It’s Been a While

Hello all. It’s been a while since my last post and I figured it was time for an update lest anyone think I succumbed to the frustration of the job search, walked into the woods, and never came back out again.

While there hasn’t been a big, blog worthy event, there have been a few things worth noting and some thoughts clinking around in my brain. You have been warned. Read on at your own risk.

The Work In Progress

In my last post I talked about how I was having trouble settling on a novel to write. I considered whether I had a fear of commitment when it came to novel writing. Well, I have finally committed to a tale. I’m excited about it. I hope the excitement sticks.

The Ugly Side of the Internet

Social media, and much of the internet in general, gets ugly(er) during an election year. It just does. I’ve come to terms with it, and while I wish people could be a bit more civil in their discussions, at least the discussions are happening. That said, there’s only so much vitriol I can take before I hear a primal rage scream that, as it turns out, is coming from me. My sanity benefits greatly from closing the laptop, silencing the notifications on my devices, and walking into the woods—threatening never to return.

Unfortunately, election year also coincides with my search for full time employment. Given the kind of work I’m looking for, it’s not the best time to slash my internet time. Now’s the time to prove I’m a social media goddess who navigates the digital world with ease and panache. I need to be expanding my presence, not narrowing it. So, I spend a few minutes here, a few minutes there, and refuse to engage in the outrage, which brings me to…

Can We Please Talk About the Toddler?

Look, I’m not going to rehash the whole story about Harambe and the Cincinnati Zoo. Unless you’ve been living under a rock, you’ve heard it. I’m not going to talk about the perceived negligence of the mother of the child who fell into the gorilla enclosure, nor will I discuss the merits of tranquilizer darts vs. bullets, or whether Harambe was protecting the child, or whether zoos should be shut down. Instead, I’d like to focus on the little boy.

Imagine, for a second, growing up knowing that there were people outraged about the decision to save your life. Imagine growing up knowing that a large number of people valued the life of a gorilla (that they probably hadn’t even heard of previously) more than yours. Doesn’t feel very good, does it? Of course I’m sad about Harambe, but my heart breaks for the child.

I just hope this child is being shielded from the outrage and that things on the internet maybe can disappear after all, buried under the newest news of the day, because if I had to live with the evidence of how little people valued my life, well…

I’d walk into the woods and never come back out again.

This Is Just How It Goes Sometimes

It’s always good to hear from writers when things are going well: when a project has been picked up or published, when momentum is strong and daily word count is high, when there’s sage wisdom to impart. These posts give all of the rest of us hope that we’re not wasting our lives (and advice about what to do when we’re banging our heads on the desk, feeling like we are). These posts are necessary.

Also necessary are the posts that say, “Hey, writing is awesome. It comes with some great rewards, but a lot of the time it’s more like this.” Well…

Hey, writing is awesome. It comes with some great rewards, but a lot of the time it’s more like this:

Let’s talk about those works in progress.

I wasn’t quite done with 13 Morbid Tales when I started keeping notes for a novel. In fact, I often had to remind myself to focus on the task at hand; 13MT had a deadline and the novel did not. Nevertheless, I was chomping at the bit to start typing away at my new—clearly brilliant—idea. So, with 13MT finally finished and out, I sat down and began working on this wonderful new project…

…and it was just bad. It was hackwork wrapped in cliché, skipping down Redundancy Road. I put it aside until I could bring something new and fresh to the table and went back to the drawing board.

It was as if the new idea was already there. It was so much better, so much darker, than the dreck I’d just put aside. Chapter one flowed from my brain through my fingers to the page in record time. This was it! I was on fire! I was telling everybody about it!

Guess how long the cursor has been sitting on the first page of chapter two. Actually, no. Don’t. It’s embarrassing. Also, I think I hate chapter one. “It is not going well, friend. It is not going well,” I answered when a friend asked. I do, however, have some great notes—for a third freaking novel. Yeah.

I’m seriously starting to think that I have a fear of commitment when it comes to writing novels.

