My Desert Spirit Guide Part Two

Another of those strange things I found on the desert

I followed the lightly worn trail that the animal had taken. As it was a single track trail I needed to turn more often in order to avoid the sage brush. The small scrub plant gave excellent concealment for all of the roaming desert animals. But I never lost sight of my guide.

He would trot ahead for some distance and then stop and turn back as if to make sure I was still following him.

After several hundred yards on the light trail he took a quick left under a large sage brush. I stopped the four-wheeler and scanned the area trying to see where he had gone.

A worry crept through my mind that I had lost him.

I drove slowly forward searching close than far out; letting my eyes do zigzag patterns across the desert. And just as fast as I had lost him I saw him again. He was much farther away, almost 100 yards. He was silhouetted on a nearby rise. He had to have moved with incredible speed to appear that far away so quickly.

My spirit guide waiting for me to follow

I drove the four-wheeler toward him and he stayed almost motionless.

I had no idea where I was going or why he was leading me but I knew that he was leading me. As I neared the crest of the rise where he stood he padded off again this time to the right.

He was climbing a hill that gently rose above the desert floor and formed a plateau. He had made it up easily but my going was slightly slower. I eased the four-wheeler forward, climbing over basketball sized rocks that jetted from the earth. I had to move slowly or risk puncturing a tire.

When I reached the top of the small plateau I was alone. I sat there, my music still playing in my ears, wondering why he had brought me here to this place at this time. I looked in every direction but there was no sign of my guide. There was however, a large pile of rocks.

As I have said before seeing a pile of rocks on this desert was nothing new, but I couldn’t help wonder why anyone would hike rocks up on top of a hill to pile them. And then a sudden thought occurred to me:

“What if there was something hidden under the rocks?”

I felt very strongly that this was why my guide had brought me here. I swung my left leg over the seat of the four-wheeler and stepped on the ground. I took three steps toward the pile of rocks and stopped. Two children and a tour in Iraq have made me a cautious man.

The summer sun was beating down and the pile of rocks could be the perfect shady place for a bull snake or even a rattle snake. Being bit by the former would hurt but give me a good story to share, but a bite from the latter would earn me a trip to the emergency room if I was lucky or earn me a spot as the main dish at a coyote family reunion if I wasn’t.

I pulled the headphones from my ears and turned off the four-wheeler so I would hear any movement or rattles. On the front of the four-wheeler was a metal basket that carried a fire extinguisher, emergency eye wash, and a machete for cutting the heads off of weeds. I picked up the machete, if it worked on the head of weeds it might work of the head of a snake.

I approached the rock pile slowly. The rocks were stacked over three feet high, which ruled out any natural occurrence unless it was the scat of some yet undiscovered rock monster.

I reached carefully with my left hand and picked up the first rock while my right hand was ready to strike with the machete at any slithering creature that might be hiding under it. There was nothing under it but more rock.

Even with the porous nature of the rock it was lighter than I had expected. I tossed it to the side and picked up another in the same manner. It didn’t take long to clear the pile down toward the plateau’s floor.

I noticed something peculiar. There was a relatively flat rock resting on the top of several rocks that were sunk into the ground. I looked to the left and the right and it appeared that the rocks were butted up against each other like a box built out of rocks.

I took a moment as my mind ran through the possibilities of what could be inside.

“Treasure?”

“Artifacts?”

“Forgotten truths and mystic ways written for me to find?”

I reached my left hand out and grasped the rock. I could feel the porous holes on my fingers as I lifted it up to reveal what had been hidden.

I could hardly believe my eyes. My guide, my spirit guide, had led me to this. Not treasure or artifacts or even forgotten wisdom rested in the rock strong box. No he had led me here to find a great pile of mouse doo doo.

“Just kidding Harry you’re not really a wizard.”

“Sorry Luke you but screw your feelings and use that computer.”

“Actually, Bilbo I think you should sit this one out.”

To be fair there might have been ancient records there at one time, as I could see the mice had made a nice nest out of bits of paper.

I gained a lot this summer on the desert: new experiences, a love of mixing and eating peanut butter with Nutella straight from the jar, but mostly that moment like these are in place to remind me that deep down the universe thinks I’m an idiot.

Delicious

My Desert Spirit Guide Part One

My summer home on the Minidoka National Wildlife Refuge

I don't know if I was missing the Iraq desert when I was looking for a job this summer or if it was simply the only one that was available because of its location, but either way I spent my summer living and working on the southern Idaho desert for the US Fish and Wildlife service.

