Originally posted in 2014

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Being dead isn’t as exciting as you’d think. Mostly, it’s a lot of sitting around and doing the same thing over and over again. It’s a lot like being alive, but you don’t have that ticking clock, so there’s little incentive to do anything beyond hunger and boredom. Sure, we get up to many of the same things a living person might. We go to movies, listen to music, and read books. We drive cars and have conversations. Believe it or not, even when you live for hundreds, maybe thousands of years, there’s still usually something worth talking about — some banal bit of gossip or culture.

The problem is that it’s hard to get motivated to keep moving without the expiry date. So you grow stagnant. You fall into ruts, pacing in circles and getting lost in the familiarity of routine. Maybe you want to see the world, and perhaps you have already, but when? Next week? Why not next year? Next decade? Perhaps visiting Paris or Rome or Egypt doesn’t have the same appeal it did a hundred years ago. Rarely do places get more interesting as they age. The fetishization of history fell away when you were actually there when it was good. Especially when you didn’t think it was all that great then, either. The stink of human waste has a way of coloring a cultural experience. One might long for a trip to see Israel but worry that it’s a dangerous time for that part of the world. Except it’s always a dangerous time for that part of the world, and it has been for hundreds of years and will continue to be. Besides, who cares? Another crumbling country built on the ruins of a crumbling country. Built up by men and torn down by those same men in wars they don’t remember why they’re fighting. It’s the same as most places. Cities built up, and cities burned down. After a few hundred years, it stops being interesting.

To find anything surprising or engaging, one must retreat inward. Explore what makes us who we are. It often takes a few generations before our kind discovers the exhilarating and terrifying depths at the core of our being. One might be inclined to call this kind of self-exploration a spiritual or religious journey, but that’s not it at all. The thing that people call the “soul” or “God” or whatever fairy tale they need to believe to sleep at night has nothing to do with it. The fact of the matter is that at our core rests a doorway to an unwritten history and knowledge that is utterly unknowable to those without the means to open it. Hell, most of us don’t even know it’s there. Those who do know only poke at the edges and press our ears to its cold, dense surface.

I know it’s there, and I’ve peered under the crack and seen the pulsating and swirling lights and taken in the colors of another universe, seeping into my awareness and refusing to take hold because they’re unlike anything I’ve ever seen. A spectrum that doesn’t register in our brain. I’ve heard the whispering behind the lights. A low rumble that is neither language nor decipherable thought but a deep, base-level intention. Part of me wants to throw the door open, announce my presence, and demand an answer, but I know that’s not wise or even possible. I’m not sure I understand what the question is, and I’m certain I wouldn’t comprehend the answer if one were given.

An answer would not be given. That old metaphor of the ant under your foot may come to mind, but that doesn’t begin to adequately explain it. It’s more like bacteria or a microbe flowing through the blood of a chimpanzee. All the drama and excitement of an army of white blood cells attacking an invading virus means nothing to a chimp with a cold. All they know is they’ve got a head full of snot and an annoying cough. That ape may evolve into a thinking animal. It might one day build a microscope to peer down at the invading virus with the contemptuous, clinical eye of a scientist, but it certainly wouldn’t condescend to engage that microscopic annoyance in conversation. It’s not a spiritual or religious exchange. The primate is not a god to the virus. They are incomprehensible to each other.

Occasionally, always unexpectedly, you may feel eyes peering at you. Especially when feeding. The being at your core will get excited and eager, and some of that unnameable light might spill out from under the door. It’s those moments that make being what we are worth continuing. The mystery of it. The horrifying truth of us. Knowing that they’re there, stomping around, carrying us through the cosmos in their wake as they go about whatever they do. The thing that makes us what we are, starts with them. Knowing there is a reason to wake up and keep doing it. To keep splashing blood across the doorway because they demand it.

Perhaps it is not entirely unlike a religion after all. The difference is that I know it’s true. I’ve seen it, and I don’t have a choice.

So this week, I typed THE END at the end of my current Work In Progress, Danny: Bloodletting Book Three. It took me a year longer than I intended, but I’ve finally finished the first draft, and I feel good about it. Next I’ll take a week or so off and then I’ll go back and start my reread and edit. Then I send it off to my proofreader to go over it with a fine tooth comb, then I do at least one more reread/edit and then I’ll send it off to my narrator and we’ll do the audiobook. Jesus, I have a lot of work left to do on this! I had a moment where I felt like I had reached the end of a journey, but it turns out we just crested a hill to discover a whole lotta road ahead of us. That’s okay though, it’s a really good book, and I look forward to getting to share it… eventually.

In related news, I’m trying to decide what I’m going to write next, when Danny is done and published. I’ve got a few options. I’m leaning towards either my Bride of Frankenstein erotic story or my Alice in Wonderland horror novel. I have another fiction novel I’m considering about a spiritual medium. We’ll see!