Angela B. Chrysler's Blog, page 7
April 24, 2017
Mara
I’ve begun my next project, due in a few weeks. The first one I’m working on is a retelling of The Little Mermaid. This story is The Sad Siren or The Little Siren… not quite sure the title yet.
Assignment: Compose a horror variation on a well-known fairy tale.
Idea: The Little Mermaid and The Beauty and the Beast. This article focuses on The Little Mermaid.
Step #1: Something unusual/unique.
Here are the opening words of my version of The Little Mermaid:
When the earth was new and the sea was young, Man took life from the sea so that they may eat and live. But all things come with a price. With the first blood spilled by the hands of Men, the Sea called out and said, “My fish and my food you may have, but at a price you must pay with your life.”
With these words, the Sea created maidens with voices so clear, so pure as to lure Man to his grave. Sea then charged these maidens with the task of protecting the lives men hunted in the waters of Sea. With the crystal voices and unsurpassed beauty of his maidens, Sea worked with storms to lure Men to their death with song.
And thus began the age when Man ventured into the sea to eat, and the Sea tried its best to kill Man.
Step #2: Names, place, time
I love words, linguistics, and etymology…so I go to the root of Sea, Mer, Mar for the name. Mara comes to mind and I Google it.
Names:
Mara
Mara (Sanskrit: मार, Māra; Chinese: 天魔; pinyin: Tiānmó; Tibetan Wylie: bdud; Khmer: មារ; Burmese: မာရ်နတ်; Thai: มาร; Sinhalese: මාරයා), in Buddhism, is the demon that tempted Gautama Buddha by trying to seduce him with the vision of beautiful women who, in various legends, are often said to be Mara’s daughters.[1] In Buddhist cosmology, Mara is associated with death, rebirth and desire.[2]Nyanaponika Thera has described Mara as “the personification of the forces antagonistic to enlightenment.”[3]
The word “Māra” comes from the Proto-Indo-European root *mer meaning to die.[4] The Sanskrit form of the verbal root is √mṛ. It takes a present indicative form mṛyate and a causative form mārayati (with strengthening of the root vowel from ṛ to ār). Māra is a verbal noun from the causative root and means ‘causing death’ or ‘killing’.[4] It is related to other words for death from the same root, such as: maraṇa and mṛtyu. The latter is a name for death personified and is sometimes identified with Yama.
I could not ask for a more suitable name. I initially thought of it because of “Mer” and the Norse/Irish roots of “Mara” meaning Death and Dream, which gave root to “Nightmare” Death Dream.
My mermaid is “Mara,” which is the name shared by all by mermaids.
I chose James because it strikes me as the classic name of the 1700’s. I see this as mid-1700’s. The age of galleons and ships. I’m also pulling a lot from The Phantom Ship, which does a lot to inspire me at the moment.
So, we have James and Mara on board a vessel in the mid-1700’s… Like stick with the original story… in ode to its author. Danish It’s a Danish ship. Denmark. James Anderson is our sailor. Named after Hans Christian Anderson.
Now, character profiles!
April 6, 2017
2017 B2BCyCon Fantasy Genre Tour
Fantasy “Behind The Scenes” Tour – Stop #7
“Why I Love Fantasy” by Toi Thomas
Science fiction is about stretching the limitations of science, logic, and the human condition.
Horror and paranormal are about the varied speculations on the origins of humans and how we’ve come to look, react, and behave as we do.
Fantasy is about shattering the idea that science has limitations. It’s about seeking the origin of life, not differentiating between sentient beings. It’s about finding magic in every speck of existence and reality. Fantasy is about thinking in a way that simply blows your mind.
Where sci-fi is a race against time and horror is a battle for your soul, fantasy is a quest; it’s a journey to bring balance. Plus, fantasy has dragons!
Sourced- Pinterest: Toinette Thomas Dragons board (from golphee.deviantart.stfi.re)
You know what else fantasy has: elves, wizards, trolls, mermaids… I could go on and on.
Another thing that seems to be a reoccurring theme in most fantasies, is a connection to nature. Despite my purple nasal cavity telling me that pollen is bad for me, I love nature, especially gardens.
Sourced- Pinterest: Toinette Thomas Wish it was Eden board (from tinywhitedaisies. tumblr.com)
So, of course, I’m all the time writing about gardens. In fact, my latest, up-and-coming release, is about a magical garden. Check out the trailer for it, right here.
