What it’s all about: Five Sentence Fiction is about packing a powerful punch in a tiny fist. Each week I will post a one word inspiration, then anyone wishing to participate will write a five sentence story based on the prompt word.
The word does not have to appear in your five sentences, just use it for direction.
“Aye, she’s a cheeky one, me babby. ‘Tis why I named her Lilith. Her eyes of green stare deep into me soul. She’ll be so much more than I, the peasant. She has the soul of greatness, but I so worry about me poor little snapper. Could turn a scrubber if she wanted to. What can I do but teach ‘er the faith the best I can? With our Heavenly Father Clement XI to guide her, me fair Lilith will be blessed by the angels.”
An outstanding collection of seriously wicked vampire tales by the authors of Vampire Writers Support Group. (and a cute little satire of Twilight titled “Mary Sue Wants To Die Forever”, by yours truly) 😈
The Vampire Writers Support Group proudly presents “Fresh Blood”, an eclectic collection of short stories set in a dark, blood-soaked world full of vampires.
The authors gracing its pages are Daven Anderson, Matthew E. Banks, Lucy Blue, Jessica Cage, Danielle DeVor, Drusiana, Donna Fernstrom, Donald L. Pitsiladis, Karen Plaisance, Selene MacLeod, Brian Patrick McKinley, Dan Shaurette, Tabitha Grace Smith, Emma Rawlin, and Jay Wilburn.
Here’s a deleted scene from Vampire Syndrome, taking place at the same time as the first scene in Chapter Thirteen, “Black And Blue Mustangs”…
Damien:
Unmarked silver Charger in the Jacksons’ driveway. Yep, Curtis finally got a night off. Between us and the Normal police, I’m amazed poor Curtis gets any time at home.
Always liked this little Victorian of theirs in Park Hill. Been re-painted 32 times, in every shade of the red rainbow.
I still remember when those young gang-bangers tried to rob me on this very sidewalk a few decades ago. Now, fixie bicycles are parked on the neighbors’ front porches, unlocked.
Gentrification marches on. Too bad. Ripping heads and limbs off those little gangsters was much more fun than walking past roving packs of hemp-and-jeans-clad hipsters in Civil War beards talking about indie bands.
I march up the Jacksons’ front porch steps and tap my knuckles on the door screen thirteen times.
Curtis whips open the door. “Oh, come on, brother…”
“Chill, C.J., I just want a beer.” I pat his shoulder and smile.
Curtis’s wife Tamika saunters up behind him. “Don’t be givin’ him that ‘I just want a beer’ shit, peckerwood.”
I add fangs to my smile. “A beer and a chat, Tammy. Off-duty, of course.”
Her eyes blacken as her fangs extend. “What’re you up to now?”
“I have a new plan. Gotta keep Curtis in the loop.” I smirk at Curtis.
“Who you gon’ fuck up now, white boy?” Tamika demands.
“More like who else will fuck who up.” I reply. “May I?” I wave my hand toward the living room.
Curtis and Tamika lead me into the room. Their old posters always catch my eye. Scream, Blacula, Scream! Super Fly. Cleopatra Jones and the Casino of Gold. Slaughter’s Big Rip-Off. Shaft in Africa. Dolemite. And my favorite.
Coffy.She’s the godmother of them all. “I’m not worthy,” I whisper.
Tamika touches my cheek with a handkerchief. “Here, lemme help you with some of that drool, Damien.”
“Pam Grier.” I smile.
Tamika playfully nudges my shoulder.
Curtis, carrying three brown bottles, strides to the couch. He places the brews on the coffe table and motions us over.
Tamika and I sit down at Curtis’ sides.
I state, “This Jack thing is getting out of hand.”
“You’re mad cause he got away,” Curtis says.
“No,” I reply, “I’m mad that he’s still at large. And I intend to correct this state of affairs.”
I fetch my phone from my coat pocket.
“Who you calling?” curtis asks.
I answer Curtis and Tamika with a smirk as I dial Lilly.
