Sharing Just a Skosh! AND THEN SOME..
Okay. I know I've been absent for a few weeks, but, as with everyone else, life is busy, as usual. I won't bore you with all the tasks which begged for attention, and all the issues that have cropped up, but there is one very special task I've been tending to, which to me, is one of the most important of all, and that's my 'works in progress'! Yes. I said, "works." I'm not going to share the title of these two books just yet. I'm not ready to fully unveil or disclose them at this time, but I'll tell you a bit about each, and, to the one which is a humorous memoir, I've given an acronym. And that is, 'TTITC'. I know you don't understand what it stands for, and for now, that's okay, but I have no doubt that when the title is shared, you will enjoy it!
Let me start with the book that has the farthest to go, and is taking the back burner temporarily, solely for the purpose of allowing me time to finish final edits on TTITC.
This novel is a story of fiction in the horror genre, or at least, I think I have the chops to make it really and truly 'horror'(fying). I think I do, but I suppose that will come down to you Dear Reader, and you will tell me whether or not you think it worthy of that classification. I have quite a way to go in that story and I'm only on chapter eight. And that is only the bare bones of it. Of course, being the anal retentive perfectionist I am, I'm re-writing and finagling as I go along, which, as you know if you are a Writer, eats up more time. So, loooooong way to go.
The horror is about an unusual Witch, who has multiple gifts, and multiple enemies! I know every great story has antagonists, but this poor auburn-haired Witch doesn't just have one or two antagonists, but a whole Coven full of them; twelve to be exact, all belonging to 'The Children Of The Light.' And all because she did something naughty! At least in the their eyes she did. Don't let the name of the Coven fool you either, these women are anything other than filled with light! And it's not just her they come against, but anyone who gets in their path.
There are also a few protagonists other than the auburn-haired Witch; everyone needs supporting actors, and then, many minor characters and locations. The story is set in Philadelphia, PA., which happens to be my hometown and one that I miss. I've managed to incorporate a little of Philly's reality into my make-believe scenery from the realm of my imagination. There are twists and turns, multiple plots with strands going here and there and then tie-up nicely with a surprise ending!
I know I really haven't told you much, have I? I have my reasons, the main one is simply because my story is only at chapter eight, and anything can happen in between here and the end. I'm not an overly outline driven kind-of-gal. Oh, don't you worry, I have one, I just don't always adhere to its form. That is to say, if the story starts to go another direction, I'll usually run with it! I know what it is that I want you to know, and those things I want to show you, and I know the scenes I have to have in the story to drive the plot to its successful and creepy finale, but what I don't know in an outline, is about the little nuances the story develops on its own. In other words, what the story wants to show you, and I'm a-okay with that! I like when even I am surprised! I love when the sick and twisted, or the horrifying comes frothing to the top, rearing its ugly head and screams to be written! When my stories start to write themselves, and I'm simply the fingers the characters and plots use to get their words out, that to me, is the very best kind of writing! I don't mind taking a back seat to my story, just so long as you, Dear Reader will enjoy it, and if you're into the horror genre, I have every faith that you will!
Now because that story has a long way to go, I've decided to change gears a little bit, and concentrate on my memoir, which in reality, was my first book to begin with. Well, not really my first. There have been many stories written over my lifetime, just none that I; A: Either didn't finish, and shelved entirely, or B: Grew bored with, and discarded, or just didn't like or enjoy very much, or C: (And this is the really hurtful one, borne entirely from my own immaturity and stupidity..) Had a finished manuscript ready to be pitched and marketed, was counseled by some old, narrow-minded ninny who claimed to be my friend, and, because she didn't like my subject matter because it offended her sensibilities, suggested that I "BURN" said manuscript, because she felt it was only therapeutic to my mental status to do so! And, I, believed that she, being an elder and mature Christian mentor to me in my Church home thought she knew best, and I burnt my beloved, my first, and entirely un-duplicatable -(I know that's not a word, but it seems to be the only accurate one at the moment!)- book!!! BURNT it! To cinders.. ashes to ashes.. never to be written the same again.. !!!
