Vocalized Thoughts

I have grown increasingly upset with how you function these days.  After the advice of some friends I've decided I will be blogging with somebody else.  I know it's hard to seperate after all we've been through, but I have a feeling that Blogger is going to treat me better.  I'm sorry it had to be this way.

I can now be found at joshuanwood.blogspot.com

Writing has slowed down just a bit (but not entirely, so fear not) on "Moratorium".  I'm working on writing the backstory for Cynthia so that the reader can see her not only dead, but alive as well.  I want my readers to be able to connect with her and feel for her.

However, as I've been writing this I've been thinking more and more about ghosts.  I've seen the occasional show about ghosts and even have read a book about a ghost (Heart Shaped Box by Joe Hill).  So, it's as I've been thinking of ghosts that I've realized I'm not exactly sure how I want my ghost to look.

There are various types of ghosts.  Ghosts that are simply little balls of light that float around like a speck of dust, ones that are simply wisps that move around in non-threatening ways.  There are poltergiests that are very violent.

I know that I want my ghost to be able to make physical contact with the living.  That if she tries hard enough she can hold a hand, move something, or even kiss.  Hard for a ghost to do, I know, but in fiction anything is possible.

I guess my real stumbling block right now is whether or not I should do something with her eyes.  Since she's dead I wonder if I should have her eyes blacked out or milky white.  Details like these plague my mind so much it's not even funny.

A description for Cynthia follows:

She had long black hair that cascaded down to her shoulders and caught the moonlight, making it shimmer.  Beneath her ghostly clothing was the hint of curves, the slight rounding of the hips and breasts.  With blood rushing to his face, Draven realized that he could almost see through the dress she wore.

Her lips must have once been almost ruby red but, in death, were now a light shade of pink.  They were slightly parted.  Not so much for a need to breath, she was dead and had no need to breath, but rather out of habit.  Her neck was graceful and caught the moonlight on her now pale skin.

She extended her hand towards Draven and touched him on his cheek.  To Draven, it felt almost as if she had been out in the cold for hours and had forgotten to wear gloves.

It's not much of a description, but I did want to keep with the tradition of putting something in my blogs despite the fact that I didn't have much to preview (I can't put the whole book in this blog afterall. haha.)

If anyone has any ideas on ways to present my ghost, please let me know.  I would love thoughts on this and some aid.

The continued writing for "Moratorium" is going splendidly, everyone.  Is there anyone who is reading this?  I wonder sometimes.  Am I just sending my blogs and ideas out into the wild unknown of the internet with a misplaced hope that people are reading it?  If not, great.  If so, whatever. 

As I was saying, the continued writing is going great.  The characters are beginning to form wonderfully and become more and more real to me.  There are times that after I go back and read what I have written, it doesn't sound like me at all.  It doesn't seem like I'm writing this, that some higher power or some other part has been writing through me.

While writing I have also been inquiring as to the real mortuary here in Saratoga.  Many of those I ask are locals who have lived here far longer than I have.  It was during my inquiries that I found out that the mortuary has, in fact, been closed for "eons".  It is completely dilapitated inside and there even seems to be a tree or something growing out of the back of the building.

While a man down in Colorado now owns it, it used to be in the posession of a family known as the McBrides.  The man who owned it also owned the local grocery store for a time when it was known as Vales (or something to that effect).  One of the locals I talked to, a family friend, made the comment that people used to say "Don't buy your meat at Vales" as kind of an inside joke.

As in most places where civilization isn't always up to code, and Wyoming can fall into that category, many of the tried and true methods stay in tact.  One of these methods that was used with the mortuary up until recently (I'm assuming within the last twenty to thirty years) was stacking the bodies in the basement of the mortuary until winter passed.  Because the ground was frozen solid and almost impossible to dig six feet into, families had to wait until spring and summer when the ground thawed to be able to put their loved ones to rest.

It is with that method where an idea came into fruition for "Moratorium".  After all, what ghost in their right minds would haunt a place where dead people were kept and prepared for burial?  A ghost whose remains hadn't been laid to rest.

As I've been writing this I've begun to feel much more enthusiastic about my writing.  I haven't been like that for some years now and it feels great.