Let’s talk about that job search.

I’m still in pursuit of a full time writing job: firing off resumes, applications, and cover letters. In some instances, I’m taking writing tests. Now, I like writing tests. Writing tests are good. They keep me sharp and, since it was literally illegal for me to retain samples from my last writing job, they give me a chance to prove myself in the face of my relatively slim portfolio.

Keeping that in mind, it makes it sting all the more when the writing test doesn’t result in further interviews. I get that job hunts as a whole are full of rejection, hundreds of people applying for the same job. I get that the writing life as a whole is full of rejection, hundreds of manuscripts on the same desk. But holy crow! Combine the two, it’s like Rejection-palooza over here.

I can remind myself that, this is just how it goes sometimes, all day long. Eventually, the doubt sets in and I ask myself why in the world I chose to be a writer. Then I remember that thing I’ve said many times before and will say many times again, “I did not choose the writing life. The writing life chose me.”

And in the end, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Marshmallow Peeps and S’mores

It all started when a former colleague posted this little gem on Facebook.

The Debate

Now, if you’re like me, you’re appalled that anyone eats these at all. Marshmallow Peeps, in my view, are Easter’s version of candy corn. Nobody in their right mind eats them when there are still chocolates and Starbursts to be had. I commented that, for this reason, I’d never actually eaten a fresh peep so I couldn’t properly weigh in on the fresh vs. stale debate. I may have also called peeps an abomination that could have only come from Hell to begin with.

However, as this very serious—ly hilarious debate continued, I started to get curious. I voiced the curiosity, stating that I wondered how peeps would be in s’mores made with peanut butter eggs.

And so here we are.

None of the companies represented have compensated me in any way. All opinions are my own.

None of the companies represented have compensated me in any way. All opinions are my own.

In case any of my readers have never been around a campfire, the recipe for s’mores is simple: toasted marshmallow and a square of chocolate pressed between two graham crackers.

I’m lucky enough to have a working fireplace in my apartment, so the microwave method of “toasting” peeps was out. If I was going to eat one of those sugary little bastards, I was going to toast it over a real fire.

Back! Back to the fiery hell from whence ye came, sugar demon!

Back! Back to the fiery hell from whence ye came, sugar demon!

As I unwrapped the peanut butter egg that I knew was already delicious enough on its own, I seriously considered abandoning the whole s’mores idea and just eating the damned egg, but since it was only one of four, and I truly was curious, I continued on.

Yes, I cleaned my counter first.

Yes, I cleaned my counter first.

I don’t have much of a sweet tooth; salty snacks are my jam. As curious as I was, I brought that gooey, diabetic nightmare of a mini sandwich to my lips in slow motion. My curiosity did not equate to a belief that I would like it. In fact, I was hoping to write a scathing review of this atrocity.

Instead, I need to go buy more peanut butter eggs so hubby and I can finish the remaining peeps. Seriously, that s’more was that good. It was the kind of good that must really be evil because nothing truly good is ever that enjoyable.

It's safe to say that hubby also liked it.

It’s safe to say that hubby also liked it.

Of course, now that I know I like Marshmallow Peeps enough to make s’mores with them, now that they’ve proven themselves a useful holiday candy, I almost feel bad about toasting their cute little sugar-butts.

See? I have a heart.

I Got Some!

Snow, that is.

In my last post, I talked about how much I missed the snow. Readers are lucky; they only had to deal with my lamentations for the length of the post. My poor husband had to hear it all week, which made our Saturday plans pretty clear. Stop whining about it; get in the car, and make the drive to Mount Baker to go play in the snow.

The squee-ing started right about here.

The squee-ing started right about here.

It’s safe to say that I was in a bit of a funk last week. The writing life was not satisfying. The job hunt even less so (but I can type “motivated self-starter” in my sleep now; so that’s something). And we all know how jealous I was when I saw pictures of the east coast snow littering my social media feeds. Okay, maybe it was more homesickness than jealousy, but you get it.

