So, I've been working on my own vampire novella because Dracula was so bad and I've got several characters mapped out now as well as a the first few pages. I've decided to get more serious about writing as well. There is a writing center near me and the head editor of a speculative fiction press does lessons there. I've emailed him and am trying to schedule lessons with him. I'm also looking into getting a tablet to practice drawing and be able to write and take notes on the go. I've also started the anime Hellsing and been playing Vampire the Masquerade: Bloodlines to get in that vampiric mood. I really enjoy these series and the tropes they invert and embrace (pun intended).
School and work are boring I guess. I talked to my boss and he's actually onto some folks who are lazy as hell and who have been making my life harder. I'm also almost done with the semester. I've been taking fundamental geophysics as an 8 am and its been murder with some of my work responsibilities. Next semester I'm taking stratigraphy and groundwater modeling. Our department is, well, I prefer to call it a transitional phrase but a professor I know called it a shitshow and I can't really disagree with them. I'm rather shocked by the choices that some of the members of the department have made. The most important thing is to keep my head down and get my degree so I can move on.
I've been getting curious about Shirley Jackson because of Hill House, another site I follow on Neocities. I read her biography and I feel like I can relate to her on some level. I did a Shirley Jackson inspired writing prompt yesterday that I'll share my result from below:
Nestled in the confluence of three hills, Goldhart was scarcely large enough to support a Dollar General. Its grid of painted brick buildings hanging American flags dissipated Into the pines and pokes of the Appalachians. The city hall and county seat, the same building, had decorated their clock tower with an inflatable spider and set pumpkins and haybales at the base of their statue. The bronze figure of a coal miner was indifferent as ever, silent and sleepy as the rest of the town.
Visitors to Raspberry Fields often chose to stay in the bed and breakfasts of Goldhart, to really experience the culture of the region. Staring from their windows, they found that the streets that had been straight as an arrow as they descended into the valley now appeared to curve to the left. Not a cause for concern; after all, neighboring Breathitt county had just condemned their high school that had sunk into its shale foundation.
As dusk settled in, the sun was cut off early by the crest of the western hill, plunging the town into liminal twilight with the exception of the gleaming cross topping Goldhart Baptist's spire. The reflection of the setting sun blazed off it and could be seen throughout the city, even in places one could not quite recall if the cross had been visible before. The clock tower never quite managed such an intense glow regardless of the season.