Dreams are funny things. Unless you are shouting in your sleep as some creature straps you down and begins a jolly session of vivisection. Or you thrash against your bed-mate, trying to protect loved ones from an impending, horrific doom that you cannot stop.
Then, not so much.
Thus, the kernel of Rathcrog was formed. And thus, are most of my adult novels brought into the light.
Not that the others, to date, are horror novels. Rather, they lay out the threads of ordinary people dealing with the ups and downs of their ordinary lives.
But sometimes things - nasty, disquieting things - happen. To all of us. Maybe not (hopefully not) to the extreme of being slowly cut apart as we lay, unable to escape. But sometimes, emotionally, it feels that way.
Trauma. It takes all sorts of forms. Our conscious minds try to push that trauma down deep, so we can keep on-keeping on in our daily lives. But trauma doesn't just disappear, does it? It gets incorporated into our beings, our personae. Our psyches tangle, untangle, and re-tangle those nasty things, somehow. And we relive them.
Over and over again.
I'm ending this little missive with the question often asked of fiction writers and that, in my own non-linear fashion, I've just answered:
Where do the ideas come from?
From below, readers. Far, far below.
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