She picks up and says “I’m almost there, honeybun.”
“Thanks for picking up Zetania, sweetheart.” Curtis and Tamika’s expressions change to quizzical, yet mean, stares. I knew they’d like this. Tamika taps my shoulder, wanting to speak, and I wave her silent.
“Mamuwalde’s showing off the new gold caps between his fangs,” Lilly says. “They’d look pretty good on you, honeybun.”
“Practical, too,” I reply. “If he ever ran out of Normal money, he can just go to a We Buy Gold shop and pull those caps out with pliers.”
I shake my head and whisper “No, not Jack” to Curtis and Tamika.
“I think he’d sell his gold necklace or rings first, don’t you?” Lilly asks. “Anyway, I gotta go, honeybun. I’m almost at the entrance.”
“Bye,” I say before I hang up.
Tamika fangs out. “Why the hell is Zetania Vinescu coming here?”
“I decided I need some outside help.”
“To kill innocent Normal bystanders and cause massive car wrecks?” Curtis asks. I can see my face reflecting in Tamika’s raging black eyeballs.
“Zetania doesn’t fuck around,” I state.
“She hunts Pures,” Tamika snaps. “That shit’s okay when you’re chasing Pures, but she can’t come here and pull that crap just to get some handicapped kid. Zetania might give us all away by accident.”
I fang out. “And Jack will give us all away by accident.”
Tamika and I leap off the couch. Curtis slips between us, fanged out and ready.
“As you heard, Tammy, I have Lilly’s okay.”
Curtis glances in our directions, then sits down. Tamika and I reluctantly seat ourselves.
“That bitch has lost her mind,” Tamika whispers to Curtis.
“I don’t think so,” I reply. “Even she couldn’t catch Jack last night.”
The warmth of the first sun beam through our bedroom window awakens me on a beautiful Thanksgiving morning. My wife Theresa is beside me, her blonde hair lit in a gentle glow. Still in peaceful sleep, her face beams with an angel’s countenance. Our cat Furball massages my leg with his front paws.
I can hear our daughter Britney, her partner Anita and Anita’s daughter Carmen grabbing dishes in the kitchen. Britney’s a little brat before she has her coffee. And, as I love to tease her, she’s a little brat after she’s had her coffee. She doesn’t mind my affectionate jesting. Britney is a charming young adult woman. Gifted with the beauty of her mother and her dad’s often-twisted sense of humor.
Our family has so much to be thankful for. The least we can do is to help those less fortunate than us. To give them something they can be thankful for on this holiday. This is why we’ll be spending several hours at the Denver Rescue Mission, serving Thanksgiving meals to the homeless.
First of all, I’m thankful that I have this warm bed to lie in. Second, I’m lucky that Theresa, the love of my life, is sharing this bed with me. Most of all, I’m thankful that we have our daughter. Britney is an only child, our little miracle. Long ago, the experts told Theresa she was infertile. We proved them wrong when we at last conceived our bundle of joy. Our only sadness is that we could not give Britney the siblings she once wanted so badly. It used to break our hearts to see Britney clutching her baby doll, asking us when she’d have a new baby brother or sister to play with.
Now Britney is an adult. She understands all too well what her mom and I went through, because Britney has inherited her mother’s condition. The experts say it will be a miracle if Britney can bear us a grandchild. We pray for that miracle.
Maria, our granddaughter in spirit, knocks on our bedroom door and says, “Your coffee is ready.”
Miracles do happen. Not just Britney, but Maria. Britney’s partner Anita also suffers from the same fertility problem as our family, yet Anita managed to bring her daughter Carmen into the world.
Theresa and I rise from the bed and don our robes. The smell of fresh-brewed coffee wafts in from the hallway. I pick up Furball and stroke his chin, taking delight in his loud purr.
Furball leads us into the kitchen. Britney has prepared a plate of his food, and she lowers it to the floor as we walk in.