Anyway, this cheered me considerably:

Snow Day

It also cheered me considerably that my car and its serious snow tires performed just fine. The roads were actually very well maintained and the weather conditions at the time were no worse than anything I’d faced driving in Pennsylvania or Connecticut. I guess I was being a bigger baby about that than I had to be.

20160206_120811

When Joe and I spend a day playing on any one of the seriously majestic mountains around here, it’s standard procedure for us to stop for dinner on the way home. It’s also standard procedure for us to order whatever the heck we want (diets be damned!), because it isn’t as if we spent the day on the couch. This Saturday was no different.

We stopped at a little place called Crave ‘N Burgers & Brew that has fried cheese curds so good that I will never eat a standard mozzarella stick again. Well, no. That’s not true. I will eat mozzarella sticks again because fried cheese of any kind is pretty delicious, but I will cry because nothing will ever stand up to the glory of Crave ‘N Burgers & Brew’s fried cheese curds. I’m not joking here. I enjoyed my burger and my fries and my brew too, but I will dream about that tasty, cheesy decadence.

I was certainly in a funk, but it seems all I needed was a day in the snow and some artery clogging, fried appetizer goodness to set me right again.

Look out world! I’m back to my usual bright, cheery…

Nope. I couldn’t even finish typing that with a straight face. We’ll just say I’ve been renewed and refreshed.

Yes, Actually, I DO Miss It

Back when Joseph and I were still living in Connecticut and merely considering our move to the gorgeous Pacific Northwest, I bombarded him with questions about the climate. He had lived in Washington previously while serving in the Navy and so he could tell me whether I would still see fall foliage (I would, but none nearly as lovely as I’d witnessed in Pennsylvania or in New England). He could tell me, when I asked about snow, that it would snow, but not enough to bother taking our snow shovels with us. I balked a bit at this, but was reminded that if I really wanted to see snow, I could drive to the mountains and there some snow would be.

Well, that’s just not the same. I’m going to say it loudly and with confidence: I miss the snow! Given that the vast majority of my friends and family are back east and under feet of snow right now, I can anticipate the responses of those currently snowed in. So before anyone gets the chance to impart collected snow-time proverbs, here are my collected snow-time proverb responses.

You wouldn’t be saying you miss the snow if you had to shovel it.

You talk like I‘ve forgotten. I assure you I haven’t. I mean, you can’t really forget this:

Waterford, CT; January 2011. I know; I know. It’s not me in that picture, but I assure you, I did some serious shovel time that day too.

Waterford, CT, January 2011
I know, I know. It’s not me in that picture, but I promise I did some serious shovel time that day too.

Approximately two weeks after that photo was taken, we left on our trip to Iceland where we not only got a break from the cold and the shoveling, but also sympathy from Icelanders about the harsh weather we’d been experiencing back home. Apparently, our weather made news there. Then we came back home to it.

No, I have not forgotten how annoying it is to finish shoveling just for it to start snowing again. I have not forgotten the floods of tears I cried when I finished digging out the mailboxes just to have the damn plow come by and cover them again. I have not forgotten about the expert maneuvers required to pull my car out of the shared driveway because the neighbors couldn’t be bothered to clear their side nearly as well as we cleared ours, opting instead for some seriously dicked up parking jobs.

I haven’t forgotten and I still have the audacity to miss it.

But you get the best of both worlds! You really could just drive to the mountains.

First, that’s not entirely true. Those mountain passes do get a lot of snow. That means that those mountain passes often close. While you can still get to the snow line (ski resorts depend on this), you’d better have the right vehicle. I can put snow tires and chains on my Charger all I want; it’s still rear wheel drive and not built for snow. I always laugh at those Dodge commercials that have Chargers just a rippin’ through the snow like it’s nothing. I hold my car in higher regard than I hold most people, but I’ve seen romantic comedies more realistic than those commercials. Not only that, but those mountains are a bit further away than they appear. I’d have to drive at least an hour just to get to the weather people avoid driving in. Point is, it’s actually much less convenient for me to get to the mountains than one might assume.

