I’ve been working on a novel. It’s about half done, and somewhat stubborn in that I’ve been working on it for about a year and a half, and I tend to write it in spurts. It’s a definite love/hate relationship, where I love the writing, but I hate half the words that come out. That said, the first draft should be done by spring, and I can start the rewrites. Rewrites – the hate/hate part of my relationship. Like a cobra and a mongoose, or a rodeo clown and a bull, or clowns and the general human populace.
The book is called Back Lot, and is built on the idea that the monsters of the 1950s era of film are real, alive, and well, and living on an abandoned studio back lot outside of L.A.
Here’s an excerpt:
Some days, you’re the Woodsman, some days you’re Red Riding Hood, and some days, you’re the guy with the biggest teeth. When I woke, I felt distinctly Riding Hood like. I rolled over, every muscle and bone seeming to protest. A groan escaped me. Where my ribs had been broken, pain throbbed in bright pinpoints of agony for a moment before quieting to the dull throbs of healing bone.
I lay on my back in the early half-light for a while, trying to collect my thoughts. The dream had left me shaken. It was a memory of things long dead, but in the wrong order. I hadn’t been stalked by a creeping darkness. I wasn’t confronted by Adam when we first met. A part of me knew it was the guilt of killing Manny that had crept into my sleep, but that didn’t make it better.
I wondered how I would tell my friends, and how they would react. I wondered what would happen when that news slipped from my friends to those I wasn’t so close with, or even to the Church. I wondered if I would be cast out, or maybe tried and executed, in house. I wondered if there was still room for understanding and forgiveness in the hearts of those who had shared the title of ‘monster’ with me not so long ago.
Depression tried to crash into me, to push me down. In my head, the Beast whispered, wandered the halls of my mind, still free from his cage. I hadn’t had time to constrain him again, to bring him under control, and he tried tempting me now. Whispers of freedom from guilt, of a life lived on instinct and passion slid through my mind, telling me it would all be okay if I just gave over, quit living the lie of humanity.