I Love to Tell Stories...Just not this One

The future Queen of Hades.
The Shade Catcher.
The Neophyte.
The story I cannot tell.

Why?! Why do I get mucked up in the middle of this story? It's a good story. It's got great twists, interesting characters, and an intriguing plot. But there is no ending. Don't misunderstand, I've written nearly a dozen different endings but none of them feel right.

I wish I could blame it on my lack of storytelling abilities. Like maybe I'm just not creative enough. Not true. I am a master story teller, if I do say so myself. My writing abilities might be in question, however.

Bingo! I think I've nailed it. (No, the discovery had nothing to do with the previous paragraph.) It has to do with why I can't tell a story off the cuff to my son. I don't know where the story begins. The endings are always the beginnings for me.

How did you get here? What made you this?

My stories work best when I start at the end and work my way back. Isn't that how we all love to see a story. Aren't we all a little curious about the prequels more than the sequels? So, I guess the question is, where is my future Queen of Hades, the Shade Catcher, The Neophyte right now? When I discover that answer I can finish the story. Until then...

Serendipity

I was watching TV with Zach when an amazing trailer came on during the commercial break for one of our many TV shows.
The Immortals.
It threw me into a funk. There's MY GENRE being played out, yet again, on the big screen. I am the one in love with Greek Mythology! It's not a fad! Or is it? Maybe it is, and maybe this is the perfect time for my novel. Yes, the novel that sits unwritten in my "dropbox."
Needless to say, or maybe I do need to say it, I was in a funk about the novel. I felt like I had a ticket for the train but spent too much time packing my bags that I missed it. I want to be a novelist, professionaly. Yes, I've written a novel, but no, it's not polished. And no, it's not published. But I want to be published.
Write for yourself.
Been there. Done that. I want to be a professional. Hate to break it to you, but even the best artists of the past wanted to be professionals. Even (a famous historical artist I need to look up) used aging techniques to make his art look older so that it would be worth more. Etsy is full of amazing artists who want to be professionals (and are!). There are loads of amazing musicians who take money for their craft. As artists, we naturally want to share, and what better way to share than by publication?
Anyway...
I'm in a funk later that night and decide to text my muse, Mark, my younger brother. But he's started a brand new job-the first in his adult life-and I haven't even called him to check in. So, he's out. I mean, what kind of schmuck am I? So, I go on a hash-tag search on Twitter for #novel. I find a lot of random Asian script which frustrates me. I decide to rely on fate and just do fast scroll through the enourmous list allowing my finger to stop the flying tweets randomly.
As fate would have it, I land on a Tweet by a woman who lives here, in dinky Northwest Ohio. She's about 35 minutes north of me and an established novelist.
WOW! 
Serendipity much?
Anyway...I've begun following her and just purchased her book. We'll see what happens. 

I Felt the Fire and Savored the Burn

I wrote a little the other night. I thought it was pretty amazing. It needs some edits and refining yet, but nonetheless I think I'll post it! (No one reads this blog anyway.) Items in italics are what I had written months  ago (with minor edits and it needs more), the rest is what I wrote four nights ago.

               I tiptoed out of my room, careful to dodge Alexis’ pile of dirty laundry in an effort to not wake her. Not that I cared about her slumber, I just really didn’t feel like explaining myself. Sleep had eluded me for nearly two days offering no ease to my anxiety.

                Scurrying out to my car, I took a deep refreshing breath. The cold air seized my lungs, but I welcomed the crisp unscented night.

                I had always relished my car’s power. It was probably the first foreshadowing of what I was to become, but I had missed the clues. When my father had first given me the Italia I was obsessed exclusively with its looks. With her sloped nose and contoured quarter panels she was art on wheels. Custom striped, the contrast between her white hood and jade lines softened the fierce black grill giving her a natural femme fetal uniform.

                Then I drove her one night after volleyball practice on the back road between my house and the high school. At first I was frightened by her power but soon I was hypnotized by her control. That night I learned she could turn a 180 without crossing over the yellow line. After that, I was never sure if I had been driving that night or her.

                As I hurried across the parking lot of my dorm, I was looking for the same control my car had always given me.

Once I pushed the starter, the engine hummed beneath me offering the comfort of its unbridaled power. She hugged the curves of the road, projecting smoothly around each pass. Soon I entered a straight stretch of rural highway, the speedometer rising like a phase of the moon. Controlling the racing steel lulled my inner confusion; serenity washed over me in the stillness of the lonely night.

We galloped through the landscape at a dangerous speed while my anxieties became placid. As I approached a set of curves I gently released the gas letting the car caress the contours of the road. She was the elegant dance partner while I was the talented yet untrained celebrity chosen to guide her.

I was so lost in the therapy of the drive that I didn’t see the headlights of the car behind me until they filled my car with a light equally as hot as it was bright. I felt a jolt at the rear of the car. I lost control of the Italia, my hands feeling like silk on glass as I fought for control of the wheel. Before I could even blink I was spinning off the road into a pile of old fencing. The car made a strange sound before haulting completely as my head bounced off the glass.

My instant headache blocked any thoughts as to why the airbags didn’t deploy, or where my cell phone had flown to or where the car that had run me off the road was.

