Argh Ink

Today was not a work day. I slept late and met Dale at the Noho Star for lunch after which we were going to go to the Brooklyn Museum where I could research magicians, but when we were done eating, we looked at each other and said, “Let’s walk around.” So we walked all over Little Italy and I saw this red thing (blouse? tunic? wrap?) in a boutique window that made me go “whoa,” so even though I knew better, I went in and ended up buying the most expensive piece of clothing of my entire life, and I’m not sorry. If Bob had been with me, I wouldn’t have had time because he has a ten minute rule and it took me more than ten minutes to get past the price tag, but I really love this whatever it is, so thank god I was with Dale who said, “Buy it, buy it.”

Then we wandered all over Chinatown and i bought a scarf and a cap from hole in the wall stores, and then we took the bus north to this great bead place that Dale knew on 37th, and I bought cinnabar and freshwater pearls while she stocked up on jewelry for her niece. Really, everything was a extraordinarily reasonable except for the red thing. And then I hugged Dale good-bye and walked back down to the Village in a beautiful spring twilight, and that would have been a spectacular day all by itself because Dale and I talked and laughed the entire time we walked and shopped, but then wonderful Meg met me at the apartment and we went to dinner in Soho and laughed a lot and then came back and talked so long that she missed the train she was going to take home and then missed the one after that, too. So it was a great day, and the wonderful thing is that, aside from some industry gossip, it was completely a non-working day, and I loved it.

Tomorrow, it’s back to work since I’m doing a publishing panel with the brilliant Jennifer Enderlin, and I think I’m going to wear the red thing I bought if I can figure out how to tie it on (not to be confused with tying one on). And since I’m going to see Jen and also Alisa Kwitney tomorrow–currently Alisa and I are playing phone tag but I’m sure we’ll work something out–even though it’s a business day, there will be more hilarity and good times. Especially if I don’t tie this red thing on right.

Really, I think the secret to getting a life is to just concentrate on enjoying the people in the one you already have. And to stop scheduling every damn minute with research and meetings. Today was completely worthless from a professional standpoint but my mental health is in the stratosphere. Along with my credit card debt. Still, good mental health is priceless, so no regrets.

Unless this red thing falls off tomorrow in the middle of the panel. Stay tuned.

I flew into New York, if not kicking and screaming, at least whining and pouting because I wasn’t at home working on AKMG, getting stuff done. Then I hauled my weary butt off the plane, got a cab, said, “West Village,” leaned my head back on the seat and thought, as I have thought so many time befores, “I have to get a life.”

I’m not sure why that’s a litany for so many writers. It may be because making up lives for our characters that are fascinating and filled with adventure leaves our own looking so pale and ordinary, or it may be that spending all our time making up those lives fills in the spaces where we should be talking to people and forming meaningful relationships, or we may all just be big whiners, “drama queens” as my daughter has pointed out: we write drama because we’re drawn to it so we create it in our own lives without even thinking about it.

For whatever reason, I was in the taxi thinking the “get a life” whine when I noticed Manhattan flashing by through the supports on the bridge and thought, “Wait a minute, I have a life. And it’s pretty damn good.” And then it got even better when a friend of mine, Katherine Ramsland, came into the city to stay with me. (This is Katherine, coming into the city:

)

Katherine is, well, amazing. Her vita is stunning: she has a BA in philosophy and psychology, a master’s degree in forensic psychology from John Jay College of Criminal Justice, a Ph.D. in philosophy from Rutgers University and a master’s in clinical psychology from Duquesne University. She’s an expert on serial killers, modern vampires, Anne Rice, mass murderers, Dean Koontz, forensic science, writing . . . you know what?, just google her and then look on Amazon, and while you’re at it, search the CNN crime section (formerly Court TV) for some of her articles. She’s a college professor, she’s a journalist, she’s a writer, she’s blonde, she’s beautiful, she’s the only person I’ve ever known who stole a haunted ring from a vampire in real life, and she’s a helluva good time in general. In short, Katherine never thinks, “I have to get a life.”

