"Get you kinda lonely...

...thinkin you were the only one?"

~Hallorann (The Shining)/ 1977/ by Stephen King

I recently read the story "The Shining" by Stephen King. A 505 page novel (the page count was daunting) that gripped me and kept me reading long past midnight. Again, as with most of these novels, I'd not seen the film so I had no preconceptions of what was supposed to happen. I'd seen snippets of the movie with Jack Nicholson, but had never viewed the whole thing.

As I finished the book, I reflected on what kept me reading. The story was gripping. I think tales that include a 'childhood innocence', threatened by the reality of abuse, are compelling for many adult readers. Many of us, particularly at the time this novel was written, were subjected to corporal punishment that border-lined, if not included, abuse in the family. Alcohol, divorce, troubles with maintaining a job, overcoming anger issues...these were (and still are) real and visceral topics that Stephen King brings to play in the pages of his novel. These are things that many adults, and children of my era, can relate to because we've experienced them in one form or another. As I read, I not only sympathized with the young protagonist, Danny, a boy 5 years old, but I empathized with him as I remembered my own childhood. The family conflicts, undergoing parental divorce and the abuses that were not quite so physical as Danny's but (in my mind) were just as profound.

Couple Danny's experiences with that of being a parent (in this case a mother) and my desire to protect the child, and to care for him emerged and I not only felt for the boy, but I felt for the mother who wanted only the best things in life for her son. While Jack, the father, was less of a figure I could relate to, still his addiction to alcohol, and his uncontrollable temper, were things I'd seen, things I understood, from my own young life.

It was Stephen Kings web of reality and the supernatural that gripped me in this novel, and kept me reading. Because I could relate to his characters, because they were so real to me, I felt involved in their adventure. But it was not just the relational aspects that kept me turning pages. It was, of course, the conflicts each character experienced on their stressful journey.  I enjoyed the multiple POV's, being able to see inside Danny's head, Wendy's head, and into Jack's tumultuous brain. I enjoyed hearing Hallorann's thoughts in certain parts of the story, and found myself hoping he would come to the rescue.

Take those very real things, and combine them with the underlying threat of evil that abides in a hotel, an evil that I believe exists in dark places of the world, and the story becomes one that caught me in a proverbial bear trap. IT wouldn't let me go. It was an enjoyable, terrifying and introspective read I would recommend to anyone who loves a good tale.

On the critical side, there were some annoying passages I found at the beginning of the novel that diminished its appeal. Rudimentary things that we, as budding novelists, are taught not to do. The first few chapters contained a slew of adverbs, the dreaded 'ly' words, that detract from the descriptions and make the prose almost unprofessional. But, oddly, as the story progressed, the verbiage improved, or if there were just as many 'ly' words... I didn't notice them.

(I may come back to this blog post and include more thoughts in the future, but these are my immediate muses having just finished the book.)

I feel I am far behind in understanding the Horror genre that I've chosen to study, let alone taking the plunge into writing. Yet, as I read the pages of "The Shining" I understood that my late childhood nights absorbing the complete works of Poe (usually under my covers, a flashlight in hand, well past my bedtime), and dwelling on all things paranormal and scary, have primed me for just such a venture. I've taken alternate routes in my previous education, all of which have led me, inexorably, HERE. This place, this moment, the path that I've chosen. And in the back of my mind, though I might curse it, or possibly regret it, I've always known it would happen. A 'shine' of sorts. Except that I can't see how it all ends. And maybe it doesn't matter. What matters is that its finally begun.

~"Q"

Into the Haunted by *a-mac088  (DeviantArt.com)

"You're walking around this house like...

...an open nerve."
~Hell House (1971)/ Richard Matheson

I'd never seen the film. I didn't even know there was a movie made from the story until I heard fellow students talking about it at SHU. In retrospect, I'm glad I read the book first. It was nice to live in 'suspense' and not know what happened at the end, although most every horror lover knows that the faithful outcome of horror means "almost everyone (if not everyone) dies" in the end.

I took to reading this novel before the 'scheduled' time to read it because my fall season is going to be unbearably busy. I wanted to devote time to enjoying the various stories on my reading list instead of plowing through them at breakneck speed (in addition to writing and rewriting my novel, and critiquing my partner's work).