Britney says, “Hi, Mom and Dad,” and kisses our cheeks. Two cups await us at the table. She knows her mom and I are big brats before we’ve had our coffee. Britney and Anita seek to do more than simply serve food to those in line at the Denver Rescue Mission. Our ambitious daughter and her partner want to find a real homeless family to share in our Thanksgiving dinner. Not a family in the shelter, but a family living outside in the harsh winter cold. The people we serve in the shelter every Thanksgiving always tell us sad stories about the families out there who couldn’t get space in one of the shelters.
We invited one such family here last year. That particular dinner didn’t go very well. The family all bolted out the front door and ran down the block screaming, creating quite a scene.
Two police officers paid a visit our house that night. The cops didn’t believe any of those wild accusations the homeless family made. That’s what the family got for having foilies in their pockets. Evidence of meth use destroyed their credibility as witnesses, even though none of them were high at the time.
Britney was cracking up those cops by yelling, “Get the spiders off of me.” Cops know meth users’ paranoia all too well. Meth heads are always afraid something is going to bite them.
Every Thanksgiving, Britney looks forward to our family cruise in “Das Boat”. We’ve loaded the old wagon’s cargo area with boxes of pumpkin pie donated by our local grocery store’s bakery manager. Too bad we can’t make the pies from scratch, but we’ll have enough cooking to do at the Rescue Mission.
Anita starts up her Subaru. Carmen waves to us as her mom drives away. Anita will meet us at the mission. Maria will have lunch with her grandparents while we serve meals to the homeless.
Britney opens the door of my old car and slides across the bench seat. “The bitch seat,” she says. Her radiant smile is the the polar opposite of bitchy. She loves to sit between Mom and Dad, like she did in the old days. A simple pleasure denied her in new cars with their fancy bucket seats.
Theresa gets in, and off we go. I touch the gas pedal very slowly. I can’t drive like Johnny Hot-Rodder unless I want to start an accidental pie fight inside the car. I have to drive gingerly the one day a year my old car is inundated with the wonderful smell of the pies’, ahem, ginger spice.
Some would wonder why a family like us who don’t attend church services would volunteer at the Denver Rescue Mission. Well, Theresa and I are not total strangers to faith in Christ Our Lord. We were raised in the faith long ago.
John 6:54-56: Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood have eternal life, and I will raise them up on the last day; for my flesh is true food and my blood is true drink. Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me, and I in them.
Raising Britney has been the most challenging test of our faith. Not just in the Lord, but in each other, as a family. Britney never took the faith to her heart. Why would she? Many so-called “Christians” would say that our precious daughter is hell-bound. They don’t understand that she was born the way she is. They decry her behavior as a wicked lifestyle choice.
Britney’s partner Anita has also suffered the slings and arrows of judgment. Anita was beaten by her ex-husband when he found out her true nature. He disowned their daughter Carmen as being nothing but a hell-spawn demon.
Theresa and I know better. The Lord gives each of us the innate wisdom to look beyond dogma and literalism. God also gives us the choice to use this wisdom. Or not.
Romans 3:23: For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God.
This is why we’re en-route to the Denver Rescue Mission. We are not perfect. We are sinners. But when it comes to those in need, we “walk the walk” rather than “talking the talk.”
Jesus fed the five thousand. Those of us volunteering today will feed thousands more. Britney loves to see the most hardened, world-weary faces brighten when she hands them a slice of pumpkin pie. In those moments, what she is doesn’t matter. It’s what she does that means so much to those people.
I’ve dropped off Theresa, Britney and the pie boxes at the mission. There’s a parking lot on the left. Eight dollars all day. Good enough. Anita’s car is here already. I struggle with the steering wheel once I find a space. They didn’t make these parking spaces for old twenty-foot-long land yachts. This lot was made for compacts like Anita’s Subaru. Not cars that can hold three adults and 192 pumpkin pies.