So we’re talking over Chinese dumplings at the apartment, catching up on gossip and mutual friends (Hi, Bob) and I finally said, “I know you’re a vampire expert, but I’m working on this new book and . . . do you know anything about ghosts?” Katherine said, “Is that a joke?” because it turns out the vampires and the serial killers were pretty much johnny-come-latelies in Katherine’s life: Her first love is ghosts. So she’s a good time and a research bonanza. I bounced all my ideas off her and while everything she told me was gold, what really struck me was how she could combine her knowledge of ghosts and ghost hunting with her knowledge of writing fiction, so that while we talked about what Emme would and would not see, she could tie it to character arc, how Emme’s sensitivity to paranormal phenomena would grow stronger as her sensitivity to the other people in the house grew stronger. Basically, Katherine was a writer’s dream source, and she didn’t even object when I quizzed her for most of the night.

And then the next morning we went off to our separate meetings, and I did think for a moment, “That was supposed to be a night off,” but we laughed a lot and talked about all kinds of things for hours before we got to the ghosts and we both really enjoyed the hell out of the ghost conversation, so I’m beginning to think that maybe “getting a life” doesn’t have as much to do with not making my entire life about writing as much as opening it up so that my writing intersects with the outside world more often. I mean, Katherine never stops working and she has a fabulous life. I even had one moment when I thought, “I should be more like Katherine,” and then reality returned because I am not the kind of person who would ever steal a haunted ring from a vampire. I can live with that. And with the life I’ve got which, since it has people like Katherine in it, is damn good.

Whine over.

I’m writing a ghost story. I’ve never done that before. That means I need to know about ghosts (researching that has been fun) and beyond that, I need to know how to write scary. Not gross-out, not horror so awful you have nightmares for weeks, but good, solid, classy, supernatural, scare-you-enough-to-make-you-think story-telling.

So of course I signed up to write an essay for BenBella’s anthology on the TV series Supernatural. I liked the few episodes I saw of it before it freaked me out too much to keep watching, and I knew that if they’d scared me that badly without ever grossing me out, they knew what they were doing. So I watched 52 episodes of it in four days. Next up: the last eight and then the American Gothic DVD.

But I also need to look at great ghost fiction. I’ve read The Turn of the Screw, The Uninvited, The Haunting of Hill House, We Have Always Lived in the Castle, and Bag of Bones, but there must be more that are truly great stories that go for the chill, not the gross-out.

So anybody know any good, classy ghost stories? Books, TV, movies? I’m thinking less Evil Dead (although I yearn for Ash) and more The Innocents.

Even more, I want to know what makes a good ghost story. Gary Cole playing the devil as small town sheriff or Michael J. Fox sending Gary Busey to hell? The long season battle-with-the-demons arc on Supernatural or the one-offs, like that damn scarecrow? How do the best storytellers go for the chill down your spine without making you lose your lunch?

Bob says we’re not going to talk about this book while we’re writing it.

So forget the demons, the succubus, the pizza delivery hooker, Dreamland, Albert, Mary Imogen, Ethan, Screamland, and any anything else you’ve already read on either of our blogs. Wipe it from your mind.

I already have.

Oh, and my notes were perfect. Some of Bob’s ideas were . . . well, you know. Pizza delivery hooker demon. I’m here to save him from himself.

I’m in a motel with internet access that is lousy. Therefore this will be fast.

I emptied the coffee strainer.

We drove for ten hours. Bob said, “We could have made it in nine if we hadn’t stopped to eat and go to the bathroom.”

Bob spent the time I was driving playing with his iPhone Bob loves his iPhone more than he loves me, Milton, and ice cream put together. In three hours, he found more features on it than I’ve found eight months. He’s still bitching about the voice recorder but otherwise, he’s a happy camper.

We have brainstormed like crazy. Bob says we’ve done more in twenty-four hours than we did in six months on Agnes. Which is good because we have to get this book moving.

For those who asked, I am not doing a program with Bob. Bob is solo in Bethlehem. I am going on to see my daughter in her new house. Then I will return on Sunday, slow down so Bob can leap in the car, and spend another ten hours on the road listening to moans about how the iPhone has no voice recorder.

We needed two more evil characters, so Bob added one. A succubus. There are so many places I could go with that, that I’m actually stalled out from the choices. I need to come up with the other evil character soon, or he’ll make her a pizza-delivery hooker.

I told him to blog tonight since HE has internet access in HIS room. Go harass him if he hasn’t. Thank you.