Generating Ideas is the Most Fun I have All Day

 

The plan for my next book is underway. Planning is the most fun thing about the creative process. Ideas trickle in from everything going on around you and in your head. Somehow this all comes together to make a cohesive story. The first mental draft and that point where the words flow almost on their own are the other times that writing feels like something that shouldn’t be possible. How can anything be this fun?

 

Creating the character profiles comes before any plot construction. Characterization is something I like a lot, reducing a character to a deceptively simple phrase that means almost nothing if the character isn’t from your mind. The journey is more important than the destination, but the destination still means something.

 

The story is a generational ship. Watching Star Trek: Voyager, the term generational ship sounded like the holy grail of space travel. I started to wonder why a generational ship wasn’t something that appeared more in science fiction. It then, started to make sense. Basing a story on a revolving cast of characters can get confusing and doesn’t work well. The author builds a character that the reader is invested in then that character is dumped. Roots by Alex Haley is a good example of that. The book became exceedingly long and a little difficult for me to keep the characters clearly defined.

 

Long term space travel is frequently framed in the context of cryogenic preservation. The character sleeps from point A to point B. It works well from the story standpoint. A boring journey goes away with that addition. I don’t believe cryogenic sleep is possible. What about that frog that freezes solid and thaws out still alive, you ask? Cryoprotectants or a special chemical saves the tissues from ice damage. These frogs are so different from humans. Most likely this method can’t be used with warm-blooded animals. Frogs don’t regulate their internal temperatures unlike humans. That’s out for me.

 

The problem with a generational ship is the revolving set of character. Making the same character survive the duration fixes this sticking point. Immortality or something close. Something close to reincarnation is what I came up with. The mind survives through a succession of cloned bodies. In effect the ship’s crew is immortal for as long as they are traveling through the depths of interstellar space. The current plan is a 2,000 years journey spanning three galaxies. At the end, when the story takes place, the crew have an unmatched breadth and depth of experience and there’s more to come. Four characters POV’s will be artfully blended.

 

What happens over 2,000 years? Human bodies are changed to be more representing of all the creatures of Earth and more human. UV sensing eyes, melanin variable skin based on UV exposure, telepathy, compassionate, and a few other more complicated things. What changes mentally for an immortal? Personality differences are amplified along with an increased appreciation for other points of view. Basically a more enlightened human or hyper-human. Each person behaves slightly different the longer they have been around. Add that to my unique execution and the sequel to Remember is born.

 

I’m planning to write one character all the way through and then do the same for each character. There is some loose connection between three of the characters in Remember and the sequel. For the sake of brevity their names are Inslee, Dominic, and Sloane. Then there’s Dominic and Sloane’s son, Duncan. I might eventually change Duncan to a young woman, we’ll see. Woman are generally easier for me to write. I’ll give you a quick description of each character later.

 

GK

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Thriving in Spite of Reduced Ability

 

Throughout my life, a few things have remained the same. I have Duchenne’s Muscular Dystrophy, a progressive muscular disease that slowly weakens me. This results in a lose of ability over time.

 

I have found things that are inherently impossible for me now. Walking is an example of that. Everything else is possible with motivation and hope of getting better. Those are the two things required to be the person you want to be.

In the beginning of my life (before age eight), I knew there was something different about me and didn’t quite know why. Firstly, I started using a wheelchair. The issue of my emigration from India provided another possible source for my differences. Some version of this probably went through minds of other kids about themselves. Everything changed a little after understanding this wasn’t the end of my difference, things would surely get worse.

 

Let’s be clear about something, I never thought of myself as disabled or damaged. I am just different, like a person with green eyes is different from a person with brown eyes. Never allow another person to define what and how you can do anything. Living without a hindrances is a great gift, but beating what everyone thinks is a greater reward. As with all things, the more effort employed, the better the outcome. This way of thinking changes your perception of yourself. You know for a fact that you are not less able than anyone else. Never put artificial limits on yourself.

 

I have never attended a support group. Almost everything I’ve gone through deals with itself, apart from the first near death experience. This isn’t an ongoing struggle. This is who I am or who I always was. Nothing that comes your way is beyond your ability to cope, whether that means sharing your story with others or dealing with it in your own way.

 

This brings me to my experiences with other kids when I was also that age. Every year throughout high school, I along with other kids struggling with purely physical differences attended a gathering. You know the almost forced gatherings setup by well-meaning adults for discussion.

