Let's talk

I've fallen behind on keeping up with this thing. A lot of real-life drama is getting in the way, I'm afraid.

This real-life drama has led to some unfortunate health and sleeping issues. A splitting headache sent me to bed at 8 p.m. last night. I woke up at 10:45 p.m. and thought it was morning and I was late to work. Even worse, since Husband wasn't in bed yet, I thought he'd gotten up and left for work without getting me up. I didn't notice that the clock said "PM." I didn't notice that it was still dark outside.

It actually took me about five minutes, which included vaulting out of bed and getting dressed, for me to realize that I'd only been asleep a couple of hours.

Another fun side effect of real-life drama and the sleeping issues is nightmares. Seriously. I'm having them constantly, and not the "Oh, that was totes scary, but I'm awake, it's over, the end" nightmares. The kind where I wake up and I'm not sure I'm awake, and I'm still half-convinced that something's leaning out of the darkness, inches away from grabbing me and dragging me off to wherever those nighttime boogeymen live. Having Husband in bed with me doesn't help, either; there have been times where I was  convinced he was the boogeyman, or I've forgotten he was there at all, or in the nightmare he's already been eaten/killed/whatever.

I've found that writing these nightmares down provides some catharsis for me. They're on paper now, so they're out of my head.

And since I've been doing this a few times and picking my 'favorites' (can you have a favorite nightmare?) I thought I'd post one here. Obviously I took some artistic liberty; I don't like first-person scary stories, so I wrote it from third-person POV. It's different than my usual style, too; I worked it into a "creepypasta" (Google it if you get time) format.

The Shadows

Eva noticed the paintings the day she moved in. Just a few shades darker than the cream-colored wall, the paintings were no bigger than her thumb and depicted a dozen or so different animals. Though they were one flat shade, they were quite detailed. It was almost like a tiny zoo paraded along the hallway that ended at her bedroom door. Briefly, she thought about painting over them, but they didn't bother her enough for it to be an issue. Not at first.

Once she'd settled in, she could swear that at times, out of the corner of her eye, she'd see the paintings move. Not much, just enough for her to notice. The wolf would switch places with the bear, or the lion would slowly slink from one end of the hall to the other. Of course, if she ever turned and really looked, they were all in the right order.

The Friday before one of her rare weekends off, Eva trudged up the steps and carefully unlocked the apartment door. Her hands were full of last-minute paperwork, with a container of Chinese takeout precariously balanced on top. As she closed the door behind her, though, something caught her eye. She thought she saw a small, dark shape frozen beside the light switch. It was two-dimensional and shadow-like, and almost looked like it had a tiny leg extended, as if she'd interrupted it mid-stride. Eva rolled her eyes and reached for the light switch. Another eighteen hour shift had taken its toll on her sensibility, she thought. 

Just before her fingers touched the panel, though, the shape slowly turned its miniscule head toward her.

Eva jerked her hand back, sending the files and food in her arms scattering across the floor. It was looking at her, she thought. Looking at her. She darted into the kitchen, where the apartment's other main light switch was located. The apartment's entryway was suddenly bathed in bright fluorescent light. Trembling, Eva crept back to the door and examined the wall around the light switch. There was nothing there.

Down the hallway, she could make out the shadow-paintings, each one exactly where it had been when she left for work the night before.

Eva laughed, a thin, fluttering sound. She was going to paint that wall. Tomorrow.

***

After three coats of the best cover-up paint she could afford and a Saturday half-wasted by a useless chore, Eva was ready to scream. The animals would disappear as she applied the paint, only to be just as visible once it dried. If anything, they were a little darker than they'd been before. She slumped against the opposite wall, absently wondering if she was, in fact, going crazy. In the daylight, the animals looked anything but threatening. The incident with the light switch seemed as if it had happened months ago, and could easily be chalked up to too much work and too little sleep. There was no sense in ruining the rest of the day stressing herself out.