Phew! Glad to get that off my chesticles. (Yes, yes, I know that's not a word either, but ahem, this is my story I'm telling, so...) That's been bugging me for twenty-some odd years! I've carried the guilt of burning my first fully-written book (my baby), the burden of my stupidity, the stress of trying to replicate it for two decades, and it sucks to admit, that I should have known better. Period. (Just warranted repeating.) Thank God and all that's holy, that after all these years, I still possess and retain the only known proof that that book ever existed at all; I still have all of the character profiles I'd created back then. I remember exactly how the book opened in its first paragraph -your first sentence is not something you easily forget about, is it?- and I remember how the book ended, but, what I absolutely cannot remember, is the main body of that book! I sort of remember, but not quite. Yes, yes. I hear all of you out there reading and who are feeling my pain, screaming at me to not try to replicate it, but write something else with those profiles, and I'm going to scream back at you, "Don't you think I've tried???" I have. Nothing seems to be good enough! Twenty plus years, twenty-plus new and different story plots, outlines, versions, and nada. Nothing. Zilch! Maybe one day, but today is not that day! It's a pitiful and sad excuse, but that's what I've been doing with my time for these twenty years, well, until four or five years ago anyway.
Ha! Do you see what I mean about not following outlines. I had no intention w-h-a-t-s-o-e-v-e-r of telling you any of that, but since this, the writing, and sometimes ranting of my blog is my therapy, I'm thinking maybe I needed to tell you that story, and I have to say, I do feel a bit better, thanks! Maybe that's what I needed to find closure with the issue? Maybe.
Now, on to the humorous memoir, 'TTITC'. This novel is an easier story for me to tell you about! I've been working at it on again, off again over the last four or five years, and the story is one that I have a love-hate relationship with. Actually, there are times when I hate myself for putting pen to paper, and then there are times when I feel it is well-deserved, and one that I know thousands of you out there can, and will relate to. I'm quite familiar with the impetus for this story which is not necessarily a good thing, but I try to find the silver lining in all situations, even when the issue itself may be wrought with tears, or anger, or disgust, and I prefer to laugh. So I've made something hysterical, to me at least, and to the others that have read or reviewed it, out of something that wasn't really funny to begin with. Having told you that, you should know, each chapter in my story paints and portrays a different picture over the course of the novel and all culminates to a perfect conclusion!
And so, out of the ashes of a marriage, 'TTITC' was birthed! Like a Phoenix rising up from the cinders to a renewed life, so 'TTITC' has renewed my spirit, my way of thinking, and a renewed sight for my future!
A close personal friend of mine, Christopher Clawson, (you can find him here.http://christophereclawson.weebly.com/ ) a Published Author of 'Bless Me Father,' and 'TheTrade,' and has two WIP, sent me a text after he read 'TTITC' and described how he tried to read it to his partner, but was laughing so hard he cried, and had to have his partner read it for himself because he couldn't see! He described 'TTITC' as "A read me on a nasty day, and don't put me down until I'm finished book!" I am honored and grateful for his words! So now, a little tease! Enjoy!
A snippet from Chapter 5:
The creaky, old wooden door, with its old rusty hinges, and peeling dark red paint swings slowly open a crack. I peek through it, but there’s nobody there. I bite my lower lip out of nerves, and in fear, wondering how the door opened if no one is there to open it. It’s as if the house itself is inviting me in. My skin prickles, and the hair on the back of my neck stands at attention. I falter on the battered cement porch, and look around me. There are spider webs, old, wispy, and blowing with each wind gust and they’re hanging everywhere, the spider’s having long abandoned their lairs, or at least I hope so. Old desiccated insect corpses still litter the tattered webs. Their little dead bodies flapping in the wind, reminding me there was once a time when living, biting, icky things with eight big, black eyes and fangs sucked those bugs’ dry! They’re hanging from the cast iron posts holding up the porch roof too, and the posts are bent and crooked, like someone took a sledge hammer to them. The edge of the roof is listing badly, and I wonder if it’ll stay up there, or come crashing down around me, and I’m afraid to keep standing there just in case, but I’m more afraid of what’s inside this dilapidated old place.
