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Which would be saying something if in fact I had a mustache.

(Mustache feeling)

The novel Iapos;ve been trying to write for, uh, years now is begging my attention... "Come play with us for a bit," the characters seem to say...

When I met Michael Boatman (actor and writer; you might remember him from�Spin City... He also writes horror stories, it turns out...)�at Horrorfind, I mentioned The Novel to him, about how Iapos;ve been trying to write it but nothing doing, and he said "Iapos;ve got one of those too."

Some small bit of my brain is thinking "Well, NaNoWriMo is coming up..." but the rest of me is thinking "Scared of Girls is NOT a NaNoWriMo novel... Maybe if I were younger..."

Yeah... Younger... Iapos;m not getting any younger. Considering that most of the main characters of The Novel�that Would Not Die are teenagers... I havenapos;t been a teenager for some time, and my memories of that time arenapos;t so terribly fresh... Maybe because the sooner I put those years behind me, the better...

of course, thanks to Facebook, I am now "friends" with quite a few people from my high school years... Including one person I considered an enemy...

Itapos;s not like these people I knew back then�are the people populating the novel, but still...

But thatapos;s not my concern. Not really. Not now.

Was more of a... Fictional concern... Delving into territories unknown to me... When I was starting out... When the Novel was just going to be�a short story...�I had gone to the library to look at assorted books about the occult... But around that same time there was that X-Files episode about the high school where the faculty was made up of Satanists... So I cooled off a bit. Dwelled more on the human factor, not the monsters (if there were going to be any, in fact). This is stuff Iapos;ve mentioned before, so long story short, short story became a novel. Kind of wanted to tell a story about me and my friends at a certain point in our lives... And reminisce about cool stuff that was no longer so prevalent... And, of course, apologize to women everywhere.

Of course, that time of my life is... Ten years gone, and counting. Drive-in theaters are few and far between, but the late-night "creature features" are making something of a comeback. And I still want to apologize to women everywhere.

Oddly enough, on the occasions Iapos;ve read excerpts of The Novel at writerapos;s groups, the women laugh loudest and longest at the travails of my teenaged narrator as he gets into trouble he had no intention of getting into... Heapos;s strangely likeable, which I wasnapos;t expecting.

But thatapos;s not my concern either. Not really. Not now.

My concern was, well, whether the monsters should be real or not. My "One sentence Hollywood summary" of The Novel would run "A teenager begins to doubt his sanity after a series of strange occurrences." And these occurrences would include seeing things that most people donapos;t normally see... Like monsters... Ghosts... Most notably, the ghost of a twenty-something lady� who hangs around him a lot, claiming to be his guardian angel. And did I mention monsters?

Hereapos;s where Iapos;m stepping into unknown territory... As much as Iapos;m into monster movies and suchlike, Iapos;m something of�a skeptic when it comes to ghosts. My thoughts about an afterlife start and stop at Ghostbusters, BeetleJuice, and The Frighteners. And the Deadman comics. I havenapos;t read a whole lot of ghost stories... None I can remember, anyway. Apparently there is a "formula" for ghost stories, much as there might be "formulae" for other sorts of stories.

Or maybe this is just a way of me saying "I donapos;t believe in ghosts" or rather "I donapos;t want to believe" or... I donapos;t know... Itapos;s grist for another journal entry...

And for another, because they just wonapos;t go away, thereapos;s already a spate of books out there wherein the characters are teenagers, and they have run-ins with the supernatural, and of course, we have such things now as vampires who SPARKLE in the sunlight instead of bursting into flame and crumbling into dust... Is there room for my nonsense about my teenaged narrator who somehow has THE�SIGHT (not that Iapos;d call it that)? Seeing slithery things crawling around peopleapos;s shoulders, whispering in their ears... The statue of the townapos;s founder lowering its head and scowling more deeply than usual... The drawings in an old�book changing ever so slightly...�A tall, thin, black-haired,�pallid but reasonably attractive�woman sitting on the edge of his bed, the light of the TV shining through her torso...

not to mention the whole�notion of my teenaged male narrator having... those kinds of feelings for this mysterious figure... Would it be necrophilia if they did anything?

"Ectoplasm" is such a fun word...

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