I can see it clearly how this story goes.... Claasic turn of the century house.... classic boy meets girl and falls in love story.... the boy dies and the girl lives on.... this isn't the story of their life, its the story of their death.
OK........ so I have finally decided that I need to get these stories out of my head and on the paper... I also need to work out some of the directions in where my main story Dead Ahead will go......... I know Dead Ahead is about a group of survivors surviving a zombie apocalypse, written through a journal POV. I love the idea of just how these people will cope when there life is a constant horror story..... what they do when the things we take for granted (electricity, relative safety, etc.) are not there. Its that struggle I mentioned before. The facts behind the zombie apocalypse don't matter. The bonds made in survival, the ups the downs..... Who knew, horror as Shakespeare...lol. In thinking out the basis of my "novel" I came up with so many different ways to approach the whole situation, things that don't lend themselves out to a whole book but still get my mind churning trying to figure out what will happen.... It's always crazy how you can start a story with a clear end in mind and it organically becomes something else as it grows and progresses..... where is this little world going to take you???? Its invigorating to actually start the process....... And where do I want to go with "The Unnamed" my story that came right out of a dream I had about for a essentially, psychic vampires..... taking control of a young man.... controlling what he perceives...... It's horror, it's love.... It's a work in progress.....
I will sometimes get into these moods that make me wonder how I got to where I am in my life, I think back and remember the things I used to fantasize doing with my life. I remember when I was little, drawing was my passion. I used to scribble my little drawings and be so proud of them. I will never forget when my bubble got burst, it was fifth grade and my teacher got mad that I was always doodleing in class and asked my why I drew my little pictures all the time. I remember being crushed, that my art was not up to snuff, that it was bad to be artistic and different. I have to give her some respect though, when I look back at the little drawings and doodles that I kept, I see how horrible they are now to adults. The real thing I see though is my love for creating a story. I remember the first profession I really wanted to follow even at that age was to be a comic book writer. I loved the stories, loved the adventure, loved the drama. I used to dream up X-Men teams putting together heroes that I loved with heroes that I loved, just to dream up how the stories unfolded, but even then I see how the darker stories affected me because of the human aspect that they showed. I lucked into getting a copy of X-Men 141 at a thrift store and fell in love with the Days of Future Past story line, saving my allowance to get the trade paper back to finish the story. Something about the heroes struggle in the future, fighting through the loss of most of there members and there hope in the face of an enemy that was almost unbeatable really resonated with me. When I was a teenager I used to dream of being a pop star. I wrote folders full of lyrics that never went anywhere past my mind and a few select friends. I never really even tried to pursue it, I didn't even join any of the bands that the fellow members of my schools choir started. I let that go because somewhere in my mind I was smart enough to realize that the chances of success where a million to one. I even changed my dream of going to school for advertising because I let someone influence me that computers were the way to make money. I realized after the first year of college that my heart wasn't in computer science and tried to change majors, but alas my school only had a degree in mass com and before I knew it I dropped out thinking that one day I would finish my degree, but I had life to live and I didn't want to miss it. Fast forward to a decade plus later and I only went back for two classes, oh adult me, if young me saw what would happen he would cry. Not that I don't do okay for myself, I have worked hard and gotten somewhere, getting decent pay. I have a partner and we have a house we bought not that long ago. I should be and am thankful for all of those things.
Sometimes I imagine what the exchange between us would be. Young me would ask myself though, "What happened to all of our dreams?" Usually after that I would always try to change my focus and get out of that reminiscing mood. I mean honestly who wants to delve into that? Who really wants to examine why these things happened? I mean is it really that I just never found the time? I doubt that, I have had plenty of time to watch hours of mindless TV over the years. Then is it that I didn't really want to do any of these things? I know that's not true, although I know at this point in my life I would not want to be the rock star I always dreamed of. I have always said that I know there is a book of two in me but every time I sit down to write it I start and then stop the next day. Its not writers block per say, I know where I want the story to go, I know who the characters are and play out the scenes in my mind when I can't sleep at night. I know its that fear of failure, honestly and truly its the fear that when I am done that it will be no good. And if you ever think of meeting your past self and explaining that to him, and don't feel at least a little bad about yourself then wow, you are heartless. I guess I just need to let it go and put it all out there, If I am not good enough then at least I tried, and will not have to live in fear of having to explain to my younger self that I never tried.