The Minidoka wildlife refuge covers quite a large area and I was lucky enough to see all 20,000 acres of it, including the strange bits and bobs that lay hidden there.

X marks the spot, I didn't have a shovel so I'm unsure what great treasure laid beneath

I spent my summer doing all manner of things like spraying weeds from a four-wheeler, catching and counting butterflies, walking the boundary fence with a GPS, and even wrangling Pelicans. But I think oddest day was when I found my would-be spirit guide.

It truly started out as mundane as the previous days; I loaded up the four-wheeler, drove across the boulder filled dirt road, and unloaded the four-wheeler to begin spraying the infamous Scotch Thistle.

During any typical ten hour day of spraying I could drive several hundred acres so naturally I would bring along my mp3 player to listen to some fantastic tunes or a nice audio book.

On this particular day I was making excellent time in my quest to spray the deadly Scotch Thistle whilst driving around the sparse Russian-olive trees and through the stands of Sage Brush all the while bobbing my head and shaking my booty to the excellent summer playlist I had created.

I had learned quickly that the dreaded Scotch Thistle had a knack for growing tall under the protective shade of those blasted Russian-olive trees. And with each squeeze of my spray applicator another weed would be cast down into that eternal sleep where its seeds would no longer blow.

Me with a Scotch Thistle that stood over six feet tall

I had already seen a lot of weird things this summer; rock walls going nowhere, chimneys sprouting from the desert floor, even auto parts miles from the nearest road. But this particular day would top them all.

It was four miles to the nearest road when I found this. An awful long way to carry out the trash, of course the rest of the car could be under the sand and dirt.

I drove out from under a Russian-olive when I saw several rocks. Rocks by themselves are not interesting but these rocks seemed to have been placed and not like the random rock wall. These rocks were placed in a circular fashion spiraling around and into four rocks that held the center.

It was so odd that I got off of my four-wheeler and walked to the center of the circle to take a short video of the rocks.

These rocks certainly didn’t come anywhere near the splendor and mystery of Stonehenge but my writers mind was already thinking along those lines.

“What if the refuge is here to keep people away from this place?”

“What if this is an important ley line and Roosevelt needed to keep it safe for his personal power?”

“What an incredible story this could become!”

As my mind continued to spiral on its own I went to look over my stone circle again and then I saw him.

He was standing in the shade of a nearby Russian-olive and he was close. So close I could easily have struck him with a stone (and if you had ever seen me throw anything you would immediately understand just how incredibly close he was in order for me to claim such a feat).

He stood there panting looking right at me. His fur was grey white and he stood slightly taller than a coyote but smaller than most wolves I had seen. Add that to the fact that there are not supposed to be wolves in the area I wanted to call him coyote but he didn’t act or look like any coyote I had seen.

True, coyotes will stop and look at you before running off; that is, if they are at a distance. Coyotes also don’t hang around when four-wheelers are involved; they scatter fast and disappear into the sagebrush.

He was not scattering, nor running. This animal just watched me as if my presence didn’t bother him in the least, as if he had been expecting me, all the while Sia sang in my ears about how she was the wild one.

He finally turned slowly and began to walk off. At this point I thought my animal encounter was through and once again I would be relegated to weed killer but I noticed him 50 yards up a small trail looking back at me.

Perhaps I wanted to see where this animal was going. Perhaps I was simply looking for a divergence. Perhaps it was something else; something that I just knew had to be done. Whatever the reason might have been I felt the overwhelming sensation that he wanted me to follow him.

I sat back down on my four-wheeler and pushed my right thumb against the throttle and navigated up the trail...

How to Make Stronger Characters in Three Simple Steps

Your characters will be going from flabulous to fabulous!

Step One: Who’s in Charge of Casting?

As the writer you get to choose who plays what part; so don’t settle. You know how they should act and how they should look, so make it happen.

In the winter of 1996 I was working on an independent film. I had written the script and was producing the project. I had done a lot of hard work to put together a good creative team to make it a reality. We had locations secured, equipment ready, a killer script in hand (did I mention that I wrote the script?) and we were taking our time casting the parts.

For the part of the antagonist we had narrowed it down between two women. One was a complete new comer to acting but she had the look I wanted and I knew we could work with her to get up to stuff on the acting portion. The other had been in a few wide release films and would certainly handle acting well, but she didn’t look the part.