Hell House starts out with a protagonist, Dr Lionel Barrett. Dr Barrett is described as a man in his middle fifties, and he is dead set on proving that phenomena (believed to be ghosts) have a physical/scientific explanation. I liked how Matheson set up the beginning of the story with Barrett being funded for his research by a wealthy man (Rolf Rudolf Deutsch) who is in search of the answer to the question, "Is there life after death?" Deutsch puts together what I consider a protagonist "group" (whose main protagonist is a man named Benjamin Franklin Fisher) with the purpose of achieving this goal. Each individual on the team possesses an expertise Deutsch feels is essential to discovering the workings within Hell House. Ben Fisher, a lone "sane" survivor of a previous excursion to Hell House (he was there in his teens), is requested to return once more (by the wealthy financial backer) because of his knowledge of the house and his extraordinary abilities as a physical medium.

Multiple POV lovers will enjoy this novel. I did. As I read, I studied how Matheson wrote from each character's head, yet linked them all with their common goal of staying in the house and discovering its secrets. In addition, the house and its possessing entity, Emeric Belasco, became the perfect horror antagonist. Belasco thwarts the paranormal team at every turn, out thinks them and preys on each of their fantasies and fears. The twists and turns in the novel are both predictable and surprising at various points, but allow for a fast paced and enjoyable read.

There were vile and suggestive themes in this novel, which in 1971 would have been quite shocking to older generations and probably very entertaining to the younger generations of the 60's and 70's.  What I really enjoyed was how Matheson broke barriers with this book. In this novel he takes readers to places that many people of that time-period would be hesitant to go, and with a 'possessive' language he persuades them to keep on reading.

The blending of paranormal with science, religious with sacrilegious, sane with the insane and demure with scandalous sexuality... was thought provoking and darkly satisfying. I found myself analyzing passages the author had written, and looking at his word choices to discover "why" a certain word in a particular description was selected.

One thing that continually bothered me in the book was the frequent use of the word "hiss." People hissed with pain, hissed with cold, hissed with fear...there was an awful lot of hissing... and Matheson (and his editors) would have benefited from Microsoft Word and a word search of how many times "hiss" was used in the novel. I think a different bit of prose would have been selected if they'd had that option.

What (I believe) was convincing in this story was the detail concerning parapsychology. Matheson must have committed himself to some strong research in the subject of parapsychology, and the study of the paranormal, before completing this novel. Studies in this area were extremely popular in the 1970's, and many universities were dedicated to research in near death experiences and parapsychology at that time. There was even a Parapsychology Association (formed in 1957), which became a branch of the American Association for the Advancement of Science (AAAS) in 1969.  Matheson's descriptions are believable because of his details, and he draws the reader in with what seems to be 'factual' information, in a setting that (particularly at the time) readers could relate to.

I say that readers could relate to the setting, because in my youth (I was born in 1962), I was exposed to abandoned houses which my friends and I (as pre-teens/teens) found in the backwoods of rural Virginia. We would walk through the houses, and discover old items (shoes, trunks filled with clothes, furniture, pots, ceramic bowls, axes and other tools) and scare ourselves half to death with tales of murder, ghosts and demonic reasons why belongings of former residents were left behind in the empty buildings. In some areas in Palmyra Virginia, a person could walk through the forest and find an entire ghost town grown over completely by wilderness (and still can). Why was the town abandoned? Who were the residents planted in the nearby graveyard...a scary place untended, overgrown, and decorated with broken headstones jutting haphazardly out of the ground? Such settings are perfect for fiction, and if one stays there long enough, perhaps for reality.

Sleep well.

~"Q"

(Haunted House by Ashasylum @ DeviantArt.com)

"But are not the dreams of poets and the tales of travellers...

