This is what comes of fooling around on line all night and then getting a good night’s sleep: you look at things in a different light, and ideas pop into your head. Maybe they’re not good ideas, but they do come up, and you’re a damn fool not to do anything with them.
I really was intending on working on my NaNo Novel last night, getting the lexicon worked out, because I truly do need that cat in the bag. But I didn’t. I waited for a package that didn’t come, and by the time I’d stopped waiting, it was getting on six-thirty. So in for a shower, getting nice and clean, and I pop back out and it’s already seven-fifteen. I did go to plug in my external drive–
But I had people wanting to speak with me.
The one part of The Burg that is so much like being back in Indy is having little or not personal contact. Yes, you can speak with people at work, but there is no one here who you can hang with after the day is over and chat up, and maybe go out for a couple of drinks afterwards. I have this lovely balcony and sitting out there is nice, but it would be wonderful to have someone over to speak with.
At the same time, during one of the conversations, my mind started working on its own side project. I was reading what they typed, and I responded one way, but in another part of my brain I saw myself typing something else. Something that was dark and not a little strange. I know, you’re saying, “You, honey? Strange?” Shocking, right? Sometimes I surprise myself.
While I have a lot of story ideas, very few of them are dark. Maybe that’s because I have enough darkness surrounding me and while I might not write the most uplifting prose, I at least have something close to a happy ending by the end of the tail. What I saw last night, what was being typed on the other side of my mind–it wasn’t happy, it wasn’t light, it wasn’t a good ending.
Or was it?
Every so often I dip into the horror. Every so often I imagine the dark spaces in life and wonder what exists there. Oh, sure, cannibal hillbillies and shambling zombies and things going bump in the night are good favorites. But what if someone was drawn into the darkness, and embraced it willingly? Not because they’re crazy, but because what was promised . . . touched them in a special way?
At the end of the novel Hannibal, Clarice ran off with Doctor Lecter because she’d spent too much time staring into the abyss, and when it stared back, she shrugged and said, “Ah, fuck it: this isn’t that bad.” Sure, you can say the drugs and the brain washing played a part, but I’m of a mind that after all those years chasing the darkness, she finally caught it and allowed it to become her own.
I need some dark writers. The people in my stories better watch out.