 

We were asked questions to setup conversation, so-called icebreakers. Would you take a cure if it was available? This is one I remember well. The majority answer was no, excluding myself and one other among the 50 or so others. My reaction to the majority sounds in my head. Why? The answers went something like this: it would change who I am.

 

I reacted with silent cynicism and confusion. This makes no sense. A cure isn’t retroactive (someone won’t go back in time and cure you at birth, anyway that would make a cure much easier). How can you possibly refuse the cure when it is almost my deepest desire? Then it hit me. My 15-year-old self thought they simply can’t hope because the low likelihood hurts them too much. It helps them cope. The disease is an ingredient of who they are. If the question wasn’t hypothetical, they would stop lying to themselves and say yes. That was what a teenager would think. I stopped bothering with other people as I grew older.

 

I now think a cure just administers physical improvement, keeping you the same person inside. If the cure would change more than that, the disease has too much power. That is the generally accepted conclusion, a really bad disease limits what opportunities that person has. I admit that without Duchenne’s Muscular Dystrophy, I would have a different job, but I don’t think my personality would have changed that much. I would be more social than I am now, but isn’t that a good thing? Limitations are a bad thing. Never cripple yourself without trying. A battle that is lost in the mind, is pointless to fight.

 

This post is getting a little too long for one day (hands tired). The key lies in finding your purpose. Take what qualities you have. In my case that is a fighter personality, maximum effort yields maximum results, observation of everything, railing to challenges, and keen memory. Find what you are supposed to do. I am supposed to push through the expectations of others, show them they can do great things, and show them what I can accomplish. Never give up or die trying.

 

GK

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The Sum Of An Empty Life

I praise the master, David Foster Wallace.


Walking in through the industrial-designed door, passing over the id scanning arch, reaching up to my forehead for a quick itch when something forgotten returns. Security wants me in for a new badge and posterity pic, some mundane ritualistic occurrence right over there at the guard’s station. On my way, a few sips halve my remaining third cup of lukewarm coffee. Norm as the badge says, parses the screen before him for my id scan, relevant data, and why I should stand before him. The mute Norm points to a lighted X just beyond the faux stone securities desk. A blinding flash of light averts my gaze with the classic id pic’s grimace.

 

Someone trapezes back and forth over the security scanner, each time flashing bright red sans alarm, until the gate arch engages green, the pacer crosses over, and approaches the stone faced counter alongside me. A hand on scapula tells me this person — whoever he is — knows me, but I haven’t seen his visage yet. I turn to Brian Whalen, the glassless math geek, college roommate, the always confidence of someone born with good looks, cleft chin, meaty eyebrows, the remembered mane trimmed to something corporate worthy, a bow tie with the black suit on white, a briefcase, and a bear hugger (familial trait). There it is. My face blushes with the blood rush from a breath dislodging bear hug.

 

I wait over, by a couple of sunk-in chairs festooned over the lobby, while Brian sorts his badge issues, drinking the dredges of the bitter waker-upper, and plotting the incidence vector for a cup tossed into the open garbage, toss, and yes. Next, dispossess myself of this grey messenger bag and wait for the approaching Brian. He settles within the low-slung chair opposite, assuming a similar crouched position, rid his black combination briefcase onto the equally low table. Then the reason for the wait.

 

“Brian, last I heard, you were in academia. What happened?”

 

“Well C, it just wasn’t working out. Everything just stagnated after the first year or so. There just wasn’t that much there for me any more.”

 

That still deviates form who Brian is, the existential one, and the perpetual idealist magniloquent scholar. There a memory comes across of Brian’s, always with me as the subject. He’s probably getting something from me, regrets and maybe rationalizations. The same things I quest to know. His college girlfriend, now wife of one child, laid out on a breezy fall day, in a yellow, blue flowered dress under a cream waistcoat, marred with a line of blood matching a mid-thigh laceration, head tilled back almost over possibility, and sharply at that, bent along one spot, eyes staring to me situated at her back, crying, moving mouth devoid of all sound, and her hand in mine. Her hand, chilled to the bone and sweaty, throbs in my hand with life-giving pulse. A slow inexorable deterioration follows, circumvented, really forestalled by squeezing onto her clammy hand. Each time again results in a desperate journey to rescure the febrile beat to life, always there, but generally assumed. The fear, guilt, debility, panic, and fear of losing her push everything else away. The spectrum from blue through red flashes across my face, cold light, lacking any warmth. And I’m back with Brian.

