In The Light of The Moon

     Sitting with the window open, I want to wish everyone a happy, safe Halloween. I won't be celebrating this year, but I plan to spend the time writing more eerie, suspenseful short-stories.

What Goes Bump In The Mind

     When it comes to literature, of any form, I really enjoy a good horror story; ghost, werewolf, apocalypse,  mutation, or demon stories are my favorites. From those I would have to say Ghost stories play a huge role as to who I am as a writer, and storyteller.
     I grew up in the east end of Los Angeles, California, with my grandparents and twin-brother. Our parents always worked, so we didn't have any support at home, which is why we lived so far from them. Our grandparents raised us for fourteen years, and that came with everything from schoolwork and sickness, to punishments and summer vacations. Of course we saw Mom and Dad occasionally but it wasn't enough for us. Not only weren't we able to see them, but it felt as though our grandparent's home was a much creeper place than it was.
     We would hear the floorboards creaking, footsteps down the hall, and other strange, unexplainable noises (the creaking could have been the house shifting, but it moved across the hallway and living room when heard). Late at night, during the summer, me and my brother would be forced to bed when the sensation of being watched from behind grew too much. It was eerie enough to make us stay up late at night to see what would happen, ultimately running to our room.
     Asides from our childhood, which seems to be a story of its own, I've had several encounters with the paranormal throughout my life: visiting San Francisco, one of the cities I've grown attached to, a trip to the Queen Anne Hotel has given me physical proof that spirits are seen as living energy; walking through the labyrinth of the Winchester Mystery House's upper floors, as well as basement, revealed that people do linger behind after death, and can cause odd things to occur many years later. Even in our own home, we've had things moved on their own, bed sheets tugged away, and an ominous sensation of being followed.
     As a writer I'm drawn to the paranormal because I think it amplifies a fear that we all can agree we have: fear of the unknown. Will it harm us? Do spirits talk? How can I feel comfortable in my own home if a stranger is always watching me? The unknown forces the reader, or person it's interacting with, to understand that there are some things out there that we might not have control over, and having no understanding of it just makes it a bit more startling. How can you stop a murderer if you have no understanding as to how or why he does what he does? How can you escape a paranormal entity if it follows you on end without reason?
     With that in mind, explore what makes you startled, or something that's out of your control and completely a mystery to you. Halloween is the perfect time to understand your fears, weaknesses, and even your strengths. Just know that whatever is watching you from outside the window is there to help you in your creative pursuits--or to watch as you sleep.

        Below are two photos of spirit-orbs from the Queen Anne Hotel in San Francisco, California.

Hook

     When I write my stories I always enjoy starting off right into the story, with some sort of action, reaction, or dialogue that throws us in. Tutoring writing, it's common to work with many different levels of students who are all trying to start their papers off in the same way, wanting to lure the reader in and keep them engaged.
     I always tell them they need to capture the reader's attention, and to write it as though they were reading it for the first time--what would they want to read? My example of a hook, for a short-story, would be the following:

     "Stephanie flung from her bed when she heard a crash next door, through the cardboard thick drywall--it came from the baby's room."

     How would you start off a story? Would you give some background to the world, and paint a picture that the reader can go off of, or do you want the reader snagged in by unending suspense?

"Best Friends Forever" -Short Story

      “Why do we have to put him down, Dale? Why can't he just live with us on the farm?”

      “Because that's what happens to horses, Mitch. Once their leg breaks they're no good.”

      “Just because their leg breaks doesn't mean they're broken!”

      “Sorry, Mitch, but we have to do it.”

       Mitch pulled on the rifle in Dale's hand. It clacked with its broken strap and loose hammer, but still worked well despite its age. That wasn't what Mitch was hoping for, though. He didn't mean to hurt his horse; he didn't mean to try and jump a fence without training, and when Dale came home to find his younger brother's face torn up bloody with mud in the wounds, he learned what had happened. He got all the mud out of Mitch's face.

     “But I need him, Dale!”

     “You don't need him, but we needed him. Without a horse we won't be able to plow the fields, and if we don't plow we'll starve, or lose the farm, even.”

      The younger boy yanked hard on the weapon. “But momma said he would be my best friend forever!”

     “Horses don't live forever, Mitch. I'm sorry to tell you that, but they don't.” With a tap of his foot Dale shoved Mitch to the ground.

     The boy began to sob and with the bruises and scars he looked like quasimodo had fallen from the bell towers. Shades of black, blue, and violet scarred the upper half of his torso. Momma would be upset to see him like this.

     “I'm sorry, Mitch.” Dale said.

     “No, you're not. You never let me have a best friend!”

      Dale flinched with tears in his eyes. “That's not true. Remember when I bought you the fish, and then the gerbil?”

     “It is true, and your stupid cat ate all of those!”

    “What about me; aren't I your best friend?”

    “You never let me play with you, and I can't even sleep in your room!”

