Writing this tonight, after writing a lengthy piece about Insidious (and why it’s way better than people give it credit for), felt a little different than writing most nights felt. This is the story (if you haven’t read my intro already) about a girl whose dead friend returns to earth to visit her. Michelle, the girl who gets the visit, doesn’t know why her friend’s here. This is the eighth part of the story. If you dare read the first seven parts (which feel a little choppy and uncertain now) well, here they are. I’ll preface this, as usual, by saying that I tend to do more academic writing and, to a lesser extent, creative non-fiction. I am not a fiction writer, although I’m reading about writing fiction. As such, I am only slowly learning what the hell I’m doing — and I say that assuming I ever learn! (End moment of needless self-deprecation).
I’m trying to write a novel length piece by sticking to a fairly simple 1,000 words a day. If you’d like, you can read earlier installments of this story, which are posted here: Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six. As I often say before posting, I’m a developing but somewhat experienced academic writer (i.e., I have a Master’s and am working on a PhD). I am NOT an experienced fiction writer (I have no professional experience at all), so these are my attempts to stick with a project (which I never do, when I write fiction) and piece a story together. I would like to write something “of novel length” which I can then work at shaping into a novel-type-project. So if you’re reading it, thanks for reading! Continue reading “Annie, You’re Dead, Part Seven”
So not only have I never written a novel, but I haven’t written a short story in almost six years. There are a couple memoirs I’ve worked on sporadically since then, but not consistently, and I never get very far with them. I mostly write reviews and literature and film analysis for this blog, and for my doctoral work, because both fiction writing and personal memoir writing, while very appealing to me, also intimidate me.
So, if you haven’t read this on a previous post already, I decided to start my own Nanowrimo over a month after the fact, after letting the real Nanwrimo month slide by. Suddenly (and, not fortuitously, during final paper writing time) writing fiction and just abandoning myself to the messy process, without worrying about much self-editing yet, sounded appealing. So I’ve started writing about a friend who died and, who in the story under formation, comes back to visit me.
If you haven’t read any of my pieces yet (which is highly likely) I’m on day four of thirty days, and I just told Annie, my dead-and-returned friend, what it was like when she died. Now I’m telling her what her funeral was like. What I’d say about this project is that there are a lot of things I like about it and that I’m pleased with, but there are some incongruous elements of the different narratives, and I feel like I’ll have a lot of gaps to fill in if I want to turn it into something more “concrete” and “pulled together,” when final papers are done and after the month of initial, intense, base-writing is over. If you’d like to read the story up to this point, here’s part one, part two, and part three. But I don’t flatter myself to think you have enough time or interest to necessarily do that, so the background I just gave you should catch you up to speed, if you care to read part four, below. Best! Continue reading ““Annie, You’re Dead” : Part Four”
Pre-Story Lamentations on Life:
Okay, so I worked six hours at my video store job today and finished (and submitted!) my second of three final papers for the third semester of my PhD program. Woo-hoo! As such, I’m kind of running on fumes right now, and I can’t guarantee this (third) section of my self-imposed daily writing goal will be any more coherent than my first (here), or second (here) – which were both fine, except for the fact that I sporadically switched points of view between the two of them and realized it post-online publication. (A problem I have to fix, but I work 25+ hours in the next four days and have one more final paper, to start and finish, before I’ll likely have a chance to do that). Some details about the Oreos are fucked up too. The Oreos tie both narratives temporally together, when they’re supposed to happen on two different days. I’ll fix that later. I was writing fast. I can’t say mindlessly, because I’m sure my brain was working rather hard, but I was disregarding details and narrative congruence in a big way.
On the bright side, I got promoted at Torrid today! On the downside, I tried on all the clothes that got too big when I lost weight, and they fit again. On the bright side, I’m one paper away from making through a full-time PhD course load during a semester in which my brain erupted into unplanned, delusional mania, and it’s over now, and I’m no worse (except maybe fatter) for it. I think I’m destined to be larger than I’d like, now that I’m in my thirties. The days of 125 lb. 25 year-old Kalie are sadly gone, as dead or deader than the friend I’m writing about (sorry for the insensitive joke, “Annie,” but I think you’d appreciate it). You win some, you lose some. I gained pounds and lost my mind. So it goes.
I’ll end on a high note. I’ve listened to Shakira (Waka Waka, specifically) on repeat now to pump myself up for my 1,700 + words, which I have to finish before midnight tonight – in two and a half hours. So now that I’m done rambling, here’s the third installment of my post Nanowrimo, but Nanowrimo-style story, based on a close (indeed, a “best” insofar as I like to use that word) friend, who died two and a half years ago in April.