This title is not yet available. Please do not share this video
So, there you have it. I love fantasy because of the magic. I love it because of escapism. I love it because of the creatures. And most of all, I love fantasy because it’s just so much fun. If you love fantasy, be sure to take full advantage of this tour and visit as many stops as possible. Oh, and be sure to check out my new book, We Are Jardin.
May you never run out of pixie dust.
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B2BCyCon Memoir Hop
Read Responsibly
The topics covered in Broken are difficult for some people. I portray a number of sensitive subject matters including animal abuse, torture, graphic rape scenes, violence, strong language, and drug references. I do not sugar coat any of this. Rape, torture, and abuse are true horrors people live through. No dramatization was needed for this part, and I do not believe in softening the truth. Broken is brutal, ugly, and honest. It was not written for shock factor. It was written only for me.
If you are victim of sexual abuse, I strongly encourage you to speak to a therapist before reading this book. Not doing so could prematurely awaken memories you may not be ready for. The results could be disastrous.
I don’t believe in spitting out facts. And my bio is already available to read here. And I’m a writer. Words are my bitch.
I live in New York. Not the gritty, bustling city crammed with people rushing about to fulfill their daily obligations… I love those people…
I live in the part of New York most people don’t know exists.
I live in the mountains. Everywhere I look, high rolling hills surround me. In the fall, those rolling hills of green, paint the earth with splashes of orange, red, and yellows. When you step outside you can smell apple in the air mixed with a hint of fireplace that floats on the wind. And it is very windy up here. The air is thin and many from sea level struggle breathing up here. The water is too high in mineral content to drink. That is how high up I live.
The sing song of the chickadee and vibrant reds of the male cardinal greet me every morning. And our winters here… you can smell ice in the air as early as September. Our springs are warm and inviting. But nothing is as pure and as perfect as our mountain rainstorms. Solid downpours last for three days at a time and, if you’re in the right location, you can gaze upon the world as it once was centuries ago when Native Americans—the Iroquois—traveled the Susquehanna River in canoes.
I have my own touch of earth in my yard where I’ve planted gardens. To make up for all the death I’ve seen—and I’ve seen a lot—I surround myself with life. Nine gardens surround my home, a shade garden, Irish garden, hummingbird garden, butterfly, and bird garden, and a rose garden, spring bulb garden, and lilies. Inside my house you’ll find my tenth garden. We converted our central living room into a full functioning greenhouse where my cats spend their days lounging in the sun.
I drink coffee, write books, mother my children, sing, dance, cross-stitch, play piano, swim, and surround myself with everything I love everywhere. Above all else, I am a survivor.
You can’t see it, but if you look hard enough, you’ll see the scars that have marred my mind. I’m okay now. But recently, I wasn’t. I have been beaten, tortured, raped, enslaved, raped again, prepped for trafficking, and denied human contact, love, comfort, and protection for all of my youth, and most of my life when my only family were the cats who I had to rescue from torture. At one point, I had to choose between being beaten, and being raped. For the record, rape is better. In my case, I knew I could survive rape. I wasn’t sure if I would survive the beatings.
But the thing I am most proud of is my smile. Through it all, I have found me… I have healed, and I’m still smiling.
This is who I am. This is how I became Broken.
Broken
Finalist for the 2015 Wishing Shelf Awards. Goodreads Reviews "Broken is graphic, shocking, raw, disturbing, intense, appalling, shameful, and so very, very sad." "This story has the complexity of The Prince of Tides by Pat Conroy, but written with the flow of Speak by Laurie Halse Anderson." "Your ...
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About the Book
Finalist for the 2015 Wishing Shelf Awards. Goodreads Reviews
“Broken is graphic, shocking, raw, disturbing, intense, appalling, shameful, and so very, very sad.”
“This story has the complexity of The Prince of Tides by Pat Conroy, but written with the flow of Speak by Laurie Halse Anderson.”
“Your heart will have been on such an emotional rollercoaster by the end of this book, it may take some time to learn how to beat steady again.”
“There are a few really great lines/thoughts here. Little treasures I wanted to underline or come back to later. Some really great words.”
“Hypnotic and addicting.”
“Heart wrenching.”
“Raw.”
And Death it calls as the stone crow breaks. Streaks of blood malform its face.
Death becomes its withered eyes and the shadows whisper, “Lies.”