It was a mismatch that didn’t feel right for me. My director on the other hand wanted the woman with the SAG card; he felt it added more clout to our little project. But I was the producer and had put this entire project together so naturally we went with the woman who had the SAG card.

That’s what I love about writing. I don’t have to play nice or think about clout. I can create who I want and if I begin to let the outside voices (which might be coming from my own mind) start to change a character in the wrong way I can say, “Screw you, this is my project, my vision and it’s going to be done how I see it.”

Step Two: Eye Patches are so 1999

All characters should be memorable because of who they are not what they are wearing. The same goes for how they walk, talk, chew gum, etc.

Now if you have an eye patch wearing, limp walking, backwards talking, woman who chews her gum with her mouth closed and blows bubbles out her left nostril don’t bother reading this because that character is awesome.

Seriously though you want people to remember your characters because what they do, not what they wear.

In the Harry Potter series JK Rowling created a character that has a magical eye, fake leg and uses a staff to walk with but those are just additions. The real reason people remember him is how he interacts with other characters. As you read the pages you see the traits that make him a great character.

One of the simplest ways to make your character more memorable is with my 2:1 ratio of good/bad traits. Remember that no one is all good or all bad and this keeps them interesting.

For example: your protagonist is brave, tells the truth, but sneaks off to seedy bars to take place in illegal cat juggling.

  

Step Three: He Said What?

Take the time to write out a conversation with your character to learn how they sound and what type of word choices they use.

When I first started writing I knew my dialogue sucked. I knew this because people told me. I’m sure I felt the same way George Lucas felt when people told him the same thing. The difference is I listened.

I became conscious that all of my characters talked the exact same way that I did.

I am not a person who lived a sheltered life. I lived in different places, met unique individuals, and had good exposure to a world outside of my own. I just wasn’t paying attention.

You need to have an understanding of who your character is. One of the best ways I’ve found to do this is by having a conversation with your character. Simply take out a blank page of paper or open a new file and begin to ask your character questions. Think of it as meeting them for the first time.

Go so far as to picture the setting. Is your conversation taking place in your home, over coffee, or walking down a crowded bazaar in Amman?

How does your character interact in this environment? How does your character sound?

If you are having trouble hearing anyone but yourself, take the time to talk to people from different walks of life. A great place to do this is at a farmers market, trust me.

By using these three simple steps you will create characters that pop off the page and remain ingrained in your reader’s minds long after they have put down your book.

Ciao,

Clark

Crafting Characters: Where to Begin

Shoe Tree in Utah

So this is the prodigal return of me. Is it possible to return to yourself? I'm not sure, but I do know I've been gone for far too long. And instead of boring you with my intrepid exploits and occasional lame excuses as to why I have been absent for so long I'd just jump right back into helping you improve your writing.

One thing I’ve learned in my absence is the importance of everyone's story. Think for just a moment about your own life and the stories which you have that have never been shared. It would be terrible if you died having not shared your story. So I want to make sure you become the best writer you can be so you will feel confident to share your story with the world or at the very least your loved ones.

For the next few written posts and some video posts I want to share with you how to create amazing characters. For this exercise take a look at the story you want to write, or perhaps the one you've already written but you feel your characters aren't developed as well as you'd like.

In any story you need at a minimum two characters:

1. Protagonist (good guy)
2. Antagonist (bad guy)

Carrying on the most basic idea here your protagonist wants to accomplish something and your antagonist wants to keep the protagonist from accomplishing said something. Now don't get hung up on the idea these two characters have to be two separate entities, they can be the same person, and it is possible your antagonist isn't a person at all. It could be possible for your antagonist to be the weather, or a great disaster, or even an illness.

The same goes for your protagonist. Just because your protagonist is the hero of the story it doesn't mean they have to wear a white hat. Your protagonist can be a terrible villain as long as your antagonist is an even viler villain. The whole point is not to limit you to one idea or mold.

Now you can see your options are limitless look again at your story. What type of person or thing inhabits the role of protagonist? Grab a blank sheet of paper and answer the following four questions about your protagonist:

1. What does your protagonist do in life?
2. If a person saw your protagonist for the first time what is one prominent feature they would recall?
3. What is your protagonist doing right now at this very moment in time?
4. What is the one thing your protagonist wants?