I stroll the couple of blocks towards the mission. The line is already growing, and it’s only nine A.M. Theresa and Britney will be in the kitchen, preparing the turkeys to be served during the dinner shift. Even from here, I can smell the first batch of turkeys cooking.
So many sad, hard faces in the line, waiting for the first meal at noon. Worn-out clothes and worn-out facial expressions. Children’s pleading eyes, matched only by the desperation of their parents. Only the thought of our family serving them food in a few hours keeps me from shedding a waterfall of tears.
A white produce truck backs in the alley behind the mission. Once it stops, I head for the entrance. Dozens of volunteers pace the kitchen area, dedicated to their tasks. Britney spots me and waves me over to one of the turkey preparation tables, where she and her mother are hard at work.
We work in this area every Thanksgiving. Britney removes the giblets. Theresa and I are making dressing. Anita prepares trays of rolls for the ovens. Just as we all did last year.
Here, it doesn’t matter who we are. What’s important is the work we do. Volunteers from all walks of life, united to end hunger for at least this day. To give even the most destitute something to be thankful for. Not just food, but the offer of a helping hand. Help to get off the streets and live in dignity.
Twelve noon. The serving line is open. Our family begins the good work. I dole out slice after slice of turkey, watching all the sad faces turn happy as they smell the fresh meat. After I put the turkey on their plates, they move toward Anita, who’s ladling out dressing. Theresa is serving rolls. Britney hands each person a plate with a slice of pumpkin pie.
My wife and daughter are like two peas in a pod. Matching ponytails, red aprons, and smiles. I marvel at Britney’s sheer joy in this day. She hands little plastic toys to the kids, warming my heart as much as theirs.
I am so thankful to see my daughter beaming with happiness. Britney had some difficulties growing up, because of what she is. She’s given to episodes of rage that scare people to the core of their being. We’ve tried the normal medications, none of which work very well.
The sound of breaking plates startles me. Britney dropped a tray. Uh oh. Anita gives me a worried glance. Britney starts to tremble with manic rage. No. Not here. Theresa, Anita and I drop our serving tools and run to embrace Britney. We hide her face from the crowd’s view, because we can’t let anyone see her like this.
A few seconds later, Britney calms down. “I’m okay, Dad.” Her tear-stained face returns to normal.
After all are served in this shift, Theresa and I walk to the dining room. Britney and Anita trot up to meet us. “Mom, Dad,” Britney says, “We have a good lead on a family. They can’t come here because the dad came in here one day, drunk and disruptive. Even the other homeless people I’ve talked to say they pity this family.”
“Did you get directions?” I ask.
“Yeah. They’re living under a highway bridge up north.”
“Great,” says Theresa, “We’ll drive there and pick them up.”
“I’ll go with you and Dad,” Britney says.
“I’ll pick up Carmen and meet you back at your place,”
Anita replies.
A half hour later, Theresa, Britney and I are in our old station wagon, driving on an empty back road.
Britney says, “I think that’s the bridge.”
“There,” Theresa points to a jumble of cardboard, “That must be them.”
I park the car. The three of us walk carefully through the trash-strewn area, dodging broken bottles and needles.
A rough-hewn woman emerges, asking “Are you case workers?”
“No, ma’am,” I answer, “We’re a family. We just got done serving meals at the mission.”
“The mission,” the gap-toothed man mumbles as he crawls out. “They’re bible-thumpers, gonna save us for Jesus.”
“No, no,” Theresa says, “We’re not here to feed you gospel. We want you to join us for a Thanksgiving meal, in our house.”
Their teenage son stumbles out and asks “What’s the catch?”
“No catch,” Britney says, “Just get in our car, and we’ll go eat.”
“Do you have wine?” the dad asks.
I fetch a flask of Thunderbird from my jacket pocket.
“Jesus didn’t turn the water into soda pop,” I hand him the bottle, “Relax. We didn’t come here to make judgements about you.” The man takes a swig, then hands the bottle to his wife.
Theresa says, “Judge not, lest ye not be judged.”