When William, a young journalist, seeks out Elizabeth, an acclaimed author, in hopes to write her biography, the recluse grants him twenty-four hours to hear her story. What unfolds are a wide range of traumas that teeter on the edge of macabre and psychological thriller.
While toggling the lines of insanity, Elizabeth examines her neglect, rape, abuse, torture, and pedophilia-filled past. The more Elizabeth delves into her psyche, the more William witnesses the multiple mental conditions Elizabeth developed to cope with a life without love, comfort, protection, trust, physical human contact, affection, therapy, or medication.
With the use of existentialism, I wrote Broken in an attempt to philosophical determine what I had become and why. Instead, I found the awareness I needed to seek help. Broken is the road map I took to arrive at “Awareness.”
Details
Authors: Angela B. Chrysler, Angela Chrysler
Genres: Horror, Memoir
Publisher: Angela B. Chrysler
Publication Year: 2015
ASIN: B011AX4T02
Preview Disclosure of Material Connection: Some of the links in the page above are "affiliate links." This means if you click on the link and purchase the item, I will receive an affiliate commission. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission's 16 CFR, Part 255: "Guides Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising."
I wrote Broken from 7 March to 20 March. During that time, I relived thirty years of trauma, and Broken records it all: the triggers, the hyperarousal, the breakdowns, and the panic. I explain the rationale behind my behavior and the thoughts I used to justify my behavior in a philosophical discussion with an interviewer. I show you the four worlds in my head where I lived for more than twenty years, as well as the four fictional characters I created in place of the human relationships I lacked. I record the conversations I have with my fictional friends and lovers as they took place.
Broken shows you what trauma is like for some survivors years later before they even realize they have a problem. Broken will show you what it looks and feels like to emerge from the mental cocoon I lived in for thirty years. It shows the road I took to awareness while going down that road. It shows how I began my recovery.
Broken is vivid, powerful, and not suitable for some audiences. If you are a survivor of sexual abuse, I strongly recommend that you do not read this until a therapist says you are ready.
WARNING: ADULTS ONLY. Readers are strongly cautioned. “Broken” portrays sensitive subject matters including animal abuse, torture, and graphic sexual violence. There is strong language, drug reference and is not suitable for some audiences. Please proceed with caution.
Additional Reading
Like Broken’s Facebook Page
Audio Excerpts: The author reads from Broken
The Looking Glass: Behind The Scenes
Broken Release Party
What is “Broken?”
Take the “Is Broken Right For you?” Quiz
Living in November Rain
Sample first 20% of Broken here
A note to you, dear reader
Defining PTSD
Broken Uncovered: The author speaks on Broken via audio recording
Follow the Author’s recovery in Unbreaking Me
Legal Disclaimer
Broken is a work of creative nonfiction. All events, opinions, and views are that of Angela B. Chrysler and are portrayed through subjective perspective based on the memory of Ms. Chrysler. While all the events are true, names, places, characteristics, and relationships have been altered and/or changed to protect the identity and privacy of the people involved. Some characters have been combined into one. Others have been divided into two, while some have been dramatized to better suit the story. The events themselves remained unaltered to the best of the author’s memory. The dialogue was composed to create the essence of conversations in an effort to recreate the scene and mood best to the author’s memory, and is not to be taken as verbatim quotes.
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B2BCyCon Fantasy Hop
Welcome to Under Earth
There still is magic in this world and I have found it. Below the roots of Yggdrasil, beyond the depths of Under Earth it is there…if only you dare to see.
Characters and worlds: that is what breathes life into fantasy. And there is none better at this than Bergen. Dearest reader, may I present, Bergen, son of Tryggve, Lord and heir of Gunir.
Bergen shoves his way into the little corner of Angela’s website he has preserved for himself. A bottle of Guinness clutched, too comfortably, in his hand. Perhaps he’s had one too much to drink. Or five. Perhaps something deeper troubles him.
The light is out save the single candle that burns on one of the tables. Wax has pooled into the grains of the wood. He nearly topples to the floor when he stumbles into one of the half-dozen bar tables. “Too girly,” he had called the room. Bergen threw back his head and drank. “Doesn’t matter,” he mumbles and drops into one of the chairs at the table with the wax and the candle. Only then does he realize you are standing there in the doorway, curiously watching.
Keeping his black eyes on you, he tips his head back for another drink. He doesn’t seem to care that you are watching.