...notoriously false?"
H. P. Lovecraft

   This morning I woke and snuggled under warm covers, my mind desperately trying to slip back into an unconscious nebula and grip a fabulous dream before it drizzled away from my mind. It was filled with gravestone gray walls, and burnt charcoal colored bricks, long winding corridors and stairs traveling up to the sky.  Wurtles, stripped tabby animals with long but hairy pointy ears, can disappear in water (they actually "become" like water), and can let out a stench that rivals that of a skunk. Their bellies turn bright pink just before they let their farts rip, and their famous noxious gasses are used (in concentrate) to poison and kill.

   I love my dreams. They give me the BEST ideas for writing. The problem is that they fizzle away so quickly from my brain. Even when I try to write them down as soon as I wake, they disappear faster than my fingers can type and frustration sets in as I realize that concepts, ideas and fabulous worlds lurk just on the other side of my conscious realm. I feel the need to re-find the Dark Side of the Moon, but I can't fathom how to return there.

   The hardest thing about writing is not writing. Today, I will travel with family to Santa Barbara to attend a "Greek Festival", and while it is sure to be fun, what will be nagging me in the back of my head is the thought "I should be writing."  Today is a day that I FEEL creative. The dreams which were upon me in the wee hours of the morning are pummeling at my gray matter, begging to be written. But it is a day I've committed to being with family, to sharing time. It is such a difficult thing, to find that balance, particularly when the Muse (funny little snit that she is) is unpredictable in her appearance, and keeps no schedule.

   Despite all of that, I will carry my note-pad and pen with me on my travels, and I will create as I need, write as the fingers itch, and hopefully when I return home I'll have the presence of mind to sit down and create...or possibly destroy. Whichever seems most pleasant at the time.

(Picture by Nonnetta: Victim of a Dream @ DeviantArt.com)

"I never paint dreams or nightmares...

I paint my own reality."
~Frida Kahlo

Some early mornings, just before the day begins, I have dreams novels are made of. The other night, that was just my experience. But my failing? I didn't have a pen and paper, or my computer, right at the bedside. Regardless of that blunder, I raced downstairs and grabbed my computer and went outside,  pulled up a lounge chair and started writing. Much of what I wrote, I did with my eyes closed in order to keep the images in my head.

The result was an outline of a fantasy story I've titled for now, "Grumble Gate Main." It's a story that takes place on a different planet orbiting around an eerie red sun. The planet is oblong and doesn't 'rotate' like normal planets to do, but instead rolls randomly around its orbital path. Night and day are never the same, and can last for hours, or weeks.

I dreamed of a world where teachers were heros, and  the world's best athletes chose sports for the glory but only got paid minimum wage. 

In this world only the BEST of the BEST are allowed to teach, but the path to Teacherdom is fraught with trials and tribulations.  It's also a world where Twister Trees live (trees that move like whirling tornados) and where little angry fairies attack in the dead forests like vicious mosquitoes. They bite the skin and give inhabitants a variety of nasty diseases.  There's more in my jumbled notes, but needless to say the dream fostered a story with a lot of potential. These notes now go inside the cyber folder "possible stories", because both "Dr Stench" and "Sapien Farm" are still waiting for me to finish them and I can only have so many incomplete stories at a time.

Or can I?

~Q

 

Artwork by kevcrossley @ DeviantArt.com

"Writing is painful...

...Forgetting is painful. But not knowing which to do is the worse kind of suffering.
~Paul Coelho

I've just finished reading the book "Hell House" by Richard Matheson. For those who haven't read it, it is an intriguing 1970's story about a group of researchers who are commissioned to go to a house that has a reputation for killing people, in order to determine if there is really 'life after death'. The lead character, Dr Lionel Barret, is a non-believer in ghosts and holds a conviction that all phenomena are a result of purely physical means. He is accompanied by his wife (Edith), a spiritual medium (Reverend Florence Tanner, and a physical medium (Benjamin Franklin Fischer) who is also a survivor of a previous visit to Hell House. The antagonist (aside from the house itself) is an entity named Emeric Belasco, who had a reputation for converting innocent people into their own worst nightmares.

