Vicarious Living

I’ve never had writer’s block, but I’ve certainly had days where I don’t feel like writing.  Today is one of those days.  I sit and stare at words on a page and think, “What the hell am I doing here when I can be outside, hiking or biking, or anything else but sitting in this dumb chair staring at a computer?”  Of all the things I could have been, I chose to be a writer?  Yeah, yeah, we get to live vicariously through our characters, yaddah-yaddah.  Well, I gotta tell ya, vicarious living leaves a lot to be desired.  I could have been a paleontologist, an astrophysicist, a chiropractor, or…a ghost hunter.  Wait a minute…I can still be a ghost hunter.  All I have to do is buy that fancy equipment those ghost hunters use, find a haunted house, and sit around in the dark until dawn. Wow!! Just think of the excitement of seeing a real live…er…deceased?…ghost!  Creeping around in old houses, inciting ghosts to get angry enough to speak back, or show themselves.  Sounds like a lot of fun.

I only see a few problems with that scenario.  I don’t particularly do well creeping around in the dark.  One might even say that I am afraid of my own shadow.  I can easily get completely spooked out just trying to get to and from the bathroom in the middle of the night.  Many a dust ball on the floor has sent me catapulting down the hallway, hurling myself into space, and trying to claw air hard enough to get me to the bed before dropping onto the ground and twisting an ankle, or something worse.  So, how would someone like me be a successful ghost hunter?

On the other hand, the sheer wonder of seeing something paranormal might outweigh the willies, and…maybe even the possibility of encountering spiders.  Um…nah…maybe not.  Nope, definitely not. Ick!!!  Eeew!!! Just thinking of a spider crawling on me is freaking me out.  All those legs stroking your skin.  That’s a thrill I’ve experienced one time too many.  Don’t wanna go there anymore.

Maybe I could bring my dog with me.  I might not be so jumpy with Mooch Da Pooch along.

Hmmm…what am I thinking?  Mooch is worse than I am.  She’s terrified of cardboard boxes and…of all things…black pants.  A ghost would send her over the edge.  That is, if she even noticed the apparition.  I’ve seen Mooch step over snakes without seeing them.  Nah, Mooch would probably not be a very good ghost hunter.  Still, she might be useful in other ways.  I could get her one of those little doggy backpacks and she could carry my thermal for me.  Except…she’s afraid of backpacks, too.  Nah, that wouldn’t work.  Plus, she would whine a lot.  How could I hear anything with her whining? 

I’ve never understood dogs.  Love them, just don’t understand them.  The raccoon poop, for instance.  Why?  (If you’ve been reading my blog, you know where this is going.)  Raccoons are the only thing on this earth that my dog hates.  And yet, she rolls in their poop.  Why?  I don’t get it.  What could possibly be going through her doggy brain?  “I hate you, I want to sink my teeth into your back haunch and hurl you around the yard, but I can’t…so…I’m just gonna go roll in your poop instead.”  What’s that all about?

When I let my dog out, I have to watch her like a hawk to make sure this does not happen.  Unfortunately, I admit, I get a little distracted sometimes.  I might be feeling a tad lazy and I don’t want to watch her.  Sometimes I get lucky and there is nothing for her to roll in.  Other times…well, there’s a whole lot of cussing going on, and out comes the hose.

Mooch can be mid-roll when my guttural shriek splits the sky and makes the entire neighborhood quake with its force.  Curse words roll off my tongue like thunder coming from Mount Olympus.  Birds flutter off tree branches and go flapping off into the distance, squawking in fear.  Little kids in the neighborhood drop their bikes and run for their houses.  And you know what Mooch does?  She pops up off the ground and looks at me like, “What?  What did I do?”

“What did you do?!” I shriek.  “Look what you’ve got all over you!  Do you know what that is, dog?!”

Mooch twists her head and stares at me like, “Yeah.  I know.  It’s raccoon poop.  Ain’t it cool!”

(Yeah, so, I talk to my dog.  Big deal.  Doesn’t everyone?)

As I blast the raccoon poop off with the garden hose, I can hear her thinking.  “Mom! I just got it where I wanted it and now you’re washing it off! Now I’m gonna hafta go roll again!”

It’s all in the eyes, and the expression on her face.  She looks thoroughly disgusted by my antics.

Nope.  I guess she would not be a good ghost hunter.  She doesn’t like spiders any more than I do.  But at least I wouldn’t be alone in that haunted attic. 

Well, I guess I better stop dreaming about being a ghost hunter and get back to writing.  I promised a fan that one day I will actually begin that prequel to Blackwater.

Copyright 2008 C. D. Blizzard                 www.cdblizzard.com

C. D. Blizzard is the author of the novels Blackwater, Profile, and Broken.