Journey To: A Scary Story

(2-minute read)

I Was Quick To Write a

Halloween Story but it took me a while to realize that I’m a sucker for happy endings

It started with a simple request: “Write a frightening nail-biter to share with the Writing Club”. How about a kid who tortures snails and gets his come-uppance when he finds himself being tortured by the bugs he kills?

I read it aloud. My listeners loved it and someone asked for a printed copy.

But then I hit a wall. It took months for me to be happy with what I first wrote. The reason?

It was too damned dark and predictable.

Why not settle on a morbid Halloween story? If I had to be honest, I wanted a better ending.

I went through at least 30 drafts before I realized that I wanted to redeem the kid.

Mind you, I had taken more than one insect’s life when I was young. I wasn’t proud of it, when I understood what I was doing.

So, once I brought the character in the story to life, I had to figure out a better ending.

I learned that this voice that types these words won’t let me lie. And the truth is, as long as I am aware of my surroundings, I constantly find more hope than horror.

We can't talk, but I am happy to share any morning with a snail.

Take the example of Christmas Eve in Southern California last year. I was coming home from seeing friends, had left the car, and when I faced that empty apartment, for a few minutes I felt the cold, lonely street deep in my solar plexus.

Then I looked up from the yard at my Christmas tree in the window and decided to take a picture of it (I was so proud of that darned thing — it’d taken me days to get it up and decorated).

Picture-taking lifts my spirits, too.

Coming home and what do I see? The moon, the stairs to my apartment, the Christmas lights and . . . a green leaf in the shape of a heart.

I’ve never been one to admit that I once tortured bugs, but it comes with the writer’s territory to draw from personal experiences. I also thought I was a natural at writing dark stories. God knows I’ve had my share of losses.

But bit by bit, I’ve come to realize that I’m a truth teller. As long as I’m alive, I find more goodness and redemption in the world than darkness, ignorance, and baked-in selfishness.

The story is done and may be sappy for some. But I wouldn’t end it any other way.

Meanwhile . . .

the cat is up to no good.

Read my scary story:  The King of the Garden (Recollection No. 105)