So, on Friday I started a story.  Or, possibly, the story started me.  Really I opened up a Word document and just started typing to get this one line out of my head.  And from that flowed several more, and then there were paragraphs.  Pretty soon I had character, and then another one, and then there was a tragedy, and, voila!  Conflict was born.

That day I got something like two thousand words done.  Saturday I got another thousand-ish (which is me speak for slightly under a thousand), and today I got a thousand seven fifty.  I don’t think I’m done for the day, either.

It’s kinda interesting to me, cause I know where I’ll be sending this one when it’s done, and if it doesn’t make it there, it’ll go to Cemetery Dance.  If it doesn’t sell there, well, there are definitely markets for this type of stuff.  Oh, what type is it?  It’s a ghost story.

Y’see, there’s this clueless guy, and his girlfriend, and then there’s an unexplained tragedy, and then she’s a ghost, and boy is she pissed.  I’m about halfway into it, so I’m just at the point of really pissing off the dead girl.  At which point she goes all poltergeisty and stuff, and then the guy gets to suffer.

Yes, I said suffer.  He’s clueless, and everyone knows the clueless only learn through suffering.  No, really, I don’t find that I’m that mean.  On average, I suppose I might be a bit mean, but generally, I think I’m quite nice, why do you ask?

I wasn’t planning to write a ghost story; it was supposed to be a Jersey Devil meets Children of the Corn meets genetically modified bees.  And there was supposed to be a plucky girl protagonist, with brains and smarts and sex appeal without being a slut.  Instead, I’ve got a west Texas cowboy who plays guitar and reads Aristophanes.  And a ghost.

Sometimes I wonder where my brain gets this stuff.