The Story Behind the Story

            Part of my fascination with movies is not their script, their acting, but rather, how the movie was made. I recall sitting for hours watching the “making of" specials when a blockbuster movie would premier. What struck me was the magic behind the screen and the way the idea took shape. I especially liked the discussions on how the whole project started. Sometimes it was a mutual collaboration between producers and directors on a patio in LA, or over a cocktail in New York. No matter where, the story behind the story is always amusing. In this work, I wish to share with you all some of the little known stories behind my works. Like the movies, each has a unique beginning and may help the reader to understand the work a little better. Here they are:

Lost in the Fog

            Lost in the Fog has its origins a little over a year ago at Christmas, when we were visiting my wife’s family in Virginia. It was the night before we were to travel home, and it was exceptionally foggy out. In the dense mist, my mind began to wander, and perhaps wonder at the setting in which I found myself. Save for the actual fog on their road, all else came from the vaults of my mind.

Death Immortal

            I was the only one of my family to hike up a steep, nay, very steep hillside to see an old family cemetery located in the Cataloochie area of the Great Smokey Mountains National Park. It was small and picturesque, sitting like a sentry upon the apex. Here lies the inspiration for Death Immortal.

Perpetually Seven

            In the final year of graduate study, a small group of us took a religiously oriented trip to China. While there, I became sick with some illness and was immobilized one evening at the hostel. I recall lying on my bed and staring at the ceiling. My roommate, Josh, was unpacking some items from his bag. I asked him what time it was. He responded, “Seven.” Content, I drifted off. When I opened my eyes, I again asked him what time it was. He replied, “Seven,” again. I had thought myself asleep for some time, but found I was wrong. The story then took shape from there. I wrote it when I got home.

The Man in the Window

            There is no particularly interesting story behind this one save for its intimate connection with the swine flu which attacked the world a year ago, in September of 2010. I wanted to write a piece which would be set in a cultural incident, and the flu presented me with the perfect situation.

The Expense of Ill Judgment

            Not yet released, this story has its origins in a stroll around the cemetery and historic chapel at historic Jamestown, in Virginia. I even lifted the chapel and dropped it in the story, allowing it to make a cameo appearance. It was my ‘thank you’ to the building.

The Nursing Attendant

            My only full-length novel (not yet released), this work has perhaps the best origin, second only to Perpetually Seven. The story began life not as a novel in the works, but as a short work of fiction. I wanted to create a short tale where a nursing attendant took residence in a home with an invalid and a madman, who then tries to blame the girl for all the terror he enacts. The story changed drastically as the characters began to speak loudly. The madman became the honest Robert Latoure, and the innocent nursing attendant became, well, Caroline Asher. I won’t give away the story here, but suffice it to say it became an amazing work with psychological monsters, witchcraft and the waking dead! 232 pages in all, I began writing it in room 310 in Graves Hall, and ended down the hall in the Resident Director’s apartment.

            I hope you enjoyed these little stories, the tale behind the story. Every work as an amazing set of circumstances behind the pages; the next time you read an awesome work, stop and think for a moment about what went into the novel or short work, and what brought the idea to the forefront. Knowing the story behind the story can be wonderful.

As always, good luck writing.

Favorite Story Excerpts

            Today I will share with you some of my favorite literary moments as found in my writings. Below, you shall see excerpts from my writings, each labeled and encompassing what I like to think of as some of my best, and my personal favorites. Enjoy!

From Death Immortal:

I could not bear to place over such a beautiful and graceful creature a cold and demeaning stone, but at length was forced by an inner unsettledness to act. Erected above her was a marker, a tablet enshrined with the many graces of my beloved, who in life cherished all living and animated creations. I placed only one, for she alone was deceased, and my soul was still spirited, active and alive with energy, although my heart sank with a burden none other had ever felt. It was to this stone I now approached, my feet walking with a reverence only pall-bearers would recognize.

From The Man in the Window

I nearly nodded off when some inner spark became activated and enlightened within me. My eyes, blurred by fatigue and sleep, opened to the window, the tree branches and those two boys below! I stared in greater disbelief as they defiantly stood in the confines of my yard yet again. Their ruddy little faces, with eyes turned upwards, did not cease to stare directly at me. I shook at their insolence and lowered my eyes briefly to lift the strain of their gaze. When I returned, they were gone from the yard, street and all other visible locations; it was as if the two boys had sunk into the lawn itself. I trembled with fear, provocation and chills that arrived as my energy waned. I moved away from the window with as much speed as I could muster and pulled myself back into the bed. I remained there for the rest of the afternoon.

From Lost in the Fog

Just as I started to advance, I saw the same object again. It did not move, but, stationary as it was, nearly blended with the fog. My legs, at this reappearance, took to shaking slightly. I heard no sounds coming from the shape. At first I thought the image to be that of a person, one like myself who had ventured out as well. Their lack of mobility, however, alarmed me greatly. Why, I reasoned, would someone simply stand in such a location in this weather?

From The Noise From Above

            The wine seemed to dull my nerves, but at the same time sharpen an acute awareness to my dark surroundings. There was the singular ticking of a clock on the wall, the settling of the house as it was battered by the storm, the dripping of the drain in the guest bathroom in the hall. These noises were amplified by the wine and seemed to nearly deafen me. Then, as I reeled from the sharpness of the sounds, I heard above me another thud. It was loud and distinct. I knew, not from experience but from understanding of the fears within me, that an intruder had trespassed into my home via the upper level. It certainly was he who was making such noises. I could not think of what else it might be. Thoughts, some brave and others cowardly, circled in my mind. Should I dare to venture upstairs and examine the surroundings? Or should I remain idle with the hope that by so hiding it would merely vanish into the outer darkness from whither it came? I drank more wine.

