Tag: Creativity

*AHEM* HORROR IS GOOD FOR YOU

Nikki Nelson-Hicks

I did a writers’ workshop today. It went well enough until a question asked….and I’m paraphrasing here…”How do you justify writing about such dark subject matter in a world that is so filled with darkness as it is? Don’t you feel you are adding onto the burden?”

I’ve been asked this question a dozen times before. And it never ceases to annoy me.

It’s this sophomoric marshmallow type of thinking that if we all just sat around making daisy chains, sipping tea, and dancing in the meadows, the world would suddenly become an idyllic Disneyland wet dream that makes me want to scream out obscenities so foul and hot Tinkerbell’s wings would twist and crumble in the flame.

Let me pull out an old chestnut here by G.K. Chesterton:

Fairy tales do not tell children the dragons exist.

Children already know that dragons exist.

Fairy tales tell children the dragons can be killed.”

The same goes for people like me who write stories that are tinged with horror, death and bit of fun (i.e monsters) on the side.

I am not inherently dark or creepy. I like sunset walks on the beach and kittens with pink squishy toe beans. I don’t side with the forces of evil because I write these stories. I’m actually a pretty chill chick who loves to sit around the fire pit watching fireflies and counting stars. And the same goes for my friends who also write horrific stories; they’re not necessarily inhumane. As as matter of fact, they are probably some of the most humane people I know.

I scoop wasps out of the patio; as long as they don’t hurt me, I let them be. I let spiders live on my front porch; a few cobwebs in the summer means less mosquitos. If I find a worm cooking on the hot asphalt, I will move them onto the cool ground.

Because I can feel their anguish.

And why? Because I write about pain. I write about loss and fear and terrible things that gnash and grind bones in the dark. I see on both sides of the story. I feel the pain of the victim as well as the monster. I am Janus Sighted and, because of that, I go out of my way to not inflict pain on any living thing.

I do not bring more darkness into this shitshow of a world by writing horror.

I show it to you. I mirror the monster hiding behind you.

And I teach you how to kill it.

You are welcome.

A ride with my son

Nikki Nelson-Hicks

*An excerpt from a ten minute car ride with my son*

“Maybe I shouldn’t tell you this,” my son began, “but I never expected to live past 25.”

I gripped my steering wheel a little tighter. Here we go….. “Okay.”

“Ya know, because of my mental illness and stuff. I always figured I would’ve found a way to off myself by now.”

Just let him talk…. “Okay….”

“So, last year when I hit 26, I decided, well, shit, I guess I need to get my life together and get stuff going, ya know? I started to make plans. All kinds of plans. And then, it was like BOOM. Ya know, if my life was storyboarded out like a comic strip, it would go like this. One panel would be me, looking optimistic, my arms over my head, ready to Carpe the Shit out of that Diem, and then the next panel would be a newspaper floating past with headlines like, “PLAGUE SHUTS DOWN WORLD”. Then in the next panel, it would be me, in a hazmat suit, staring blankly out on a decimated world.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah, I swear, I know that the world doesn’t revolve around me and Covid has really fucked up a lot of people’s lives but sometimes, it feels like my life has been just been leading up to a massive, cosmic punchline.”

“Damn, dude.”

“Yeah…..I know. So, we’re having pizza for dinner tonight?”

I need to rent an urchin.

Nikki Nelson-Hicks

Today, I was at Barnes and Noble perusing the magazines when a wide eyed little girl straight out of central casting, blonde pigtails and maryjanes, , came up to me.

“Excuse me,” she said, her lower lip quivering ever so slightly. “Do you like to, um…do you like to read books to your kids?”

She then held up a very slim book. Her blue eyes peeked over the top. “My daddy wrote this. Would you like to buy it?”

I looked around for cameras. “What?”

“He’s right over there. With my grandpa. Come with me. I’ll show you!”

She took my hand and pulled me towards two men sitting behind a sad card table. You know the kind. A tower of books and a writer looking completely out of place.

I looked at the man and shook my head. “You sly dog. Using your kid as bait to sell your books.”

He laughed. “Hey, it was her idea.”

The little girl laughed and dropped the urchin facade. “I told him it would work!” and then she skipped away to find more customers.

Respect, kid. You got skills.

And I really need to get an urchin.

 

 

A brief word.

Nikki Nelson-Hicks

Yesterday, I was waiting for the bus to take me home. It had been a long, boring day in the Cube. I had scribbled a few words about a story idea but nothing more. The sky was cloudy and my mood wasn’t much brighter.

Just then, a tall man, wide as a refrigerator, passed by me, stopped, turned to face me and pointed a

finger at me. He said, “You! I like your books.”

I mumbled a shocked thanks as he walked away.

My mood lifted. Sometimes, it just takes a brief word to change a day.

How to kill trolls.

Nikki Nelson-Hicks

So, let’s get down to the heart of the matter.

I’ve been blocked lately. I need to get back to work. I want to get back to work.

When I crack open a new journal, click my pen and declare, “Okay! Let’s write a story!”, I  feel deep inside me a great exhalation, as if this inner, bored muse is saying, “Yes! Finally!”and is so grateful that I’m finally getting back on track.

And that’s good, right?

But then there is another, thicker voice that lazily counters, “Ugh….. but why? Which story is worth the effort? Sure, you’ve got ideas. Kudos but, face it, you know it’s not going to go anywhere. Have you checked your Amazon numbers lately? When was the last time you received a royalty check? All that time invested in something and for what? What’s the term? Diminished returns. That’s it. Think about it. All the time and energy you put into it and what do you get back? Isn’t it more fun to pour a drink, kick back and watch Netflix? Hey, there are lots of shows you need to catch up on. OH! and your DVR. All that stuff you’ve been socking away to watch later. And podcasts. Have you checked your podcasts lately? Anything new? Or all those library books you still have checked out. Maybe you should read them. You really should do more reading. And researching it. Have you done enough research lately? You need to see what is hot on the market. What is selling. You should write that. But, first you need to do research. Not that it really matters. Face it. . Past your prime. You don’t connect to the people anymore. What do you know? What can you actually say? You had potential but wasted it chasing invisible ink dreams. You’re too old. Seriously, have you looked at yourself lately? You should go to the gym. That’s a good idea. Go to the gym. Doesn’t exercise revive brain stuff? Or is that alcohol. Yeah. Have a drink. All writers drink. It’ll loosen you up so you can do more research or read or something. But, first a snack. And a drink.”

wine
All the drinks

You get the picture.

So, how to fight the shadow troll inside my head that echoes every vile doubt that I’ve ever heard from others or, worst of all, conjured up myself?

Remember that first voice? The one that sighed, happily, FINALLY!

I focus on her.

And I remember the flush of excitement when the words are rushing through me.

When the story takes on its own life and I feel like a passenger, a scribe, clacking on my keyboard, just a witness to it all.

And then that finishing stroke. When the story is done and I know it’s done. That ending crescendo that leaves a lingering note of music on the page.

I remember the times someone had told me that my story brightened up their day, gave them a life or just took them on an adventure.

Because when I take my ego out of the equation (and it is my ego that is focused on the bottom line rather than the finishing one), magick can flow through when I left myself open and be a conduit for story.

That’s when I know I’m ok. I’m not a waste. I’m doing EXACTLY what I’m supposed to be doing and if the story sinks to the bottom, never makes a goddamn dime, and is only read by a handful of people, that’s is ok.

Perhaps they were the only ones meant to read it in the first place.