I hear something scurry in the dried leaves behind me, and the sound reminds me of old dead bones rubbing together, the noise sets my teeth on their edges. I quickly whip my head around to look behind me into the overgrown yard, half afraid to see what’s there, but more afraid not to. I squint my eyes in the failing light, and jump a foot when a rat the size of my head runs out from under a blanket of leaves, gives me the evil eye, and scurries off with something clenched between its razor sharp teeth.
I see old, gnarled trees blowing and bending in the howling winds, their long limbs flying straight out like they’re reaching for me. And the wind dies, the tree’s tiny twigs limp down listlessly, sagging and tired looking. The winds howl again, and the twigs look like long bony skeleton fingers ready to grab me and pull me into its gnarled arms! I hear the door squeaking and creaking and I snap my head back around to the front of me, and wonder who moved the door. I think to myself with feigned relief, it must have been the wind blowing. I’m even more afraid, my flesh crawling along my body.
I see a filthy bowed front-window, and in it, there are three bony, feral-looking cats lying on a dirty, filthy sill. I spy dried fur balls’ of vomit scattered around these diseased looking menaces. Two of them have green-gold colored irises, and one has bright blue, and, they all eye me with wary caution. They seem interested in me, their expressions towards me like I’m a mouse they wish to play with and consume. The one with the blue eyes stands up and stretches languorously, its back a hump now, the hair standing up in tufts upon it, but it’s still eye-balling me with suspicion, or hunger, I can’t tell. I think to myself, it looks like the perfect Halloween cat! I try to coo at them through my fear, but my voice is shaky and nervous sounding. I try to put the thought of them out of my mind, knowing that if I go in there, they may attack me, but it lingers in my head anyway. I’m not sure I should go into the house, let alone, do I want to go in! I steel my nerves, or try to, as I breathe deeply, exhale slowly, stepping over the threshold with trepidation.
P. Knight
Stay tuned to my blog for more snippets in the near future, and thanks for reading my meanderings. Remember, I write because, I'm Just Me...
Let me start with the book that has the farthest to go, and is taking the back burner temporarily, solely for the purpose of allowing me time to finish final edits on TTITC.
This novel is a story of fiction in the horror genre, or at least, I think I have the chops to make it really and truly 'horror'(fying). I think I do, but I suppose that will come down to you Dear Reader, and you will tell me whether or not you think it worthy of that classification. I have quite a way to go in that story and I'm only on chapter eight. And that is only the bare bones of it. Of course, being the anal retentive perfectionist I am, I'm re-writing and finagling as I go along, which, as you know if you are a Writer, eats up more time. So, loooooong way to go.
The horror is about an unusual Witch, who has multiple gifts, and multiple enemies! I know every great story has antagonists, but this poor auburn-haired Witch doesn't just have one or two antagonists, but a whole Coven full of them; twelve to be exact, all belonging to 'The Children Of The Light.' And all because she did something naughty! At least in the their eyes she did. Don't let the name of the Coven fool you either, these women are anything other than filled with light! And it's not just her they come against, but anyone who gets in their path.
There are also a few protagonists other than the auburn-haired Witch; everyone needs supporting actors, and then, many minor characters and locations. The story is set in Philadelphia, PA., which happens to be my hometown and one that I miss. I've managed to incorporate a little of Philly's reality into my make-believe scenery from the realm of my imagination. There are twists and turns, multiple plots with strands going here and there and then tie-up nicely with a surprise ending!