Was that hard? It’s okay if it was. The main purpose here is to get your mind moving and thinking creatively. Now, this type of exercise is not limited to fiction writing, if your story is a nonfiction memoir or biography this will help you understand yourself or subject at the time in question.

I want you to think about your antagonist. This is the person or thing that will be at odds with your protagonist and the meaner and more diabolical your antagonist is the more your reader will love it. In the United States we love our protagonist to be able to overcome in the end but don’t ever make it easy. 

Now turn the page over so you have a completely blank slate again and answer the following three questions:

1. What is the worst thing your antagonist has ever done in life?
2. If a person had met your antagonist before and was asked any question about them what type of feeling would they have and why?
3. Why is your antagonist compelled to see your protagonist fail?

Okay this is just the basic building blocks you need to start developing your characters. Next time we’ll start looking at what it takes to make a multidimensional character.

Ciao,

Clark

Guest Post: Runaway — Inspired by Mandy Rose Writen by Author Susie Finkbeiner

I would like to introduce you to Author Susie Finkbeiner. She is from the great State of Michigan and has just finished her first novel and is currently working on three collections of short stories. She is one of the founding members of Kava Writer's Collective and is currently in works to start a literary journal for Michigan writers and artists.If you enjoy her work like I do please check out her website http://susiefinkbeiner.com/
Without further ado I give you Susie Finkbeiner:

Author Susie Finkbeiner

I woke up. The alley was dark and smelled like every bad odor mixed into one. My head was bleeding. And I had no idea who I was.

“Look at that. Runnin’ so fast you fell down and cracked your head.” That voice sent chills through my blood. When I looked at him, I was even more terrified. “Baby, why you gotta act like you don’t want it.”

“No. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. I wished I could make my voice less pathetic. Less pleading. “Just leave me alone. I’m hurt. I need help.”

He started at me, hand on his belt buckle. He licked his lips in a way that made me want to throw up.

There was a crashing sound. He fell down. A woman stood behind him with a rolling pin.

“You okay, honey?” she asked.

It took me a minute to realize she was talking to me.

“Yeah. I guess so.”

She stepped over him to help me up. “Let’s get you inside and call the police on this scum bucket. I figure he’ll be down for a good half hour.”

“I have no idea who he is.”

“Well, you sure are lucky. Cause you was just about to get to know him pretty bad like.” She looked upwards. “Hey, Glen! Get yourself down here and make sure this dude don’t get back up. I’m callin’ the cops.”

She pulled me into a doorway. Had me sit at a dining room table. Gave me a glass of orange juice and a few crackers.

“Thank you,” I said. “Can you please tell me where I am.”

“You’re in Detroit. You from around here?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Whatchu mean you don’t know? Don’t they be teaching that kinda stuff in school no more?”

“I don’t know. But something’s wrong. I can’t remember anything.”

“We should get you right to the hospital. You got insurance?”

“I hope so.”

“Well, you got yourself a wallet?”

I checked my pockets. Just an address and $20. “Do you think this is my address?”

“Ain’t no city or state written on there.”

“Is that weird?”

“Honey, this all be weird.” She drew her face near to mine. “Your eyes be lookin’ funny. We better get you a ambulance.”

—

The doctor examined my eyes. Used tweezers to pull dirt out of the gash on my head. Cleaned me, stitched me, bandaged me.

“You don’t remember anything, eh?” he asked.

I shook my head. The  movement sent shots of agony down my neck.

“Well, then you probably don’t know that you match a missing child profile.”

“Do you mean, like, I was kidnapped or something?”

“Runaway. We’ve contacted your parents. They’re on their way.” He stood. “Would you like a sucker?”

“Yeah. That’s cool.” I took the treat. “Hey, did you talk to my parents?”

“No. One of the nurses did.”

“Can you ask her if they sounded excited?”

“Of course. But what parents wouldn’t be enthused that their lost child was found?”

“I don’t know. I just had a feeling.”

“Interesting. I’m going to make a note of that in your chart.”

—

Two adults walked into my room. A man. A woman. They stood, awkwardly far apart. They were afraid to touch me or show emotion or say anything.

“Are you my parents?” I asked. “The doctor said that I might recognize you. But I don’t.”

“Yes, sweetie,” the man said. His voice cracked. “It’s daddy and mommy.”

“Oh, I’m so glad they found you.” The woman rushed to me, held my head close to her chest.

“Please let go. You’re hurting me.” I pulled at her arms, knowing that the bandage would have to be wrapped again.

