Traveling in the Mind and on the Page

     The map of California stands in front of me. I drew it, so half of the state looks bent, and crackles of marker roads lead from one blob, San Francisco, to an X, Los Angeles. I stare at the marker trail and hum to myself.
     At the end of the room sits the professor and one student. She's asking for help on her essay, and while privacy is asked, I hear muffles of thoughts over from the white board in the center of the room. In front me, scribbles of thoughts, ideas and musings create noise in my brain.
      I've driven the road, Frisco to LA, many times. On my trips up north, I enjoy the desolation such a drive creates. There's nothing for miles; then highways become loops and drops. After thirty minutes, it's back to driving on a plain for hours it seems. I call it living-in-limbo.
     In a work-in-progess novel I have, one character is driving from the bay to southern California, and the landmarks are just as important as the scenarios the character faces. He's taking the Grapevine, a road that leads up and down slopes steeper than most get to drive in their lives. Half of the time, the Grapevine is closed. Weather conditions are so adverse that travelers must listen to the radio and news just to know what will happen.
     My eyes follow the trail I've scribbled, and I think of the small curio stores, the repetitive McDonald's and diner locations. My family's stopped at most, so I try to smell the grease hanging in the air, the sun beating down on our necks. At night, the hubbles are the only source of light for miles.
     Traveling is something that I love, for it gives me a chance to see new worlds, even if they're only an hour or more away. Family vacations have turned into horrifying, lonely settings for my characters, and desolate locations themselves have turned into themes of hope, promise.
     Americans, I argue, don't do it enough. Vacations are spent at Disneyland, New York, or somewhere so tourist filled one can taste the churros or street hotdogs. But real, American road trips have fallen out of peoples' repertoire.
     I wipe my hand over the scribbled road and destroy half of California. It's ten. I walk to my professor and pass him what I have. We talk, and we leave the room to head downstairs, where his dog and wife wait. We leave, and I'm back on a lamp-lit road, heading home.

Using Journalism as a Form of Character Creation

          It's been a while since I last posted here. School is in session, and work has me making sure students are on their game most of the time. This leaves little room for me to write anything out of my Novel course's required chapters (the class being taught by John Brantingham himself).
          When I'm free, however, I do find the time to draft short non-fiction pieces. I'm a huge fan of travel writing and watching a landscape come to life with just a few words. It's magic--the same magic which brought me into writing creatively. Even without traveling to my favorite city up north, I can at least describe it.
           There's another purpose to being a fictional reporter. As a writer, I find myself constantly squabbling over how important it is to give a strong, detailed character illustrated by his or her actions. The mind can only see so much, so I have to put the character to work, just so everything becomes clear to the reader. In a recent, featured article in The Writer, Patrick Scalisi discusses how a writer can form stronger characters just by treating an exercise as if a professional, journalistic interview. It doesn't require the author to be a professional in journalism, as Scalisi argues, and it allows the writer to express any ideas while letting the character have his or her way.
          Interested in non-fiction, I decided to give it a try with my latest character, Paul, a narcissistic cheater living two lives.. The interview piece is short, but I was able to see more so on the first layer of my character, Paul Greer, while understanding what he has to hide deep inside. Here's what came out:

          The ferry roars into the docks and when settled, its gates open to let out dripping tourists and locals, each with cameras in their hands. Their ponchos glisten against the muted background of San Francisco's bay, and I watch them peel the layers away until they stand in jeans and sweaters.

          One man stands in a polo-shirt and pair of slacks. In his hand, he has a cell-phone and pair of bug-eyed sunglasses.

           Paul Greer works in Los Angeles as an attorney and public speaker. For him, traveling up north is just another day to add to his resume. We sit down on a bench in front of the clock tower standing over Market Street, with sandwiches in our hands, warm.

           “My trips are usually centered on wealthy businessmen, divorcing families, land owners.”

           “Do you ever feel the drive's too much?”

            He smiles and I can see lettuce stuck between his teeth. “It's worth it.”

