e-mail to the FOL president noting that the bowl was lovely, thank you for the gift, but the check wasn’t in the card. Was it going to be mailed at the end of the month, perhaps?

I get an e-mail back almost immediately, that tells me, “The bowl was the gift we selected for you. It is worth approximately $100. We do hope you enjoy it.”

WHAT???

I calm myself, get a Pepsi, pace around thinking this through, and then compose another polite e-mail: “The bowl is lovely. However, it would have been good to know ahead of time that it would be a gift instead of the cash. As a full time freelance writer, I keep track each month as to what events I have scheduled and what income will be generated from each. Not that I’m trying to sound mercenary, but it just wasn’t clear from your invitation that there would be no actual income from this.”

A few days later I get an e-mail back with an apology that things were “vague” and that if I wanted to, I could return the bowl and they would give me $100. As weird and uncomfortable as it is, I wrap the bowl back up, take it to the library, and a week later I receive the check in the mail. If I was JK Rowling, I could have let it slide. But I’m not and I didn’t.

This is a long story to make the point, get it in writing. When you write a story, a novel, an article, or a proposal and prepare to send it out, know the pay scale and basic terms if they decide to accept your work. Don’t send a book or story you’ve written to a publisher, hoping they pay well, only to get a contract that says you’ll earn two authors or contributors copies for your troubles. Know as much as possible before the contract stage so you don’t find yourself in an awkward situation. Ask; if these folks are professionals, they’ll be happy to let you know. Get it in writing, either via e-mail or snail mail. If you chat on the phone, ask for a follow up letter. Mysteries make good stories but don’t make good business.

A young, unpublished writer recently told me he’d submitted material to a publisher who has an online site. The site has guidelines of all the wonderful, creative things they want to see and want to publish. However, there is no mention of pay. I asked this young man if they told him their pay rates by e-mail or letter. He said no. He said he guessed that if they accepted his work, they’d tell him at that point what they would pay. A newbie mistake but a mistake nonetheless. Going in blindly is bad business. Even if you stand to make only $2 for your work, you should know that. You should have enough respect for yourself as a crafts person to expect to be treated professionally. Words on the air have a funny way of morphing; words, once printed, tend to remain unchanged. Well, unless the paper gets shredded or burned up or the computer gets smushed, but you get the point.

If you aren’t diligent, you may end up trying to buy a tank of gas with a lovely carved wooden bowl.

Okay. Bye.

I was grocery shopping the other day when I ran into an acquaintance of mine I hadn’t seen in probably two years. Sherry’s sweet, funny, and bubbly, a former high school classmate. We briefly compared items in our grocery carts (she had a can of diced tomatoes and some elbow macaroni…that was it; I had everything else – broccoli, carrots, yogurt, bread, cage-free chicken eggs, toilet paper, ground beef, ziti, Ben & Jerry’s Stephen Colbert’s Americone Dream…) and then she told me she’d just had a portrait painted of her daughter. Now, I know her daughter is her German shepherd, a very pretty black one with a big doggie smile and happy doggie eyes. She pulled a recent photo of said doggie out of her purse and I remarked on what a sweet dog she was. Then Sherry’s face drew up a bit and she said, “I’ll never forget when you killed that German shepherd.”

Now, I’ve never killed an animal in my life…intentionally. While driving I’ve hit one deer, several rabbits, three cats, a turtle, some birds on the wing, and countless gnats, flies, and other winged itty-bitty invertebrates. I have gone fishing, but let someone else do the dirty business of slicing and dicing. But I don’t purposefully kill animals.

That’s not to say some of my characters are as innocent as I am.

Honesty, I can’t even recall which novel or short story has a German shepherd die. I’d have to go back and look. But Sherry’s comment made me realized yet again how sensitive people are to pets biting the big one in fiction. So, I thought I’d share again my blog from March 2006, where I first addressed this issue…

Let me state up front that I write horror: spooky-creepy-disturbing-frightening-disgusting-pick-your-unhappy/unpleasant adjective fiction. What I write is that which springs to my mind, or into my gut, and then crawls up or down my spine and chews me up. I’ve written my share of alienated, isolated, insane characters. I’ve created many of sad, tormented souls and cold, twisted minds. Plenty of terrible things have happened in my stories. My characters do these things, not me. I just witness and report the goings on.

