This is Melissa. Read her books because they're awesome. I have some pretty fabulous author friends. This week, my friend Melissa—a fantastic writer and amazing woman—touched base and found me frazzled. She asked how she could help. I asked her for a blog post. She responded with this reflective gem of a piece about challenging oneself as a writer.
No Such Thing as a Comfort Zone
by Melissa F. Crandall
“So,” says She Who Must Be Obeyed—aka SWMBO or, for ease of reading, Swumbo—otherwise known as the Fearless Leader of our writers’ group, “I’m putting out an anthology in October of scary stories by Connecticut writers.” In addition to being a writer, she is also a small press publisher. “I’m lining up several authors, living and dead.”
You’d have to know her to appreciate my momentary frisson, and the fleeting image that whips through my head of her in Woodlawn Cemetery dragging Mark Twain from his grave by one leg.
“I want two stories from each of you.” Focused on her laptop, she speaks to the air.
“Okay,” sez Dan. He probably has a tattered Navy sea bag in his attic packed with so much stuff that all he needs to do is dust off a couple stories and submit them.
“Okay,” sez Terry, although how the woman finds time to write with the work schedule she keeps is beyond me.
“Okay,” sez John, with only a slight out-break of perspiration along his brow. He has so many irons in the fire that I’m pretty certain he doesn’t sleep more than one hour a night.
“Um …” sez I.
Swumbo’s right eyebrow twitches, although her gaze never leaves the computer screen. “Yes?”
The frost in that single word warns, “Be careful where you tread, bitch.” It’s enough to make Sauron reconsider.
“Well,” I say, being the sort of fool who presses on where angels fear to tread, “I don’t know if I’ll have time. I’m in the middle of revisions on the elephant book and need to make that my priority.”
I’m not weaseling and she knows it, but neither is she buying it. The eyebrow climbs a fraction higher. I can almost hear it creak.
“I can try.” Now I’m dithering. Swumbo has that effect on people. “I just can’t promise, and I don’t … really … write … horror.” This is true.
Swumbo doesn’t give a rat’s toches. Slowly, like a leviathan stirring in its primordial ooze, she lifts her head and fixes me with a gimlet eye. “Just do it.”
I wilt. “I guess I could rework an old piece.”
“F**k you,” she says without rancor. For Swumbo, this is a term of endearment. “Just do it.”
Horror writing scares me. Yeah, I know--duh. What I really mean is that it intimidates me. The writing of horror takes, I believe, a gentle hand on the tiller. I don’t go in for the slash-and-burn, splash blood on the walls variety, but give me subtlety and I’m hooked. One example that comes to mind is Stephen King’s The Shining. I tried to put down that book when the terror became immense, and failed. That stinking story kept me up all night … and for several nights afterward.
If I was going to write two stories for Swumbo, they needed to be my best work. Otherwise, I’d no business being in the craft. And, said a little voice at the back of my mind, if you aren’t a writer willing to challenge yourself, why bother?
Damn it.
One of the things I like best about being a writer is the opportunity to push boundaries—mine as well as other people’s—and conquer new territory. And here I was quailing at the thought of trying my hand at horror? Shame on me!
Somewhere, somewhen, I’d read that Stephen King conjured up the things that scared him when considering subjects to write about. I thought about vacant houses … dolls … clowns (well, we all know that one has been done up tight with a pretty bow) … nightmares … ghosts … vampires …
And I remembered the house I’d grown up in, a 500-year-old former way-station, a house so old the attic beams bore tree bark and were held together by hand-forged spikes. The field-stone cellar had a dirt floor and smelled of ancient dust, an odor like the grave. Cobwebs draped the ceiling joists. Shadows loomed in the corners where oddments of family junk were stored.
I walked closer; afraid, yes, but willing to take a look at what was piled there. A bone emerged. It was a slender one, a fibula maybe, but enough to build around, enough to stand on if I could only find a foot …
It took several weeks, but in the end Swumbo looked at me after reading my submission and smiled with pride. “I knew you could do it,” she said.
I grinned. Better yet, I knew it.
Melissa Crandall is the author of Weathercock, Darling Wendy and Other Stories, and four science fiction media tie-in novels. Her work has appeared in Allegory, Chicken Soup for the Soul, and on The Drunken Odyssey podcast. You can find more of Melissa’s talented musings at http://melissacrandall.writersresidence.com.
