What scares you the most?
What gives you sweaty palms, a dry feeling in your mouth and anxiety in your stomach? Maybe its spiders, or public speaking, or werewolves or quicksand (which is admittedly a smaller problem than I was led to believe as a child)
Maybe it’s love.
That’s one of the things that I explore in my upcoming book. What happens when it all goes south? What do you do when the one who loves you doesn’t anymore. How does that feel?
What kind of emotion does that invoke in a person?
How does the same story sound so different depending on the side that’s telling it?
Every story is about a girl if you dig deep enough.
My next book is seven years in the making. Seven years! A lot can happen in seven years. I read somewhere that the body replaces itself every seven years. So, quite literally, you’re not the same person you were back then.
Hair, skin, muscles. Even the brain. Do you know what that means? Your memories are just that – memories. Every time you remember something the electronic synapses trace an almost familiar pathway. That path changes after years as the brain subtly molds the memory.
Which is why it’s not uncommon for two people to remember an event years ago two radically different ways.
It’s a little different every time.
So why that? Why bother writing a story about love. It’s been done literally millions of times before. But, just like memories, every time it’s different.
I tell ya – love and mathematics are the two universal languages.
So Here’s the Thing
It’s not just a love story. Fade to Black is about a disillusioned, heartbroken guy who just happens to be psychic.
Now, I get it. There’s probably a group of people that are going to hear that and think “Nope, that’s not for me.” And that’s fair – that’s your choice. But hear me out.
I think that when love ends the thing you want the most is to know the mind of the other person. Was it as real for them as it was for you? Did they care as deeply about you as you did about them?
As clear cut as it probably is for those on the outside looking in, it’s pretty rare for the same to be said when you’re in the middle of it.
So our anti-hero (he’s a bit of an asshole) who can read minds all of a sudden has his life flipped end over end. And he has no idea that it’s coming.
Fast forward five years and we have the start of my second novel.
Fade to Black.
Although, come to think of it, maybe it should be seven.
That Damned Khajit
There was a fire alarm at my apartment the other day. Actually, there were four of them. There wasn’t a fire, just a tripped sensor.
They happened in the middle of the night because of course they did. The first one was at 1:30 AM. The 2nd was just after I fell back asleep. The third one told me I was in a sleepless hell.
The fourth one was forty-five minutes before my alarm because of course it was.
In a building the size of my apartment complex, a fire truck needs to be called every time the alarm goes off. It’s mostly precautionary, and really it’s probably a good thing because, you know, safety.
Oh, and the siren keeps going until they show up.
It’s funny that the reaction nowadays to an alarm is one of vague disinterest and annoyance. Besides a few keeners who care for their lives more than the amount of sleep they got everyone was inside.
I was inside.
The sister-roommate was out for the night. So there I was, 1:30 in the AM, wondering if my building was on fire when a thought crossed my mind.
My sister’s cat, Ollie. If we had to evacuate, I’d have to either take the damned cat with me or I’d have to burn.
There were no other options. If the cat didn’t make it, I’m sure that I wouldn’t be far behind.
Lisa would see to that.
So the alarm is blaring and the cat is nowhere to be found. Usually she’s right on the couch in the middle of the night, the perfect place to scare the crap out of me. Not today, of course.
So I’m frantically searching everywhere for her. In the pantry, in the linen closet. I’m beginning to think that cats are ethereal creatures which can disappear on a whim. And then it occurs to me:
What the hell am I going to do if I catch her?
There was a ninety percent chance of me getting eviscerated, my somewhat average face ruined. RUINED I SAY!
And what the hell was I supposed to do with her once I caught her, too? At that moment I pictured myself standing outside in -30 degree weather with a squirming cat and a scratched up face.
And my white Snow Lion sorels, of course. Got to save the important things.
“Hey, sis. Good news, I saved the cat. Bad news, it’s now loose in the neighborhood and I think I need to go to the ER”
So what did we learn this week?
- Dating sites literally put faith in your inability to find a partner. “Go ahead, take the 6-month subscription. It’s cheaper – we KNOW you’ll still be here”
- Don’t judge a book by its cover. I.e. give my little psychic story a chance.
- Cats continue to be assholes
- Fire alarms only malfunction when the weather outside is inclement
- Or when you’ve got to get up at the crack of dawn