Today, while driving to work, I began contemplating those first few stories I wrote when I was eight. Horrid things. Full of Mary-Sue writer wish-fulfillment. But still oddly fun. Some were by and large more fun than others. Hell the first of a series of six would later become the starting point for the novel I am perpetually working on. I can even remember vague future stories; I think that I had planned to come up with twelve or so total. And don’t quote me on this but the last was going to be an incredibly depressing finale. From what my memory plagued mind remembers was that it would have involved the Devil, a lot of people dying, and the main character’s mind being toyed with while everything burned. Holy crap that is an entirely bleak concept for an eight year old.
Now I didn’t come to this train of thought without cause. I happened to be looking at the clouds while I drove; of course only when it was safe to do so. The thing with clouds is that they always remind me of the seventh, and thus never written, story I had planned in the ancient series. Whenever I look up at the clouds, especially around sunrise and sunset, it always appeared like they had just been painted onto the sky. I don’t know why I think that but I do. From what I remember the story would have involved someone who either was able to bring their paintings to life, or trap living things within them. Both stories have been done to death. Hell I remember an episode of Are You Afraid Of The Dark doing that and I know there was an episode of Doctor Who that handled that too. And come to think of it Clive Barker’s Undying did exactly this.
Still it was always a story that I regretted not doing. In the end it was a stumbling block that had prevented me from finishing the series; though now that I realize just how dark the series would have ended perhaps that’s for the best. Still the idea is still there and perhaps I will visit it again. I have been feeling the need to write something, and while I have worked on the novel off and on, I think I want to do a short story. Horror and suspense; the fantastical meeting the mundane. These are what I know how to write. The slow build up of reality crashing down upon the characters. Perhaps now, with another seventeen years of experience, I will be able to follow through and actually complete that one story that stopped me.
Also, there is a Twitter feed now on the right hand side. Do I think Twitter is still inherently pointless? Yes. But when I get bored and can think of something that amuses me I shall post it. If for no other reason than to point out just how pointless the damned thing is.