I've done this with the last two blogs and I'll do it with this one.  Here is another little preview from "Moratorium".

She had, of course, seen the whole thing from her second story window.  As the boy had stared at the building, and her, she found herself staring back.  The floorboards and the walls creaked and groaned as they expanded due to the quickly dropping temperature.  Elsewhere, in other rooms, feral cats hunted rats that continued to trespass.  The cats didn't like her and the rats didn't seem to notice or care about her.

There is, of course, lots of backstory involved with this project.  In the past, that would have been something that scared me.  However, now, I'm excited at the prospect though I'm not sure why.  It excites me nonetheless.

One problem I have come across though is naming a character very similar to a character from The Simpsons.  One of the characters in "Moratorium" goes by the name of Julia Hibbert.  Her husband is, or was, a doctor.  Anybody who has been a fan of The Simpsons knows that this is very similar to Dr. Julius Hibbert.  So, there will have to some name changes when I finish and go through with editing. For now, though, Julia Hibbert remains thus.  Or perhaps, she will always remain thus because come to think of it, it's not that close of a similarity.

I will give another little preview, this time with the aforementioned Mrs. Julia Hibbert.

"When I began to chastize him for his actions," continued Mrs. Hibbert, "he leared at me."
"What do you mean he leared at you?" asked one of the women.
"I mean exactly that, she replied, "His jaw was practically on the ground as he gazed at my breasts hungrily.  I thought he was going to ravage me right there on the street."
The other women rolled their eyes.
"Julia," said one of them, "we've told you this several times before: you're busty.  Whether you mean to or not, you usually wear shirts that expose quite a bit.  Just because a man, a teenager, was caught staring at you doesn't mean he was 'going to ravage' you."
The other women nodded in agreement.  Julia Hibbert huffed and didn't say another word for the rest of the night.

I hope that anybody who may be reading this is enjoying not only my thoughts on my own project, but also the previews I've been giving.  Not to sound needy, but comments would be welcome.

As I've continued writing on "Moratorium" I've come to realize that not only is the story itself a supernatural murder mystery, but it is also a commentary (sp?) on how hard it can be to keep a secret in a small town.  With living in a small town in Saratoga, I've come to discover that if one wants to keep a secret than they must work extremely hard at it.  Sometimes, keeping a secret hidden is hard then hiding a body.

What I love about being a writer is the ability to be able to create a small town of my own.  Then, I can base if off my own small town while still being able to add and subtract things that I don't want in there.  If I want the small town to have a bookstore then it can have a bookstore.  While Alden is still subject to many of the geographical limitations of small towns (or any town) in Wyoming, it doesn't have to be subject to many of the economical boundaries that Saratoga has.

I have been averaging roughly 1 - 2 pages daily on "Moratorium" and it's a great feeling.  I haven't written this much in quite some time.  In fact, I honestly can't remember the last time I sat down and scribbled in my notebook.  After several false starts, the story just came to me and it was amazing.  I've discovered that writing is a lot like lifting weights.  If you keep with it then you can do more, but if you stop then you find it hard to get started.

I missed the sound of pen scrapping on paper and seeing ink smeared on the side of my hand.  The other thing I missed, and I think I missed this the most, was the characters beginning to take the story where it's meant to go.  J.R.R. Tolkien said that he didn't create Middle-Earth, but that he was just chroniciling the story of the Fellowship of the Ring.  Stephen King has said that all he does is put ordinary people in an extraordinary situation and watch them work their way out of it.  Robert E. Howard actually felt the presence of "The Cimmerian" when he wrote the many books that told of Conan's adventures.  I like to think that my writing style is very similar to these great contributors to the craft.

I am certainly hoping that I am generating a good amount of interest in "Moratorium".  I know that I am around my hometown, but I also hope that I'm doing it online as well.  Since comments on my blogs are few and far between it really is hard to tell.  I would ask that anybody who reads this and appreciates it add me and if I'm already added then tell your friends about it.  Not that I'm begging or trying to whore myself out, but it would be appreciated to have readers.

Now, as I promised in my headline, I will give my readers another little preview:

The house, if that's what it was, had fallen into serious disrepair.  Yellow paint flaked off the siding in patches, exposing weathered lumber.  In the right window of the 2nd story there was a chair, a table, and a lamp.  Set up as if expecting someone to sit.  The more Draven stared the stronger the feeling that someone, or something, was staring back.