“Now that’s the kind of Christian I like,” the man says.
The mom finishes her turn and hands me the bottle. The teenage boy’s stare pleads with me.
“Oh, go ahead,” I hand him the bottle. “I’m not checking your I.D.”
Britney laughs.
Theresa motions them toward our wagon. “Shall we?” she asks.
“What, and leave this luxurious abode behind?” the man replies. We all laugh.
Britney, Theresa and I sit ourselves in the wagon. The man, woman and teenage son get in the back seat.
“Look at all that chrome on the dashboard,” the woman says.
“This is bigger than the apartment we had,” her son replies.
I tell them, “We hauled 192 nine-inch pumpkin pies to the mission this morning.”
“Those were from the grocery store,” Theresa says, “We’ll serve you our real homemade pie.” Britney smiles.
A half hour later, we’re home. Anita and Carmen reheated the turkey we cooked last night. We escort the homeless family inside. Furball is asleep in the living room’s window sill.
Anita pulls the turkey from the oven as Theresa and I seat the man, woman and son at our table. We place the food one item at a time. The teenage son sticks his finger in the mashed potatoes.
“No eating till Thanksgiving prayer,” Britney scolds him.
At last, Theresa emerges from the kitchen with the turkey.
We stand behind the family’s chairs and place our hands on their shoulders.
“And now,” I say, “Our Thanksgiving prayer.” We all bow our heads. “Father in heaven, we thank thee for the bounty we are about to receive. O Lord, we give thanks that on this day we will deliver the needy from their worldly suffering, and we ask that you guide them safely unto the kingdom of heaven. Amen.”
Theresa, Britney and I extend our fangs and bite hard into their necks. The screams of the homeless family leaving this mortal coil startle Furball from his slumber. A blur of orange calico fur rushes past the corner of my eye. The turkey will just have to wait until we’re done with our first course.
Proverbs 30:14: There are those whose teeth are swords, whose fangs are knives, to devour the poor from off the earth, the needy from among mankind.
In northeast Denver, in an industrial zoned area, Fred Henderson is driving his Dodge Ram ‘repo’ truck. He pulls up to Roman Auto Salvage, headlights off, stopping behind a white 1992 Honda Civic DX hatchback parked outside the fence. Fred gets out of the truck, and notices the fence has been cut. The incessant barking of his junkyard chupacabras catches his attention. He glances at the locked dog pen, and whispers “Shit!”
Fred gets back in the repo truck, and pulls it ahead of the Civic. Wheel chocks extend and lock onto the Civic’s front wheels. He chuckles as he pulls past the fence’s “Never mind the Dogs, Beware of the OWNER!” sign. He tows the Civic to the next block, and leaves it parked next to a sloping loading dock, hidden from view.
Fred drives the truck back to his yard, and parks by the cut in the fence. He fetches a Smith & Wesson .44 Magnum from the glove box. Fred leaps out of the truck and runs toward his main garage, footsteps in rhythm with the chupacabras’ barking.
He dashes past dozens of collector vehicles, from 1980’s cars to horse-drawn wagons. Fred slows down to a crawl when he sights two young car thieves in the front seat of his black 1957 DeSoto Firedome convertible. Since its top is down, Fred gets a clear view of the thieves reaching under the dash and grabbing wires.
The young thief in the passenger seat turns to his partner in crime, and says “This is a pretty sweet Fireflite, isn’t it?” The sound of Fred cocking the .44’s hammer halts their conversation.
Fred says, in a voice calm as a low-tide beach, “It’s a Firedome, actually. I know, I bought this car brand new.”
The thief in the passenger seat jumps out of the car. Fred’s irises turn black and his fangs grow out as he shoots the thief in the chest. Fred leaps up the back of the car and into the back seat. Fred grabs the other young man, still sitting in the driver’s seat, and bites his neck. Fred drains his victim of blood, and the young thief goes limp.
