Yesterday afternoon, I sat down to write something on this blog. I admit, I’m terrible at keeping it up.
This morning, I complained as such to a coworker. He responded, “When I can’t think of anything to write, I like to think up some old memories.” He then proceeded to tell me a story from when he was a teenager, and after which, I shared my own story:
One cold November night, my family was driving through Texas, somewhere in the flat expanses on the west side of the state.
I sat in the front seat next to my father, and my brother and sister were in the back seat. We had just left New Mexico and were on our way back home to Brownwood, Texas.
My father and I were “discussing” religion. Being a staunch Catholic, my father was of the belief that only humans have souls. I, on the other hand, had a taste for something different. The tiring dogma of organized religion left a nasty film in the back of my throat.
The argument centered around the belief of what had souls and what didn’t. I argued that animals indeed had souls and he adamantly denied such a thing. At the time, I believed that in order to exist in a physical realm a spiritual counterpart must also exist, and I stubbornly insisted this was correct.
Off in the distance on this icy night, a bridge quickly loomed into sight, but we were too engrossed in our argument to notice the watch for ice sign.
“Actually,” I said, obstinately, just like any know-it-all teen might, “Even rocks must have souls.”
At this point, my father was furious. Such things were sacrilege, and could lead one straight to Hell. “Rocks . . .” he said angrily, punctuating each word, “Do . . . Not . . . Have . . . Souls!”
Immediately after “Souls!”, our vehicle passed over the bridge and directly onto a patch of ice. The car started sliding sideways. My father over corrected, and we skidded sideways in the other direction. We fishtailed several times before finally crashing gently into the side rails of the bridge.
We were all wide eyed and breathing heavy. My father asked if everyone was alright, checking on each of us individually. When the shock of the crash faded away and my father backed up and continued down the road, I turned to him and said, “See? Sacrilege. You pissed off the spirits.”
My father just ignored me after that, but the memory of that incident will stick with me for the rest of my life.
If you have any stories you would like to share, please feel free to do so in the comments below!
Many writers will share that real life experiences inspire the tales they tell. Many, myself included, scoff (or have scoffed) at such a statement; telling themselves, “My life isn’t nearly so interesting.” What I have learned, however, is that this is rarely the case. Experiences take place daily, and though they may be mundane to you, they won’t be after “enhancing” them.
Just the other day, I took a trip to the local library to find the second book to the Septimus Heap series. I, of course, found Angie Sage’s books fairly quickly, and although they had many of her books, the one I wanted was not on the shelf. Naturally, I asked the librarians to see if it was checked out. It wasn’t.
However, the librarians were interesting characters, and a version of this scene has already inserted into my next story with Damian. I have changed many of the details and spiced it up a bit, but the entire scene is inspired by this short interaction.
A vapid work week has created a holy grail of the weekends. Time seems to be tied up in the trappings of a working-class American’s struggle to survive, and trivial pursuits in entertainment. Not a bad life when my marvelous family is stirred into the mixture.
Just this morning, while listening to the radio, I zipped through traffic, driving the same route I drive every Monday through Friday. Of course, I could ramble on about the depressing state of affairs I heard on the radio, plaguing our country at the moment, but if you don’t already know, then I wouldn’t be so cruel as to burst your bubble. Rather, congratulations on successfully isolating yourself from these affairs.
I must admit that I find it difficult not to complain about all the banal trappings of my professional existence, but that is not why I am here. The true purpose of this blog is to escape the mundane reality of work. To keep my imagination flowing through my fingers like Harold with his purple crayon.
Using Amazon, I will start publishing my stories, and I will be advertising and discussing them here. The first one will be called Assassin Marked, set into a fictional not-too-distant future.
As time passes, my goal is to fill this blog with many published stories and ideas. The blog will not have a definitive goal, but rather, I plan on letting it morph with my ideas as I come to them.