 

He just stares across at me in disbelief from what he received.

 

“Brain, how’s everything else, otherwise?”

 

“Everyone is great. Lizzie, our three-year old defines overzealous in terms of practical anything.  Meagan enjoys the city.”

 

“Well, Brian I’m nowhere near as put together. About the only thing set is work, at this here quant.”

 

“C, it’ll be a big change from non-Euclidean topography in relation to EM, G, and QFD.”

 

“Later, Brian”

 

“Later.”

 

Brian departs, leaving behind his briefcase. I burden the messenger bag over one shoulder, the rumored man purser being me, and add his mini-legal-sized-suitcase. “Brian!” He just waltzes across the lobby at speed, stops, and searches for who called his name, while I eat away at my ETA. He locates me at a mere 3 feet away, where I stop, lower the brief case (sic) the remaining 6 inches to the floor, and slide it across with the outside edge of my left shoe’s sole.

 

Brian shakes my hand. “Looking forward to work under the same corporate overlords, C.”

 

“If we’re not careful, we could become one of them.”

 

Brian looks surprised. He retrieves a red knife handle from his pocket, switches out the blade and brings it over our hands, then he seizes. His knife arm flings out, launching the knife. Amidst violent contractions that send each muscle stiff and jumpy, his knees buckle and pull me forward with him. His hand pops off with a red impression. I just grab his briefcase, tuck it under an arm, and grab his abandoned knife, all after scanning the empty lobby.

 

I skedaddle out into the dwindling sidewalk. People walk all around while I head north beside the empty street — all in pastels, green, yellow, red, blue, violet, and orange. The people ferrying umbrellas dominate with a few unprepared and drenched into black stained coal miners — clothes and all. The rain falls down in little black rivulets suspended from the heavens, black rain today. The pastels remain mostly unblemished, except near the street and sidewalk, where footsteps and vehicles would splash up. I just continue soaking up the rare drop or two. All my fellow walkers weep tremendously, like spigots turned on within each eye, releasing not a steady drip, but a laminar flow exuding hence from the entire lower eyelid just brimming over. This viscous outpouring stains a triangular swath following the contours of body and cloth.

 

Around the corner and the next block up, a dirty yellow cab picks me up for a trip home.

 

(—)

 

I disembark at a glass fronted lobby of immense double-width doors. Inside the vestibule, meter high copper planters sustain floating lilies and the like, surrounding every wall excluding the elevators framed with stainless steel panels and the other set of doors opposite. I call the elevator with the electronic ping, wait for my ride, enter, and leave on six. A walk to the end of the hallway — past the doors leads me to my apartment. I deposit my keys, bag, and rain dappled coat by the door, liberating the knife and briefcase.

 

I scan my apartment for anything out of place, not that I’m expecting it. My set of four chairs and a couch (all royal blue) form the usual half-pentaform facing an ordinary sidebar. Only a push down on the top shows it to be a raising tv stand, hiding the complexities of components below sight.

 

A narrow interstice leads to an inch or 2 thick slab of frosted glass cantilevered on a tied up bundle of steel pipes stood on end. The black grease stained metal dining chairs serve host to black covered cushions. The black-trimmed straw-printed-and-colored rug underlay this eating ensemble.

 

On back, the beech cabinets contrast the piecemeal, random dark and light pattern of knotted and clean bamboo. A dark marble of almost black — veined in yellow and purple covers these said cabinets. I probably neglected the beech trim framing man-sized mullions on the three glass walls, dividing the apartment in two at the top of the doors’ height and segmented at 3 meter increments all around. The culinary grade appliances dwarf the standard kitchen fare with a twelve-burner, fold down broiler, pot-filling faucet, double-wide fridge with a sliver of a freezer, small dishwasher of course, and garbage chutes scattered around. The electrochromic windows are actually one contiguous pane bent at sharp 90 degrees on the edges and bends.

 

On the left, the solid bedroom doors hinge open from the remaining wall of trimmed glass. I ferry the briefcase onto the puce sheeted bed on a Japanese wide-edged bed elevation mechanism which requires kneeing into and rolling out of. I turn to the windows for the stair-stepped buildings down to the river, a quarter-mile away for some clue to the combination. A pain just then torments my left belly of such severity — I brace against the dresser. My thoughts dwell on what Meagan will never do again. Climb a flight of stairs under her own power. Feel her husband’s hand in hers. Heft up her daughter now and hug her in the future. Never being alone for even a moment further in her life, constantly forced company upon. My crying might be from the tremendous pain or tremendous sadness or inability except now to feel. The tears dry out and the password is one-three-seven-one-three-seven. Our shared dorm room number times two as if he expected all these happenings.