P.S.: I usually write in the morning. We’ll see how tired night writing goes. Continue reading ““Annie, You’re Dead” Part 3″
She opened the Tupperware container and removed two more oreos, hoping that James wouldn’t notice they were gone when he came over later tonight; they were his private stash, that he kept at her apartment, and she liked to pretend she didn’t eat them. She was wearing black and gold – an ornate black and gold necklace with decorative flowers on it, from the edgy clothing store she worked at part time. She was wearing black and gold – and her hair was flipped a little toward the side, which she did sometimes to try to make it look more voluminous, although, she thought, the trick never worked really that well. Still, when her hair was parted in the center, it looked too flat, like it was painted to the top of her head and stuck to the side of her face. She didn’t much like that. She had never much liked her hair, for that matter.
Her leggings were black, speckled with gold, and she had black knee socks on over them, because the weather was cold, and socks were more comfortable than shoes. She had on a blazer which, really, she thought, was a bit excessive for the outfit, but then, it was early winter. A thick, even layer of snow lined the roof of the little wooden shed across the street, which she could see through one of her apartment’s front windows, and at the edge of the window, where it met the wall, through the pane, she could see the house next to the shed, and the long icicles hanging off it like big crystalline needles. It was winter, and so she wore a coat with her dress.
As for her friend Annie, Annie was dead, but that didn’t matter much. Annie was dead, but Annie had always been a willful woman. She’d resisted anything she didn’t like in life – at least, for the most part – and so it didn’t surprise Michelle anymore that Annie had resisted death. For Annie was dead, but as Michelle had found out a few weeks ago, Annie wasn’t really dead, not dead dead, not dead as a doornail, the way decomposing corpses below the earth are dead. Surely, Annie’s decomposed corpse was buried six feet under, but that was beside the point. Despite the fact that her rotting corpse was underground, Annie’s embodied spirit hung out some days in Michelle’s living room, practically salivating for the latest gossip about their circle of friends.
Michelle, Annie’s living friend, was a doctoral student in literature. Michelle thought of the theories of the specter that she was studying in one of her doctoral classes. According to Jacques Derrida, the specter disrupted the binary between life and death, altered space and time, and signaled the presence of injustice. Michelle didn’t see all of this happening with Annie’s presence, yet, although some of it was true. Space and time were like they always were, linear, meandering, and perpetually vacillating between the stimulating and the mundane, with some long, anxious hours in between that Michelle usually filled by eating cookies. But Annie certainly disrupted the binary between life and death, for once she had been alive, and then she died. And now, though dead, some afternoons Michelle found Annie in her living room, asking for a cup of coffee. And as for signaling the presence of injustice, well, that one was easy – or was it? What type of injustice did Annie signal? Michelle thought about it. Certainly, there were many possibilities, for further consideration, perhaps, at a later date. After all, it was almost time. If Annie were coming today, she would be coming soon.
She looked at the clock and it read 11:58 A.M. Annie came at noon every day that she came at all. Michelle thought it was funny, and very like Annie to come in the middle of the afternoon, when the sun hung high in the sky and warmed the earth with its rays – which it even did, sometimes, on cold winter days like today – instead of coming at midnight like Jacob Marley and ghosts in other ghost stories. It actually made perfect sense. Annie had been one of the warmest people Michelle knew. In life it was almost ridiculous how much people liked her – or so Michelle thought on her more bitter days, when she was feeling competitive or imagining that nobody in the world liked her nearly enough. There would be no logic or purpose to Annie coming at midnight, anyway, when Michelle didn’t have as long to talk because she was going to bed soon. So Michelle was rather glad that Annie came at noon, and she washed the oreo crumbs off her hands as she waited to find out whether or not she would hear a knock on the door. Sure enough, as soon as the digital microwave clock struck twelve, she heard the gentle “rum, pum, pum” of Annie’s hand hitting the front door.
Michelle made it a point to hurry to the door whenever her dead friend Annie knocked, which, like I said, was always at noon when it happened at all, precisely three hours and eighteen minutes before the mailman came, often with boxes of books or clothes for Michelle, or comic books for James, who sometimes had his stuff shipped to her apartment. The first time Annie had ever come to visit, Michelle had been in the shower. Annie displayed a mixture of patience and impatience when this happened. Michelle emerged from the bathroom, dripping wet and in a towel, only to hear the rhythmic “thum, tum, tum” on her front door. Not knowing, or not thinking, that it was Annie, she yelled “hold on,” and went upstairs to throw on some leggings and an oversized shirt, like the heroine of an 80’s movie. The knocking continued, in an oddly rhythmic manner, so that it sounded a little like part of a percussion section or a high school marching band. Michelle was both surprised, and a bit creeped out, by the steady, rhythmic, ceaseless knocking, accompanied by no voice.