From Perpetually Seven

I stared at it, regaining the state of hypnosis I had abandoned. The clock, that little device which measures the passage of time, shot its rays across the floor in so seductive a manner I could not help but be compelled to see why this particular light was still illuminated; it did not at first occur to me that the clock should have been disabled by the lack of power. I pushed myself onto the floor and crawled, like some irreverent, irrational beast, to the clock. The tint of its hue showed upon my face and my eyes, now thrilled by the color, read the clock. It read 7:00.

Work Update 1

            I thought I would take a moment this week to detail some of my writing endeavors, in an effort to better acquaint you with what I have on my desk at this hour. I am currently working on two projects, though one has monopolized most of my attention. The two works are Bleodsian and An Unbinding Tie. The former is a novella, the first I have written, and the latter a short work I scribbled out some days ago.

            Bleodsian, which is old English for sprinkling blood, is a story about Richard Cacciare and his quest for life. He suffers from a very rare blood disorder and is dying; with the aid of a “voice” which seems to control him at times, he embarks on a rather unusual -to put it mildly- means of procuring a rejuvenation of energy. The novella is approximately 90 pages, and is the first one I have written. I have to say, after writing the work in that format, I enjoy the length of the novella, but still the shortness of the entire work. It is not too cumbersome, like a novel, but still expandable enough to give ample description and character development. I have been editing Bleodsian for the past few days, and so far I am very pleased with the editions. I read the document first, then my little editor, my wife, applied her brilliant editorial skill to the text, and read through it also. It was certainly a “rough draft,” but it is coming along nicely. I feel confident by the third revision the text will be spotless and ready for sale.

            The other work, An Unbinding Tie, is a short story about a favorite topic of mine: the dead! In the story, the narrator loses his lover, and acquires the lover’s dog at her request. The animal never really takes to the man, but when a new girl comes along, the dog begins to exhibit bizarre behavior. First, the dog leaves messy tracks through the house, then, after some time, leaves bloodied tracks instead. The story ultimately deals with the idea of the dead not truly being dead, but still interacting with the living through various means. It is a theme taking from Poe’s works, in which the dead were never truly dead. I have, however, added a bit of free-lance interpretation to it; the dead are never truly dead, and when they return, they are pissed! Without giving away the ending, such is the case with An Unbinding Tie. We have both read through it, but the novella is controlling my time now. Once it is out of the way, I can commit some time to its structure.

            Aside from the stories, I am doing a little bit of research and working out some ideas for future projects. You may remember the idea notebook I spoke of in an earlier post; I am getting some ideas ready for submission into its hallowed pages. It is a busy time now, but it is nothing more than usual. For a workload this is rather light compared to other times.

            I rather dislike editing; it is time-consuming and not near as much fun as writing. I sometimes have to force myself to edit. With the novella, I am about half finished with it. Only two more reads and it will be finished. Needless to say, we have only begun. You should have seen me when I was editing the 232 page novel!

            That is all for now. I hope everyone had a good week. As always, good luck writing!

Short Story Contests

            It was perhaps two to three years ago that I became intensely interested in short story contests. I thought they would be a great means of getting my work discovered and published. I also thought it would be a means of some sustenance, albeit minimal (we are speaking of short fiction here. If you want big money, write big books! If you want to be a poor literary artist, keep to what you are doing). After researching several sites and competitions, I found the ones which seemed promising and submitted my works. Here I present to you now a few thoughts on contests:

            Here is a more detailed account of how the process actually works: you search for hours, reading every jot and tittle on the site, then realize the contest just might prove fruitful. You read where the word count can be no greater than five-thousand words if you want to submit the work for fewer than twenty dollars. Next, you hunt through all of your manuscripts hoping for a “short” short story, only to realize in your wild writing delirium you wrote all your tales to be 5500 plus words! Damnit. You select your best piece, print it out (on your own printer; more money incurred), then begrudgingly wrap it up with the check for $20 (one ms only; don’t think you will get two little works in for that price), and send it off. If you are religious, you pray. If not, you go home and stare at the wall until it begins to call your name.

            Your little bundle of joy arrives at the office, and the first thing the judges do is open it, look at it, and recognize your name. They remember the last piece of s… you sent them, so they laugh and pass it around so everyone can take a sheet, roll it and smoke it. They save the title page so they can at least remember who you are, then scribble off some email to you about how brilliant your work was, and how wonderful a writer you are, but also how there are more brilliant and more successful contestants in existence and you are not among them. They advise you to try again in the future, which in English means: keep the f… away!

            So you read your little email message, quietly shut down your computer, turn up Metallica really loud, and pick up your volume of The Catcher in the Rye  and think, ‘you know, it’s going to be a good day after all…”

           

I have a strange sense of humor, as you have clearly seen. This little piece was meant as a comical exercise, and I hope it brought a smile to your face. I do still submit pieces to various contests, and have, as of yet, met with no success. It is the way the game is played. My advice to you, always keep trying and never give up. As a writer you must develop thick skin and become intimately acquainted with rejection. For every rejection, however, there is an acceptance, so keep trying. I submit when I have time (and when it is not too expensive). I earnestly hope I will win at some competition, but the time will come; even if it doesn’t, I still tried. And if you do not win (like me) you can always write a funny scenario about it (like me) and post on your blog (like me) hoping someone somewhere will read it and think, ‘you know, it’s going to be a good day after all…’.