 

I press the latches, feel a slight jiggle of restrained rotation, and drag the cracked open briefcase over to the other room’s coffee table amidst the padded furniture. Opening the case as allowed shows three pictures, one of the three of them, one of his wife, and one of his daughter. Underneath is just a stack of blank printer paper awaiting toner.

 

I lean back in the plush couch to withdraw the knife, placing it alongside the extracted picture frames and closing the briefcase. I look at each picture for the associated memory. The first one shows the three of them laid out in a circle on grass, holding hands. I look up into the top-heavy branches, stripped save the uppermost foliage. The sun shines, slightly shifted (off noon) through swaying leaves. I look right to Lizzie in a pink sweater and jeans. She’s one of those kids born with pants on. Meagan lies to the right in red plaid with a beige skirt, legs crossed. The lush grass streams through my toes.

 

The next picture shows a before and after. First Lizzie cries at poolside while the swim teacher beckons her into the water, then swimming with some semblance to happiness. I remember Meagan telling me to do something instead of taking pictures every 5 seconds. We wrap Lizzie in a towel and settle her down. Awhile later, Lizzie successfully treads water. Meagan punches me and says “Jerk!” I say, “We can talk about how big a jerk I really am later.” I lean in and whisper this in her ear.

 

The last picture is Meagan waving from the top of a cliff. We were arguing which way gets us back to the car quickest. Meagan points with accusation at the trail map. “We are here and have to go here. This is the quickest way.” Tempers running high after ending up at a closed lookout following half a day travel suggests we both go the way we think instead of debating the merits either way. I go left and Meagan goes right after we both check our radios. I walk through woods, until a clearing shows me Meagan up on that cliff. We both end up back at the car. I chose the best way back. I grab the knife.

 

GK

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Inspiration for a Novel: Frustration with Science Fiction

Remember started as a novel written just for me, addressing my issues with most fiction published today. Every science fiction novel or tv show I’ve seen except with the notable exceptions, has elements that are easily disproved. For example, electricity can’t reanimate that dead but does kill the living. Reanimation requires a few things. The reverse of everything that happens after death. First stop decay by somehow sterilizing the body (probably take a few pages to describe everything rationally needed). Remember features details not easily dismissed without field specific education or research.

The shallowness of most fiction. I find it extremely difficult to reread or rewatch almost any content. My memory precludes anything except fictional worlds that appeal to my sense of aesthetic. The repeat experience usually lends no new insights except in rare cases such as The Life of Pi, The Matrix films, Mission Impossible (the first movie), and maybe Inception. Remember is a novel that shows something new with almost every read. My writing opens itself to multiple interpretations based on the reader’s perception and point of view, but still with a clear ending.

The experience of the protagonist doesn’t match well with the reader’s experience. If the protagonist is confused, shouldn’t the reader be just as confused The protagonist forgets the past, but the reader knows what happened. The numb feeling after killing someone. The listing of emotions without the effect apparent. Remember shows everything, usually before saying anything explicit about the situation.

Throughout the revision several changes took place, namely the transition from passive to active verbs. A good portion of the writing was removed to focus the novel further in the best direction. Trimming unnecessary sentences and redundancies helped along the way. A two month break highlighted issues with flow and rhythm. Everything led to the finished Remember, or so I thought. A beta reader found a lot of small errors. I’m writing another book before digging out those errors.

Remember needs work. That’ll probably happen over the next six months.

This is the back description as it stands now.

Conor Abby’s life as a research scientist disintegrates with the murder of Irena Mekova, the second closet person to him in this world of 2417. His life was complicated enough after a brain damaging vehicle accident. Working for a clandestine organization doesn’t help matters. A relapse of retrograde amnesia leaves the truth of what really happened locked away somewhere in his mind, if only he can Remember. Are their suspicions true? Did Conor murder Irena? Why can’t he remember?

Stay tuned.