No Such Thing as a Comfort Zone
by Melissa F. Crandall
“So,” says She Who Must Be Obeyed—aka SWMBO or, for ease of reading, Swumbo—otherwise known as the Fearless Leader of our writers’ group, “I’m putting out an anthology in October of scary stories by Connecticut writers.” In addition to being a writer, she is also a small press publisher. “I’m lining up several authors, living and dead.”
You’d have to know her to appreciate my momentary frisson, and the fleeting image that whips through my head of her in Woodlawn Cemetery dragging Mark Twain from his grave by one leg.
“I want two stories from each of you.” Focused on her laptop, she speaks to the air.
“Okay,” sez Dan. He probably has a tattered Navy sea bag in his attic packed with so much stuff that all he needs to do is dust off a couple stories and submit them.
“Okay,” sez Terry, although how the woman finds time to write with the work schedule she keeps is beyond me.
“Okay,” sez John, with only a slight out-break of perspiration along his brow. He has so many irons in the fire that I’m pretty certain he doesn’t sleep more than one hour a night.
“Um …” sez I.
Swumbo’s right eyebrow twitches, although her gaze never leaves the computer screen. “Yes?”
The frost in that single word warns, “Be careful where you tread, bitch.” It’s enough to make Sauron reconsider.
“Well,” I say, being the sort of fool who presses on where angels fear to tread, “I don’t know if I’ll have time. I’m in the middle of revisions on the elephant book and need to make that my priority.”
I’m not weaseling and she knows it, but neither is she buying it. The eyebrow climbs a fraction higher. I can almost hear it creak.
“I can try.” Now I’m dithering. Swumbo has that effect on people. “I just can’t promise, and I don’t … really … write … horror.” This is true.
Swumbo doesn’t give a rat’s toches. Slowly, like a leviathan stirring in its primordial ooze, she lifts her head and fixes me with a gimlet eye. “Just do it.”
I wilt. “I guess I could rework an old piece.”
“F**k you,” she says without rancor. For Swumbo, this is a term of endearment. “Just do it.”
Horror writing scares me. Yeah, I know--duh. What I really mean is that it intimidates me. The writing of horror takes, I believe, a gentle hand on the tiller. I don’t go in for the slash-and-burn, splash blood on the walls variety, but give me subtlety and I’m hooked. One example that comes to mind is Stephen King’s The Shining. I tried to put down that book when the terror became immense, and failed. That stinking story kept me up all night … and for several nights afterward.
If I was going to write two stories for Swumbo, they needed to be my best work. Otherwise, I’d no business being in the craft. And, said a little voice at the back of my mind, if you aren’t a writer willing to challenge yourself, why bother?
Damn it.
One of the things I like best about being a writer is the opportunity to push boundaries—mine as well as other people’s—and conquer new territory. And here I was quailing at the thought of trying my hand at horror? Shame on me!
Somewhere, somewhen, I’d read that Stephen King conjured up the things that scared him when considering subjects to write about. I thought about vacant houses … dolls … clowns (well, we all know that one has been done up tight with a pretty bow) … nightmares … ghosts … vampires …
And I remembered the house I’d grown up in, a 500-year-old former way-station, a house so old the attic beams bore tree bark and were held together by hand-forged spikes. The field-stone cellar had a dirt floor and smelled of ancient dust, an odor like the grave. Cobwebs draped the ceiling joists. Shadows loomed in the corners where oddments of family junk were stored.
I walked closer; afraid, yes, but willing to take a look at what was piled there. A bone emerged. It was a slender one, a fibula maybe, but enough to build around, enough to stand on if I could only find a foot …
It took several weeks, but in the end Swumbo looked at me after reading my submission and smiled with pride. “I knew you could do it,” she said.
I grinned. Better yet, I knew it.
Melissa Crandall is the author of Weathercock, Darling Wendy and Other Stories, and four science fiction media tie-in novels. Her work has appeared in Allegory, Chicken Soup for the Soul, and on The Drunken Odyssey podcast. You can find more of Melissa’s talented musings at http://melissacrandall.writersresidence.com.
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