      Dale sighed. He looked down at the gun. It wasn't easy taking away a life. The tears, running past his brother's cheeks and bruises, crushed him inside, but with this horse injured, ruined, the only option was to save it from misery and go buy a new one. Papa would find Mitch a new, good horse. He was sure of it.

     “I don't ever mean to upset you, Mitch. You're my little brother, and I love you, but I need to put Maple out of his misery. You hear me?” He said.

     The boy looked down, still crying.

    “He was the best horse for what he was—”

    “Is! For what he is!”

    “Yes, he's a great horse. We can't just let him hurt so bad, though.”

     Mitch sniffed, wiped his face, but screamed when he touched the bandaged, torn skin.

    “Please don't be mad at me, please.” Dale lowered to one knee and placed his hand out. “I love him just as much as you do.”

     He didn't take his hand. Mitch looked into the young man's eyes with a fire that could've burned the house down. His attention turned to the hand, which was wet with tears and mud—the mud from Mitch's wounded face.

    “I don't want him to go, Dale.” He said.

    “Neither do I.”

     The grandfather clock ticked by the door. The house let out a groan as it settled in place.

     A tear ran from Dale's eyes.“Come on; think you can say bye to him one last time?”

     The stables were filled with the stench of manure and blood. Horses, cows, and two of the herding dogs each rested on a pile of their own hay behind the seperate doors. Whimpers escaped from the dogs, and the horses figited and nickered with quick, moving eyes.

     Dale pulled Mitch in past the door as it creaked open. Before they moved any further, the young man nudged the door closed with his boot and lifted the bolt handle on the rifle, loading it.

    Mitch flinched from the loud clack of the gun.

   “Easy there, kid.”

   “Sorry.” He said. Tears still dripped from his chin.

    The boys walked in further, but were stopped when the smell of putrid meat hit them in the nose. It wrinkled their faces, and Mitch began to choke when the sweetness hit the back of his throat.

   “It's infected; that's how it smells when a wound's infected.” Dale said.

   “What does it mean when it's infected?” Mitch asked.

   “Bad news.”

    They turned, and Mitch ran over to a stable door's lever. He lifted and slid it out from its slot, allowing the door to swing open.

    Rested on its side, in a pile of ruby hay, was a colt. The white socks on its feet were torn off with strands of fence wiring clung on. Its body, once covered with brown fur, had been stained black with blood and dirt, with rocks and thorns still poking out from the stomach. The young horse's chest lifted in swift breaths, and it cried out whenever it moved too much.

   “Jesus, Mitch. Where were you riding him?”

   “I saw that show where they jump horses over fences, so I wanted to try jumping him over the garden fence.”

    He winced. “Momma's going to be mad when she sees her roses.”

   “Please, please don't tell her.” Mitch said.

    Dale moved close to the horse, and kneeled down to look him over.

    The colt bucked and thrashed in the hay, and screamed when pain flared through its bandages of flesh.

   “Easy, boy. Easy there.” He said.

    Mitch stayed at the door, crying. He didn't notice the tears falling from Dale's eyes, or the way his hands, glued to the withered varmint rifle, shook with pale knuckles.

   A mare looked over the side of the stable, and winnied out when Dale would move in too close.

  “Mitch,” he said. “I want you to say bye to him, then go stand outside of the barn. You understand me?”

  “Yes, Dale.” He nodded his head. Try to be a big boy, his momma always would say. He walked up to the colt and gave a wave.

    The colt, its eyes wide and frantic, looked up to him with another cry.

   “I love you, Maple.” He said. Mitch turned around and ran out the stable door.

     Dale waited for a minute until he could see over the fence and watch the large, barn door swing open from above, then close. He aimed the gun at Maple.

     The horse looked up to him.

     Dale peered in the deep, black eyes and saw his brother: he saw the days spent feeding the young colt; he saw when Maple snuck into the garden to eat the apples, and Mitch was there to protect him; he saw the day the young horse was born, a day when they had pancakes for breakfast, and Mitch demanded they named him after the syrup.

    “I'm so sorry,” he said.

     Mitch ran from behind the stable wall, crying, towards the horse. “Maple!”

     Dale jumped, and fired a round into the colt's long face.

     Mitch screamed.

   “You shot him in the face!” He fell to his knees at the young horse's side. “You shot him in the face!”

   “Damn it!” Dale said. “I told you to wait outside. Why didn't you go outside?!”

   “You shot him in the face!”

    The small boy screamed when Maple's head flung up and caught his arm in the jaws of its snout. Blood coated his lower arm, and the colt cried out in pain, pulling and tugging on him.

    Dale watched as Mitch was dragged about from the cheekless, deformed creature, screaming. 

The Twelve Steps To Become A Writer

1. Read.
2. Read.
3. Read.
4. Write.
5. Read.
6. Write.
7. Delete
8. Write.
9. Hit a horrible, month long block.
10. Write.
11. Hit a breakthrough.
12. Write some more.

