||[Jul. 31st, 2007|10:07 pm]
1. I never got past the first page of a story I was writing about an alcoholic named Jack. I knew how it was going to start, with a very pathetic scene and him smashing his head against the medicine cabinet mirror and crying to his reflection, and then I knew it would flash back, but I just never kept going with it.|
2. I had another similar scenario where a girl wakes up in the morning doing the usual sort of sad stuff involving finding a reburn and being disgusted with herself until the phone rings and the name on the caller id makes her freeze in place, watching the phone, swallowing hard... It would be an old friend who she had fallen out with, and then it would go back to when they met, and actually at one point I thought I would somehow bring ol' Jack into this story.
3. There was this greasy spoon in Appleton called Damrow's, which isn't there anymore. I always thought I would write a story involving Damrow's and it's inhabitants. It was like...timeless. It was dark and smoky with mustard yellow formica tables and wooden booths lined the sides. It was long and narrow and reminded me of a train. Every booth contained ONE single miserable person, each with their own mental illness and tragic tale. Every day they came, for the crappy service or the familiarity, the sense of belonging SOMEWHERE, the comfort of the always and forever 58c bottomless cup of coffee... I did write that story about the man named LaVerne who was missing fingers, who used to be a pianist...
4. My grandpa told me a story about his sister that stuck with me. She got married very young and had a baby, and her husband who was a projectionist at a movie theatre died from a heart attack at the age of 19. The baby cried for 7 years. Eventually people took up a collection and sent her to see this specialist in California who discovered a brain tumor that had been causing unimaginable pain this childs whole life. He performed successful surgery, so the story goes, but the child died from the shock of not being in pain anymore. At least that's how I heard it.
5. A recurring dream, well not recurring but...a dream that involved the same nonexistant house. It was on Prospect Ave in Appleton where there is a fork in the road, and it is right in between two houses, where the dream house was. Now after reading Harry Potter, I think it must be a magical house.. Anyway, I had three dreams about it and it was very evil. The first dream I was walking along with a small boy who was sort of all knowing, like if God was in the body of a pale, white haired, blue eyed boy who didn't appear more than five years old. He was explaining things to me when he stopped before the house and told me never to cross there alone, and that this house was built by death and unimaginable evil. The next dream was a few months later and I found myself walking along, dum de dooo...and uh-oh, here I am in front of the house! ALONE! And I can feel it sucking at me and I can barely make out a bony witch like image in the little window... The third dream I was moving into this fantastic house that my friends found, and we were hauling our stuff in through the back which faced the fox river and there was a street back there with a path leading up to the house. Anyway, of course, I realized when I went out the front that here we were, moving right in to the house of evil. There was a room halfway between the basement and the first floor and I could feel that it was...full of death.
6. When I had cats I wanted to write stories about them because I sat around thinking about their personalities so much and their relationship to eachother. Of course, cats are kind of like dreams, no one really cares about anyone elses... (except for me)