“Do you feel okay?” The man walked to the other side of my bed.

The man and woman both held my hands. Trying to see who could get the most eye contact. Competitive over me. Their daughter.

“Why did you run away? Precious, we’ve been so worried.” The woman let a tear fall on my bed sheet.

“I called the police right away.”

“I made sure they did an Amber Alert.”

“The news stations came to me for a press conference.”

“Well, who got the prayer chain going?”

Were they fighting over me? A memory slipped back. They were fighting. All the time. Screaming. Throwing things against the wall. Cheating on one another.

“You’re getting a divorce, aren’t you?” I asked.

“The doctor said you wouldn’t remember anything.” My mother put her hand on my forehead. I wondered if it was instinct or a power-play.

“I remember the fighting.”

“Oh, honey, you weren’t supposed to hear all that.” My father placed the back of his hand on my cheek.

“It was so loud. How could I not hear it?”

And so, I ran away. I remembered. I ran because I couldn’t take it anymore. All the battles over custody. Money. The house. The cars.

My father’s voice reverberated in my memory, “If we’d never had her this divorce would have been over long ago!”

I remembered the pain of realizing that I was part of ruining their lives. They could have been happy. But I was there, forcing them to remain miserable. How many nights had I sobbed, trying to be quiet so they wouldn’t hear me? Countless. Far too many.

And so I left. So they could be happy without me and without each other.

“If you wouldn’t have fought so hard for the house, she would have never left,” my mother said, accusing my father.

“Oh, don’t you put this on me,” he answered. “She was fine. The divorce wasn’t bothering her.”

They yelled over my hospital bed. Cussing and spitting venom and not once listening to the other.

“Okay, listen up!” The voice was loud. Smooth. “The last dude that bothered my friend got a rolling pin to the skull. Anybody else wanna tango with me today?”

“Excuse me,” my father turned his tempter toward her. “This is a family affair here. It doesn’t concern you.”

“What’s her name?” she asked, smiling at me.

“Vivianna.” My mother looked at me. Scowling. “His mother insisted on that name. Otherwise we wouldn’t get an inheritance.”

“That’s not true. She just wouldn’t put money in Viv’s college fund.” My father pointed his finger into the air.

“Yeah. A lot of good that college fund did. She’s just a runaway now.”

“Vivianna,” the woman said, her dark eyes sparkling. “I know enough Spanish. That name means ‘life’.”

My parents backed away from my bed. It was like some kind of magic repelled them.

“Vivianna, your parents be some selfish peoples. You know that, right, sugar?”

I nodded.

“But that don’t mean you gotta be runnin’ around, gettin’ jumped by every scum in Detroit.” The woman put a hand on my foot. “It sure be hard to know which is better. The street or bein’ with these two. They be unhappy folk, ain’t they?”

I nodded again. It felt like a trance I was being pulled into.

“It ain’t your fault. You know that? It’s their fault. They be the ones messed up. They be the ones not workin’ it all out. But it ain’t your fault at all, baby girl.”

I felt a freedom. A new life. Fresh air. Brighter light. Weight left me.

“I know somewhere’s in their hearts they love you. I suspect they ain’t gonna be so hard on each other. Not no more.” She looked at my mother and father. “Right?”

They nodded at her, in awe.

“You be precious, Vivianna. You live. You stick around at that house of yours. Don’t come back to the streets. Ain’t no place for you.”

“But the address…” I said.

“That address ain’t no place you wanna go, doll. You be findin’ all kinds of trouble there. I had a friend check it out. Full a’ no good. More a’ what that thug wanted in the alley.” She waved the thought off. “Now you go on home with your mom and dad. They ain’t gonna put you in the middle no more.”

Then she was gone.

My parents sat in the chairs. Looked at me. Were quiet.

I closed my eyes, trying to remember my family as whole. Happy. Smiling. That memory never came.

Finding Hemingway Part One

This past weekend was so fantastic. Truly one of the best weekends that I can remember. I spent it with my wife and two sons in the beautiful town of Ketchum Idaho. It wasn't the easiest of trips to begin with but before I get to the tale of woe I want to publicly thank the Blaine County Republican Women, especially Suzan and Trish for the support they gave to me and my fellow soldiers in Iraq this past year and for the amazing warmth and hospitality that they showed to my family this weekend, thank you.