The other thief, lying in a pool of blood, struggles to move. Fred opens the driver’s door, pushes the seat forward, and gets out of the car. Fred grabs the thief’s body, dragging it across the floor to the other side of the car. Fred throws his dead partner’s body next to the wounded young man. “Please, sir,” he begs Fred, “let me live!”
Fred fetches to a rolling shop cart, throws the dead thief’s body on it, then grabs the surviving thief and places him on top of his deceased partner in crime. As Fred pushes the cart, he tells the thief “The only reason why you two even got in here is because I forgot to let the chupacabras out of the pen tonight!”
The young man spits blood out of his mouth, then asks in a weak, croaking voice “Chupacabras?!” Fred gives the thief a wicked fanged smile, then replies “They look like Normal dogs, except for the arched spine and the eyes. Not that you guys got close enough to notice.”
Fred pushes the cart out of the open garage door, toward the chupacabras’ pen. Their barking halts as Fred nears. The thief begs “No, no, please!”, as Fred stops pushing the cart, and walks to the pen’s door, padlock key in hand.
The wounded thief pushes himself off of his friend’s body, and falls to the ground. Fred grabs the dead thief’s body with both hands, and pushes him against the pen’s door. He whistles twice, then yells “Come and get it!” as he throws the body over the fence and into the pen. The long-fanged canines rush in and shred the body to pieces.
Fred walks over to the wounded thief, grabs him and pulls his face in close. “You know what, son? You’re about to have a very special experience tonight. Very few Normals get to see chupacabras up close!”. The thief meekly begs ‘No, no!’, as Fred points out the fanged canines licking up the last of the blood from his friend’s body. Fred then extends his arms to push the wounded thief into the pen. Fred whistles twice, and the chupacabras rush in and start to devour the thief.
Fred locks the door of the pen, then walks past the main gate to his repo truck. As Fred tows the Civic into the main building, he thinks I can salvage-title this hatch, swap in a B16, and sell it on Craigslist.
The truck backs the Civic into a service bay. As Fred unlocks the wheels chocks and prepares to move the truck forward, he turns to see Damien’s Charger pulling in, headlights off. Damien parks next to the truck, steps out of the car and says “Your fence is cut.”
“Yeah, I know,” Fred replies. “There were two young thieves in here, trying to hot-wire my ’57 DeSoto.”
Damien asks in Spanish “¿Son comidas por las chupacabras?” Fred replies “¡Sí!” Damien strolls up to the DeSoto and says “Might want to get that blood off your dash.”
Fred grabs a shop rag from a work bench, gets in the DeSoto and sits in the driver’s seat. He wipes the top of the dashboard, then carefully scrubs the splatters of dried blood out of the crevices of the dash’s chrome “Firedome” emblem.
The final version of Vampire Syndrome contains a passing reference to Damien’s favorite in-universe anime, Boom Boom Karyuudo Kyuketsuki (Boom Boom Vampire Hunter).
From Chapter 13, scene three, Lilith’s point of view:
“I would say ‘fuck you,’ Damien,” I snap,” but Stella probably is jumping your bones right now.”
“Wrong-o, honey. We’re curled up in bed, watching a DVD of Boom Boom Vampire Hunter.”
Gee, what a perfect show to watch after lovemaking.
“The anime series?” Zetania asks.
“Akane Kitsuni bought all the DVD sets for him in Tokyo,” I reply.
“Yeah, I don’t like the American version, where they cut out some of the language and gore,” Damien’s voice says.
Damien is an obsessive fan of the “Boom Boom Vampire Hunter” anime series. The fearless heroes, 13-year-old Nabeshima and his psychic black cat Otaku, travel all over Japan battling adult Kyuketsuki in the cities, and hunting the reclusive child-like Kappa in the rural areas.
Nabeshima uses fully automatic machine guns, grenade and rocket launchers, and plastic explosives in his Vampire hunting quests. It is never explained how a 13-year-old boy acquires all of these weapons, and the series shows he is never suspected by the authorities of any of the carnage, simply because he is “innocent-looking”. His cat Otaku can read the thoughts of humans and Vampires, and communicates to Nabeshima telepathically in a schoolgirl voice.