And another preview from another point in the story:

His black, shoulder-length hair and facial piercings were just the start.  With his black pants, pinstripe shirt, and boots he was sure he looked nothing like what his woman thought of as a polite young man.  As she continued to scrutinize him, Draven tried not to notice how her large breasts strained against her shirt or how the cross lay within the cleavage

Now with this last preview I wanted to use it as an example of some of the difficulties I've had in certain parts of the writing.  I wasn't sure whether or not I should include a part in which Draven tries (and slightly fails) not to notice this older woman's large bosom.  In the end, and with some discussion with my girlfriend, I came to the decision that including that within the story would help in making Draven a much more believable character and teenager.

So, the writing continues and will continue.  This is a project I am very excited about I think, in part, because I am utilizing land marks from my own hometown while adding parts of other places I've lived.  I had been utterly depressed due to the fact that I had realized I hadn't completed anything since 2005 (my senior year of high school) and I'm very intent on completing this project.

Hello All (what "all" there may be out there who reads this),

As I said in my last blog, I have been working on a story that involves this creepy old mortuary in my hometown of Saratoga.  This massive, two story building looms over anybody who walks by it.  It's been closed for decades, is home to feral cats, and I'm pretty sure that it also is haunted.

I had been debating with myself over how to put this mortuary in a story and then I thought to myself that maybe there is someone (or something) in there.  My two immediate ideas for the occupant of the building were either a vampire or a ghost.  Upon some discussion with my girlfriend, Airelle, I came to the decision that it would be a ghost that resides in this decaying piece of real estate.

The two main characters in this lovely story are Draven Jackson, a teenager who has just moved to the small community of Alden, Wyoming and Cynthia, the ghost who inhabits the mortuary.  The only thing that escaped me was a title for this little supernatural mystery.  Then, while sleeping, it came to me: Moratorium.  The definition for Mortatorium is the cesation of activity.  Thus, this little story I'm working on is now known as "Moratorium".

I have decided, being the gracious blog host that I am, to entice my readers with a little preview of what it is that I am working on.

In another part of otwn there was somebody else who couldn't sleep.  Her name was Cynthia and she stared out the second story window of a two story building.  Shafts of moonlight illuminated a carpet worn with age and debris from crumbling drywall.  Despite the silent tires, the cold didn't bother her.  The cold never bothered her.

That is all for now, my readers.  If I get more interest I will entice you with more previews of "Moratorium" for you all to soak in.

In other news, I have been sick lately.  A sinus infection (or at least I think it is) that has been keeping me weak these last few days.  Runny nose, scratchy throat, etc.  Not fun.  Not fun at all.  Hopefully I will get better.  I still feel pretty weak and tired.

Good Day (or Night) to you all.

So it has been a while since I've posted anything here and for that I apologize.  Some of that is due to the fact that my internet contact time is limited now that I'm living on my own again, the other being that I really don't think there is ever much for me to update my readers on.  I'm a horrible host.

Lately I've been getting lots of inspiration for great pieces of work.  Simple things that are causing my once stagnant imagination to run wild.  I never would have thought that such inspiration would come from my hometown of Saratoga, but I've learned that Saratoga can surprise you sometimes.

To begin with, on the street where my apartment is located just a few blocks down there is a mortuary that is now empty-ish.  I say empty-ish because there is furniture and such in the building and there is in fact a table, chair, and lamp sitting by the right window of the second floor as if expecting someone to come and sit in the chair and look out the window.  The large, two story building seems to glare at anybody who happens to walk by and look and while houses on both sides are well-maintained, this building falls further and further into disrepair.

I've been wanting to use this building in a story for the longest time, but most especially after I found out a few years ago that it used to be a mortuary.  That just got my juices to flowing, but that's all they did: flow.  Nothing came of it and nothing is coming of it though I'm getting great ideas for it.  I think to myself that the old mortuary would be a perfect location for either a ghost or a vampire.