In planning the route to take on a trip it usually comes down to one of two things: first, the distance and second, the scenery. However our route was planned by our dog Maggie. You see we weren't able to take her with us so we set up plans to have someone in our home town of Idaho Falls watch her but at the last minute those plans fell through and so I called my parents to see if they would do it. I actually knew that they would, they love Maggie but that is also the reason they weren't my first choice because I have a secret fear that one day they will snatch her and take her to Mexico or some other country where dognapping extradition laws are vague. At any rate Maggie was going up to the folks house and I had two choices: take Maggie up the night before or the morning of. Neither option seemed that exciting as it would add 60 extra miles on to my trip. So I sat and thought about it and it hit me that we could drive Maggie up, get lunch in Rexburg, and then go across the desert and see some of those pretty places we've never been to.

In retrospect I wonder if that is how the Donner Party started out, I can just imagine the conversation.
"Hey babe, why don't we take the Hastings cut off? We have to go that way anyway to drop the mining supplies off at your sisters."
"I don't know isn't it a bit dangerous this time of the year?"
"Oh we'll be fine. And besides it has great scenery. Maybe we can even grab a bite on the way."

With Maggie dropped off, lunch secured and iPhone map in hand we set off toward Arco via Mud Lake. It was a gorgeous day, the sun was bright and there were no clouds in the sky. We passed through Mud Lake and I commented that it would make the perfect setting for a good serial killer story. My oldest son wanted to know why it was called Mud Lake and being a good father I made up the best answer that I could think of.
"It's because there was a lake and now it is just filled with mud. In fact they only use it for mud wrestling and making mud pies."
Being the good son he is he immidiatly asked my wife if that was true and she just shook her head.
"He's just teasing you."
"Dad!"
As we crossed the desert my passengers began to be absorbed in their iPhones and Game Boys. I had small tinge of envy wishing they would put some form of video entertainment in the steering wheel so I would have something to do while I drove.
Our first stop would be in Arco. Before the end of the Cold War the US Navy trained its sailors on nuclear submarine engines in the Idaho desert near Arco and to commemorate that past, the town of Arco received the sail from the decommissioned USS Hawkbill. I had read about it in the local paper a few years ago and always wanted to go out and see Satan's Submarine, but just had never had the time to go.

Jonah, Riley and Charity in front of Satan's Submarine in Arco Idaho.

From Arco we would be traveling to the Craters of the Moon national monument where my budding scientist Jonah could learn about the area's lava flows, my wild child Riley could run off his energy and the rest of us would enjoy some scenery. This route would continue taking us along the very flat part of the Idaho desert. But as I drove this route the odd thing I kept noticing was the large mountains with just a touch of the first snow and the beautiful leaves that were showing their fall colors in the big clumps of trees. This did not seem right but I kept seeing the signs saying "Peaks to Craters Scenic Byway" so I continued to assume I was on the right road. It was when I hit the town of Mackay and needed to stop for gas that I knew I had gone the wrong way.

"Babe I really messed up and I missed our turn." I confessed to Charity.

"I thought you were just taking another way, see you can still get to Ketchum from here." She showed me the map on her iPhone. There was a small blue colored route that cut across the mountains just a few miles out of town. The map program said it would be an hour and a half drive but it was only 45 miles and we assumed that the program was just being cautious.

Finally making the turn onto Trail Creek, after I once again missed the turn, we found that Trail Creek was a lovely two lane paved road with a 55 mile an hour speed limit. The mountains were craggy, dotted with aspen trees that were displaying bright yellows and reds and the road passed over a score of mountain streams. To put it simply it was beautiful.

"This isn't bad at all." I said confidently.

We passed a small wooden sign that said "Chilly Cemetery." We looked off into the distance and saw at the end of a washboard road a small fenced off cemetery nestled at the foot of a mountain.

"We're not taking this way back, we should go see it." Charity said.

I gladly turned the car in and slowly trundled along the bumpy road. Both Charity and I enjoy, in a very normal unghoulish way, roaming through cemeteries. There is something about seeing the names, especially those that have died too young, that resonates with me and my own loss. And there is also a wonderful art in the memorializing of a person and their deeds in stone.

Chilly Cemetery off of Trail Creek road

It was remarkable to both of us how, this final resting place that was so far off the beaten path, was so well kept. There was also a surprising mix of very old and sadly recent headstones. Not only were these people buried in a place of beauty their loved ones cared enough to make the trek on a regular basis for the upkeep.