There have been some discussions at various times and in various venues about the killings of innocents in horror fiction. Some readers have said stated in no uncertain terms that they won’t read books with these types of murders, or at the very least they’ll skip or, yes, even tear those sections out of the book. They can’t stand the idea of helpless, harmless beings getting folded, stapled, or mutilated. I’m not talking about innocent men, women, or children. I’m talking about animals. Honey kitties. Honey puppies. Other sentient creatures besides humans.

Now, I’m an animal lover. I donate to the SPCA. Every cat or dog I’ve ever owned was a roadside stray or a furry pound creature. When mice get in under our tub, they are captured in humane live traps and set free up the road about a quarter mile in the sheltered, thick grasses beneath a cattle ramp. When I see a turtle on the road, I stop and pick it up and put it off the road…unless it’s a snapping turtle. With them I’ll try to prod them across the tarmac. I’ve signed petitions to free calves from veal stalls, to allow chickens to be free-range, to protest bullfighting, and to encourage people to have their pets spayed and neutered so unloved, unwanted pets don’t end up wandering abandoned lots or junk yards.

Now, back to being a horror writer. My characters wound each other. They sometimes kill each other. I’ve had kids get hurt and sometimes die in my stories. Little honey kitties get whacked. Little honey puppies bite the big one. As a writer, I can’t stop in the middle of a scene, sweep up the innocents and place them out of harm’s way before something terrible comes down on everyone’s heads. Mean people, in real life and in stories, sometimes create collateral damage. Sometimes they intentionally harm the innocents. I’m not making this up, folks, it happens. So although I write horror fiction, I can’t really make exceptions to those who might face the wrath of crazed or evil people. I’m not grinding my palms and salivating over the demise of Fido, Sandy, Tinker, Spot, Chester, and/or Buttercup. Yet when I open my mind to the disturbing story lines, these little fuzzy guys sometimes wander haplessly into range.

If you are a horror writer, it may happen that you kill a pet or two or ten. I mean your character kills a pet or two or ten. So, just be ready for the backlash. Maybe you can’t morally defend the actions of your characters, but you can at least let you readers know it is not you but them who do such terrible things. Your terrible characters aren’t as nice as you are, and you have to tell the truth about them. And while fiction is fiction, it is a reflection of truth.

If that doesn’t work, just tell them it’s freakin’ make believe.

Okay. Bye.

Beth

Most folks love a good mystery, a good Agatha Christie or Carolyn Keene or Robert Parker. I don’t read a lot of mysteries, myself. Not that I don’t respect the craft or that I haven’t enjoyed some I’ve read, it’s just not the first thing I grab for when picking a book. In addition to reading just a few of them, I don’t write them. “Mystery” is its own genre with its own rules and expectations. There is a puzzle or a crime of some sort. There are clues. Then the characters, along with the readers, figure it out somehow.

Horror, on the other hand, is not so much about following clues but is about scaring the reader. Yes, there are some scary mysteries, and yes, horror might attach a mystery of some sort. Also yes, we could get into a debate over what horror is and what it isn’t. But let me get to the point of this post: I don’t write mysteries.

Last spring I was contacted via phone by the president of the local Art Club to see if I could do a presentation at one of their meetings. These folks aren’t artists; they admit that cheerfully. They are a collection of retired folks – mostly ladies – who enjoy art. And drama. And music. And literature. The president said, “I understand you write mysteries. We’d love to have you talk to our group.” I sweetly and clearly explained to the Art Club president that I write horror…scary books and short stories, not mysteries, but that I would be happy to a talk on how I write what I write, and then talk on writing fiction in general. She said that sounded wonderful, and I was booked.

So, the Art Club newsletter came out about a month and a half prior to my visit. I was advertised as “Elizabeth Massie, writer of mystery stories.” I e-mailed the president and said I was afraid I’d been misrepresented; I didn’t want members coming to the meeting expecting a talk on mysteries. I told her again…I write horror. Could she please let the membership know that? She wrote back: Ooops, yes, she’d make that clear. Thank you for the reminder.