Eva spent the rest of the afternoon curled up on her couch, catching up on the television she'd missed during her working hours. Before she knew it, it was past eleven and she was reluctantly pulling herself off the couch and toward her bed. She hummed softly, her fingers undoing the loose braids in her hair as she reached the hallway.

Though Eva couldn't see it in the darkness, the animals along the wall no longer resembled zoo favorites. They were longer and more defined, with muscular, elongated legs and ears and sharper edges. Now they stood on their hind legs in a clumsy mockery of human posture, their forepaws extended like clawed, grasping hands. Like silent nightmares, they watched as she made her way down the hall.

It was too dark for her to see them, following her as closely as they dared, as she reached her bedroom door. They leaned toward her, their extended claws inches away as she walked inside the room and disappeared in the darkness.

The shadows filed inside behind her, their muzzles curled into nightmarish, toothy smiles.

The humming careened into a high-pitched scream.

That's what I get to watch at night. In the dream, though, she didn't hum; the shadows followed her into her bedroom, and then everything went black and all I could hear was roaring and screaming. While I was trying to write that, though, I started getting... anxious, I guess. It was stressing me out to write the last part, so I changed it.

I have another fun one that involves the Michigan Dogman. That's my own fault, because I'm all-but-obsessed with that critter, but that's a nightmare for another day.

Taking a step back

One of my biggest problems is the complete inability to take a step back and NOT think about something that's bothering me. I would think, with the holiday insanity and the 18-hour drives finally behind me, I would be able to sit back, relax, and get some writing finished. But no, that's just not an option, because I can't stop thinking about N2N. Not just in a "Hmm, I should write x and y and z," kind of way, either. The thoughts are toxic. "I HAVE to change x and y and z or a, b and c won't make sense! But then if I change xyz, I have to go back through chapters 1-4 and change efg! Oh! And I should change it to third-person POV too, because I feel like the  first-person narration is clunky. BUT THE STORY IS COMING IN FIRST PERSON WHAT DO I DO. I SHOULD JUST GO FIND A BOX TO LIVE IN BECAUSE I WILL NEVER ACCOMPLISH ANYTHING. FUUUUUUUU-"

And then I close Word and go curl up in the nerd cave for a few hours and try not to cry. Or I go take a shower, because for some reason that's my coping mechanism of choice.

Bad news, buddies: that's where I am now. With all of the time I've been devoting to N2N, I discovered last night that I just have zero brain-juice left for it. None. The brain-juice is gone, replaced by a bitter, gelatinous goo that just refuses to cooperate. I spent an hour staring at the screen last night, trying everything I could think of to get the writing process going - music, no music, TV for background noise, no background noise, and tons of other little things - when I realized that this kind of block has been in place for more than a week now; I've just been able to deny it because I've been so busy.

While this is awful, horrible, terrible, no good, very bad news, there is a silver lining: at this stage, I ALWAYS get tons of ideas for new books, as if my brain is trying to win back some favor by showing me that it is, in fact, operational and still capable of great things. It gives off this great "Please don't lobotomize me in your fits of frustration!" vibe, and in the last day or two it's thrown two or three really good ideas my way.

So, I'm taking a step back from N2N and starting a brand-new project, one that should get off the ground a little faster and give me a chance to stretch my stubby, featherless little third-person POV chicken wings. Maybe a few days of focusing on this new story will work out whatever kinds N2N has twisted itself into inside my head.

On the twelve days of Christmas, my Danelings gave to me:

Twelve months of chaos

Eleven treats for begging

Ten Dukes a-leaping

Nine Sunnis prancing

Eight paws a-thundering

Seven messy messes

Six toys a-laying

Five high vet bills!

Four beady eyes

Three bruised shins

Two wagging tails

And a "Roo!" 'cause she's ready to leave!

Merry Christmas from the Four Tails/OtW crew! 

Christmas presents

This holiday season has been tough. My grandma passed away a week before Thanksgiving, and that in itself was hard. I can't help but feel guilty, though, because I live nine hours from the rest of my family, and I couldn't get there in time to be with her during her last moments. The guilt is the worst part.