And again, it’s just not the same. Part of the joy of snow—yes, I said it—the joy of snow, is sitting by your own window with a hot cup of tea (spiked or not), watching said snow come down. I miss that. I also miss the, “Oh, hell no!” look in my cat’s eyes when his little black paw touches a big white drift. I miss posting the obnoxious but obligatory Facebook picture of the winter wonderland. And yes, I even miss bitching about how damn much shoveling I’m about to do.

I guess the “grass is always greener.”

Yeah. That’s sort of the problem. You know where that green grass should be? Under snow, damn it!

Not under this:

This was our courtyard the other day. If only the temperature had dropped enough for this to freeze…free ice time!

This was our courtyard the other day. If only the temperature had dropped enough for this to freeze…free ice time!

I’m sure a clogged drain had as much to do with that accumulation as the rate of rainfall did, and I love rain as much as the next guy. No sarcasm. I really do love the rain, but this is just so not what I think of when I think of winter. Ned Stark promised us that winter was coming. Well, screw that Stark honor! Ned’s a damn liar!

This section comes with a bonus proverb. “Just imagine if all of that was snow!”

Again, that’s sort of the problem.

I am imagining that all of it is snow, and I miss it. I really, really miss it.

Coloring Books for Grownups: I Endorse This Trend

When I told my husband I wanted coloring books and nice markers for Christmas, I think he thought my simple request was much too good to be true. But we were doing a modest holiday (the eventful year was also an expensive year), and the subject of adult coloring books was peppering my social media feeds with increasing frequency. With artists tweeting about the availability of their recently published coloring books, friends on Facebook talking about how they’d forgotten how much they just loved coloring, and my nostalgia for Saturdays spent under a blanket fort convincing myself that Wilma Flintstone may very well have had some purple lipstick, it was clearly time to suck it up and embrace the trend. “No, really!” I assured my husband. “Coloring books and nice markers are precisely what I want this year.” Then I added, “And socks. I definitely need new socks.”

What I did not know was that at that very moment (okay, probably not that very moment, but it sounded nice, right?), my mother was putting together a holiday box for me in which she dropped, among other things, coloring books, colored pencils, and an epic box of crayons I would have killed for as a kid. Between my mother and my husband, I ended up with this stack of awesome:

Crayons, markers, and coloring books

Seriously! What kid didn’t dream of that box of crayons?

It occurred to me that with a haul like that, I had damn well better enjoy coloring as an adult.

I needn’t have worried.

Art as Therapy

Art as therapy isn’t a new concept, so I’m not going to go over it again here. I will simply say that there are all sorts of emotions I can work out on a canvas or a sketch pad or whatever I choose that day, save one. Frustration. As a creative person, I get frustrated when the picture on the page looks nothing like what I had in my head. So sure, I’m working out sadness or anger or whatever when I paint or draw, but I’m replacing it with frustration, which is no more pleasant. Coloring books solve that. The picture is already there. It’s somebody else’s art; I’m just coloring it in. There’s no real pressure to make it perfect. Peace restored.

That is not to say that I don’t shout an expletive or two when my hand slips out of a line, or I’ve made the wrong color choice, but coloring books cut the expletive output by a good 80% or so.

Coloring book and colored pencils

L, completed with crayon. R, in progress with colored pencil. Approx. 16% cussing total still to come.

Easier Than Meditation

Also frustrating for me is meditation. I can’t help it; my mind just wanders. It’s loud in my head and even guided meditations often can’t quiet things down. You know what does? You guessed it. Coloring. For me, it requires just enough attention that I can clear my mind of all of the noisy but inconsequential BS and make room for some real contemplation.

I’m aware, as I type this, of how cheesy it sounds, but it’s amazing how much I’ve learned about myself by doing no more than considering how I color: where on the page I start, what my favorite colors are, how boring the picture becomes when I rely solely on my favorite colors. Yeah.