Two weeks later an announcement came out in the newspaper about the upcoming meeting. “Elizabeth Massie, mystery author, will talk to the group about writing.” AURGH!!!!! I e-mailed the president again, not at all happy but still putting on my “happy e-mail face” to say I didn’t write mysteries, I wrote horror fiction and it wasn’t the same thing. I asked her to please let the membership know. She didn’t reply.

So I go to the meeting. I am ready for people to ask how they can become the next Arthur Conan Doyle. I began the meeting by saying, “Just to clarify, I don’t write mysteries, I write horror fiction. Scary fiction. Ghost stories, monster stories, weird people stories, and other stories that are bizarre or frightening.” I got some blank looks, but I immediately launched into my talk about how regardless of genre, the basic goal of fiction is to tell a good story. I talked a little about why I was intrigued by scary books and then did some activities that help anybody touch base with their innate ability to create elements of fiction. When all was said and done, we had fun.

But, in all honesty, that’s really not the first time the “mystery” issue has come up. Maybe it’s just that where I live, in a small Virginia town, people (and most often people of a certain age) find the word “horror” distasteful. They can’t really imagine that someone would actually write things with blood and guts and gore, and/or they imagine that blood and guts and gore are the only things you’ll find in a horror novel. Mysteries, on the other hand, are fun! They are adventurous! They are little Miss Marple with a magnifying glass! They are the Hardy Boys running around in a cave! They are fictional adventure rides with a bit of a thrill but not too much, with maybe a murder but not too bloody a murder.

I’ll admit that there have been plenty of times when local people, on meeting me, will say, “Oh, you’re that mystery writer.” They’ve seen something in the newspaper, or a book on the stands, or have heard I write scary stuff and they tuck the concept into the safer “mystery” category. After all, mystery writers are clever and fun, like Rita Mae Brown. Horror writers, on the other hand, are certainly depraved. And since I have been one of them all my life – my family has lived within 20 miles of where I now live since the year 1747 – I certainly couldn’t be depraved. And so, they try to force fit me into something that I’m not because it makes what I do more palatable. They make me a “mystery writer” because mysteries, while they may have some spookiness to them, are fun and safe.

Back to the Art Club. Thinking the person they’ve invited to speak at their meeting writes mysteries is much more comforting that thinking the person they’ve invited writes bloody screaming freaks or zombies or dangerous crazy people.

A couple weeks ago, my sister Barb and I took my mother to Richmond to visit a friend of hers. We dropped Mom off at her friend’s house, then spent the day checking out shops, cruising through the park, and having lunch. When we picked Mom that afternoon, my Mom’s friend said, “I hear you have a new mystery novel out.” I kid you not. Mom had told her friend I write mysteries. I should have let it go, I guess. But I said, “Oh, no, I don’t write mysteries.” My mother, a little sheepishly, said, “Oh, that’s right. You write horror.” It seems that even my Mom, after all these years, is still…embarrassed? uncomfortable? creeped out? that I write horror. Sigh.

Okay. Bye.

Ah, October. A month known for its decaying leaves, fog-shrouded moons, and glimpses of unnerving, unexplained things that skitter at the corner of your eye then disappear when you turn to see them. Thirty-one frosty days that culminate in a night where all hell breaks loose.

For your consideration, I present three short-shorts, each 50 words or less. Little winks, little glimpses of horror, if you will, in honor of the Month of Ghouls.

Fate

I crouch atop the toilet. I hold my breath, but my heart will not be still. Shhh. Shhh. I close my eyes; I clutch my chest. I hear the crack-rustle of scrabbling, crisped fingers. I look. The burned arm reaches beneath the stall, offering the lighter. My turn.

Consequence

It is gone now, lying on the floor, its yellow eyes sealed shut with sticky death, its clawed fingers still and cold. But on my arm, a gaping wound, a place in which its essence has infected me. Soon, I shall be it. The knife trembles at my wrist.

Revenge

The attic is filled with crusted boxes, dusty spiders. I hide behind a trunk, hoping he will not find me. “Obedience!” Father yells, floors below, the sound of his belt slamming walls, biting plaster. I unlatch the trunk. My sister’s ghost flies free, down toward his voice. “Obedience,” she hisses.