           For him, the cool winds overlap into his burning world down south, where his family lives and works without him. He brings them food, souvenirs, and portraits they cannot get unless they spend the salary on traveling, something he says is an arguable approach.

            “My wife has a kid, and there's another one on the way.”

           “Does that upset you they'll be growing up only seeing you half of the time?”

           “We get used to it, and my son knows a trip means toys, bread.” He takes another bite out of his sandwich. “He's fond of those shaped bread loaves, from Boudin's.”

            As we're talking, a group of students rush to a halted street-car, the F-Line. The bell rings and the back door opens. Passengers get out, and Paul watches. We wait for the door to close and the tube of chrome to screech away.

            “I never get used to this city. I call it the city of love, and each drive up here is a new experience, new dream.”

           My sandwich begins to get cold as a pelican waddles up, head turned and eyes watching me. “What does an attorney dream of?”

           He holds for a second when the bird moves up, and his right foot lifts, scaring the pelican away.

           “I've asked the same thing with the Boogeyman, and I still haven't found an answer. I go where the money is.”

           “And is the money always in San Francisco?”

            He nods his head, bites the steaming pastrami once more, and doesn't wait to speak. “Sometimes,” he says. “Sometimes.”

John Brantingham is an author teaching in Southern California. His work can be found at johnbrantingham.blogspot.com.

The Writer is a monthly publication, which can be found online at Writermag.com.

"Character Profile," written by Patrick Scalisi, can be found here, http://www.writermag.com/2013/09/30/character-profile/

 

Things That are Warm in the Night

           My twin-brother opened my door and told me that there was something wrong. He looked surprised, and even if it did jolt me, I took a second before turning my chair to look at him. He was dressed, and the light from his room glistened in the hallway's mirror.

           I asked him what was wrong, and he told me that something turned the fan on. Both him and his girlfriend were in bed, napping, and it just turned on without anyone pressing the button. It was his girlfriend who woke up first, then she turned over and shook him awake to see.

           Electricity can do that, though. If the device is used repeatedly after some time of service, energy can move through and power the device without having to be turned on. Think of it like a congested highway tunnel emptied of the rush hour crowd, ready to be used by locals.

           I did think of the times I felt someone in my room, however. Also, after returning from a trip to the gym, I found my pair of dumbbells stacked on top of each other, waiting for me on my desk chair. My blankets have even been pulled from me one night, too, but that's just what it felt like. It could've been me kicking them down.

           So I didn't say anything, and I just listened. When he was finished, I let him know to tell me if it happened again. The fan would turn on one more time before they left to his girlfriend's home, startled.

           It's always best to be a skeptic when anything supposedly paranormal occurs, whether at home or not. The fact that something as such happened is interesting, but nothing too much to raise an eyebrow for. Years of being a paranormal junkie have desensitized me to the littlest things, such as when I went to a haunted tour in San Francisco, and when the tour guide said we might've caught orbs, I simple shrugged and said, "it could be dust."

           He wasn't too happy that others grew discouraged.

           I've gone into my brother's room to see if the fan will turn on for me. It hasn't yet, but when he's gone and the Xbox is open for me to play, I'll go in and sit for a while, with Minecraft on the screen, waiting to see if the fan will turn on without one press of its controls.

Summer Travels

          Napa, California, was something more than what I expected it to be. At first, I had heard it was where tourists visited to taste wine, get drunk, then regret it and move on back towards their work schedules and lives. My friends made it sound as though it was a location filled with older people three-times my age and up taking photos to show their grandchildren. My grandmother had planned it, and while she is older, I didn't take what my friends had said and applied it to her. Instead, I went with an open mind, a legal pad, and a plan.
          My brother decided not to come with us, but that didn't stop the rest of us from enjoying ourselves. Of course, there's the wine, which starts at downtown Napa and leads up north past where he had stopped, a winery built within a renaissance-esque castle.