I’m not actually a fan of yellow, and yet these are my faves.

It’s Just F***ing Fun, Okay?

Look, being an adult is freaking hard. Commutes, work, bills, random life crap that inevitably happens because, “That’s life.” The fact that adult coloring books have become a trend (hopefully one that sticks around for a while) tells me that I’m not the only one who sometimes longs for the days when the biggest thing on my mind was who had my red crayon because, damn it, I need my red crayon or Wilma Flintstone will have purple lips!

After a day of long commutes, solving problems at the office, and scrambling to pay the bill that was not in the budget–a result of some unexpected life crap, adults deserve a little childlike fun.

So yeah, I endorse this trend. I endorse the hell outta this trend! I won’t be putting my coloring books down any time soon; in fact, I expect to be through my current supply by the time the holidays roll around again. Just in time to request more.

And for those who were wondering, I also got those socks.

New socks

New socks

How Does It Feel?

I’ve been getting this question a lot since putting out 13 Morbid Tales. Of course, my very first answer to this question is, “Freakin’ great, dude!” And that’s no lie. The feeling of accomplishment was a high that lasted for weeks. And the support? Oh, sweet lord, the support! As I explained to a friend, I’d prepared myself for bad reviews, hate, and being pelted with rotten tomatoes. The “What If” monsters in my head even led me down a spiraling path that ended in townsfolk chasing me with torches and pitchforks. What I hadn’t prepared myself for was the outpouring of love and support. From people boosting the signal online, to folks hooking me up with events, to all you crazy cats who took awesome pictures of my book in various situations when your copies arrived…I’ve been so overwhelmed with support I’m still on cloud nine and I cannot thank you enough.

Of course, negativity can still come at any time, and a part of me wants to stay vigilant because that crap only gets you when you’re not looking, but the bulk of my torment comes from my own psyche. Surprise, surprise.

That said, there have been some drawbacks in this overwhelmingly positive time. If I’m being completely honest with myself, those are coming from me, too.

One of the greatest accomplishments of my summer (besides moving cross country) was getting active and healthy and into better shape to the tune of approx. 18 lost pounds, two sizes dropped, and sweet, sweet muscle tone. Well let me tell you, it doesn’t take nearly as long to start falling back out of shape again as it does to get into it. I’m not saying that putting my book out completely took over my life; it just provided a whole lot of excuses to skip the gym. Some were even legitimate. But since it occurs to me that I’m not publishing a book this morning, guess where I’m going once this is posted. Gotta nip this ass-in-seat-all-day thing in the bud before all the good I’ve done is undone.

I did drive myself a little nuts reading the book over and over (even though I swore after the final proof that I’d never read it again), allowing myself to get worked up over word choices and that comma I really should have used. I’ve been assured that I’m not the first writer in history to have done this.

In deep contrast, I’ve also had the burning desire to just move on to the next project. Sometimes, it’s really hard to keep your mind on the book that’s already out for the sake of marketing when all you want to do is keep the momentum going and start the next thing. I have started the next thing(s) and am anxious for the day I can do cover reveals and publication announcements for them.

All in all, though, publishing my first book feels great. It’s been a wonderful experience that I’m looking forward to having many more times. And again, I want to thank everyone who has made it so wonderful.

13 Morbid Tales is Available Now!

The author holding copies of her book '13 Morbid Tales'

Lookie what I’ve got!

Today is the official release day for 13 Morbid Tales! Why now? I needed my 13 creepy little tales to be available to readers by Halloween: werewolves in mailboxes, ghosts in e-readers.

This has been a lot of years coming. Fun fact: by my estimation, the oldest story in the collection was actually written 13 years ago. Don’t worry. It’s been edited to reflect my skills today, not my skills back then.  *smile and wink*

Some of you may already know that the links went live a couple of days early. The really cool thing about that is that for the last two days leading up to the “official” release, I have seen an outpouring of love and support so strong I completely forgot about my anxiety. Those who know me know that’s no easy feat. I cannot thank you all enough. Really. It’s not possible. Just know I’m feelin’ the love for all of you!