Okay, bye.

Beth

Back in the day when I used to ride horses I knew that one trick to keep from getting painfully saddle sore on a long ride was to travel with another person or two, and when you started feeling tired, you traded horses. Suddenly, you felt refreshed, as if you had just started your journey. Sure, you were still in a saddle. Yep, you still had stirrups beneath you. Yeah, you still had a horse to steer over creeks and through fields and woods. But for some reason, changing horses made all the difference in the long haul. That slight alteration in the position of the legs and the way your body fit with the horse were the changes needed to keep on going. And you survived the trip all the better for it.

As some of you who have been reading Storytellers Unplugged for a while might know, I write for a living. It is fun but difficult work; long hours, tight shoulders, isolation, and a sore butt. At times, the brain can go temporarily numb right along with the rear end.

When people ask what I do for a living and I tell them I write, I often hear, “How can you do that? I don’t think I could come up with stories all the time. Don’t you run out of ideas?” My reply is usually “There are always ideas around the next corner. There are always people to inspire characters, circumstances to morph into plots, etc., etc., etc.” Due to fact that these encounters are often quite brief, I don’t get usually into the fact that I don’t just write, but I also do other things to keep the crazy, creative juices flowing.

One thing I do is draw and paint. I create Skeeryvilletown art. For those who don’t know what Skeeryvilletown is, it’s a weird little universe of light-hearted cartoon monsters, creatures, ghosts, and sideshow freaks. They don’t really do much, these guys. Okay, they sometimes go for a dip in the lake or a walk in the park. Sometimes they dress up like pirates. Sometimes they go to the carnival. But mostly they hang out. I find penciling, inking, and painting Skeeryvilletown scenes refreshing and fun. While writing is, for me, both right- and left-brained, doing Skeeryvilletown art is almost completely right brained. I don’t really think about it, it just happens. I design t-shirts, mugs, clocks, messenger bags, magnets, and more, as well as do commissioned “name art” in which a person’s name is inked and painted in large letters surrounded by select citizens of Skeeryvilletown, skull balloons, and spider webs. If you want to see what I’m talking about, here is a link to my Skeeryvilletown CafePress site:

http://www.cafepress.com/skeeryvilletown

You’ll see 3-Eyed Devil Cat, Fire Breathing Dog O’ Death, Boo Boy, Bonehead, Wolfie, Rattie, and some of the others. Having artwork to compliment (or balance?) the writing keeps me from getting saddle sore; each helps keep me “creatively fresh” along the journey (Does that sound like a slogan for a new deodorant?)

And it’s not just me playing in different creative puddles. I’ve found that most creative people are creative in more than just one way. Writers may be musicians, too. Musicians may also be artists. Artists may be writers. Dancers may be potters. Potters may be actors. Don’t believe me? Take a look at yourself. You write, but don’t you also do serve some other creative function? Yeah, you do, don’t you? You might not do it for anyone but yourself, but you do it. You write music or embroider or sing or make independent movies or throw pottery or play a mandolin or weave tapestries or act in local theater or make sculpture out of paperclips, bubble gum, and beer cans. And it’s fun, isn’t it? It’s refreshing. It keeps your mental butt from getting too sore.

So, I’m really just here this month to celebrate the creative you, the creative us. Keep it goin’. Keep on ridin’. Create all sorts of shit and have a great time doing it. If you’ve been ignoring that other creative side, fearing it might drain something from your writing, think again. You’ve got a long and often bumpy road ahead, but you have what it takes to make it work.

Okay. Bye!

Years ago, when my kids Erin and Brian were younger and still living at home, my ex-husband Roger and I would go with them on nice, long summer vacations. We’d all pile into my mini van with our various suitcases, floats, coolers, and bags of snacks and head to one beach or other up and down the East Coast…Virginia Beach, the Outer Banks, Key West, Cape Cod, Ocean City. We got along famously for the most part. We’d sing songs, color in coloring books, draw on each other, and play games in the car. One was a game my daughter Erin learned at Girl Scout camp. She would stand (in our case in the car, sit) behind me and rhythmically pound on my back with her fists while repeating a chant, which went, in part:

“Listen to what I’m saying.
People are dying.Children are crying.
Concentrate.
Concentrate.
There’s a knife in your back
And all the blood is running down
All the blood is running down
All the blood is running down.
There’s a knife in your back
And all the blood is running down
All the blood is running down
All the blood is running down.
Tight squeeze,
Cool breeze.”