The ‘over-the-top’ Anime violence has a natural appeal for Damien, but what makes human Vampires love this series is that the Kyuketsuki and Kappa are shown as pale white, no body hair, slightly forward brows and all of their teeth pointed to sharp edges. To human Vampires, this fictional, over-the-top Anime series ironically has the most accurate depictions of ‘Pure’ Vampires since the famous 1922 film classic ‘Nosferatu’. 😉
The pale white Kyuketsuki on the Boom Boom Vampire Hunter DVD box flashes my mind back to 1922. I was in Lilly’s office. Fred Henderson, our chief mechanic, had just returned from his vacation in Europe. He handed Lilly a souvenir. A film can. Inside was a print of “Nosferatu, eine Symphonie des Grauens “. Fred’s copy would become one of the ‘surviving prints’ we used to restore this film decades later. If only the Normals knew about that.
That night, Fred screened the film for us in the Presidential Mansion’s theater. I was in the front row, Lilly and Beatrice at my sides. When Count Orlok first appeared, the whole room went into shock. Beatrice screamed and ducked to the floor. Instinctively, Lilly and I drew our pistols and aimed at his image on the screen.
Fred ceased cranking the projector and turned on the overhead lights. We, the entire audience, turned to face him.
“Sure looks like a Pure, doesn’t he?” Fred chuckled, reaching down to grab his beer stein.
“How do they know what Pures look like?” I yelled at Fred as I tucked my pistol back in my chest holster. I couldn’t believe what my eyes just told me. “You did say it was Normals who made this moving picture, correct?”
Fred nodded while sipping his beer.
He rested his stein beside the projector and strolled to the overhead light switches.
“Legends only start when someone lives to tell the tale,” Fred said as he dimmed the lights.
One of the most fun things about attending a writer’s conference is taking a class with an instructor who approaches writing in the exact opposite way that you do.
Sunday, 8 am. There I was in Anne Randolph’s “Write Naked” class.
My mere presence in her class was the opposite of my usual method.
Those who write paranormal stories usually favor writing at night.
(who would have thought?)
The reason why she wanted us there in the morning is because our “filters” are off.
Her approach: Put a pen to paper, and off you go. Write something. Don’t think, don’t plan, just write.
I’m one of the most methodical, analytical writers you will ever meet.
I plan out my course of action before I type a word.
Hell, I even “edit” myself when I talk to people. I’m not disposed to brief snips of chit-chat (or I’d be on Twitter!)
When I say something, it’s deliberate. And I’ll use more than 140 characters to do it. 😈
The prime motivation of Anne’s class is to motivate those writers who are stuck in their progress. Free your mind. Get going. Write something. Every day.
I’m not one who is “stuck”, mind you. One day, I write. The other, I don’t. And I must say I somewhat disagree with one of her key points, that you should write every day, just to stay fresh. Yes, you have to learn the art of writing. By doing. But when you learn skills, the point is to retain them. Writing is like riding a bicycle. Once you get to a certain skill level, you are changed on a fundamental level.
Like work. I know my job so well, I can take a month off, then go back to work as if I’d never left. Hell, I could take a year off, and jump right back in. I kid you not.
So why in the world was I in her class?
To challenge my usual modus operandi (method of operation).
Could I just go in there, early Sunday morning, and bang out something straight from the dark recesses of my mind?
I came up with a tale about a suicidal Twilight fan touring Forks, who wants to die in the upstairs bedroom of the “Cullen house” (with all the attendant “Edward watching in the window” fantasies), and the tour bus driver is trying to talk her out of it.
I challenged myself, and succeeded. The above story is an intriguing and unique premise. Yes, I could invert my regular M.O. and still create.
Thank you, Anne Randolph, for allowing me to see the creative process from the “opposite side” of my usual method.
Vampire Syndrome Blog 