Go Past Normal, Take a Left at Crazy, and Cont. on to Disturbing

Why can some people get away with creating superbly disturbing stories/art/merchandise and others get treated like mental patients for doing or thinking exactly the same things?

I once made a photography instructor cry with my artwork. Sure, it was creepy but it was close to Halloween, okay? My project consisted of an *artfully* back-lit doll, swinging from a noose, suspended in a doorway, holding a knife.

Alright. So the doll had a creepy lazy eye but at least I decided against putting fake blood on the knife.

I also had some shots that made the doll look like it was in motion, climbing up the stairs. Again with the knife. (God, I'm laughing just thinking about it.)

Okay, so maybe it was a little too scary. I mean, my roommates demanded that I wrap both the doll and the knife in a shoebox and toss it in a dumpster across campus after viewing the pictures, but still.

So, I turned this project in and later received a summons to the instructor's office. The man was in tears when I arrived. He asked me if I was contemplating suicide and all I could do was stare at him. He explained that the last time a student turned in something so disturbing, the guy killed himself.

Obviously, he'd never watched the movie CHUCKY. That movie haunted my dreams as a child but I never once thought to call up the screenwriter and ask, "Hey... just wondering, are you thinking of offing yourself anytime soon? Cause you're F*CKING CRAZY!"

Honestly, do you think anyone close to Stephen King, ever tried to commit him to a mental ward when he shared his first story? If that guy took pictures of a homicidal, undead doll, no one would bat an eye.

How does one go from a normal, sane person to selling the idea of alien butt-worms that try to take over the world (DREAMCATCHER, anyone?) without their sanity being questioned?

Like It, Hate It, Love It

Early this spring, I submitted work to a few writing contests. Being that it was my first attempt at contest entry, I wasn't sure what to expect.

Yesterday, I received results for the first contest.

The good news is that I wasn't last. The bad news is that I didn't win. I fell somewhere in the middle, which at first made me want to vomit. Then I realized that's pretty good for a first try.

Being an artist, of any medium, is a study in contradiction. An artist has to be emotional, creative, and imaginative. Writer, painter, or photographer, you also need to be able to shield yourself from bad advice and view even good critiques with skepticism.

This particular writing contest reminded me of a painting competition I once entered. One judge told me, when viewing my painting, "I don't get it. It's not very good. You should have entered something else."

I placed first-in-show and sold the piece for $450. That's the problem with art. It's all subjective.

Back to the results of the writing contest. I received three reviews and they were all completely different.

• One judge loved it, said she wanted to read more, and only had a few revisions to suggest.

• One judge liked it, thought it had great potential, and suggested a ton of editing.

• One judge hated it, thought I was probably an illiterate kindergartner, and suggested my idea wasn't even remotely marketable.

Again, with the wanting to vomit.

So, what do you do when someone tells you that you aren't good enough? Should you ignore them? Tell them to go F*ck themselves? Maybe. But probably not.

In the end, after I had a 30 minute pity party, I realized (with great reluctance) that each judge had made some useful comments. I sat down and reworked this particular piece of writing and now have six polished pages that are far better for the effort.

Parts of a Whole

I found a picture hiding in the back of a picture frame. It was of me and someone I seemed to be very happy having my picture taken with although I can't place the person or location. The only thing I know for sure is that it was taken while I was in college.

My time in college is like a dream to me. I have never since nor before been the same person as I was in college. Like during those years I was a different person entirely. Sometimes I miss that person. Parts of her at least.

She was funny and selfish, addicted and carefree, criminal and loving. But I miss parts of her. The freedom, the potential, was wasted on her. But it was there, in that time, for the taking.

Maybe we all miss parts of ourselves we've outgrown or abruptly thrown away.

Some parts stay with us forever even though we wish they'd leave. Like the smell of burnt popcorn that never completely leaves your microwave.

I wonder, when I'm old and looking back on this era of my life, what parts of me I currently contain that will have been long discarded. Maybe I'll be completely the same. Unchanged. But I don't think so.