The novel is fairly well done, with a few exceptions that I would change. Matheson tends to overuse the word "hiss, or hissing" to describe an individual's reaction to cold or pain. It would have been better to find alternate descriptors, because its use became distracting. Another thing Matheson did in the book, particularly at the beginning was to frequently change POV in the middle of pages, or paragraphs.  Its something that we are taught as writers not to do, but as I read the story,  I didn't find that it took me away from the story. It was actually OK, and I think that sometimes we, as writers, harp too much on the 'head hopping' issue. I think that sometimes we need to read, and realize when its OK.

I started reading the text, Writing Fiction by Janet Burroway. The first chapter was both enlightening and validating. There was so much in it that I've previously thought, but hadn't seen from anyone else on the written word. Phrases like "write what you know" were contradicted in Burroway's text, which aligned with my own thought process. It's not always what you know, but what you imagine, and what you are willing to research, what you 'feel' and what you experience or have heard others experience. The phrase "write what you know" can be misleading to a new writer, and can cause she or he to fall into a trap of sticking to the very limitations that should be avoided when writing fiction.

Burroway talks about the need to make writing a habit. The importance of sitting down, and just writing. She states, "Any discipline or indulgence that actually helps nudge you into position facing the page is acceptable and productive" (p. 3). She also describes the importance of journal keeping, which is a way of 'giving yourself permission to fail' and gives the writer a 'source of originality, ideas, experimentation and growth'.

I, personally, enjoy the blog for this. It is more public than private, but it is a medium that I find useful. People can choose to read it or not. Most likely folks won't read it these days, because modern life is so busy and each person is committed to having others pay attention to their lives. Facebook, Twitter, and other social means say "look at me and what I'm doing" and few people take time to see what other people are doing. Maybe that gives me a false sense of security, but my life isn't extraordinary, and unless I have a best seller on the list, it will be considered commonplace and uninteresting at best. At worst, it would be boring and disposable.

So, here's to sitting down and writing a little every day. Whether on my novel, or on a blog, or on a paper napkin (which is disposable). Here's to being commonplace and uninteresting, and finding in those words or existence the things that are mentionable and memorable.

After sitting and writing a few lines today, I've made a pact with myself to go surfing. Despite the fact that I've pulled a muscle in my back, and probably shouldn't. I rested the muscle enough yesterday, and the day before, and am ready for some sun and some frigid Pacific ocean. The waves won't be high, but the day is clear and it's a long weekend. The opportunity is here today, and I will take it. Today I will write, I will read, and I will surf. Then maybe, just maybe, I will write some more...and if I pull a brain muscle I'll just push through. Eventually it will heal.

~Q

"There's nothing to writing...

All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein."
~Walter Wellesley "Red" Smith

Or if you write Horror...an artery.

And so, the Seton Hill Residency is over, and I'm back at home.  Books I've ordered for the "Haunting" Horror module surround me, although the class doesn't officially start until August.  My manuscript beckons to me begging for revision, since I now have new tools to attack and edit it, and I find I have a lot of planning to do. I have a lot of reading and writing to do, but I am committed to doing it.  Committed to learning more about the craft of writing. I thought I knew so much, and I certainly had some skills before starting this endeavor, but I have so much more to learn. And I'm grateful for the path I've chosen.

I would be lying if I said it wasn't just a little daunting. I'm used to balancing work and studies, but not used to writing every day (at least for 25 minutes, Joe). My pledge is to bring my manuscript out once on a new calendar date to write (or at least edit) what I've done already, and to finally bring Dr Johnny Stench to life. He's been with me since 2008. A faithful friend. It is the very least I can do for him, but now I know I have to torture him more, make him go through more pain, put him through greater emotional roller-coasters...and I have to ask...Will he ever forgive me?

So today is dedicated to pulling out my first three chapters, and attempting to apply the tools I was given at Seton Hill this past week, and apply them. I hope I do them justice.

Time to slash and hack...

~Q

"The doors we open and close each day...

...decide the lives we live."
~Flora Whittemore

I actually socialized today and didn't mind it.  It's a shocker I know, but I finished the day feeling like I actually had friends...like I might be able to connect with people who have the same passion as my self.  It was a revelation.  Part of me is afraid that perhaps that epiphany came wrapped in my beer.  Or maybe the second beer.  Ok...maybe the third.  But the important thing is, it finally came and when I wake up tomorrow I hope it's still there.