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Inception of Remember, a First Novel

 

Remember basically reduces to an internal struggle against slow and complete corruption, until escaping the hands of these corrupters. This central conflict works best considering the other options. A protagonist versus antagonist battle doesn’t reflect much of daily experience away for the criminal justice system, military service, politics, and criminal element. The ability to justly exert force over the antagonist feeds too much into existing works. The rivalry between two people competing isn’t something I’ve read but enjoy on the silver screen.

 

The struggle of protagonist against the environment reminds me of long-haul fishermen, Ernest Shackleton, and movies (not many books yet). Not something I want more of from writing. The stories that really interest me end up protagonist versus self, psychological thrillers. Remember has always been a book focused first on something I want to read then adapted to the masses. My existence omits most kinds of physicality, let alone physical or environmental conflict. The psychological conflict is more familiar to the majority of possible readers from experiences with body image and lifestyle. The need to change something but not always the ability or motivation to do so. Examples include prevention of type II diabetes, heart disease, and stroke. That is what I settled on.

 

The title of Remember means two possible things in my mind. The protagonist, Conor goes through a verification procedure for his murder conviction, involuted by a memory erasure and recovery process. This works on the principle of removing a majority of the ego, stripping away the entirety of the super-ego, and leaving just the id or complete innocence. In this state, anything remembered comes through as honestly as possible. As remembered memories return, I posit they feel less immediate (something remembered from a movie or book, not something from firsthand experience). Toss this to the fact that memories incorporated after the fact lack the full emotional and adrenal force accompanying events happening right now. This effect dissipates over time. People going through this procedure recount events freely and openly.

 

Remember also means remember what love is if a parallel storyline enters consideration, the one between Conor and Claire. In popular culture, the idea of love just means a few complications. One partner says it and the other partner wrestles their emotions until the decision falls out. Relationships are constructed into fragile, mercurial, ghostlike objects for the most tension, impact, and uncertainty. Love isn’t sex. Love isn’t physical. Love isn’t desire. Love isn’t vengeance. Love isn’t selfish. Love is connection. Love is psychological. Love is need. Love is forgiveness. Love is wanting the best for someone else without regard for self. Remember that.

 

Remember experiments with the idea of duplicity, showing one side to everyone and hiding your true self away (everybody does it to some degree). Agent 7429 must be someone close Conor, but we aren’t sure who. The clues dribble out, while Claire (Agent 7429) lies at every turn, masking her true self. Dr. Mekova plays the role of pitiable victim until the clandestine meeting where she makes a compelling oratory about Conor’s situation and alludes to possible reason, from her point of view as a member of a “terrorist group”. These double identities present a criticism of the axiom “perception is reality”, which means how others view a person determines what that person is to them. This makes sense and works to some extent, but is it the best way? Those of us plagued by shyness at some point or cynical of the way things are view this as rewarding the sycophants and refusing the hard workers. In truth, external validation means nothing beyond material gains so valued by society. Personal equity comes from internal validation. Countless studies agree that monetary gains don’t equate to happiness. In Remember, this duplicity puts the duplicitous in a position whereby they need the forgiveness or trust of others, now hard to come by.

 

The idea that dreams have importance permeates the text of Remember.  The memory therapy works by recovering lost information through dreams. This is an extension of the way dreams incorporate memories and events from everyday life; we just can’t control them well enough, yet. In other places, dreams affect daily life by influencing decision making. Take the choice to accept the “offer” from the Division (his employers). A dream just a few days before mused the opportunities and risks of this choice. The possible control of dreams shows ambivalence towards who is really in control. Each dream throughout features meaning.

 

Each part, chapter, and segment focuses on a central theme. The chapter titled Romanticism places importance on what the author feels than anything else. It contains the conversation about the end of Claire’s relationship and the dream about blowing up the Institute with Irena. Things that I feel should happen without much reason, especially that dream. The part called Blank Slate repeatedly returns to that idea. Remember is a novel that allows in-depth analysis.

 

Still working away at Remember. Some time away and little soul searching told me I wasn’t finished. Back to the editing table for now.

 

GK

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Getting Something Good Down on Paper

 

How did I come up with the novel? What inspiration triggered everything? Like most stories, it started small then took a life of its own. The beginning sparkle forms at the heels of problems people face every day. In a futuristic sci-fi novel, the prose should solve a verity of these problems. Throwing in the issues confronting society as a whole doesn’t hurt.