At that point Erin would stop pounding, and then squeeze and blow on the back of my neck. A chill would spontaneously race down my spine.

Those were the days, my friend. Now, both Erin and Brian are grown and out of the house, and I live a relatively quiet, freelance life with my partner, illustrator Cortney Skinner. Long gone are the days of family vacations. If I travel, it’s usually with one person or other. Usually Cortney or my sister Barb. Not that I’m a hermit and don’t like people. It’s just that that’s how my life has evolved. Though I’m incredibly busy with my writing schedule, my social and personal life is relatively peaceful.

Until a few days ago. I took a weekend-long trip with my sister, my mother, and my 13-year-old niece, all crammed into my little PT Cruiser with our suitcases and cooler and bags of snacks.

Why would I do this? I live about 100 yards from my sister and niece. I live about 5 miles from my mother. We see each other frequently. It’s not that we needed to reacquaint. However, for the past couple of months my mother has been itching to drive to Charleston, WV because she used to have distant cousins who lived there. When she was a little girl, she and her parents used to drive to Charleston to visit these cousins. (If you’re a Southerner, you understand that cousins are a big part of your life, distant or otherwise.) Now, Mom’s cousins no longer live there. Most if not all of that branch of the family is either dead or moved here to Virginia over the last 50 years. But Mom was having a big hunkin’ case of “I want to see where my cousins used to live.” She knew there were no relatives in the Charleston vicinity, but she wanted to see either A) old houses where they used to live if the houses hadn’t been torn down, B) dead cousin gravesites in Charleston’s Springhill Cemetery, and/or C) the gold dome of the capitol building. Charleston is a 3 ½ hour drive for us if you go Interstate the whole way.

I agreed to go. I agreed to drive. I agreed to share a motel room with the other three. I agreed to book the motel. Even though I knew my mother and my niece had a volatile relationship. I thought, “Hey, it’s a vacation. Maybe it’ll be like the ones we used to have with my kids. Could be fun.”

Yikes.

So, my mother, bless her heart, (again, if you’re Southern, you know what I’m taking about) who has lived alone for the last, oh, eight years or so, doesn’t like bouts of silence. It makes her very uncomfortable. She feels the need to fill up the silent pauses lest they become, I dunno, pervasive?

“Oh, look, twenty miles to Lewisburg. Have you ever been to Lewisburg?”

“There’s a town called Sam Black Church. I wonder if he’s related?”

“Look, a Bekins truck. I didn’t know Bekins trucks were all over the country.”

“That land is for sale. I don’t know if I’d like that. Too rocky.”

“I don’t like much television any more. It’s all junky. I like the History Channel except when they show all that Hitler stuff.”

“Are you going the speed limit?”

“That’s a nice house.”

“What a sad little house.”

We made it to Charleston in 6 hours, not 3 ½, because we took the “scenic route.” We stopped at Hawk’s Nest and The Mystery Hole. Hawk’s Nest ‘cause Mom wanted to see it and Mystery Hole ‘cause my niece wanted to see it. My niece and my Mom got into it at Hawk’s Nest because my niece put her elbows on the table during lunch, didn’t eat all her grilled cheese, and didn’t listen to her whole explanation of what Hawk’s Nest used to look like when my mom was a girl. Tempers flared. My niece and my Mom got into it at The Mystery Hole because my niece wanted to take the tour and the adults just wanted to buy souvenirs.

My neck felt like someone was giving it a tight squeeze and my shoulders were burning with tension. However, I kept my cool and kept the wheels on the road. At last, we made it to the capital of WV, the shining city by the Kanawha River.