I know I really haven't told you much, have I? I have my reasons, the main one is simply because my story is only at chapter eight, and anything can happen in between here and the end. I'm not an overly outline driven kind-of-gal. Oh, don't you worry, I have one, I just don't always adhere to its form. That is to say, if the story starts to go another direction, I'll usually run with it! I know what it is that I want you to know, and those things I want to show you, and I know the scenes I have to have in the story to drive the plot to its successful and creepy finale, but what I don't know in an outline, is about the little nuances the story develops on its own. In other words, what the story wants to show you, and I'm a-okay with that! I like when even I am surprised! I love when the sick and twisted, or the horrifying comes frothing to the top, rearing its ugly head and screams to be written! When my stories start to write themselves, and I'm simply the fingers the characters and plots use to get their words out, that to me, is the very best kind of writing! I don't mind taking a back seat to my story, just so long as you, Dear Reader will enjoy it, and if you're into the horror genre, I have every faith that you will!
Now because that story has a long way to go, I've decided to change gears a little bit, and concentrate on my memoir, which in reality, was my first book to begin with. Well, not really my first. There have been many stories written over my lifetime, just none that I; A: Either didn't finish, and shelved entirely, or B: Grew bored with, and discarded, or just didn't like or enjoy very much, or C: (And this is the really hurtful one, borne entirely from my own immaturity and stupidity..) Had a finished manuscript ready to be pitched and marketed, was counseled by some old, narrow-minded ninny who claimed to be my friend, and, because she didn't like my subject matter because it offended her sensibilities, suggested that I "BURN" said manuscript, because she felt it was only therapeutic to my mental status to do so! And, I, believed that she, being an elder and mature Christian mentor to me in my Church home thought she knew best, and I burnt my beloved, my first, and entirely un-duplicatable -(I know that's not a word, but it seems to be the only accurate one at the moment!)- book!!! BURNT it! To cinders.. ashes to ashes.. never to be written the same again.. !!!
Phew! Glad to get that off my chesticles. (Yes, yes, I know that's not a word either, but ahem, this is my story I'm telling, so...) That's been bugging me for twenty-some odd years! I've carried the guilt of burning my first fully-written book (my baby), the burden of my stupidity, the stress of trying to replicate it for two decades, and it sucks to admit, that I should have known better. Period. (Just warranted repeating.) Thank God and all that's holy, that after all these years, I still possess and retain the only known proof that that book ever existed at all; I still have all of the character profiles I'd created back then. I remember exactly how the book opened in its first paragraph -your first sentence is not something you easily forget about, is it?- and I remember how the book ended, but, what I absolutely cannot remember, is the main body of that book! I sort of remember, but not quite. Yes, yes. I hear all of you out there reading and who are feeling my pain, screaming at me to not try to replicate it, but write something else with those profiles, and I'm going to scream back at you, "Don't you think I've tried???" I have. Nothing seems to be good enough! Twenty plus years, twenty-plus new and different story plots, outlines, versions, and nada. Nothing. Zilch! Maybe one day, but today is not that day! It's a pitiful and sad excuse, but that's what I've been doing with my time for these twenty years, well, until four or five years ago anyway.
Ha! Do you see what I mean about not following outlines. I had no intention w-h-a-t-s-o-e-v-e-r of telling you any of that, but since this, the writing, and sometimes ranting of my blog is my therapy, I'm thinking maybe I needed to tell you that story, and I have to say, I do feel a bit better, thanks! Maybe that's what I needed to find closure with the issue? Maybe.
Now, on to the humorous memoir, 'TTITC'. This novel is an easier story for me to tell you about! I've been working at it on again, off again over the last four or five years, and the story is one that I have a love-hate relationship with. Actually, there are times when I hate myself for putting pen to paper, and then there are times when I feel it is well-deserved, and one that I know thousands of you out there can, and will relate to. I'm quite familiar with the impetus for this story which is not necessarily a good thing, but I try to find the silver lining in all situations, even when the issue itself may be wrought with tears, or anger, or disgust, and I prefer to laugh. So I've made something hysterical, to me at least, and to the others that have read or reviewed it, out of something that wasn't really funny to begin with. Having told you that, you should know, each chapter in my story paints and portrays a different picture over the course of the novel and all culminates to a perfect conclusion!