 

Keep in mind, my views border on extreme optimism. No post-apocalypse here. How to solve traffic, losing a phone, and lackluster entertainment? The disconnect between living in the suburbs and working in a city – true for most of us – can easily be dismissed by both occupying the same building. Would losing a phone really matter if an infinitely powerful computer lived symbiotically within each of our bodies? Simulations could use these systems to deliver an entertainment system into the brain itself. The possibility grows with each passing decade or even century.

 

The voice/style of my writing brings these ideas forth unto the page. The dissatisfaction I have with reading stems from the authors need to convey their intention. Are my imaginings of a toaster from fifty years ago less than the writer’s? I think not. This idea prioritizes content over description. My first draft read more like a play than a novel. Through extensive critiquing, I turned this into a proper novel with minimal description.

 

The contrast to this enters the surreal dreams. My ideas that psychoanalysis will return like a conquering hero, entails the interpretation of dreams as messages from the unconscious or subconscious mind. These passages approach literary vignettes disguising messages. Better authors seamlessly combine these two styles, a perfect example in Robert Ludlum.

 

These ideas are currently being ironed out for a novel worthy of agent perusal. Stay tuned for more.

 

GK


 

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How to Scare People with Writing

 

The scariest moments of my life are when I can’t breathe because of coughing or ventilator/tracheotomy issues. Reading an article about that woman without fear (i.e. lesions of amygdala, the fear center) revealed that increased carbon dioxide level trigger such a deeply ingrained that even she wasn’t immune. Throughout my reading experience, not one writer did the choking strangling experience justice. They failed mentioning the mind-numbing cold, relentless sweating, and floating above the body (the literal out of body sensation). The farthest book experiences end with the protagonist choking another person and the throat soreness.

 

Now the subject of this post, how to scare someone through writing? The art of frightening someone ends up a deeply seated manipulation no matter how you approach it. The following methods below differ only slightly in that. First you need the reader vested in the character that you plan on scaring senseless. Try watching a horror movie halfway through on mute. The scary stuff should seem completely fake or even funny because you are detached, an outside viewer. Second you need a relatable situation, anything from a single family home to a poker game. This may not sound scary, but it allows the audience to feel a little comfortable before the terror begins. Last you need contrast, something between the adrenaline rushes.  Non-stop action works for an action film, but what you want is contrast. A comfortable picnic before the zombie apocalypse, then a weapons depot before the next attack, this makes the fear that much greater.

 

 People read and watch horror for a couple of reasons. For me it is that jolt of joy after the heart-stopping fear. Then some people go for something all consuming, pure emotional experience, because apart from laughter and sadness, fear is an almost inescapable feeling. Maybe also to prove something to themselves.

 

The easiest method of freaking someone out doesn’t work that well (most easy things don’t), set up a scary situation or event the reader sees a mile ahead and force them through it. Here’s an example. Show an ax murderer waiting in a broken into home, because this is ax murderer the movie we know what’s going to happen. The family returns to slaughter. Having the murder kill another before makes the next death more frightening somehow (no escape, no one coming to the rescue). This works well for widely held fears: thanatopobia (fear of death), capture/arrest, and algopobia (pain).

 

Less democratic fears like claustrophobia or arachnophobia need something different for translation across the page. With claustrophobia transition it to thanatopobia by describing the inability to breathe, because fear sometimes causes breath holding. Maybe add the perception of the walls closing in. For arachnophobia extrapolate the spider out to unnatural proportions, 3 feet tall, etcetera. Try making it more visceral by adding the feeling of spiders crawling all over the person after just seeing the thing. These things all happen under the condition of fear. I should know. I was a scared little kid. Lygopobia, aquapobia, acropobia, arachnophobia, and possibly agoraphobia all long past abandoned but not forgotten.

 

Now the esoteric fears like fear of elevators and flight pobia need a more explanatory identifier. Try the rational approach of explaining why the fear came fo be. Take elevators. Maybe the character got stuck in an elevator alone as a child for a couple of hours. Or experienced very bad air turbulence with a few seconds drop that triggered the oxygen masks. What defining moment solidified that fear? The anxiety thought mechanism should prove effective otherwise. Lists for the audience what could possibly go wrong. Dying from extended time trapped onboard. Choking to death if a fire starts downstairs. An extreme utilization of this ends with pretending one of these situations is happening, then “realizing” it actually isn’t. These methods should handle any fear situation you need to write.

 

There is going to be change in the direction of this blog. From now on, it’ll be mostly autobiographical and short stories with my writing slant. Feel free to contact me with any opinions.

 

GK


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