We took several photos and finally loaded back into the car and headed down Trail Creek road. We were making excellent time until we came down the side of one of the many sloping hills to see a sign I had been worried that might crop up; "Pavement Ends." Our 55 MPH highway turned into a 35 MPH back-road littered with rocks of various sizes and jagged edges waiting with hungry eyes to take a bite out of our tires. Not only was our little Toyota Matrix already feeling very out of place, up ahead loomed a small one lane mountain road that we would have to take in order to reach Ketchum and find Papa Hemingway's house.

It didn't look good, but it could be worse.

"Babe, we just lost cell service." Charity said.

That's all the time for Write Now but come back soon for part two.

It's Spooky Time!

This is hands down my favorite time of the year and if I had a way that I could bottle the Halloween feeling and drink it in everyday I would. I mean what is better than being able to make the outside of your house look like a creepy cemetery and the inside like something a witch would feel comfortable living in? And don't forget to top it all off you get at least one day when you can play dress up out in normal society and no one thinks you're too weird (sorry, but there will always be at least one person who thinks you're weird.)

As soon as October first rolled around I pulled out the skeleton flamingos and put them up in the yard. They were a little dusty but very eager to get out to work adding to the spooky ambiance with the tombstones. Inside my sons helped me put up wall decals and distribute the cobwebs. All in all a very good job, it's just sad it will all come down so soon. I stopped in at the local Every Think store and they are already crowding out the Halloween decorations with Christmas stuff. I really wish we could just get through one holiday at a time.
Anyway, all this great spookiness has been getting me thinking of writing some spooky stories. Certainly my new novel, Loves Deception, has some great thrills, but none of that spooky Halloween element that I see as the supernatural.

This last weekend I went to Salt Lake City for a wedding and while there took the family to see this great little shopping village where all the shopkeepers had decorated with these fantastic witches made from pumpkins and gourds. Just walking around and taking it all in gave me such a great Halloween feeling. Of course maybe if it was Halloween all the time it wouldn't have that same effect. It would be a lot like stores selling eggnog all year, sure it would taste great and...well maybe that isn't the best example, but I'm sure it would lose some of it's magic. Maybe in the same way I could write a nice supernatural spooky book on occasion. So although the next three books I've got planned out are all squarely in the Crime/Thriller genre I would still like to explore the fun possibilities of the spooky supernatural with all its' great monsters and settings.
Actually I've had a couple of really good ideas for a book with a good Halloween feel to them but the paranoid writer in me doesn't want to share them just yet because I just know you'll steal them (because they're that good). Suffice it to say when they do come out you'll look back at this moment and say "Yeah, I would have stolen those ideas."

But that does leave a pretty open question: What makes a great spooky story? I think most of us have sat around the campfire, or flashlight, and told or heard a spooky story. Those types of stories sometimes even invade our everyday life. In Iraq the unit I was with was moved to a new base and it was really large with a lot of foreign nationals. Immediately we were instructed that we had to travel in groups of two or more and under no circumstances should we ever go visit with a foreign national. When asked why the extra care was needed we were told the following story:

Not too long ago on this very base a US soldier, just like you, made friends with a foreign national. They were good enough friends and the US soldier felt safe with the foreign national. One day the US soldier wanted to go and visit his new friend but no one wanted to go with him so he decided that he would go alone. So he crept out of his CHU and do you know what happened?

He was never heard from again!

Now I have no idea if that story was even close to being true (and certainly I have taken some liberties in the retelling). I do think this type of story certainly demonstrates several of the parts that really help to make a good spooky story.

1. Familiar Location.
2. Similarity of character.
3. Hanging ending.

So first, just like in realty, location plays such an important element. Having a familiar location that your reader can identify with will make it seem more real and therefore more believable. A lot of those old ghost stories I've heard might be the same but their locations are easily transplanted from one state to another.

Second, like with the location, you need characters that your reader can relate to in a close way. This of course is true in any genre of writing but in a story that will have the reader abandoning some reality to buy in to your supernatural spooky story I believe that you must add even more similarity to your main character to increase the believability factor.

Lastly the use of leaving the ending open for debate on what really happened will leave people talking about the story much more than if it was all wrapped up like a Scooby Doo mystery. And with this type of ending it leaves a nice opening for a sequel no matter how many of your characters you may have killed off.

Well that's about it for now. I hope you have some great Halloween plans and lots of haunting to do.

Ciao,

Clark