Despite all that, though, we're gonna put on our best trooper faces and force our way through Christmas. I'll admit the shopping part has been kind of fun, and kind of weird. But then weirdness tends to follow me.

There's a place down here called The Junk Barn. It's exactly what it sounds like, except it's not just a barn - it's about 20 acres on either side of the barn, too, and you'll find everything from old traffic signs to junked cars to a creepy zombie doll that terrified me.

WHERE IS YOUR GOD NOW

Cade suggested we visit The Junk Barn to pick out a present for his mom, who tends to like unique, interesting gifts. I suspect he just wanted an excuse to browse; the last few times he's convinced me to go, we've spent hours at a time. I usually throw a mini-fit and force him to leave after three hours there.

Anyway, presents. We found a pretty nifty shelf-type thing that used to be part of a press for $30. The problem: Cade only had $25 on him, and they don't accept cards.

We approached the owner, who has to be at least 85. He looked distracted with what I assumed was a live animal trap that he couldn't get to work, and he was muttering strings of curses that would embarrass my most foul-mouthed friend. I mean, I assume they were curses, since he was ranting around a thumb-sized lump of tobacco in his lip.

I asked the guy if he'd take $25 for the shelf, and he gave us this long, calculating look, like he was deciding whether or not we were legit. Then, without saying anything, he went back to fiddling with the trap.

Cade, being a helpful handyman, asked him if he needed help fixing the trap. The guy said he couldn't get it to work, and he had a stray cat trapped in his attic and there was no way they could go see family on Christmas if there was a cat in the house. He had to trap it and let it go outside.

Cade agreed to help him fix it, and they went to town on the trap. He stuck a pair of needle-nose in the trap and fiddled with it for about five minutes as I doubtfully watched. Sure enough, Cade fixed the stupid thing.

The guy looked at Cade, then me, then he shrugged and said "Aw shur, go erhead 'n take it fer twenny-five." We were ecstatic and happily loaded our find in his car.

It wasn't until we got home that we noticed the spider nest in the bottom shelf.

Hooray for Christmas miracles.

Sick day

This post was cross-posted from a Facebook note I wrote yesterday. I think it accurately sums up the way life has been going here lately.

Cold/flu/sinus medications mess with my head. In a bad way. When I'm stuck at home all day in a haze of medication and Judge Judy reruns, weird things happen.

It started this morning, when I heard Cade's alarm go off at 6:30. Of course, I'd been up all night because my throat felt like I swallowed a hedgehog, so I barely registered the alarm and went back to sleep. Unfortunately, Cade did the same thing, because the next thing I knew he was vaulting out of bed and I heard a strangled "IT'SSEVENTHIRTYANDI'MGOINGTOBELATEAAAAAAGH."

I was conscious enough to text my boss and tell him I felt like I was dying, and fell back asleep. But then, not even ten minutes later, I heard those fateful words:

"I can't walk the dogs. I'll be late to work if I do. I know you're sick, but can you walk them for me?"

Apparently Cade took my anguished gurgle for an affirmative, because he left me with a vaguely reassuring "I'll be back to check on you at noon. Take more Nyquil if you start feeling bad again." Then, silence.

I made it maybe fifteen seconds before I heard it, that high-pitched keening that means Sunni, our oldest Dane, has to pee. It's fine tuned to be a perfect combination of pathetic and annoying, and it's just loud enough to keep me from being able to fall back asleep. Fine. I rolled out of bed, threw on a coat and walked them both. To their credit, they didn't take long, possibly because the awful, rattling noise I made every time I breathed scared them as much as it did me.

By the time I got them both inside, my lungs were on fire and I didn't think I could physically make it to the bed. I collapsed on the couch and passed out again.

The following things proceeded to wake me up at least every fifteen minutes for the next four hours:
Singe, my sociopath cat, playing with the blinds
My phone ringing
Duke flopping onto my stomach and sending me into a coughing spasm
Lou, the retarded cat, biting my face
A particularly loud commercial

I was grudgingly awake, but alive, when Cade made it back for lunch. He seemed surprised; I guess when you spend the entire night curled into a ball and softly weeping, your significant other assumes that he'll meet something other than a furious, frustrated, exhausted she-beast when he comes home for a sandwich.