Mass Centipede Invasion

Have you ever had something scare the pee in to you?


When I was in college my sisters and I rented an old two-story house on the edge of campus. It had creaky wood floors, two cats, a pit bull, an iguana, a baby alligator that lived in a plastic baby pool upstairs that would sometimes escape, occasionally a bat and I think there may have been a bird or two in there.

Sometimes when I came home I would find find the alligator, escaped from the baby-pool, and my fluffy calico cat engaged in a hissing and posturing contest in the corner by the door. Welcome home.

The one thing that still haunts me today are the disgusting, gigantic, evil centipedes. These things were monsters. Instead of short stumpy legs they had huge grand-daddy-long-leg legs. Rows and rows of 'em. They used to charge out of the shower drain and the vent on the wall to wage war on whomever had just sat down to pee. The way I remember it they were the size of my forearm and may or may not have had fangs dripping with rabies-esq foam. Their appearance and mad-dash for the pee-er was enough to cut you off mid-stream every time. Even first thing in the morning.

One day I decided to draw a picture of these creatures hoping to purge the phobia I'd begun cultivating. When I was done the thing was brandishing axes, pistols and blades with its too-many-legs, snarling with bloody fangs and for some reason, wearing my backpack. I guess they were thieves as well as murderers.

Huh? You don't think they invaded my bathroom with the sole purpose of burrowing under my skin in a pod-people plot to take over the world? Well, screw you. It's obvious this was their goal.

The mass centipede invasion of 2004 was the beginning of my insect phobia that has now grown to epic proportions.


That, is having the pee scared in to you.

A Bound Book Could Kick Your Nook's Ass

Even though I think they are evil and may eventually cause the death of literature and quite possibly the universe, I own a nook.

Thank you, Nook, for being small and offering instant gratification wherever a wireless connection can be found. If I've got the money, I can learn that a book exists, become interested, purchase the book and begin reading in about two minutes.

I don't like that it takes a hundred years to go from "off" to "on" or that the little buttons now have cracks in them from me pushing them so much to turn pages. What? I read. A LOT.

I also don't like that the books I read on the Nook aren't tangible. I can't sit and ogle them and think "Wow, I've read all those books."

I can't shelve them in my house and be reminded of a story or an author I like when I walk by and I can't put them on display as if to say "look at how intellectual and awesome I am for reading all the works by so-and-so and notice how you've never even heard of some of those authors. That's cause you ain't as cool as me."

It's certainly vain, but there it is.

I have a Nook but I still buy paperbacks and hardcovers when I find something I really like because you just can't beat having a tangible copy to fold in your hands, rest in your lap and take up space in your over-stuffed house.

I love the smell of pages of new books. Ink and possibilities. I love the smell of old, used books full of fingerprint history. (God, I hope this book didn't come from someone's bathroom library. But then, that'd be a whole different smell, yes?)

I like that I don't have to charge a paperback and there are no "accessories" that must be purchased along with said paperback.

I know it's illegal in most states, but I like to dog-ear pages. Pushing the "bookmark" button on a screen just isn't the same.

I love that when I sell my book I will be able to point to it and say "Look at that. I made that." and not have to be squished on my sofa pointing to a computer screen and methodically opening "my documents".

I own a Nook but I still use the local Library at least twice a week and still can't pass by a used book store without going inside. I love buying books with interesting bindings and notes from people written in the margins before I was born. Try competing with that, Nook-borg!

So, Nook, this post is for you. I'm giving you a thumbs-up with one hand and flipping you the bird with the other. You're the wise-old pimple on my ass. Uncomfortable, insistent, and because mine is a 1st addition, outdated, but still full of knowledge.

Like it, love it or hate it. Paperback or E-book. The Library or Amazon. You can't beat a great written story for entertainment. Go find some!

Even Fictional Characters Choose Yellow Springs

When deciding on the setting for my Urban Fantasy Novel SURPRISINGLY SUPERNATURAL, I deliberated many options. I like to write about places that I have some personal perspective to draw from. I knew I was looking for a small town and I knew I wanted it to have something special.

