I Have Issues

I Have Issues.

I also have zits.  It's not pretty.  I put on make up and red lipstick and pretend that I don't look like Big Marsh covered in partridge berries(only the Newfoundlanders, specifically the Change Islanders will get this reference but I'm using it anyway) , but I think it's just the change in the weather because summer is coming! 

Yes!  I love summer!  Zits and all!  I've been walking, working on my tan, enjoying every day!  Oh the glorious sun!  I am thinking of having an indoor sun installed in the fall.  I cannot take another sun-free winter.  Of course there is the Jamaica plan(I want to visit the magic fire water place)  but still,  a trip to a sunny destination isn't as good as having a nice warm sun installed in the living room.  Just sayin'

I think this may be another go nowhere, means nothing, boring blog post. 

But wait.  Maybe I do have something going on..what did I say at the beginning?  Oh yeah, I have issues.  This is actually what I saw on a lady's shirt while I was picking up the kids from school.  It made me smile.  Bright red tee with white lettering across the sizable chest of the lady.  Perfect.  I want one. 

I will never buy one of course but what will happen is you'll find this tee shirt in one of my books eventually.  As a writer, Im always mindful of different things I can incorporate into my stories to make my characters more real, to transport you into their lives, into their very skins at times with my descriptions. 

Quite frequently the moment somebody learns I'm an author they tell me "I have a story" and I always believe them because, frankly, everybody does.  Today somebody told me a little story of something that had happened to them as a child.  It wasn't horrific or violent or anything.  Basically it was a small-minded mean-spirited thing that hurt the child.  An extreme case of bullying.  It got me thinking, what makes a person so mean and I became fascinated about creating a character based on what little knowledge I have of the person.

I decided this new character would fit perfectly into my horror novel.  The one that's been taunting me from a folder on my desk for about a month.  Since I have done the outline for the love story and it's going to be next winter's project(sorry folks) and since the horror book will be half the size of the love story, and because I have issues that need to be addressed, I'm going to start on that instead. 

My friend was a little surprised.  Writing horror?  Really?  You?  I smiled to myself.  Oh yeah, I have a very creepy dark side.  I like to think I have it under control in my life  but in my imagination I can inflict all sorts of horror upon those who have wronged me!  Of course I get my characters to do it to those who have wronged them but...well...I'm the god of my characters so we are of one ilk right?

I haven't decided if I'll outright murder him or torture him first for hurting this little girl.  There might be more to learn from the torture bit.  We shall see how much he pisses me off in the course of the writing.

You know, I also think, I should be straight up.  A lot of you will end up somewhere in the pages of a book at some point.  I am constantly looking for bits of characters, inspiration for new characters, descriptions of physical appearance and most of all interesting people to base my characters upon.   I also like cool names.  Yes you will end up in a book.  And if you're mean to me your character won't survive it. (Told you I have issues!)

Don't  worry, names and places are always changed to protect the innocent.  And the guilty.

But how will I write horror.  I live so happily.  So free of conflict and hate.  So peaceful and loving an existence.  Wait.  My children read this.  I better come clean.  I am as ordinary as air and completely human and flawed.  I work against it but I have, as I've said before, issues!

Here is a little sample of something I wrote today based on somebody I know really well.

She picked up the wedge of lime and plopped it in the glass on top of the ice.

 "Mother fuckin' mother of Jesus" she muttered before she stuck her finger in her mouth and looked around to see if the kids were in the room.  She took it out and looked at the cut, remembering her anger at whoever had put the cleaver in the utensil drawer. 

"They're trying to kill me,"she sighed as she twisted the top off the club soda bottle, the stinging finger outstretched.  The explosion hit her straight in the face drenching the front of her white tee shirt. 

"Son of a Bitch." This time she spoke louder, accentuating each word, as she rushed the squirting bottle to the sink.  She giggled then.  What would they think, she wondered, her readers...if they could see her now.

This is how I'm writing horror...the character above...such an ordinary scene...yet...there is a cleaver...

See how easy it is to make something ordinary into something potentially horrific?  This character giggled so you probably aren't expecting her to go crazy.  But what if I change just that one thing...and you know that scene was me...and it's all true...OK I was wearing a black tee shirt but creative licence is allowed...but that will tell you...that I do indeed have issues. 

That is me and my rampant imagination.  The best horror is when you set somebody in the scene, transport them with your description into a regular ordinary place and have extraordinary and horrific things occur.

This is so much fun as a writer.  I giggled at my ridiculous situation and cleaned it up grateful it was club soda and not some sticky pop.   Perhaps though  my character will be in a different place and that stinging finger will be the final , straw!  You can imagine where that might lead.  I won't write it here.  I don't feel like cleaning up blood on the blog, although...I've read that club soda removes bloodstains...interesting coincidence uh?

Now I have to get in touch with my inner demon.   Oh my but this is going to be a delicious summer!

Don't inhale simply to stay alive.  See, hear, taste, touch and feel life. Take charge of yours and live it to the fullest measure.  Carolyn R. Parsons