Gina, Joe, David, and Jason, I would sound like a drunk if, after 01:30 I said "I love you guys.", but I do.  I love and admire the artists and human beings that you are.  I love your writing, and your bravery at taking the steps to pursue your dreams.  We are Ink Warriors!  :)  Pen and Sword crest on our chest!  Brothers and Sisters in the WPF cause.  I've never been so proud of being part of a group bound for a professional and artistic pursuit.

There are so many other SHU Writer Griffins this Residency, that I wish to say to all of you, "I'm glad we met." And I look forward to the Winter Residency (guess most of us are at the Marriott since no dorms then) and seeing the progress we've all made since then.  Carpe Diem, my friends.  Seize the damn writing Muse and wrestle it in to submission!  Don't give up, and it WILL tap out for you.  :)

If I can get my bum out of the rack at 07:00, I'll be there for breakfast!

~Cin

The Oldest and and Strongest Emotion...

is Fear.
~ H.P. Lovecraft

Seton Hill's motto is "Hazard yet Forward" which should be a stand alone warning in its own right, but goes deeper when considering the full impact of the phrase.  It is etched over a SHU archway in ye olde English in this photo below.

Today was filled with critiquing fellow writers (which I find harder on me than being critiqued myself), and listening to Tim Esaias's lecture on "Conflict, Plot and Scene Building."  Afterwards I attended two thesis presentations/readings from David Day (Horror) and Stephanie Harbulak-Barron (YA Horror), and as I listened to their prose I found myself wondering if I'll be able to pull my novel together as well as they did theirs.  I was particularly fascinated with David's presentation, which consisted of a story about a man's transformation into the Antichrist.  His descriptions were elegantly crafted in the mode of gruesome horror which makes one's blood run cold and sends chills down the spine.  The piece was well done and something I aspire to in terms of the way he was able to put tension, action, dialogue and scene setting together so well.

The part of the day I dreaded most was the "Wine Social" in which we all got together, had a little wine and cheese and milled about socializing while perusing novels that faculty and alumnae have written.  If you haven't already guessed, I'm not a huge people person.  I can handle one or two at a time, but large crowds make me nervous.  If I could turn myself into a fly on the wall, and hang out unnoticed, as the invisible observer I wouldn't mind a bit.  Being present in the room however implies mingling, conversing and rubbing elbows as our student body is so frequently encouraged to do at this residency.  While I understand the need for it, in order to build community and make new friends in the writing world, I find it difficult.  I don't know why.  I don't fear rejection, it's just not my scene, and I'd rather hang with 2 or 3 people in a quiet place, philosophizing about literature, art, music...and so on.  Still, I went to the social, and grazed my elbows against others, drank wine (ate too much cheese, so I'll be constipated for sure tomorrow) and tried my best to put on the butterfly vibe.   It didn't work out well.  I talked to a few people.  Got my "Many Genres One Craft" text signed by a couple professors I hugely admire, and then made a mad dash out the door to escape to my fiction book (I'm reading Tim Waggoner's Nekropolis) and smoke my favorite cigar.  (Photo of me, and fellow SHU student/alumnae Darin Cook at the social, proving I was there...)

Now I need to finish up that LAST critique before I sleep, and I'm so tired.  I think of all the readings I'll need to do in the next few months and then the reports on those readings.  My mind drifts over the chapters of Dr Stench I'll be sending to my Mentor and critique partners, and the pieces I'll be receiving from my partners to critique and the work will be over daunting in the face of full time work, and family.  I take solace in the fact that it will at least be FUN.  :)

Doubts still hide near me like little toothy predators waiting for a crack to open in the calm of my ceramic soul.  I'm sure they would be glad to devour any shred of confidence I have hiding within me, and so I make myself repeat the mantra: I am a Writer.  I am a Writer.  I am a Writer.  I will Succeed.  I desperately hope the words will have some type of force-field, holy water, silver bullet protection factor woven inside the words.