I tenderly touched the knot on my forehead as I saw the stealth gunmetal gray out of the corner of my eye. The headlights didn’t flick on like in a horror movie. No. Warning would have been too sympathetic. I didn’t even have time to scream before the front end of the Lamborghini slammed into my door.

****

I woke up inside a box. I decided I had been so disfigured that Dad had opted for a closed casket. That’s where I was after all-a coffin. It was velvet not cardboard that pressed into my hips and shoulders.

I had always wondered what happened when you died. But I didn’t expect this. I didn’t expect to still be alive.

My fists thudded against the luxiouriously padded tomb. My screams died out before they left my breath. The box was dark. The box was quiet. The box was eternity. It was foreshadowing my new life. But I didn’t get it.

I wasn’t understanding much at that moment though, let alone my future. More perplexing to me than my escape, was who had put me inside the box. I’m not talking about whether or not Dad used the caretaker from the Siegfred funeral home with the raspy voice and witty stories. I’m sure he had. 

I wanted to know who was driving the car that put me here. The Lamborghini. Was he somewhere in a box too? Hopefully it was a standard 10 by 10 with limited access to the exercise yard and no chance for parole.

But something told me that whoever put me here couldn’t be contained by man-made boxes, steel or otherwise.

I took slow, easy breaths and tried not to think about how dark my coffin felt. It was as if all the light had been sucked out and replaced with a dense heavy smog. Maybe it had.  I think it was the thought that I was already dead that kept me from panicking.

I decided to scream again. Just lying there felt so hopeless.

Nothing.

I pounded my fists.

Nothing.

I was acting insane. Repeating the same actions over and over hoping for a new outcome.

I screamed one last time until I was sure my throat was bleeding. I then closed my eyes and that’s when I finally had the focus to understand my escape.

My hands.

They were throbbing, pulsing. I opened my palms, clinched my fingers. Opened my palms. Clinched my fingers. Finally, I shook my hands open and willed the sensation out of my body. The inside of the coffin lit up like a carnival in September. My palms glowed like the ends of a flashlight. A kaleidoscope of colors swirled about me-literally. This must be what was sucking away the volume of my screams and then the light from my palms. I began to feel weak as they flickered off like a light in a old rest stop bathroom.

And then it was dark again.

My eyes fluttered and I could feel sleep nagging at me. I shook my head to fight it off. Did dead people sleep? Vampires did. A sudden panic filled my body. I grabbed my neck. No marks. I licked my teeth. No fangs. I then scolded myself for believing in such things. Not bloodsucking undead but restrictions on things that don’t die.

I was afraid to close my eyes again, afraid of what horrible experience lay on the other side of them. Laying in my coffin gave me some sort of comfort. I guess it was knowing that my father was there. Even though he was eccentric, he had always been my rock. After all, he was all I ever had. I let a tear roll down my cheek as I pretended he could hear me. I told him how wonderful he was and how I was sorry if I ever acted like he embarrassed me or that he didn’t actually know everything. I then told him I would give anything to see him one more time.

After my pity party concluded, I was startled by what happened next. I heard voices. But it wasn’ the soft cry of mourners, it was the muffled giggle of a flirtatious female.

“Well, if that’s all it takes to make you come calling,” the voice purred. “I would have done it sooner.”

“You didn’t call me,” came the muffled reply of the my father. “You had that ability stripped.”

Frantic, I pounded on the ceiling and yelled. “Dad!”

No response. Could they not hear me?

 “That’s not all you can strip.” I practically saw the woman tug at some sort of strap on her body and fling her hip out while moistening her lips. I tried not to gag. Who was seducing my father at my funeral!

“Who is in the box,” my father asked confusing me to Hades. 

How did he not know it was me? I know it was closed casket…I shuttered. Maybe I wasn’t in a casket. Maybe I was at the morgue and my father was about to identify my body.

 “Oh, you know,” the flirtatious guard answered, “Hope.”

Hope! No! My name is Bianca. Tell my dad I’m Bianca!

“What else?” My father asked gruffly.

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Is she in there,” his voice was suddenly desperate.

“I don’t know.”

“Open it,” he commanded.

“Now you know I’m not allowed to do that!”  The woman shrieked breathlessly. I wondered if maybe she hadn’t seen too many Marilyn Monroe films. I imagined her clutching her chest and giving my father doe eyes.

“Open it!”

I screamed for my father as the vixen lied. “She’s not in there.”

And then it was silent again. I tried to light the coffin but the light sputtered and with it my consciousness.

One Blog Isn't Enough

Like with most things I get into, one is not enough. This is the second blog I've created in 48 hours. My other is dedicated to all the things I wish I could get done in only one day. This one is dedicated to my writing. I hope to visit this daily! But like my dad always said, "Wish in one hand, spit in the other, see which one fills up first."

He's full of great advice like that! Another is "don't stand in the doorway."

The Blog title comes from the amount of words that I typed for the very first novel I ever wrote. It took me 2 years to complete and when it was all said and done, I thought it was JUNK! I've decided to rewrite the whole thing in the 1st person. It's much better, but I'm still not sure if it's any good.

And I've decided not to share it with anyone until it is complete. Have you ever read a novel, slowly fed to you one chapter at a time and been asked to scrutinize instead of enjoy? I have to imagine it's a horrible experience. (My brother Mark won't even read this version until it's 100% complete!) Once it's done, then I'll take the criticisms, but as for now I just want to get it written.