At this point you’re probably wondering, When’s this chick gonna stop being sappy and get to the book blurb and the links where I can buy this bit of awesomeness, already? At least, I hope you are. So here goes:

The creatures living within these pages come from the imagination: a place where a sentient life support machine contemplates its own existence, a budding slasher villain comes into her own, and a demonic agent makes another deal.

And they’ve brought friends.

Werewolves, ghosts, and human monsters alike guide the reader down highways of dark fancy, exploring what goes bump—and what stays eerily silent—in the night.

Available Now!

Get 13 Morbid Tales for Kindle

Get a paperback copy of 13 Morbid Tales from Amazon

Get a paperback copy of 13 Morbid Tales from the CreateSpace eStore

#13MorbidTales

Edited by Reggie Lutz.

Cover Art by Janell R. Colburn.

One Day

The author posing in a light blue and white corseted wedding gown made by MayFaire Moon.

Photo Credit: Kelly Rowles,
Pix|elation Photography
(link below)

I am living a lie.

It’s not an interesting lie. I’m not an international spy. I don’t have some second family secreted away in another state. I’m not a princess playing a peasant. No, it’s much more mundane than that. I just had the privilege of learning that the life I’m living is not the life for which I was meant.

Last weekend (so yes, I am a bit late on this post), I had the extreme pleasure of getting to model my gorgeous wedding gown at the MayFaire Moon Corsets and Costumes fashion show at Dorian’s Parlor. On that one day, I met some incredibly talented, beautiful, and overall wonderful people who embrace—no—live their creativity. It was that creativity, buzzing like an alarm clock all around me that woke me up to the fact that I’ve lost my creative self in the day to day life that I’ve been living. On that one day, the Universe bestowed upon me a moment of clarity necessary to change my perspective.

Right now, my life is very much about the daily grind, and getting done with everything that needs to be done to pay bills or keep promises. It’s not that my daily life is that bad.  But what became so clear to me in the presence of all of those fabulous people, is that they truly live their creativity while I always seem to put mine on the back burner. The life I keep telling myself I’m working toward is the one for which I never seem to have time. At the end of the day, after all of the other deadlines and expectations that my daily life requires are met, my own expectations are the only ones I can blow off without any repercussions.

Or can I?

The repercussions are that I’ve not met the goals that I’ve made for myself. Blowing myself off is why 13 Morbid Tales still isn’t finished. Blowing myself off is why I can’t lose that last 10 pounds (okay 15). Blowing myself off is how I’ve created a life in which all I have to look forward to is more of the daily grind that was never meant to be anything more than a means to an end. Blowing myself off is the reason that I look in the mirror and see that I’m a stranger in my own life, feeling trapped like a prisoner by that damned daily grind!  And this goes beyond finding balance. I tell myself that if I’d just “find a balance” all of this would work out, but it doesn’t. Telling myself this lie is just another way of making light of the issue and giving myself permission to blow myself off even further, as if finding balance is a simple fix that I have all the time in the world to make. And while I continue to tell myself this lie, the life I want continues to pass me by.

I’d like to make some declarative statement that “I’m done with this!” and move on, but this is something I frequently struggle with, and I tend to find myself in need of that one day to put it all back into perspective. I am so grateful that every now and then I get that one day to put me back on track. I owe a very special thank you to all of the amazing and creative people in my life who never fail to make that one day possible when I need it the most.

Now for the end-of-blog-post questions we have all come to expect, recognize, and dare I say, love: What is your ideal one day? What kind of things help get you back on track?

Also, please give some love to these fabulous people:

Photography – Pix|elation Photography
Clothing – MayFaire Moon Corsets & Costumes
MUA – The Changeling Room

Freddy Krueger vs. The Children of the Corn (or Stuff I Think About Instead of the Task At Hand)

It started with an innocent status update on Facebook. “Ya know what horror movie I’d like to see get made? Freddy vs. The Children of the Corn.”