I hope I succeed.  I'm resolved to try.  I promise not to fear (much), nor to kick myself too hard if I fail.  (I''ll let Joe do that for me.) After all, the pain is only temporary, and the broken bones of a manuscript can be healed if I take time to do it.  And as Tim Esaias said today, he's given me all of the tools to do just that.  So I am resolved to take faith in that writer's talisman, roll up my sleeves and get to work!

~Cin

"Peversity...

...is the human thirst for self torture."
~Edgar Allen Poe

Poe said it, and I'm living it.  As I undertake what I've thought of as a lifelong dream, to learn the skills of being a good writer (maybe even a great writer one day), and to (for once in my life) really enjoy my work, I find myself submitting to a quivering mixture of dark fear and doubt trickling through the neurons of my brain.  Is it enough that I love to write?  Is it enough that every day stories pour through my subconscious and wish for me to scrawl them down, on paper, on a napkin, on a gum wrapper or on my cellphone? 

Maybe my ability to write is like the illusions (or delusions) I have every day.  Monsters still hide under my bed.  The creature in the closet is ever present when the lights go out (I ALWAYS make sure that door is shut so it doesn't come out and suck at my brains while I'm asleep).  In caves, and in pitch black forests barely lit by a sliver of moonlight, I find my eyes roving for midnight fairies; I jump at the sounds of what must be trolls coming up from the underworld;  I ask questions to passing Ravens and wait for them to answer me back.  Sometimes, I think they do.

This week, I am surrounded by a sea of talented writers who have many skills I don't possess.  Some, who have words that seem to come so easily to a page and immediately make sense...effortlessly making a compelling story.  How will I compare to these scribes?  The next few days will be both a challenge and a creative stimulus for me, I believe.  I've waited long enough, rolling from one degree to the next.  Learning one craft from another, but putting off the one that's really mattered to me most. Until now.

Rolling stones gather no moss, but what good is moss?  It is green, lush and some mosses contain natural medicines that help fight infections and bring the ill back to health.  Perhaps, as I study and learn the craft...perhaps as my writing grows, my 'moss' will too.  Then I'll have something to combat the wounds I'll endure, because this time around there will be no holding back.  This time I'm seeking the greatest torture of all time...and I'm going to drink it.

"Writers and Politicians are natural rivals...

Both groups try to make the world in their own images; they fight for the same territory."
~Salman Rushdie

It's Monday, and the Seton Hill campus has exploded with people unlike the sedate environment that surrounded the place over the weekend.  Much of the day, for me, was spent getting my financial aid in order, checking in to various student offices, getting my keys and student I.D, and figuring out how to print some of my assignments for the next few days.

I toured the campus, and took a few pictures.  The zoom on my Blackberry isn't working, but will suffice for taking/receiving and sending photos for this blog.

Before I knew that the cemetery near my dorm was a final resting place for the Sisters of Charity, I had visions that this was where they buried all of the failed writers...

The grounds of the Seton Hill have undergone, and are still undergoing, a large number upgrades/renovations, and it is visible the amount of work that has been done to give the place a facelift.  As I write this, workers are laying down fresh sod, caulking windows and painting walls.  This is summer break, and I believe (except for a few of us in Residency programs) most of the dorms and classrooms are vacant, allowing for maintenance and other personnel to focus on their work unencumbered by students tramping back and forth from classes.  Below is a photo of one of the beautiful buildings here...

One of my roommates moved in today.  Her name is Kris, and she is has a very large personality that (I believe) will spill over onto the rest of us in this part of the dorm, and demand that we be happy.  Not in a really terrible way.  She's from LA, and brought with her a large sundry of items to decorate her room and the common space.  A veteran of Seton Hill, and graduating this term, she knew what to expect from the sparse surroundings.  In no time her bed was completely 'pinkified', complete with rose colored accent pillows, and wall sticker flowers.  (Did I say it was going to be an interesting week?)  The common space now sports a door sized $1.99 wall sticker with a print of three palm trees in front of a beach scene and an array of flowers in the foreground.  Now, if she could only provide an ocean breeze and the scent of flowers to cover the musty staleness in this space.  (Heidi, where are the scent-bots when I need them?)

