Samhain Publishing

There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed. ~
Earnest Hemingway

I have to confess, Yahoo Answers is something of a guilty pleasure of mine. I often take breaks from writing to take a look at the lists and see what people are asking. Sometimes I even answer a few questions myself. Some of the questions are silly, especially in the Religion and Spirituality section. Most of these questions begin with ‘spiritually speaking,’ or more recently, ‘spiritually snacking.’ I wasn’t sure just what that entailed, so I left that question alone.
Some are troll questions meant either to provoke or taunt. Sometimes these are funny too, but most of the time they’re not. I ignore them. And then there are questions that are quite mundane, regarding instructions on how to get a spot out of a jacket, or how to select the best groomer for your Lhasa apso, or how to go about getting a cheating boyfriend neutered. (Okay so I made that one up.)
And then there are the rare gems, those that glisten brilliantly on the beach of foolishness and minutiae. These are the questions that are often thought provoking, and occasionally profound. Some of these rare gems I contemplate while taking my evening walk, during meditation practice or while doing yoga.
Yesterday I came across one of these rare gems. It was actually a troll question, written by an atheist to goad theists into an angry tirade, but despite the intent of the question, the idea behind it was profound.
I’d like to share that with you today if I may, and play with it a bit by taking it out of its theological context and applying it to us writers, our careers and how, at times, as Papa Hemingway once said, we sit at our typewriters and bleed.
The essence of the question is this, which do you value most, reason or faith?
This is obviously an either/or question, but that doesn’t matter in our context. Because without both, a person’s writing career isn’t just going to bleed. It’s going to dry up and blow away. And I’ll show you why.
I’d like to talk about reason first. And in this context I’m not referring to good old fashioned common sense, that tells an aspiring writer that she must sit down and learn the art and craft (because yes, it is indeed both) but instead, I’m talking about what I call Darwinian or survival-of-the-fittest- kind of reasoning. The kind of rationale your best friend expounds on your commencement from grad school. The kind that says you’re not going to waste a good master’s degree by playing on the computer all day.
Reason dictates that unless you’re Stephen King, Danielle Steele or Nora Roberts, the writing life is difficult at best, virtually impossible at worst. And I suspect that even the big bucks mega list writers has opened a proverbial vein or two, especially during the early stages in their careers. Yet these kind folks proved that they could survive as a species. The rest of us, according to rationalists, may or may not evolve depending upon the arrival of our first royalty check.
Darwinian reason dictates that writing—much less publishing, marketing, and obtaining precious shelf space in book and mortar stores—is difficult if not impossible for aspiring writers. Which in some ways is true, but it’s not the absolute truth. Darwinian reason is pure cold water intellectualism that never ever sees a positive outcome. Rationalization has no emotion. It has no hope, no depth and certainly no warmth. It wants us to never place a precious drop of blood on our keyboards. Because writing, as Hemingway so sanguinely put, is a bloody business. We open our veins the first time we send out a fledgling manuscript, only to have it rejected time and time again, then finally the sale. The triumph. But it still comes with a price. The Darwinians want us to stop at this point. You see, they cannot stand the sight of blood.
And should we dare to try, and succeed, Darwinian reason will tell us that our success was nothing more than a statistical fluke. It will sneer; twirl its mustache and say, “sure fine, you did it once. But where’s the money? Where’s those megabucks? And most of all, can you pull it off again?”
Those of us who are able to evolve do, according to the Darwinian rationalist, but those are rare creatures indeed. The rest of us perish, or at least go back to our day jobs. Those who only wish they could and resent the fact that we do live something of a parasitic existence by belittling those of us who can. You know the kind. The ones who are just too plain lazy to grow arms and legs and crawl out of the swamp. The person at the party (and there’s always at least one) who tells us that they’d love to write a novel but don’t have the time. Why? Because they know that at some point they’ll have to bleed. And they can’t stand that thought.
Rationalization doesn’t fall strictly to outside forces. It’s inside of us too. It happens each time we sit down to the computer or to the legal pad and pen and say to ourselves, this is too hard. I can’t do this. The kids are acting up. The car won’t start. The husband is bellowing for dinner. Or worse, we let our fears conquer us, and old tapes of criticism and discouragement roll on and on inside our heads. What everyone says is true. I shouldn’t waste my time.
And then there’s the faithful writer. Faith looks past obstacles, ignores naysayers, tells the Darwinian rationalists to get stuffed and peruse their careers with gusto, if nothing else. They’re not afraid to bleed. In fact, they dump pints of the stuff on their keyboards, happy as vampires in a Red Cross blood supply tent. The problem is, they’re not bleeding. They’re hemorrhaging.
The faithful writer jumps in instantly, without worrying about learning the basics of grammar or spelling. They might not have talent, or any real understanding of grammatical mechanics, much less how the publishing industry works, but they’re writers by god, and they’ll publish even if they have to do it themselves. And often do.
The faithful writer is the one who submits to publishing houses without bothering to read the submissions guidelines, much less follow them to the letter. The faithful writer sends submissions to publishers electronically when the publishing house specifically asks for authors to send hard copy only. The faithful writer assumes that the editor is going to see their work; no matter how badly it’s formatted, clutch it to her breast and says “my next best seller!’
For obvious reasons faith and reason simply cannot stand alone. Especially not in the context we’re playing with. Faith and reason are like a pair of strong legs, both straight, both firmly planted on the firm ground of good old fashioned common sense.
A writer who uses faithful reason knows that she must learn her craft. She knows the basics of good sentence structure; knows the rules of grammar and how to implement them. The reasonably faithful writer understands that she cannot publish what she has not written, so she goes to her keyboard and, yes, bleeds. She listens to constructive advice and casts aside those Darwinian thinkers who say it cannot or should not be done.
The reasonably faithful writer knows how to prepare a marketable manuscript. She submits to reputable publishing houses, using their guidelines and following the instructions to the smallest detail. The reasonably faithful writer doesn’t sit down and wait for a response. She gets to work right away on the next project, letting criticism and Darwinian thinking fall by the wayside. She knows there are obstacles to writing and publishing, but she is aware of them and knows how to deal with them. The reasonably faithful writer is confident. The reasonably faithful writer, most of all, constantly evaluates her skills and always, always is willing to learn more.
Every writer, from Shakespeare and Keats, to King and Harper Lee, all started out as one thing; ordinary people with a spark of inspiration, a bit of talent, and the longing to tell a good story. They, like ourselves, neither follow blindly, nor rationalize or walk away in despair.
We, like them, stand steadfast and true to our words, our beliefs, and our inner strength. And most of all, they were willing to bleed.
So we are.
So say we all.
END OF LINE