Now, the other bit of inspiration came from a night in which my girlfriend and I were walking around Saratoga at night.  This was a few nights ago and it was only 4 degrees outside and very quiet.  As we neared our block we heard a movement and then something that sounded like a very young girl calling out for help.  Not very loud, but enough to cause us to jump.  Our minds instantly went to an image of a young girl vampire using her child-like appearance to draw a curious (or civic minded) person in her direction for her to pounce upon them and feed.

While these two ideas are making my imagination go wild, but for the most part I feel like I'm spinning my wheels and nothing is coming out but smoke.  My writing muscles are weak and tired and I must get back into the routine of doing it.

I know I haven't posted in a while, but I have an excuse: I have been writing...finally.  Below is an excerpt of the current piece I am working on.  To see the full posts, please go to my newly revamped page at www.myspace.com/cruc1bl3

We arrived home right around sundown. After the dull gray of the city, the country around my parents’ house looked even more vibrant. The horizon was on fire with the setting of the sun.

            Mom was standing at the kitchen window, watching for us. As soon as she saw us coming down the road, she came out of the house and once again took her place on the steps. She smiled as I jumped out of the truck and ran up to hug her.

            “Did you have fun in the city, David?” she asked me.

            I explained to her that I did. I told her of the massive buildings that blotted out the sun and the sky, about the faded look of everything, and about all the people. I didn’t tell her about the angel, though. Not because I wanted to keep it secret, but because I still wasn’t entirely sure that I had even seen her.

            For the next two weeks, everything continued as it usually did. Dad would do work around the house, take care of the animals, and work on the current tractor as well as his truck. Behind the barn, dad has was could have been considered a collection of broken-down tractors that he had accrued over the years of working the land.

            When I wasn’t helping my dad with some of the little things around our home, I would play on and around the old tractors. Many a time, my mom and dad would find me sitting in one of the tractors making engine noises while bouncing up and down in the seat.

            I always enjoyed playing on the tractors, especially when a small breeze would come up from the North and blow through my hair. That feeling, combined with watching the grass make waves with wind made me feel like I was sailing the tractor through a sea of green.

            It wasn’t too long before I began to wonder how everything worked. So, I did what comes naturally for any child: I began tearing the tractors apart. The gears fascinated me above everything else. The way they were built and the way they interlocked with each other just amazed me. I began collecting them, beginning with the small ones.

            After cleaning the gears, I began to tinker. I wanted to see if I had the ability to create anything. It certainly helped pass the time until the next flea market. The angel was on my mind most of the time. She haunted my dreams and stalked the corridors of my mind. The angel was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen and I could not wait to see her again.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

            The day for dad’s bi-monthly city visit came around again, and for me it didn’t come fast enough. I could barely sleep the night before, wondering whether or not the angel would be there. Once again, dad and I loaded up in The Beast and began our trek to the city.

            Dad clicked on the radio and began surfing through the stations.

            “…what the American Empire needs to worry about is the military threat from the United Kingdom of Nazism…”

            Click

            “…when will Prince John F. Kennedy realize that not everyone is willing to accept the idea of civil rights for elves, dwarves, etc? Sure, they may be humanoid, but are they human?”

            Click

            “…in his speech to Parliament today, Prime Minister Martin Luther King, Jr. informed the members that he was well accepted into the Mormon nation of Utah and that President Brigham Young (descendant of founder Brigham Young) will continue to support the American Empire…”

            Click

            “The Beatles, the musical group that have been granted political asylum by the American Empire, kicked off their latest tour this week in Lost Vegas and will continue down into the Mexican Territories…”

2009 Cowboy Shoot-out Script: “Pirates of…the Platte River?”

 

(The Dread Pirate Cummerbund and his pack of perilous pirates have been spending months searching for the Fountain of Youth.  Instead, they think they have landed in Tortuga.  No one said they were smart pirates.)

 

(pirates enter street from East end of Bridge St.)

All Pirates: Yar! Make way for the Dread Pirate Cummerbund!

(Cummerbund enters the scene.  All swagger and ego.)

Cummerbund: I do not think the Fountain of Youth be here, you scallywags!  Me thinks we have landed in Tortuga.

(Crowd yells “New York City?!” and the pirates look around confused.)

1^st Mate Bob: Are you sure, cap’n?

