So. It’s four in the morning. I’m awake. I wake up, more or less, between two and four every morning, so this is normal. Don’t worry, I go to bed around seven. Because that’s when the heroin kicks in. Just kidding. That’s what you say when you say or write something awkward and want to dull the edges a bit. “Just kidding” is rather like using the term, allegedly, when you say something that you know is probably ninety percent true. It’s just a version of CYA.
Welladay, it’s snowy here in Oregonlandia. As in destructive, can’t go anywhere in this crap, why am I upside down in a ditch, when did that happen? snowy. Buildings are falling down here in Ontario, Vale, and Nyssa. Over in Idaho, poor Weiser lost its only grocery store. A town of about three thousand people, and home of the Old Time Fiddler’s Convention– http://www.fiddlecontest.org/
Okay, this is supposed to be a bloggie blog about my writerly writings attempts, fails, victories and other assorted bleep, bloobs and blumberings. [As a writer, I can make up words. I give myself permission and sign that executive order to make up all the words I wish because I can and it’s bigly good and I approve of this message.] So aye, maties, let’s stop dawdling and get to the meat.
I actually did start a cheerful dystopian not-gritty not-rebooted Shitweasels of Desire. Except now it’s tastefully called– Pimple Hollow. And since it’s amusing to me, and lets me funnel off some of my brain-melting depression a bit, I’ll probably write at least twenty some pages on it. Or start it all over again, and then again after that, until some sort of story actually occurs to me or I’ll put it aside and work on something else I put aside. Because, being a total Gemini– I even have a tattoo in case people doubt that I am indeed a total Gemini– I have more than one novel, play, short story, bit of sloppy self-indulgent poetic snippet or what I call–“junkcrap no one gets to read because it’s on level with something my dog wrote, if my dog drank whiskey and did crack” going at any one time. And then I read where Neil Gaiman does that, too. Have several projects going at any given time, so that when he gets bored, he can focus on something else for a bit and then come back. Oh my gosh!! I DO THAT, TOO. I so do that, too, Neil!!
I also did manage to finish my ghost novel, House on Clark Boulevard. It’s set in one of my childhood homes [we moved around when I was little, so I have several.] during the end of the Seventies. Around the holidays. And yes, it’s a weird mixture of family memories and a housewife fighting the forces of darkness. Nancy, my pragmatic heroine, has to find a way to defeat Mr. Blue, who’s offering her quite a horrific deal. She also had to get through the baking of two turkeys, rocky family waters, and what major appliance will break down next. It’s a full life!
Now, since writers seemingly have to have a series these days, I actually thought, vaguely, of a sequel for House on Clark Boulevard [if you keep repeating something, apparently, people, even though they’ll make faces and gagging noises, will remember it. I think that’s true of propaganda, movies stars, and obscure book titles. Yay!]. I don’t have a title yet, other than Alice of Halliday Road or maybe Alice Remembers. Or something with Alice in the title, since Alice is the name of Nancy’s daughter from THE HOUSE ON CLARK BOULEVARD. Did I mention, yet, that I am already considering a sequel to THE HOUSE ON CLARK BOULEVARD? Well, consider it mentioned!
So!! This as of yet somewhat sorta named not at all yet sequel would be set in the late Eighties, maybe the last year of Reagan. [As HOUSE ON CLARK BOULEVARD was set in the last years of Jimmy Carter’s turn as POTUS. See what I did there?? Points if you noticed, dear reader.] Alice would be taking up the fight, more or less, that her mother, more or less, fought. How’s that for a ‘must-read that!’ tagline?? Sucks, yeah. Thanks. I could also explore how others see Nancy from HOUSE ON CLARK BOULEVARD. And get different versions of events from HOUSE ON CLARK BOULEVARD. Fun! [Points again if you notice the repeating title I keep repeating, dear reader.]
I also started a novel about ghouls. Which I labeled “Infection“. But. It’s fairly hardcore graphic and has cannibalism right off the bat. I might post some blurbies from it for future bloggie blog postings, the scrubbed and nice paragraphs only, of course. We might be in a post-PC world now, but there is a limit!
It’s probably tortureporn a bit, ayway and should be kept locked away in this writer’s little trunk of “nevva evva gonna show that to a living soul, amen”. Why am I bringing this one up?? It’s a project that I set aside! It’s not calling out for me to come play. Oh, did I mention I finished HOUSE ON CLARK BOULEVARD??
I’ll end this rambling screed with a shudder at anyone eating lamb blood pancakes with raisins sprinkled in the batter. Raisins. In pancakes. No!! I saw that on Bizarre Foods with Andrew Zimmerman. Some supercold, Northern European place, where they slaughtered a lamb, then used the blood to make blood pancakes and…blood oatmeal cookies. [There was oatmeal in the fried blood pudding– they thickened it with oatmeal, then pan-fried slices of that blood pudding in butter– and Andrew took a bite of it, nodded as he does, and pronounced that it tasted like a ‘bloody oatmeal cookie’. With ‘bloody’ being used to describe the flavor, not how it was a wanker. That’s what I got from that, anyway.] So, there were two kinds of blood pancakes made– with and without raisins. Always, always, choose to leave the raisins out. I can’t put a positive spin on that. Just leave the damn raisins out!
HOUSE ON CLARK BOULEVARD. OREGON GOTHIC, by the way, is, like, totally available and doesn’t even have any Goths in it. What??? Buy a copy and find out why it doesn’t contain any Goths!! BUY A COPY TODAY. https://www.amazon.com/Oregon-Gothic-Ann-Wuehler/dp/1514140527