November 22, 1946

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     During the summer of 1939, it was decided by the board of the Cross Branch of Miskatonic University to expand the school’s Antiquities Department by constructing a second building that would be dedicated solely to that field of study. Issues with various permits, ownership rights, and other legalities prevented the work from beginning immediately.

     Groundbreaking on the project didn’t begin until late October 1941, and less than six weeks later, the Japanese launched their attack on Pearl Harbor. With America on a war footing, the addition for the school was put on hold, and it was not resumed until 1946.

     On the morning of November 22, 1946, the construction crew excavating the cellar for the new building, struck a wall beneath the surface.

     The wall was carved from stone not native to New England, and it had been buried twelve feet below ground level. The lead engineer on the project, with the assistance of some of the faculty and staff of the school, determined there was a chamber beyond the wall.

     With hastily gathered archaeological equipment, the ad hoc team gained access to the chamber and was shocked to discover the mummified remains of an Orthodox Christian priest. Later analysis of his clothes and other items in the room showed he had been interned sometime in the late 1800s, and when his name was sent to the head of the Orthodox faith, it was learned that the priest had been a Syrian bishop.

     The Church requested the body be returned to them, but the school declined to do so.

     The Syrian Bishop remains beneath the Antiquities Building, a department’s silent protector.

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Dialogue is a Killer

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      Dialogue is a killer.

     Stress the vernacular and local dialect too much, and you can leave a reader struggling to understand what the hell they just said.

     Make it too formal, and the reader will know they’re reading as they think, What? No one talks like that.

     Dialogue is a fine line, and while you can step over it here and there, you simply cannot walk all over it. There has to be a way to put your point across, and to keep your characters intact.

     I’m a New Englander. I know how we sound (hell, I know how I sound, and it’s a train-wreck). Some others out there in the whole wide world might know as well. We have our own curious statements, such as, “Down east,” and “ayuh.” We’re quite fond of sayings such as, “Passing strange,” and “you can’t get there from here,” or, “best to go back the way you come.” I can see Leominster, and know that it’s pronounced, “Lemon-stir.” And while it’s annoying to hear Harvard pronounced as “Hahvahd,” I know what someone means when they say it.

     Not everyone does.

     In fact, when you get down to the southern edge of Connecticut, you’ll hear more of a New York accent than you will a Boston. Out in the middle of the country, people talk slower than is polite (for a New Englander). Southerners and those from the West Coast are so relaxed, that when I first met some guys from those parts of the country, I thought they were all high they were so relaxed.

     The point of this long, and rambling little diatribe is this: we all know what we’re supposed to sound like, but more importantly, we all think we know what the rest of the country is supposed to sound like as well.

     If I say my character is from New Hampshire, and he or she speaks, a reader is going to imagine the nasally, clipped words of a New Englander who can’t seem to slow down enough for their own funeral. New Englanders, on the other hand, are going to imagine someone speaking exactly the way they should.

     If you have a character from Boston, you don’t need to write a line such as, “Pahk the cah in Hahvahd yahd.”

     “Park the car in Harvard yard,” will work just fine. Everyone knows what folks from Boston like. Writing the dialogue in dialect or phonetically will break that suspension of disbelief that is so crucial to entertainment, and with the reader’s attention distracted, it will difficult to bring them back in.

     So, fight that urge to make the character believable by writing in dialect. Sure, you can drop a ‘g’ here or there. Adjust an apostrophe if you like. Just don’t mangle the English language. It gets abused enough as it is.

Keep writing!

     Nicholas

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November 21, 1900

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     Anyone from New England can tell you time runs differently during the winter. Some days are far too long, and some nights stretch on interminably. And while the days can be difficult, the nights are often murderous.

     November 21, 1900, Georgia Phelps survived a night abnormally long.

     Georgia lived alone in a small forester’s hut at the back end of the Coffin Farm. At the age of 30, she was considered an old maid, and she was pleased with the label. Marriage had never seemed particularly pleasing to her since she believed it would prevent her from enjoying her solitude in the woods.

     On the evening of November 21, Georgia noticed an absence of game from the nearby forest. None of the normal birdsong or animal cries could be heard, and the stillness was disquieting.

As she drank her after-dinner coffee, Georgia saw movement in the tree-line. It was a tall, slim manlike shape. She caught a glimpse of dark gray skin and orange eyes and curved swords.

     Georgia was a practical woman, and not one to doubt what she saw. She went to her gun cabinet, retrieved her lever-action rifle and its ammunition, and took up a position at the window in the front room.

     For 14 hours, she kept up a continuous fire, and when Duncan Blood and several members of the Coffin clan arrived at sunrise, they found 172 corpses. All of which were burned over the following three days.

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Why Horror?

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     Regardless of what genre you write in – historical fiction, romance, literary fiction, sci-fi, fantasy, horror – you inevitably have someone ask you, ‘Why?’

     I get that a lot. Especially with horror.

    ‘Why horror? The world’s bad enough as it is.’

     And that’s why I write horror, because of the way the world is. When you turn on the news, which has connected us to the farthest reaches of the globe, you learn of the misery of others. This isn’t new, of course, we all know that there is suffering in the world. Television and the internet have merely joined forces to put an extremely human face on the plight of others.

     Horror lets you escape that by showing you something horrific that is identifiable, and controllable.

     Is the story too terrible to read? Put the book down. You know it’s fiction.

     That’s why I write horror. Especially supernatural horror. There is an element of control to the process of dealing with horror as a writer. I take the world as I see it (which is not pleasant) and I deal with it in my own way.

     I have a short story about racism, assault, and vengeance, three subjects which are difficult to handle when experienced in the real world. In my story, these are still difficult, but there is a supernatural element that enables one of the offended parties to exact revenge.

     Writing horror is a catharsis for me. Reading it can be as well. The popularity of horror as a genre waxes and wanes, as does anything, but Stephen King points out how we can measure the level of fear and stress in our society by the horror we produce.

     Look at the monster films of the 50s and 60s. We have radioactive beasts assaulting America and Japan. One of those countries dropped the bomb, and one of them had the bomb dropped on them. Is it any wonder that both the US and Japan would fear the A-Bomb? That they would fear the effects of it?

     So, when someone asks you why you write horror, tell them why. And if you like, tell them you write horror because it’s less frightening than reading the news.

Keep writing!

     Nicholas

 

 

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