It was an accident. Who knew that putting a cake on a 60 year old cake plate would cause the plate to shatter into a thousand tiny fragments?
I watched my husband as he set the cake onto the plate. The pan it was in had cooled but the cake didn’t want to come out, so to keep the cats out of it, he set it on the plate, put the cover on it and we went about finishing up dinner.
It wasn’t until a couple of hours afterwards that I had decided to go into the kitchen for a cup of hot mint tea. I set the cup down on the table and noticed the cake plate’s lid was listing badly to port.
My heart fell. I lifted the lid, and there it was; the shattered remains of my deceased mother’s cake plate. The crystal cake plate that survived decades of moving, a one time vandalism, a fire and being dropped off the counter by one of my teenage klutz attacks. The plate that held innumerable birthday, wedding and anniversary cakes. Done in by a vanilla busy day cake.
I couldn’t believe it. I was heartbroken. My husband heard me cry out in despair and, thinking something bad had happened (which in my mind it did) rushed into the kitchen to save me.
He looked down at the plate equally stunned.
He couldn’t apologize enough.
I told him it was okay. It was, after all, just a piece of glass.
But it was my mother’s piece of glass.
And now it’s broken.
But I was an equal accomplice to the demise of the plate. I too had agreed the pan was cool enough and that it wouldn’t hurt it. I was the one who watched him put the damned lid on it. I could have said at any time, “Hey guess what? Let’s stow it in the microwave instead.”
But no. I didn’t. After all, the pan was cool, right?
I couldn’t’ be mad at my husband.
Which was more important, him or a 60 year old piece of glass?
The answer to me was obvious. Of course my husband was more important. I love him with all the passion in my bony little heart. After the initial shock passed, I began to wonder about the plate’s history, and would we be able to find a replacement?
So.
I went online and looked up antique glass cake plates.
Lo and behold I found it. Not only did I find one, I also learned it had a name.
The Jeanette Anniversary plate.
You can see a picture of it here: http://www.tias.com/cgi-bin/google.fcgi/itemKey=1922699685 although we didn’t buy it from here. My husband found some place better. And cheaper.
We also found this plate was made in the 1940s, but was a popular pattern and was made up into the mid 1960’s when the company went bankrupt. Some sites say 1970, but when my husband went to to replacements dot com and talked to the antique dealer on the phone, he found out that the company actually went bankrupt in the mid 1960’s And yes, they had the plate, and not a replica either, but the real deal.
The dealer at www.replacements.com said were like 6 bucks a piece. And were the last two in the warehouse.
Thank goodness my mother had good taste in cheap glass.
He made the toll free call, made the order. Then I waited seven nail biting days until the plates arrived, thankfully unmolested by the post monster. They came in a large box filled past capacity with Styrofoam peanuts which I oh so gently took apart.
My husband put a new knob on the lid, the original being lost decades ago. And when I opened the package and saw the plates were perfect I removed one immediately and set it underneath the lid, which for the past week looked so lost and lonely without its partner.
Now, it’s reunited. Whole. And even though I am silly enough to assign emotional attributes to an inanimate object, I swear it looks happier.
I sure know I am.