He only made the mistake of asking if he could turn it off the Angry Beavers marathon once. The glare I gave him in response was enough for him to hastily apologize and go back to eating. I think he was secretly glad to leave, for fear I'd lunge at his throat if he said the wrong thing. I love Cade, I really do, but after 24 hours of feeling like death, I was not in the best of moods.

As soon as he left, I fell back onto the couch. This time, though, there was not even the pretense of sleep. I just laid there, staring at the carpet, the ceiling, the moth on the wall, whatever happened to catch my eye.

Then I saw the love seat and I cringed.

For whatever reason, in my Nyquil-drugged state, I suddenly realized that the slipcover had not been washed in forever, and it was most likely a festering, disease-ridden monstrosity just waiting to infect whoever touched it next.

I closed my eyes and tried to ignore it, but I couldn't get the thought of that filthy slipcover out of my mind. I was almost sure that I'd open my eyes and it would be advancing, ever so slowly, to smother me in a microfiber-lined layer of swine flu. With a groan, I sat up and yanked the slipcover off the love seat as fast as I could, then I shambled to the washer and threw it in, resisting the urge to smile with satisfaction at what I was sure were millions of tiny germs suffering in their death-throes.

On my way back to the couch, I had a thought. The dogs might try to crash on the love seat, like they usually do, and then it would be just as nasty as the slipcover I took off of it. I had to grab a sheet to throw over it, at least temporarily. I staggered to the closet and hunted for a sheet.

Then I saw it.

My fuzzy Viking helmet, the one I bought weeks ago and 'lost' about three days later. Despite my swollen, scratchy throat, I gurgled with glee! Finally, a bright spot to this otherwise horrific day! I immediately put it on and instantly felt so much cooler than I did before.

I'd completely forgotten about the sheet, and of course by the time I got back to the living room Sunni was passed out on the love seat. I gave up on that idea pretty fast; a sleeping Dane weighs at least three times as much as an alert one, and in my current state moving what equated out to a furry Triceratops was just out of the question. Cue couch-collapse again.

Eventually the slip cover was clean, and I coaxed Sunni off the love seat with dog treats and thinly-veiled threats. Of course, I had to move the love seat away from the wall and scoot the coffee table next to it in front of the door so that I could maneuver the dang thing on, but at the time I thought was the biggest accomplishment ever.

Until a coughing fit that stemmed from sick-exertion lasted so long that I got nauseous and barely made it to the bathroom in time to keep the day from getting any worse.

...and that's why when Cade came home, the coffee table was in front of the door and I was curled up in the bathroom floor wearing a furry Viking helmet.

Huzzah

As often as I struggle to put words on the page, it's always so wonderful to have an evening where I sit down to write and the words seem to fly from my fingertips.

Tonight, I hit 20,000.

Appreciating creativity

In my (humble) opinion, I think one of the most important things a writer can do is appreciate creativity in others, possibly even be inspired by it.

Last night, I covered the annual Christmas parade. It was your usual small-town fare, with tons of laughing kids, bemused parents and loud music. I was mostly interested in "man on the street" interviews, so I was up and down the parade route most of the night, barely paying attention to the floats.

Until the very last one.

Home Depot's float was a full-sized replica of the Polar Express engine and one car. They even had the hobo (can't remember his name) on top and the kid (whose name I also can't remember) sitting with him. There was a conductor, and music from the movie, and wowza. I was impressed. I stopped and gaped at the float like a catfish.

I finished my business and got home around 9 p.m. I was stoked about writing - something about seeing something right out of one of my favorite holiday movies (tied with A Christmas Story) right in front of me made me want to sit down and WRITE.

...and so I fell asleep at my laptop. Cade caught me before I could drool on it or drop it off my lap and sent me to bed.

So much for that.