          But I wasn't there for wine. Instead, I was there with the opportunity to tell others I had been there, something much like the idea that it's more fun to have written than to actually write. I did taste wine, but it was too dry for me, and when I did find the wines I enjoyed, the one slipping my glasses gave me two bottles and a wave of the hand (I think my grandma bought three).
          Wine is not the only taste of Napa, we learned, as I had spotted a diner filled with people out the front and down near the curb. Stopping, we had lunch and the burgers, much to my expectations, were amazing. As a write, I would make up some excuse to return and draft a novel, or an article such as this. But I would return in actuality to this very stand, and I would have another of their delicious bacon-cheeseburgers.

          Throughout the trip, my legal-pad sat in my Mickey Mouse labled backpack, and stories bled out of me unlike anything I had experienced before. Driving up the 5 at the start, I thought of a man driving home from a business conference to a static-filled radio; however, in the static, he hears the world ending and his loved ones dying. While trying to find our hotel, I illustrated the conflicts faced within five pages and thought of a gas-station attendant too bored out of her mind that she helped us. I sit here now remembering these incidents and tales, and it feels as though I could push them out as one reads this.
          We left Napa only after a short stay and traveled to San Francisco, a city too close to my heart to forget. It's a different world in that several different cultures blend into one fondue of creativity, openness, and passion. Walking down the streets and seeing the filled cable cars demonstrates the passion these people hold while going to a Giants game. Visiting Milk Plaza and seeing a district built on rights and freedom is eye-opening to say the least. The music's not bad, either. In this way, traveling is an amazing way to see what's out there--artist, writer, student, or none.

          I travel with my family every summer, and even though some rides can be rough, the ability to capture an entire destination in words and pictures is astounding. Growing up, I never had the chance to see outside the walls of my family's homes. Now, as I travel to conferences, conventions, and possibly haunted locations, my life is able to become something much grander than what I had ever dreamed. Writers, spend some time out in the world and see what's out there to inspire you. Artists, visit the oceans, mountains, and sunsets, and capture it all in paint, sketch, or photography.
          Families, don't bring your six-year-old to Napa and ask him why he won't keep quiet. He won't, so just go with it, and write it down.

A Bittersweet Return

     After a week of being away in San Jose, I have returned to sunny Southern-California, where the temperature on arrival was eighty degrees and the sinus just punched me in the nose. It feels good to be back in my own bed, with my laptop whirring underneath my fingers. I missed it, and I certainly missed my usual writing schedule.

     The convention went very well. I arrived anxious and stressed, making sure my itinerary was followed to the margin, but ended up relaxing and resting my eyes on the train. Eventually, I met up with a friend's boyfriend in San Francisco. We dropped off our things at the house, then hung around the city until my friend came home from work. Until the late hours of the night, we worked to help prepare her art table for the weekend.

     We arrived in San Jose the next day, and my blood-pressure was through the skylights. The convention takes place within a hotel, and throughout the many corridors, elevators, and the large, adjacent Convention Center next door, the energy of excitement flows through each guest. When the next day came, that feeling was multiplied, and it continued to grow.

     The artistry I see at these events is amazing. Each year, no matter what location, I find myself surprised, excited, and entertained with the things people create, whether in fiction, or digital art and paintings. I look at my friend, Christine Knopp, and constantly question how she does half the things she does. I remember that people the same way about us writers--I don't even know how I do what I do.

     During the day, I met with the folks at Sofawolf Press, the team who has welcomed me to their literature magazine with open "paws." I discussed a bit with Jeff Eddie, and can't wait to work with him on my short-story. I also had to pick up a copy of Divisions, by Kyell Gold--signed, too!

     But with the weekend over, everyone returned home to their family, pets, and loved ones, I'm back to work and writing. My novella is towards the end, and will need heavy revision when the time comes; some of the big plot points need to be looked at and decided whether or not they fit. I have several short-stories revised and edited, too. I'm not sure where to send them, but I'll find somewhere, even if it means I pay Duotropes new fee policy. 

     It's always a hard time returning back to reality, but I plan to return to the convention with high expectations, and maybe with a few more stories published.