If you’ve been writing for any length of time, you will eventually run afoul of two questions. The first one is, where do you get your ideas and the second one is why do you write that?

My name is Patricia Snodgrass and I write horror. I also write about a wide variety of topics from fiction and non fiction to essays, book reviews, articles about ferrets and Dutch ovens. I also write paranormal romance, which is my personal favorite because it combines two things I enjoy most: to make people fall in love while at the same time scaring the bejesus out of them. My business is scaring the wits out of both characters and readers, and business is good.

Where do I get my ideas? Pretty much the same place everyone else gets theirs. There’s no musty attic where I conjure dark tales from a molded copy of the Necronomicon. Nor is there an evil well in my backyard (although I told a neighbor this and she freaked out) where at midnight I haul up a swirling miasma of horrors to write about. I find scary things come in the most ordinary of places and circumstances, which as you will soon see.

The best stories, whether romance or horror or science fiction even, has a grain—even if it’s a tiny grain—of truth to them. Mercer’s Bayou was born because I read a disturbing document while doing research for my Writing Local History project during my stint in grad school. This newspaper article concerned a plantation owner who was so distraught over the South losing the war he hanged all his slaves. The tree that these poor unfortunate souls died upon is now reputed to be able to yank out the soul of any person of African American descent who dares touch it.

I didn’t understand why a tree would yank out black folk’s souls and not bother white folks. To me it seemed like an evil tree wouldn’t care what color the person was as long as it could get to the chewy center. However, for my purposes I decided to make it an equal opportunity assailant and so anyone could come up if they dare and grab a hold of the Cold Hanging Tree and get the same soul jerking experience.

And in regards to the second question, why do I write horror? For the same people like to read it. It’s good scary fun.

But that’s not what I want to write about today. Today I want to tell you a story. It doesn’t have evil trees or tormented souls still picking spectral cotton and hoping to find path to Glory. No. I want to tell you a true story about the time I worked in a truck stop many years ago.

The year was 1978, and I was working at what was known as Dekalb Truck Stop. It was an abysmal little roadside café and gas station crouching on the edge of highway 82, just on the outskirts of town. It’s not there any more. The business died out a few years after I left, and now its nothing more than miniature ghost town compete with Johnson grass and tumble weeds. And one ghost. Legend has it that a man was shot and killed by a G-man back in the fifties and he died by the freezer. I can attest there is indeed a permanent cold spot there, even though the freezer has long since gone.

I did learn a great many things while working there, however. Like not putting a rubber snake inside the cigarette machine or discovering you can bite the tip of someone’s thumb off if you’re scared enough. The latter is now a scene in Mercers, the former…well, I’ll tell you…

I started off as a waitress at this truck stop and it was my job to pour hot coffee down the throats of travel weary truck drivers. I worked graveyard shift; sometimes more if the morning help came in plastered, stoned or just didn’t bother to show at all. But mostly I worked the midnight shift for a buck fifty an hour plus tips and all the soda I could hold.

I nearly always brought a book with me because between the hours of 2-4 a.m. was what the fuel desk clerk referred to as ‘weird thirty.’ It’s the dead space when nobody comes in. Even the hunters, drunks and dairy farmers didn’t arrive until after four. So I sat in one of the booths and drank cokes and chewed on rubbery fries and read. Sometimes I brought along Robert Bloch, Stephen King, VC Andrews or Richard Matheson along for company.