Interesting Writing Methods

     Every once in a while I hear some sort of new, and even strange writing method. By writing method, I mean how people get their stories down on the paper. It's fascinating to discuss this with other writers, because you learn so much about what works and what doesn't for you. Some lead the writer into starting at the very end, then working his way up to the beginning. Another one I've heard is to start way before the action, suspense, or general plot even starts, then erase it to the portion where the story really gets moving.
     For me, when I explain to others my method they look at me as though I'm crazy, or begin to throw questions at me as to why. I attend conventions that focus on comics, japanese animation, and Anthropomorphic animals--society knows such people as "Furries." I've been in several fandoms for a while, and while there are those several folks who are odd, different, or just a little creepy, there's a whole network of artists, writers, bloggers, and musicians that not only push each other, but help along the way. I feel comfortable at times writing my stories with anthropomorphic animals, or other types of characters. It gives it a different touch, in my opinion. Once I finish the story, I either erase all the animal characteristics--make them human--or if it works well I try to figure out what the story's about, and tie in symbolism to make it work.
     It's not exactly the strangest method, but it does make others ponder (having to explain why I use it is always a new experience). Of course, not all my stories use this method, such as adult stories, and I'm trying get into a normal swing of writing. What kind of methods do you use, and how do they push you through your work?

Writing: Getting Started

     Writing always comes off as a difficult, however, rewarding craft. Many youth and students start with the occasional class poetry, short stories, and the academic essay. College seems to focus more on proving your logic and arguments through a series of given evidence and background on the subject. Other classes, more advanced, of course, focus on the analyzation of modern literature, or even the bible, and its effect on the mind and society. These all are things people struggle with when it comes to school--let's not even get started with math--but how would a student even get started with writing? After having attended several classes, and working with students in the Writing Center on campus, it has come to my attention that there's the biggest question of all: "how do I even get started?"
    I started a new position at my College's Writing Center as an english tutor. A majority of the students who visit want assistance on grammar, punctuation, and simply to "just write the damn thing for me." Asides from my work, I spend my Thursday nights in a creative-writing class, led by John Brantingham (link provided below). John spends three hours with students, including myself, to explain the writing process and mind frame of a writer; furthermore, the class forms into a workshop setting, where all students are required to show their best respect to others, be professional, or they will get a swift kick out the door. I can't help but imagine what would actually happen if someone was disrespectful enough. The class has many questions of course, and the students range from basic to publishing in their skills. He explains that Character, conflict, and desire are the three major points of story (Brantingham). From there, a student writer could move the story forward.
    Essay writers are less understanding when it comes to this idea. Academic writers don't want to jump in. They know that in order to construct a strong argument, research and good sources are needed. They are afraid that once they get started, everything will be chiseled permanent into a block of granite. If you tell them to just start, they will look at you as if you just dropped a cat several stories. Essays are planned to the bricks, while fiction is all about what happens next. So, what happens next? Just like John Brantingham mentioned, character, conflict, and desire are all very important. From that point on, in my mind, it's all up to the characters what they wish to do next. Let them run free; let them fuck up their lives. You as the writer must only show us what happens, and the characters are what drives this baby forward. If there's a murderer on their heels then show us how they hide in the closet with their sniffles projected past the door, and if they just lost their wife, well, show us how they fight against alcoholism and understand that they are better than that. Not only does this feel spontaneous, but it is spontaneous--that's life. Even with the use of CCD (conflict, character, desire), many argue that inspiration plays a big part--not so, says others.    
      In his book On Writing, Stephen King describes that "'read a lot, write a lot' is the Great Commandment [of writing]" (151). "I used to tell interviewers that I wrote every day except for Christmas, the Fourth of July, and my birthday. That was a lie...I write every day, workaholic dweeb or not" (King 153). When starting to write fiction, the best way, that I've learned, is to just start writing. Start with the action or drama; start with the tears or fears; start with the arguments, but whatever you do don't wait around for your inspiration to save you. Matching that phrase from a popular video-game, the muse is a lie. Reading every day allows the writer to learn from others: the greats and masters. They play a role as your instructor, and can ease any misunderstanding such as how to write dialogue well. Writing every day allows the creativity to flow; with your mind constantly in creative drive, it's easier to write your next upcoming stories than waiting around for them to come.
     Of course, there are many ways for writers to get their stories down on the page. Outlines and plot summaries, with the assistance of research, help some while others keep away from the outlines like it's a rabies infected hornets nest--I choose the latter to an extent. In reality it's what works best for you and gets you working. Don't wait for the muse to sweep you off your feet; the muse is a gold-digging-hussy, only stealing your precious time. 

Stephen King's On Writing: A Memoir of The Craft--Tenth Anniversary Edition was used in this essay.

John Brantingham's website is http://johnbrantingham.webs.com/    
He also has a blog, here, at http://johnbrantingham.blogspot.com/