To make matters worse, she fell down the stairs on her way to answering the door. She had on fuzzy, wooly socks, and somehow, as tended to happen with her, her foot slipped and she thudded down three stairs before grabbing her balance on the railing and composing herself, hoping, as she stood up and brushed herself off, that the mysterious visitor outside didn’t hear the ka-thump of her fall and the ensuing “Oh shit, ow, fuck” that exited her mouth. It was, after all, a little embarrassing, and she was a little annoyed with this weirdly melodic and relentless knocker who was not going to stop knocking until Michelle answered the door. She didn’t think to look out the peep hole, as you may have gathered by this point in the narrative, not even that first day Annie came, when she had no idea who was at the door. To be truthful, it could be because the writer behind this story is a mere novice, and didn’t bother to think that most reasonable human beings would do just that before rushing to open the door for an unexpected and anonymous guest. Conversely, it could also be because Michelle was fixated on the challenge of getting dressed quickly and opening the door in a timely fashion, so she efficiently moved from one maneuver to the next, omitting any unnecessary steps that would veer her off track and put more time between the first knock and her eventual ability to open the door, fully clothed. Either version of events is plausible, and, as you’ve gathered, they’re not mutually exclusive, so you can decide what part of the story to believe.
“Hold on, hold on, hold on….” She had yelled, and then considered that she sounded rather rude. What if it was someone of some importance knocking on the door? The occurrence was not likely, but it was possible nonetheless. And even if it wasn’t an eminent member of society – she chuckled and laughed at the exaggerated pompousness of her own wording – even if it wasn’t Barack Obama asking her to hang out now that he was retired, it was still important to treat people nicely. Even if, she thought, they’re handing out religious pamphlets or selling candy bars. So Michelle adjusted her tone and said, “Sorry, one second please. I was indisposed.”
“No problem, Michelle, although I will say, it takes you quite awhile to pull yourself together. No wonder you were always late when you picked me up.” Michelle didn’t really have time to consider this remark, although in the back of her mind, she recognized the voice and registered that the remark was, well, rather bizarre. “Just as long as you get to the door eventually. I haven’t seen you in awhile and I want to see if you’ve changed.”
When Michelle had heard that remark, the first time Annie knocked, she’d gotten more intrigued? Who was this mysterious visitor? And who found her so interesting?
Of course, the rest of the story tells itself. But if you lack imagination – which you well might, in this age of consumerism and technology – I’ll tell it for you. Michelle saw Annie, not dead, not decayed, not ugly. She was wearing the cute artsie hippie outfits she always wore – a long silk skirt and a fitted sweater that showed off a slender, hourglass frame –and she was smiling. Her cheeks were blushed, and a little fuller than they’d been in life. She looked very much alive. And for Michelle, it was one of those moments when she would have expected to be terrified but wasn’t, and was instead very calm and focused, like when her brakes went out on a busy road in the center of the city. Annie looked, well, exactly like Annie, except happier and healthier than when she’d been alive. The only other difference between Annie-in-life and Annie-in-death – or Annie between-life-and-death – was that this Annie’s feet were hovered just a little bit above the ground, so that she was suspended in mid-air, about three inches above Michelle’s concrete porch.
“You can’t stand on solid ground?” was thus Michelle’s first question – indeed, her first utterance – when she saw Annie. Of course, it would have been customary to say hello, but Michelle had already conjectured that her dear, deceased best friend was now a ghost, and ghosts had always fascinated Michelle. She wanted to understand how her undead friend operated, so to speak.
“Well that’s a fine greeting,” Annie responded. “Nice to see you, too.” And then, without being invited, she nonchalantly floated into Michelle’s apartment, and headed straight for the oreos. “Before you eat them all,” she said sardonically.
True to the title of my piece, this is not a horror story. Although, what I see now that I didn’t see when things like this happened was just how much my friend and I wanted it to be a horror story, how much we enacted the things that we read in our Fear Street books and our horror movies, and made the world of horror come alive, if, simultaneously, to our delight and our chagrin. Again, this is not a horror story. This is a childhood memory – a childhood memory I share on an overcast day in early November, when my frenetic, two-and-a-half-month mania has dwindled and I’ve suddenly fallen into this shifting state that fluctuates between focused, positive energy and complete depression and self-loathing. This is not a horror story—at least, I hadn’t intended it to be so. But, maybe it will turn out that way as I keep writing. One never can predict the end of the story, after all—or, at least, I can’t—when one’s merely writing the beginning. Continue reading “The Blue Man – Or, This is Not a Horror Story”
Horror Blogger Confession: While I usually drag Michael to see horror movies on opening night, a second viewing of Beauty and the Beast took precedence over a first viewing of The Belko Experiment this weekend. I mean, the remake of Beauty and the Beast was soooo fantastic the first time, and I was seriously craving something uplifting. Graduate school, after all, is stressful (this semester more so than last), our country’s being shit on by the most corrupt president and cabinet in U.S. history, and I’m kind of an anxiety head case as it is. So I really needed to see Emma Watson affirm that she wants much more than this provincial life before she forms a healthy partnership with a lovable, furry CGI figure whose horns and stature make him look like Krampus’s gentler, non-demonic doppelganger. I’m only human, and I love watching Lumiere, the talking Candelabra, sing about food. So I put Belko on the back burner and all was well.