On Night Terrors and Writing

Well, it's Friday - for about another twenty minutes or so. The house is quiet, except for the soft drone of the refrigerator in the kitchen, and the muffled thumps from the Crazy French Guy Who Lives Upstairs as he does whatever it is he does up there.

I really should learn the poor guy's name.

But, for the longest while I was convinced that he was Up To No Good upstairs because of the blood-curdling screams I'd hear at all hours of the night, the crashes and the bangs. Now that I've heard him scream - and I mean really, really scream; the type of scream you hear when someone's scared out of their wits, or are convinced that they're about to meet a very violent and very ugly demise - I can better appreciated the word blood-curdling. I used to hear him scream at 2am, and it would set my entire body off, thrumming with adrenaline and a not so small dose of  "Holy HELL, what was that?" I may have even convinced myself that he could, at any moment, sneak his way into our apartment and do Dastardly Deeds. He's an I.T guy ... and you can never tell with those guys ...

But, I recently learned that he suffers from really bad, and quite regular, nightmares. I have decided, in my professional opinion, that he has night terrors. Nobody screams like THAT without being in a very real fear of their life, and I haven't had a nightmare yet where I was that scared. Well, maybe once but that's entirely different and a story for later. The last time I heard him scream - and thinking it was a girl, by the way - I texted our landlord, confessing that I was probably crazy and being absolutely paranoid but it was nearly 1am and someone was screaming bloody murder.

It was Crazy French Guy. It turns out he was having a nightmare and that someone was trying to kill him. I wonder how often people dream that sort of dream - of being killed, I mean. I've dreamed some weird shit, let me tell you (someone remind me to tell you all about the time that I turned into an archangel) but never of being killed. So, now I feel like a shit for perhaps maybe being a little hostile towards the awkward little guy, but I had judged him on his ability to scream and this guy screams the way dumb girls who wander off in horror movies do when they're about to meet the sharp end of a blunt hatchet. But, I haven't heard him in awhile, though. There haven't been those screams, or vicious thumps and bangs. I'm not sure if the dreams went away, or if maybe he found some sort of medication that made them go away.

Hence, the reason why I have no idea what this poor guy's name is.

Dev is gone out for the evening. I had debated going, but I haven't done that much writing over the last month or so, and I'm missing it. So tonight, here I am with a glass of red wine, and new plaid jamma pants I bought today, and one of Dev's tee shirts.

Also, on a totally unrelated note, somebody remind me that we need wine glasses. The stemless ones, I'll only manage to break the other ones. And since nobody really see's me drinking wine out of a tumbler, it'd still be nice to have proper wine glasses.

I wonder if I could get some from Amazon ...

No! NO! I must'n. I've done plenty of on-line shopping today on top of the pretty plaid pajamma bottoms, new scarf, 2 Essie nail polishes, CoverGirl Lip stick and L'Oreal eyeshadow I've bought this week.

Still, Fortunately, The Milk and Make Good Art will be lovely additions to my bookshelf.

I've picked up HORNS, by Joe Hill recently. It's amazing. Then again, he does come from Good Writing Stock. I could go on and on and gush about Joe being Stephen King's offspring, but that detracts from Joe, I believe. He's a writer in his own right, and to compare him to his father is well .. unfair. Now, I won't deny that there are similarities in the writing style of these two accomplished gentlemen, or that their imaginary style is eerily familiar, because there are, and it is. However, I've noticed (in my own writing anyway) that the style of writing you pick, tends to have a lot to do with who's influenced you on your reading journey. I've noticed that when I read a lot of Neil Gaiman I turn a little British, and even a tad fanciful. Diana Gabaldon brings out the generations of UK immigrants of my forefathers, and the rich dialect from home - not to mention visions of Men In Kilts. Who we read, and who we enjoy reading is bound to influence how we write, at least as far as I'm concerned anyway. And perhaps it is a sign that Joe Hill's incredible style is not so much a product of who his father is, but of how a father influenced a son and nurtured in him the ability to grow and develop as a human being and a writer - being famous has nothing to do with it, really. Now, I don't know if Joe Hill will ever agree with me on that point or not so I can't say if I'm right or wrong here, but I like to think I might just be a tiny bit right.


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