Or sometimes, when there was nothing better to do the cook and I would take a tray of stale Twinkies, pull off the ends and stick them to the ceiling. That in and of itself takes some pretty tricky wrist action. I personally believe it’s a lost art.
But this particular night, I had left my book, ironically entitled “Night Shift” by Stephen King on my night stand so there was little to do during weird thirty other than mutilate a few Twinkies. After having stuck a couple of dozen stale snacks dangling from their innards on the ceiling, I got bored and quit. I found myself sitting in the booth, looking absently out at the blackened tarmac and twiddling my thumbs.

I was about half asleep with my feet propped up in the opposite booth seat and my cheek resting against the cool darkened window when the cook came out of the kitchen with a rubber snake and tossed it in my lap. It scared the shit out of me. I managed to throw that vicious toy reptile to the floor without overturning the table in the process. I had one foot raised ready to stomp on it when I heard the cook howling with laughter behind me.

It gave me a brilliant idea.

I took the rubber snake and coiled it neatly inside the cigarette machine and promptly forgot about it.

About an hour or so later, the local denizens trickled in. Many were drunk and needed extra strong coffee to sober up before facing spouses or employers. Truckers also arrived wanting breakfast, even stronger coffee and information on where to pick up some Black Mollies. The cook’s name was Molly and so feeling like the wise-ass I was (and still am) I called her out and she’d appear. She was tall, thin, black and annoyed, wearing a greasy white apron and carrying a meat cleaver in her hand. Everyone shut up about Black Molly after that.

The trucker who arrived at this point wasn’t asking for drugs. He was a big man, bearing a striking resemblance to Larry the Cable Guy. He was wearing a black vest over a sleeveless plaid shirt. His hair was tucked up underneath a burnt orange Texas Longhorn’s hat. He quietly asked for coffee and scrambled eggs. I brought his order and he complained the eggs were nasty but didn’t want Molly to redo them. Instead he drained his cup, asked for another cup of caffeinated swill, drained it too, paid me and started to leave.

Almost as an after thought, the truck driver walked over to the cigarette machine. Molly and I watched with interest as he put in some change, made his selection and pulled the little silver knob. The mechanism would release a pack of smokes which would tumble into the trough like tray underneath. In theory, at least.

The knob didn’t cooperate. He pulled harder. The smokes wouldn’t’ budge. Molly and I looked at each other. He pulled again. This time the snake launched itself out of the machine and smacked him square in the chest before hitting the floor and coiling up as if to strike.

The trucker jumped back, pulled a .357 magnum out of his vest and opened fire. The gun kicked smartly in the man’s fist and smoke belched out of the barrel. The snake danced as large chips of floor tile exploded out from underneath it. Molly made a hasty retreat into the kitchen and left me to fend for myself. I ducked behind the cash register with my fingers in my ears and my heart pounding in the back of my throat while the trucker finished unloading the mag into the poor unsuspecting cigarette machine.

Everyone, including the cook made a hasty exit through the kitchen’s back door. The trucker calmly retrieved his cigarettes out of the smoldering tray, tucked the gun back into his vest and went on his way.

And me? I was found a few minutes later by the fuel desk clerk, still huddled behind the counter with my fingers stuck in my ears.

I knew I was going to get it when I got home. Being smart assed and 18 didn’t matter. I had no desire to face my father and his wrath. Somehow, I realized as I drove home, facing Dad scared me worse than the irate trucker.

Surely the manager—who was a friend of my step mom’s—called and let her in on the practical joke that put bullet holes into a poor innocent cigarette machine, not to mention the damage it did to the floor. And the snake of course didn’t survive.
I crept into the house, hoping not to be seen. But my step mom and dad were already sitting at the kitchen table. There was no hope of me sneaking into my room undetected. I briefly entertained the idea of slipping back to my car, driving out to the lake and sleeping underneath a picnic table. But it was too late. My folks knew I had arrived. I was dead meat.

“Am I fired?” I asked.

My dad’s paper trembled. I was sure he was enraged and hiding it by keeping the Texarkana Gazette between us. “No,” Mom said calmly, “But you are on report.”

Relieved, I crept down the hall to my bedroom. Just as I closed the door I heard my dad laughing.

Is that slice of my youthful life going into a story? It already has, in a novel I’ve entitled The Storm Birds. I’m hoping to have it ready to submit by this fall. I couldn’t let such fun go to waste.

Next time I’ll tell ya’ll the story about how I murdered a Wurlitzer with a butcher knife.

Happy Hauntings~
Pat