Greetings, Fire Enthusiasts.

So, I interacted with someone on Substack this week concerning their spouse reading and re-reading their WIPs. I congratulated this person, but was a bit jealous. You see, my wife suffers enough nightmares on her own without needing help from me. She did read one of my novels once.

Once.

I have six now. Number seven is currently in the gestation period. More on that on a later post.

Why do I do it, you may ask? Write horror? I see it on the upturned faces I sometimes meet at book events or at my table out front of a local store where my books can be found. Good question. I enjoy telling people that I go to church every Sunday hoping never to encounter some of the things I write about. So why then?

Looking back, I recall having very little interest in reading. Everything people wanted me to read felt like a punishment, as it does when young. Then, in my early teens, I discovered rock music, and eventually heavy metal. We call that Classic Rock now. And sometimes elevator music! laughs I had a measure of freedom that I had never had before, and that music and those bands were captivating. Taboo, perhaps. I realized later that those bands used dark imagery mostly to be noticed. And get girls. Very few, if any, were actually into the dark stuff they sang about and projected. Hell, Alice Cooper and Blackie Lawless are openly Christian now, last I heard.

It was at this time that I was suddenly old enough to watch spooky films. Not necessarily horror yet, but getting there.

And then, I found scary books.

And then something clicked.

The Amityville Horror. Jaws. Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Headhunter. Salem’s Lot. The Great and Secret Show. Interview With A Vampire.

You wanted me to read, so I’m reading now. Aren’t you happy?

Soon, I began dabbling writing my own fiction. I did buy an electric guitar. I still have it, but I was too old and distracted to pursue it to the level it needed. I attempted to write my own song lyrics then too. However, the size was stifling. I needed more room. Writing, I found, I could do. Of course, everything was garbage. But it was a start.

It took me twenty years to write that first novel, Dance on Fire. It’s my series that explores whether a vampire can be used for good. It isn’t Christian fiction. There will be blood. lots of it. I dreamt during those two decades of seeing my name on the spine of a book. I never thought it would ever happen. Long story short, I just didn‘t have the time (marriage, career, children) and, more importantly, the needed discipline. If I didn’t have three hours to write, I threw a fit. It wasn’t until I turned thirty-eight that I realized the regret that I was facing if I never dusted off that manuscript and completed it. Suddenly, if I had forty-five minutes, I got busy writing!

Right there is the lesson from the text, as the preachers say. Have no regrets, my friends.

After I followed the pretty girl to her church, as we do, I took a step back. Perhaps I’m not supposed to be - what’s the word I used earlier? Dabbling? Perhaps I’m not supposed to be writing about these dark subjects. I even quit for a while and wrote about Godly subjects. It didn’t last very long. I missed the dark stuff. In the end, I realized something. I liked riding roller coasters. It wasn’t a lifestyle. You got on one, you got off. So, here I am, trying the next thing to get noticed out there in a sea of books. Substack. Blogging again after eleven years. [Author’s note: please don’t tell my eldest son what I just said about roller coasters. He’s been trying to get me back on those.]

I would rather try and fail, then give up and make it a certainty.

That’s another lesson from the text.

Lastly, on those rare occasions that my wife has a nightmare. I listen intently and remorsefully, holding a sad expression on my face like one of those handheld masquerade masks. When she’s done, I ask, dramatically exasperated: “Did you write it down?” Grins

We’ll talk soon.