Cummerbund: Course I’m sure, 1^st Mate Bob.  By the way, I’ve always wanted to ask.  Do you have a last name?

1^st Mate Bob: No.  It’s just Bob.

(Saloon girls enter the pirates’ line of sight)

Cummerbund: Ah! See there?  There be some lusty wenches right now!

Saloon Girl 1: What did you call us?

1^st Mate Bob: He called you ‘wenches’.  Is this not Tortuga?

(Crowd, again, yells “New York City?!” and the pirates, once again, look around confused.  Frantic Frannie and her gang enter from the Hotel Wolf.)

Frantic Frannie: This ain’t Tortuga.  This is Saratoga!

(Cummerbund and the other pirates look at each other in shock.)

Cummerbund: Saratoga?  New York?

Frantic Frannie: No.  Saratoga, Wyoming.

Cummerbund: Wyoming?! Bob, get the navigator.

1^st Mate Bob: Mr. Upchuck.  Front and center!

(Upchuck, a not-at-all-sober looking pirate stumbles up in front of Cummerbund)

Upchuck: Yes, sir?

Cummerbund: How do you explain us landing in Wyoming?

Upchuck: Um…by the river, sir?

Cummerbund: Let me see that map, you poor excuse for a pirate.

(Upchuck pulls a well-worn piece of paper from one of his pockets and hands it to Cummerbund.  Cummerbund looks at it and then gives an exasperated sigh.  He hands it to 1^st Mate Bob.)

1^st Mate Bob: You call this a map.  There’s nothing but a bunch of squiggly lines drawn on it.”

Upchuck: I was drawing it as we went along, sir, but sometimes the current was too fast.

1^st Mate Bob: Where is the real map?

Upchuck: Oh, I threw that overboard in the Gulf of Mexico.

Cummerbund: Mr. Upchuck. Do me a favor and show me which way North is.

(Upchuck points up at the sky at which point Cummerbund shoots him.  Cummerbund then turns around and addresses Frannie.)

Cummerbund: This may not be Tortuga…

(Crowd yells “New York City?!” again.  This time the pirates all say “Where the heck is that coming from?”  The rest of the cast looks at them like they’re crazy.)

Cummerbund: Anyway.  We’re going to take this nice little town for our own.

Frantic Frannie: No you’re not.  This town belongs to us.

(Sheriff Hugus and his deputy/deputies enter the scene from Lollypops)

Sheriff Hugus: Actually, this is my town.

Saloon Girls: Sheriff Hugus!  He’s so cute!

Sheriff Hugus: That’s right.  And this is Deputy Glode.

Cummerbund: I thought you said we were in Saratoga. This looks like the sheriff for Munchkinland!

(All the pirates point and laugh.)

Sheriff Hugus: When you’re done laughing, Jack Sparrow, I will tell you how we will handle this.

Frantic Frannie: I’m ready to hear it.

Cummerbund: Me too.

Sheriff Hugus: A contest.

Cummerbund: You mean a dance contest?

(At this, music starts and some of the pirates start break-dancing)

Frantic Frannie: That’s enough.

(She shoots one of the pirates and the music stops.)

Sheriff Hugus: We will have a shooting contest.  The loser will leave the town and the winner will stay.

Frantic Frannie and Cummerbund: I’m game!

Deputy Glode: Then bring out your best shooters.

Frantic Frannie: Blind Betty!  Get over here.

(Deaf Dan enters the scene.)

Frantic Frannie: This here is Blind Betty, the best shooter this side of the Mississippi.

Deaf Dan: What was that?

Frantic Frannie: I said Blind Betty.  Not Deaf Dan.

(Blind Betty enters the scene and shows off his gun techniques.)

Cummerbund: Well we will use Cross-eyed Charlie!

Sheriff Hugus: Now we need a volunteer.

(A “volunteer” is picked from the crowd and taken out in front of the two markmen.)

Sheriff Hugus: One the count of three, fire.  One.  Two. Three.

(Blind Betty and Cross-eyed Charlie shoot wildly, hitting everyone except their target.  They then shoot each other.)

Saloon Girls: They shoot at everyone except the volunteer!

Sheriff Hugus: Yep.  This happens every year around this time.