It was really meant to be no more than a humorous status update at the end of a Friday. No more, no less. But my head is a chaotic place at best and there is always something to contemplate besides the task at hand.

For those unaware of who Freddy Krueger is or who The Children of the Corn are (although I don’t know how one could be unaware), a little background first.  Freddy Krueger, of the A Nightmare on Elm Street franchise, is a murdered burn victim turned dream demon who feeds on fear and kills the teenagers of Elm Street in their dreams (there’s a lot more to the story, but truly, I’m assuming people know who freakin’ Freddy Krueger is, and if not, Google it). The Children of the Corn from the Children of the Corn franchise are a bunch of bat-sh*t crazy kids from the fictitious rural town of Gatlin, Nebraska who kill all the adults for the pleasure of a demon referred to as “He Who Walks Behind the Rows”.  Of course they off each other when they become adults too.  The movie franchise started with Children of the Corn, which is based on a short story by Stephen King. And honestly, anything else you need to know can be Googled.

Of course, there was also the movie Freddy vs. Jason, which sparked this “Freddy vs…” nonsense in my head to begin with.

So anyway, there I was, basking in the “likes” of an innocent status update, when my chaotic head took over, outlining the plot no matter how hard I tried to concentrate on other things, because really, this sh*t writes itself.

So, we’ve established that the adults in Gatlin are gone. The children are now wards of the state of Nebraska.  Of course, everyone in Nebraska knows about what happened in Gatlin by now, so no one in his or her right mind fosters or adopts these kids. Enter the grief-stricken parents of Elm Street, desperate to hear the pitter patter of little feet, or even the hormone driven tantrums of teenagers, in their homes again after Freddy killed their own children.

Zoom in on an idealistic young couple who really just wanted to adopt the adorable six-year-old girl with bouncing curls, but upon finding out she had siblings, had to take them all in.  They’re taking their three adopted children (because there are always three—unless we’re talking about horror movie sequels, in which case there are many more), into their big, wonderful home on Elm Street.

However, the teenage middle child (because it’s always the middle child), hasn’t quite forgotten about his devotion to He Who Walks Behind the Rows, and so he becomes the leader of a whole new corn cult on Elm Street.

The killings start out looking like accidents.  The town drunk falls into an electric fence mysteriously turned up too high.  A bookshelf falls on the librarian.  The man with the notorious road rage runs his car off the bridge.  But soon it becomes obvious that the children of Elm Street are killing the adults.

And, you know, there’s that corn field that grew out of nowhere in a suburban neighborhood.

So, there’s Freddy, hangin’ out, havin’ a beer, watchin’ the game—you know, whatever it is Freddy does in his non-killing hours—when he senses the fear on Elm Street (kind of like a disturbance in the force).  Elated, he throws on his glove and goes to work.

Much to his surprise, it’s not the children of Elm Street emanating all the fear.  It’s the adults!  What a quandary for Freddy! If he does what’s in his nature, he’s a hero, not a villain. But then, well, there are some kids to be killed. I imagine this as some poignant moment with Freddy, head in knife-gloved hand, contemplating his path, accompanied by maudlin violins and dim lighting. But then, as the music reaches a crescendo, his head snaps up in his ah-ha moment.  He is Freddy!  He is a killer of teens! (Because we can’t have him killing small children—audiences couldn’t take that and it would destroy the possibility of the almighty sequel. These kids must become teens.)  He is what he is and there is blood to be spilled!  And if that makes him a hero, so bloody what!

And then there’s lots of blood, and gore, and a final battle between Freddy and He Who Walks Behind the Rows. Toe to Toe. Demon to Demon! Freddy inevitably saves Elm Street, if only to secure some future killing for himself. Job security is important in this economy.

It will be wonderful! You’ll have a tub of popcorn.  You’ll share a giant soda with your date.  You’ll hover over the cinema toilet to take a runny poo before you laugh about the movie in the car the whole way home.

But you won’t freakin’ blog about it because I already did!