And so, out of the ashes of a marriage, 'TTITC' was birthed! Like a Phoenix rising up from the cinders to a renewed life, so 'TTITC' has renewed my spirit, my way of thinking, and a renewed sight for my future!
A close personal friend of mine, Christopher Clawson, (you can find him here.http://christophereclawson.weebly.com/ ) a Published Author of 'Bless Me Father,' and 'TheTrade,' and has two WIP, sent me a text after he read 'TTITC' and described how he tried to read it to his partner, but was laughing so hard he cried, and had to have his partner read it for himself because he couldn't see! He described 'TTITC' as "A read me on a nasty day, and don't put me down until I'm finished book!" I am honored and grateful for his words! So now, a little tease! Enjoy!
A snippet from Chapter 5:
The creaky, old wooden door, with its old rusty hinges, and peeling dark red paint swings slowly open a crack. I peek through it, but there’s nobody there. I bite my lower lip out of nerves, and in fear, wondering how the door opened if no one is there to open it. It’s as if the house itself is inviting me in. My skin prickles, and the hair on the back of my neck stands at attention. I falter on the battered cement porch, and look around me. There are spider webs, old, wispy, and blowing with each wind gust and they’re hanging everywhere, the spider’s having long abandoned their lairs, or at least I hope so. Old desiccated insect corpses still litter the tattered webs. Their little dead bodies flapping in the wind, reminding me there was once a time when living, biting, icky things with eight big, black eyes and fangs sucked those bugs’ dry! They’re hanging from the cast iron posts holding up the porch roof too, and the posts are bent and crooked, like someone took a sledge hammer to them. The edge of the roof is listing badly, and I wonder if it’ll stay up there, or come crashing down around me, and I’m afraid to keep standing there just in case, but I’m more afraid of what’s inside this dilapidated old place.
I hear something scurry in the dried leaves behind me, and the sound reminds me of old dead bones rubbing together, the noise sets my teeth on their edges. I quickly whip my head around to look behind me into the overgrown yard, half afraid to see what’s there, but more afraid not to. I squint my eyes in the failing light, and jump a foot when a rat the size of my head runs out from under a blanket of leaves, gives me the evil eye, and scurries off with something clenched between its razor sharp teeth.
I see old, gnarled trees blowing and bending in the howling winds, their long limbs flying straight out like they’re reaching for me. And the wind dies, the tree’s tiny twigs limp down listlessly, sagging and tired looking. The winds howl again, and the twigs look like long bony skeleton fingers ready to grab me and pull me into its gnarled arms! I hear the door squeaking and creaking and I snap my head back around to the front of me, and wonder who moved the door. I think to myself with feigned relief, it must have been the wind blowing. I’m even more afraid, my flesh crawling along my body.
I see a filthy bowed front-window, and in it, there are three bony, feral-looking cats lying on a dirty, filthy sill. I spy dried fur balls’ of vomit scattered around these diseased looking menaces. Two of them have green-gold colored irises, and one has bright blue, and, they all eye me with wary caution. They seem interested in me, their expressions towards me like I’m a mouse they wish to play with and consume. The one with the blue eyes stands up and stretches languorously, its back a hump now, the hair standing up in tufts upon it, but it’s still eye-balling me with suspicion, or hunger, I can’t tell. I think to myself, it looks like the perfect Halloween cat! I try to coo at them through my fear, but my voice is shaky and nervous sounding. I try to put the thought of them out of my mind, knowing that if I go in there, they may attack me, but it lingers in my head anyway. I’m not sure I should go into the house, let alone, do I want to go in! I steel my nerves, or try to, as I breathe deeply, exhale slowly, stepping over the threshold with trepidation.
P. Knight
Stay tuned to my blog for more snippets in the near future, and thanks for reading my meanderings. Remember, I write because, I'm Just Me...
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