Inspiration

If it wasn’t evident enough by the fact that I have taken to a blog that near to nobody reads; I love writing.

Writing is air. Writing is feeling my best self. Writing is the thing that I wish I was doing when I was working, regardless of the job. I also paint, and people assume this is surely my passion, but it is merely a light hobby in comparison.

For so many reasons I am grateful for picking up and moving. One very heavy one is the fact that in the short time that I have had alone in this new spot, I have had what seems to be an enormous amount of events that have inspired me in my writings. My favorite thing to write as of late? Creepy, odd or strange short stories. Thanks to my sister, who hosts a local paper by the name of “the Curious Post”, I have had - and been able to keep - a reason for writing such things. And thanks to my new living arrangement I have received the necessary material to do so.

I work at a beach club that well-to-do guests find beautiful, charming, basically the perfect spot to spend their vacations at. Even just for a day, a night, a meal. In my eyes? It is an ancient, immense beach house, long dilapidated since its glory days of perfection. And on cloudy days it offers just enough gloom to truly propel me into my favorite kind of madness; being an author.

Of course my place of business only accounts for a slice of my time. The other bits have been spent resting my head at an equally old, creepy apartment building that plays host to three floors full of locals, along with surely enough asbestos to gag a mule. And if that weren’t enough, there are plenty a strange happening to occur inside and even nearby. Think about it; there are strange enough things that happen to any one soul throughout the duration of any given lifetime to fuel a decent chilling story. Now take that consideration and multiply it by three floors full of individuals, added by the intense setting of an old mill town, full of those struggling to survive paycheck to paycheck.

Some strange things happen to a person. Even stranger when that person is left to rely on their creativity - as opposed to money - to occupy their time.

Does this place feel dangerous? Of course. But every place does. The human race may be made up of statistics, but the individuals who the race is made of? Completely unpredictable and, in many cases, irrational. I’ll gladly live with the edge this town provides, provided it allows me a few more stories to write.