So I went down to Denver this weekend with my mom to pick my brother up from the airport.  We stopped in Loveland to do some shopping and I asked her to stop by Barnes and Noble because I wanted to look for Joe Hill's books "20th Century Ghosts".  I found it, paid for it, and went on my way.

Later on, though, I got to looking at my reciept.  The words that caught my eye were the ones telling me that my cashiers name was Idris.  I got to thinking what an odd name Idris is.  I mean, it's not one that you commonly hear anywhere.  In fact, I don't think I had heard that name before looking at my reciept.

My mind began to wander and wonder.  Who was this Idris?  What kind of life does she lead?

Does she get off of work and go to a bar to hang out with girlfriends?  Maybe they sip margaritas, tell stories from their retail jobs, and check out any cute guys who might be at the bar.  On some occasions, she may even take a guy home.  Show him a good night, probably keep in contact for a couple weeks.

Or maybe she goes home to the one bedroom apartment she shares with her two cats: Twinkle and Mr. Sniffles.  She grabs a book of poems (maybe something like Robert Frost or E.E. Cummings) from her bookshelf and settles into her favorite chair.  A well-worn recliner that once belonged to her father (who died of a stroke two years ago, God bless his soul) and has a perfect area in the seat of the chair to curl up and read a book.  Maybe there's even a mug of chai tea on the table next to her.

What if she's not single?  She could be going out with somebody, engaged, or married.  Is the guy she's with a good guy?  Does he treat her nice?  Or is he a complete asshole?  Abusive and loud.  It could be she comes home to the cries of "Goddammit, Idris!".  She knows that she's in a toxic relationship.  All her friends point it out to her, but he does have good days.  Idris hopes that as time passes those good days can increase, that maybe she can be the one to change him.  The bruises on her stomach, back, and legs prove otherwise.  At times it hurts to sit at all, but she continues her quest of helping him with his anger.

Does she have kids?  One boy or one girl.  Or maybe she has one cute little boy and a darling little girl.  The boy walks around in a cowboy hat and spurs, wanting to grow up to be a cowboy (even if the country song says "momma, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys").  The girl rolls her eyes at how immature her brother can be.  She has plans to be an artist.  In fact, the entire fridge is completely plastered with her most recent masterpieces.  Smiling stick figures standing under a sun, protected by trees that have branches and leaves that inexplicably form a perfect circle.

It's amazing what one's mind can do if it begins to wonder.

Just finished reading Heart Shaped Box, the debut novel by Joe Hill.  If you're a music fan and realize that it's very similar to the title of a Nirvana album, then let me tell you that it's no coincidence.  Heart Shaped Box is a very musically influence book and rightfully so considering the main character is an aging goth rocker.

Judas Coyne, former lead singer of Judas' Hammer, is fifty-four years old and a collector of strange things.  He has a cannibal's cookbook, the skull of a man trepanned in the sixteenth century to let the demon's out, a three-hundred year old confession signed by a witch, a used noose, and a snuff film.

Judas comes off a cross between Michael Jackson (the collection of strange things), Billy Gibbons (his very big beard), and Trent Reznor or any other goth rocker you can think of.  When you're first introduced to Judas, he's in a relationship (if it can be called that) with 23-year-old Georgia (her real name is Mary Beth, but Judas names his girlfriends after the state they're from).

Because of his collection, when his assistant, Danny Wooten, tells him he's found the haunted suit of a dead man, he doesn't even have to think about it.  Judas buys it right out.  Not long after it comes in the mail in a black heart shaped box.

Judas doesn't have to wait long for the ghost to make an appearance.  Dressed in the suit, Craddoc McDermott begins appearing to him.  Judas calls the woman who sold him the suit to discover that the ghost (and the woman) are family members of his last conquest.  A woman he called Florida (her real name being Anna).  Florida's sister tells him that she had commited suicide and shortly thereafter Craddoc had passed away and made it his mission to haunt and kill Judas.

What conspires after that is a very inticing story that will make you look at ghosts in a different way after reading it.  With references to many different musical artists and songs, it's a treat for music fans as well.

Twists that you wouldn't expect great you in almost every chapter.  I would highly suggest this book for anybody to read.  It brings a breath of fresh air to the idea of the ghost story.

Website for the book