     

Spooks, Spectors, And Nonsense

     As the days grow colder, the nights much darker, it's easy to feel that holiday cheer warm your heart. Hot  Cocoa, warm fires, and the pleasing glow of a neighbor's obnoxious lawn decoration. But I'm not here to talk about that.
     Even with the season of giving upon us, my interests still fall into the category of creepy and eerie: the paranormal. A few posts ago, as well as the large discussion of why I write, seen on my blog, I mentioned my interests in ghosts. They're the unknown figures that stand in the hallway late at night; the watchful eye over your shoulder even later at night, or even the hand that grabs you during the day, and turning to look you find no one there (let's at least hope you find no one there. Society's full of creeps these days).
     But it's not the fear that draws me. It's the idea of a possible living, once-breathing creature still roaming Earth, unknown and unexplainable. While that does tie into the fear, it only draws me in further, and forces me to discuss the activities present with others. Of course, that's easier said than done--who wants to talk about ghosts other than that one guy?
     My interests started as a kid at my grandparent's home. It was on the edge of East Los Angeles, and each night there would be the occasional footstep, creak, or even shudder. Of course, our grandpa enjoyed staying up during the night, and he did drink, doing random stuff at random times, but most of the time it wasn't home--all the times I stayed up it wasn't him. Other than that, my time with the paranormal was restricted to television specials on Travel Channel, which, believe me, were far better than some bro's swearing at ghosts and laughing at each other.
     But then I got into acting, which allowed me to travel to well-known, and sometimes old, desolate places. We filmed a deleted-scene for Constantine in the pool of the KnickerBocker Hotel in Hollywood, California, which has reports of Marylin Manroe's spirit appearing all over the hotel in lobby mirrors and upstair rooms. On one cold night I was filmed at the Universal Backlot, and footsteps could be heard where no one else was walking. I was able to visit places I had only heard of being haunted, and it gave me a rush.
     After a few years, my family and I started to take trips to San Francisco, which is such a beautiful, regal city--but it's haunted, too. I've always wanted to go across the bay to the prison, Alcatraz Island, but they would have to pry me away from the island by my cold, dead hands. On the way home from the bay, we always stop by The Winchester Mystery House, a towering feat of architecture built by the blueprints of spirits.

The house was owned by Sarah Winchester, and, supposedly due to the spirits of her father's company, she was forced to build the house in odd, difficult pathways, confusing the spirits.

     Believe what you feel on its construction, the home itself has had many visitors arrive and encounter paranormal occurrences. During the one hour, above ground tour, we were at the part of the mansion that was destroyed during the San Francisco earthquake. Part of the house had crumbled, as well as had a fire, but eventually it had been rebuilt until Sarah Winchester's death--it still remains unfinished to this day. While in that wing of the manor, a fan, plugged into the wall, stopped suddenly, turning off. Nothing else was affected--lights, etc--and upon leaving that spot, the fan started to spin again. Another year, me and my mom took the behind-the-scenes tour, which forces you to wear hardhats and travel underneath the home. It was creepy, but upon reaching a certain room, where the sun should have beamed through the glass, warming us, we all were hit with a solid cold breeze out of nowhere, the room shivering. "Cold spots," as investigators title them, are a sign of spirits entering a room, or being present. The tour continued on, and that spot was never cold again when we came back--as it should, having no air vents or open windows.

     In my own home, I've experience walking in to find my dumbbell weights stacked vertically on my chair; I've woken up to find my bed sheets tugged away and at the other side of the room; I've walked outside my room, late at night, to feel someone sitting in the living room, staring at me, watching me in the darkness before sending me back to my room, still feeling followed. 

     Nothing has happened for the past two years, and I'm thankful for that--I like my ghosts, but not as much as I love my sleep. I've been looking into visiting The Queen Mary, a haunted cruise ship in Long Beach, California, and spending the night in one of their haunted hotel rooms. For now, however, my time with the paranormal is kept mostly to my stories, looking for ways to creep others out and to further understand them. Who knows, by writing more eerie, mind-racing horror stories, I might bring some spirits over to visit me. I just hope they know and follow my sleep schedule.