California Death Tripping

I had this surreal day. Time with my daughter was well-spent, but we ended up at this birthday party/tea party for people we really didn't know, and neither of us is really all that comfortable in that kind of situation.

Felt awkward, but it was a nice gesture on their behalf, and my girl had a fine time. I kind of let my mind wander, as I tend to do in these situations.

I've had this new story in my head for a while now. Nasty bit of work. The kind of thing publishers say they want, read, and then decide it's too much for them. It's a study in depravity and evil, of acting without consequences and how bad you can fuck with someone who doesn't realize they've stepped into your playground. Part of that stems from conversations with friends. Part of it stems from me trying to figure out what I want to do with my future. But most of it stems from my imagination and a few images that have been in my head for months.

(As an aside, people wonder why I'm sometimes moody, off, or just plain weird. I don't care that they think these things. Don't care at all, but I will explain part of why that may be the case. When I'm coming up with a story, it usually starts with an image or scene in my head. This will just come to me out of nowhere. Then it festers. Sometimes for over a year. Usually these scenes are quite vivid/explict/terrible. Imagine having that stuck in your head, knowing that it won't go away until you can figure out a way to use it in a story. It's not fun.)

I like this new story idea. I wish I had time to write it, but I don't at the moment. I won't think of the ending because that's how I operate. I've never completed a story with the ending already in mind. I don't think I can. If I know the ending, I have no reason to write it. I write these stories to find out how they end. If I know, why waste my time? Someone else may want to read it? I don't care. They need to tell their own tales, then.

Originally this scene I came up with was to be used in a film, but I eventually figured out a story around it and how to fit it into a manuscript. It won't be pretty, but my fiction rarely is. I take the job very seriously, and I don't write light. (Or "lite," as it were.)

As I stood around the party, watching faces, listening to conversation, I started to think more on an idea of been working on. A study of fear. (I also thought about pieces on the embracing of victim culture, and one dealing with death of emotions. Fear seems more interesting.) Namely, which segment of society is more frightening: city folk or country folk? I'm not writing it yet, but I have my answer. I only have to go about proving it.

I also thought about this idea I've been having for a private dinner party. Just a few people. Invite only, of course. Spicy foods. Beer, soda, wine -- whatever. Pleasant, intelligent conversation. Perhaps a bit elitist in nature (but anything on that level will be in one form or another), but also people unafraid of truth. All of this came about because I was talking in the Mirror, so to speak, about my mashed potatoes.

The fear study came about when thinking of ideas for the blog, thank you for asking.

So my mind was all over the place. I forgot my cell phone, so I couldn't even check the time. I was trapped with my thoughts. It was okay. I'm not afraid of my ideas.

When we left the party we came home to make dinner before the annual truck parade. For those not from Eureka, California, the truck parade involves trucks done up with holiday lights. My daughter likes it, so I'm all for it. The tradition seems nice, too, so it's not like some creepy St. Patrick's day parade. We enjoyed it. I overheard something interesting.

"Seems like some people need a hurtin'."

You can bet I'll be using that line.

I've got the story fleshed out thanks to the party. Now all I need is the time to write it. Ideally, I'd be working on it every waking hour of the day until I got it done, but that's not realistic. Nice, but not realistic. I don't need to work on it yet, either. It's fresh enough that it needs to simmer for a month. If I still want to visit it then, I'll find time. Until then, though, it's back to picturing some scenes and wondering why I get strange looks whenever I open my mouth.

1 comment:

Nikki said...

Country people are far more creepy than city people. City people will kill you either with a gun, a knife, or their incredible inability to drive a motor vehicle. Country people will eat you for dinner. Far scarier.