Things are progressing everywhere.
One of those imminent progressions is my fifteenth anniversary with my Mr. Amazing.
What most of you may not know is that when we started dating all those many years ago, he lived with his four kids in a haunted house.
Now, I know what you're thinking: *smirkey face* Yeah, RIGHT! Pffft!
Maybe even, *eyeroll* How unoriginal.
But as God, the Universe, and any lie detector put forth to me are my witnesses, I swear it on a stack of Bibles that the house was haunted/inhabited, and not just by those with pulses.
OHHHKAAAAYYYY?!?
They had been living there, then I moved in, and we all lived there for about three more years.
Now, you may be asking yourself: Did she know before she moved in that it was haunted?
Yeeeaaaahhhh... I kinda did.
Anyway, being that it's Spooky Season and our FIFTEENTH Anniversary, this book about living there just kind of popped up out of me. Which is really wild, because I do NOT like scary stuff.
At All.
The first Scream movie is about my maximum. I appreciate all of you Horror Genre fans. I know, and I am related to several of them that I send memes and whatnot to. I am happy to feed their enjoyment, but it's not for me. Not even a little bit.
Finding myself writing what is undoubtedly going to be a very scary book is like, 'Oh, Come On! This has to be a joke, Universe!' Because I've interviewed Mr. Amazing and am also interviewing his kids, who lived there before there was a me, as well as my son, who was 5-8 at the time, and there were stories I didn't know that freak me out now, 15 years and 1000 miles from that part of life.
But it's also our beginning, so it felt fitting for our anniversary, even if it's an unusual topic for us to delve into in detail.
So, I've been writing my fingers off for hours, but also going to bed right alongside my Mr. Amazing every night because I cannot write that stuff and stay up later than him, downstairs alone - again, 15 years and 1000 miles from the stories I'm writing about.
Ohhh, my brain is so NOT KIND late at night in the dark.
Instead of being politely vague about it, let me be honest for once:
My brain is fucking mean to me. Really Mean. Wes Craven doesn't have shit on my brain, mean to me.
My brain is the VICIOUS HORROR QUEEN OF JUMP SCARES, and I'm just the girl who got dragged to the theater by her brain and is desperately trying to cover both her eyes and ears for the entire experience because the least little scene or sound that gets in will be overused by my mean little brain for the rest of my God-given life, while I just happen to be along for the ride.
Picture it: Inside the house alone, but other people are home. I'm in a bright, sun-filled bathroom, happily stepping out of a shower, feeling refreshed, fantastic, and ready to tackle the day. The birds are chirping; you can't help but smile to yourself when...
My Brain: You know this is exactly when the killer jumped out in that one movie (from like 1982)... but go ahead through that blind corner doorway. May the odds be ever in your favor, there, girlie.
And then my body tenses, and I'm so very grateful that I've worked very hard to not let that shit rule my world anymore, because there was a time when that thought would have ruined an entire evening with fear as it grew darker outside. Bright, sunny bathrooms get dark when the sun goes down, just like every other window.
So now that I've worked past that, I'm writing something scarier than I've ever voluntarily watched on a screen in more years than I can count.
WHY????
Because we lived it.
The stuff I'm writing REALLY happened to us, and we experienced it while living in that house.
So, Happy Anniversary, Mr. Amazing! Here's to surviving: 606, eight kids, 9 (and one on the way!) grandkids, and every curveball life has thrown at us. We never ducked; we caught them all. I love you!!
And HAPPY SPOOKY SEASON, WONDERFULS!
I'll keep you posted...
