Mouth of Madness


Once, a long time ago, I had a really weird dream about alien abduction.

I was in a huge warehouse space with a large crowd of people. We were all being held there somehow. Not restrained. Just…kept inside the warehouse into which we’d been corralled and were waiting around for…something to happen.


Somehow I became aware that aliens were about to transport us out of there or do something else, and in fear, rage, and a sense of helplessness, I started yelling, “Are we gonna just stand here and let them do whatever they want? What are we doing?! Let’s get out of here!”

A stampede toward the door ensued, and then we were all running pell-mell down a hill while strange airships chased us in the air overhead.


I remember the dream vividly, which is odd, because I generally don’t recall my dreams at all, much less ones that I had almost a decade ago.

So what am I talking about? The fact that I’ve been abducted by aliens probably? Or I’ve witnessed some kind of alien activity and been brainwashed to forget it?

No! I’m talking about the fact that out of the feeling of helplessness, frustration, fear, and anger, I wrote a paranormal comedy called Day for Night wherein the protagonist turns to supernatural means in order to “fight” an alien threat. That came out in 2016. (Cover redesign pending!)


Now, two years later, I’ve finally finished the sequel. It’s not out yet. I still have to tweak it then send it to the publisher. Yeah, it’s light, yeah, it’s chick-lity, yeah, it’s comedy. But it’s mine! And it’s done!

And it did not take two years write. Oh, no. I had a wonderful case of writer’s block for well over a year that had me shackled and gagged in a dark basement until I finally made my heroic escape.


I had no time to write the sequel, actually. I basically wrote it one chapter at a time on any Saturday that I could manage it over many, many months. Anytime “real life” encroached and I missed a Saturday, a sense of loss and an ever-increasing panic would consume me as if I had lost my child at a carnival or I’d woken from a nap to find everyone in the world gone.

After all: not a vampire. Not gonna live forever.


And as far as the process of writing goes, it would be great if it was like floating in a rainbow, surrounded by ponies and fudge brownies and friendly dolphins.

But writing, when you’re even able to write, is like being in the mouth of madness: never satisfied, never good, never complete, never right, never ready, never strong, never worthy. Until the poles switch, and before it switches back to dull and wrong and rough and cheesy, it’s worthy and strong and ready and right and bold and fine and good.