I've hung my hat in places like Aiea, Hawaii, Bolongo Bay, Saint Thomas USVI, Plaquemine, Louisiana, and Hilton Head, South Carolina but none of them had that unique spark I wanted to ignite the backdrop of SURPRISINGLY SUPERNATURAL.

I could have chosen any city in (or even out) of this world but I chose Yellow Springs for my main character, Elaina Mathews' home base.

There's a certain magic to YS, an inherent collection of oddities that makes you think it's not at all impossible for supernatural creatures to be lurking about behind the scenes.

Light poles and trees are decorated with hand-knitted mutated sweaters. Felt flowers bloom around town where ever the creative urge strikes and no one bats an eye, though they may flash a camera.

For weeks there was a flock of Origami swans inside Dino's Cappuccinos that started with one large paper swan. I'd like to think this one was the alpha male. The next time I went in there was a smaller more elegant paper bird next to the Origami alpha. Eventually there was a whole flock of these beautifully twisted and creased pieces of patterned paper swimming in the change bowl for Japanese Relief Efforts.

In my mind, which is admittedly a bit addled and overwrought with daydreams, it's not all that far fetched to imagine a Pixie alighting on the rim of one's coffee cup at the Underdog Cafe or encountering a tall gorgeous Elf while hiking through Glen Helen.

I was in town today for an hour and I saw a heavily tattooed man (I love tattoos by the way) wearing zombie make-up and allowing an obese ferret to ride on his shoulders while walking down Main street and I was delighted anew that I'd placed my fictional cast of oddballs in this quirky little town with all its real-life interesting strangers.

Yellow Springs is a place where random cats are seen cruising the street for treats. I've never seen one that isn't a black cat. Maybe all the tabbies and calicoes are hiding elsewhere because I've never seen one. But shop owners don't shoo them away from their doorsteps and teenagers don't taunt them with sticks. Instead, citizens pause their day to swoop down and give the plump felines a pat on the head.

It's a place where every creature is welcome and the town newspaper hands out blank name tags, encourages people to wear them and "Forget facebook. Start a conversation!"

It's a place where you can sit on a hand-painted bench stenciled with quotes of perseverance, equality and creativity, watching the native inhabitants of Yellow Springs stroll by and listen to the sounds of street musicians float on the breeze.

It's the perfect place for Elaina Mathews and her SURPRISINGLY SUPERNATURAL escapades. And the perfect place for the rest of us to come and unwind. No matter how significantly unsupernatural we may be.

She Knows by SJ Drum, A Poem

So I don't do poetry very often but I had this one hidden in the depths of my computer and decided to share.






She Knows by SJ Drum

There are three kinds
Three kinds of doors in my mind
Doors always locked
Caution tape surrounds them
Doors left open, always
Drafts and dust flow freely through them
Doors revolving
Open, closed, open, closed... open

Have you seen me?
Have you seen the new me?
The better me?
The me I'm suppose to be?
I can't find her.

Every once in a while I go
Looking for her
I tear down the caution tape
Bust open the doors
Put padlocks on previously open
Doors
Block the revolving doors ajar

Sit and wait.

Where is she?
The me I'm suppose to be?
Have you seen her?

I see her occasionally
She comes and goes
Like a stranger brushing against me on the street
Taking my breath
And holding it
Just for a second

Her face changes, from minute to minute
Year to year
Much like mine

Is she the me, for you I'm suppose to be?
Is she the me I yearn to be?
The me I was?
The me I am?

I put the caution tape back in place
Cut the padlocks and pull the door
Stops
She's a warning I think.

Her hair shaggy, sun-stained
Her skin leathery, sun-stained
She moves with an effortless grace
Her wisdom, her soul transcends time

Have you seen her?
The me I'm suppose to be?
She has a smile on her face
When I meet her
She knows something I have yet to find

I saw her once, like I do from time
To time
I held my breath and let her
Walk away
Escaping me