Our motel was less than stellar. I’d tried to save money. What a mistake. The room was tiny, damp, and a little musty smelling. The door was warped and water-stained. There was an enormous dumpster in the parking lot two doors down. The beds (there were two) seemed to be just a little smaller than your average double. Thank goodness there was a pool. The niece and I went to the pool. My mom and sister, “took naps,” which meant my sister tried to relax and watch TV. while my mother asked her every five minutes or so if she was okay because she looked so tired and if she had diabetes because she had to pee a lot.

We went to dinner at a Crackerbarrel. My mom and my niece got into it because my niece wanted to eat at Hooters and my mother thought that was “crass.” They got into it at Crackerbarrel because my niece put her elbows on the table and she didn’t eat most of her meal but then bought big wads of candy in the gift shop. We drove back to the motel and my niece went back to the pool, this time with my sister and me, leaving Mom to write postcards in the room.

My mom shared a bed with me; my sister shared one with my niece. Every single time I turned over in bed (at least 6, I kid you not) my mother would say, “Are you too cold? Are you comfortable?” Most of the time I was only half awake and could barely mumble, “I’m fine.” It got to the point where I was afraid to turn over, knowing she’d ask me those questions. I lay there, trying not to turn over but needing to. Then I’d ease myself over as softly as possible. Counting one, two, three, four. Then, “Are you too cold? Are you comfortable enough?” I’m guessing I woke her up each time I even moved and so she was then faced with that dreaded silence and so had to say something to fill it up. I was exhausted come morning.

Mom decided she didn’t need to look for old houses or gravesites. She was happy just to look at the gold dome. We walked around the capitol grounds and visited their tourist center and museum. Then the niece wanted to tour up inside the dome but my mother thought we should head on out to the “Capital Market” and get some more postcards. Mom and my niece had a big blowout over the issue of the dome. I walked to the car to escape it all. I wanted to kick something or someone but just counted to, oh, round about 10,000 to cool off. I watched squirrels run around the parking lot for about twenty minutes before the niece, sister, and Mom showed up.

Next, we went to the Capital Market where I bought a Fuji apple and a box of cashew brittle for Cortney. Mom bought a postcard, of which, she said, were all “way too expensive.” We got back in the car and drove around, l
ooking at the sights. Mom tried to tell my niece everything she knew about the city and how it was different from the way it was many years ago. My niece was less than thrilled. My sister then said my niece wanted to go to the children’s museum she’d seen advertised. My mother didn’t want to go. We went and stayed for just an hour or so. My mother and I watched a one-story tall Rube Goldberg type dealio in which about a hundred golf balls traveled up and around and down, making gongs gong, bells chime, and wheels spin. My niece and sister met up with us in the lobby. I could feel another confrontation brewing. It came to a head when my niece was told we weren’t going to a shopping mall for which she had seen billboards, a mall she insisted on visiting. She wanted to buy a piece of souvenir coal, and was sure she could find it at this enormous shopping mall. Another blow up in the car. My mother and I ended up eating our next meal in one restaurant and my sister and niece at another.

We took Interstate the whole way home.

“Can you imagine being a pioneer and having to travel this far on foot?”

“Gas sure is more expensive than it was last week.”

“I like that postcard I got of West Virginia at night.”

“I hope Daisy likes the postcard I mailed her. She is so picky!”

“Look at that license plate. GOBLOE. What does that mean?”

“Look at that river.”

“Look at that ridge.”

“Look at those clouds.”

“Are you speeding?”

My mom and niece almost got into it over what one thought was coal showing through the cut away sections along the highway and the other thought wasn’t coal but it died down when I changed the subject. We made it home in just under 4 hours. And getting out of my car at my own little house was like a nice, cool breeze.

Ah.

So, what does this have to do with writing? Is it about setting? A potential plot? Character development? Use of dialog? As a writer, I’ll leave that up to you. As for me, I learned that four family members crammed in a car don’t always a happy vacation make. I learned that my mother gets nervous when she feels she is out of control, much like my niece. I learned that my sister has nerves of steel and the patience of Job. I learned that my patience comes and goes. I learned that it’s good to step out of a current comfort zone to try something different, because everything experienced is fodder for the writer. I learned that even the solitary writer must interact with people up close and personal in some fashion at some time. How else will we get to know other people? How else can we glean the understanding needed to write about life more realistically?

Even though it sometimes might chase an emotional chill down your spine.