The evening draws near, and I've discovered one of the most important places on campus, which is where to find food.  The dining hall has early evening hours (4:30PM to 6:00PM), so I'm off for some early evening chow, and then back to the computer to do some critique/editing!  I don't know if this will ever get old, but I thoroughly relish being able to write, read and absorb the written words at my own leisure.  Currently, I'm reading Heidi Ruby Miller's book, "Ambasadora."  It's an interesting blend of Sci-Fi, Romance and Sexuality.  The story didn't really pull me in until Chapter 12 because the previous chapters didn't connect well for me until then, but afterwards the story hooked me and I'm really enjoying the read.

Well, off to dinner and another round of reading and critiquing!

~Cin

The road goes ever on and on...

J.R.R. Tolkien was one of my first Fantasy favorites growing up.  Much like many of us who adore fantasy, I suspect.  I read "The Hobbit" early in my years (perhaps when I was 10 years old), and later devoured the trilogy of the Lord of the Rings.  In each of these stories, there were witticisms, and poems I set myself to memorizing.  I'd already memorized Poe's "The Raven" and "Annabel Lee",  and Lord Alfred Tennyson's "Charge of the Light Brigade."  I enjoyed the way the words were put together, and the way they rolled off my tongue when they were recited.  I also worked on composing my own lines of poetry, which were well received by my Literature and English teachers.

In my childhood, I had always wanted to be a writer, and teachers encouraged me along this route.  But my mother told me, "Writer's don't eat", and the whole undertaking of becoming a writer was discouraged by a large number of my family and friends.  I'm sad to say I listened to them.  And I'm also pleased to say I listened them.  I'm grateful I heeded their words.  If I'd taken the road of writing right away, I doubt I would have experienced such a fulfilling and interesting life as I have.  The life dilemmas and crises, the situations I've found myself in, the people I've met around the globe...all of these will add to my writing content in the future.  I just hope I have paid enough attention in my own daily living to add richness of character and depth of personality to the people who I place in my story lines.  We will see.

This week, I begin a new journey.  I start a Masters of Fine Arts (MFA) program in Popular Fiction with Seton Hill University (SHU). My main genre focus is Horror, and Urban Fantasy, and perhaps with the help of SHU's esteemed professors, I will finally finish "Dr Stench", and also complete another new novel titled "Sapien Farm".

I flew to Pittsburgh just yesterday (I got to fly First Class!  A fluke.),  and landed just outside the city around 6:30PM (18:30 for you military types).  From there, I rented a car, and drove to Greensburg Pennsylvania.  The sun was nearly down by the time I arrived, and I met up with Officer Farris (a rather tall, Italian dude) who spoke English with a bit of a German accent.  I found out later he was from Genoa, Italy...quite proud of his northern heritage.  Officer Farris and a Grad Student (Desmond)...Business Masters....assisted me with finding my room and getting me settled in.

As I walked into the room (on the second floor), it reminded me of my early enlisted days at the barracks in San Diego. Sparse decor.  Cinderblock walls.  One small twin bed.  A chest of drawers. A flimsy desk and black plastic chair.  Bare bones, so to say.  There are 4 small separate rooms like this one clustered together in a corner of this level, with a tiny central toilet space, and a separate shower space, for everyone to share.  When the rooms fill up this week, I'm sure it will get interesting.

I had decided to show up early to SHU, a day or so before the classes began.  I didn't want the confusion of trying to get settled and started with the program without understanding the lay of the land and getting my writing assignments in order, and I'm glad I'm here a little early.  I'll do my read and critiques, read a book, and perhaps even write some.

This blog entry is the first of my entries for my MFA program at Seton Hill.  It is my journal of progress along the road of pen and sword.  It is (for me) the daring step towards achieving a long wished-for dream.  As Tolkien said,

"...Now far ahead the Road has gone, 
And I must follow, if I can, 
Pursuing it with eager feet, 
Until it joins some larger way 
Where many paths and errands meet. 
And whither then? I cannot say."

I've got my feet planted shakily on the old bricks of yellow,
but I'm not going to Oz to find my way home.
I'm traveling to Oz because I want to BE the Wizard,
and I'm willing to storm the Emerald City and pay the price.  :)

~Q