“You,” Bergen kicks the chair across from him as invitation to sit. “Sit,” he says in case you didn’t pick up on his obtuse hint. Shyly, maybe nervously, you make your way across the cluttered room. Each step, the scrape of the chair, and the strain as you sit all echoes in the obscene silence.
“I used to be an adventurer once,” he mutters while balancing his beer in an attempt to peer down the neck to the bottom. “I studied afar in the green lands of Eire with the finest of scholars.”
You, the tavern, and the beer seemed to vanish as a distant look sweeps his eyes. He gazes upon the walls of the tavern and the dust-covered counter made bar.
“They had secrets there, secrets none dared write about,” he explains. “Secrets they buried in stories. To preserve their stories, the masters took an apprentice and taught him. For every master there was an apprentice. But there were so many stories that those stories accumulated year after year. Apprentices studied and mastered the oral songs until they too were masters. Then they learned new songs and new stories filled with new secrets. Every day, these masters would recite every verse, every song, every word they had every memorized so as to keep the words fresh. Their life equaled a hundred lifetime of masters. It took a life time to become a master. Many apprentices died unable to reach the lesson’s end. They left the masters alone, with none to take on the secrets and stories.”
Bergen paused to take back another drink. he sighs and returns the beer to the table. He stares at his hands in thought.
“Secrets were buried. Secrets to youth, to life, to the gods, and to weapons. Secrets that could wipe out entire civilizations. With each master to each apprentice the stories grew.”
Bergen raised his dark eyes to you, suddenly remembering you were there listening.
“What would a master who was facing death desire above all else?”
He knows you won’t answer and doesn’t wait for a response.
“He would desire immortality,” he says. “I am the last apprentice. Only I know the songs that speak of those secrets.”
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Dolor and Shadow
(Tales of the Drui Book #1)
by
Angela B. Chrysler
Chapter 7
Bergen sat on the steps of Gunir’s keep. Resting his arms on his knees, he supported his hunched back and shoulders. In one hand, he clutched the Sklavinian egg until his fingers were numb. In the other, he loosely held the neck of a bottle still full with mead.
Sklavinian artifacts are notorious for curses.
Rune’s words echoed back as Bergen stared at the stone courtyard bathed in moonlight and blood, Swann’s blood. He recalled Zabbai’s bronze body glistening in the sun of Râ-Kedet, naked and pure and perfect and chained. For two years, he had thought of little else.
Zabbai.
Swann’s death brought everything from Râ-Kedet flooding back.
The bottle slipped from his fingers and struck the stone with a thud. Red mead flowed down the steps of Gunir. Bergen didn’t move to stop it.
He could still smell the death on her.
And then their mother—
“Bergen.”
Bergen sat up. Like he, Rune looked beaten down and broken beneath the grief that had penetrated the city. Everyone felt the effect of Swann’s death. No one was immune to that loss. And Caoilinn’s death, at least that was one they could explain.
“Did you find him?” Bergen asked. The sound of his own voice felt foreign to him.
Rune shook his head as he watched a drop of mead cling to the lip of the bottle still resting on the steps. “Geirolf is looking with Torunn,” Rune said. “They haven’t seen him since…”
Rune dug his fingers into his eyes and Bergen stared at the city, too grief stricken to cry, too tired to sleep, too much death to live without hate.
Hate.
Bergen turned his thoughts to the fire that burned in his chest. That was something he knew and welcomed. He would need it where he was going.
Bergen shoved his hand through his short black hair and rubbed the back of his neck, then took up the bottle from the steps and shoved the egg into his pocket.
“And what of Mother?” Bergen asked, rising to his feet. “Has her body—” Bergen lost the words in his throat. There was no more room for grief, no more room to feel anything anymore, but hate.
Rune shook his head and wearily climbed each step to the great oak doors of the keep. “According to Geirolf, Father’s orders were to leave her.”
“We can’t just leave her,” Bergen said. The hate swelled again.
“What will you have me do?” Rune said, turning back to his brother. “Swann is dead…and Mother. Father is missing. After finding their kin slaughtered…the hundreds that lay dead…” Rune rubbed his hand over his face. “The Dokkalfar will want answers. They won’t stand for this, nor should they.”
Rune continued up the steps.
“Why should I concern myself with their misery when it was their kin who started this?” Rune gazed down upon his brother. “When it was they who took our Swann from us?” Bergen asked.
“Would you have war?” Rune said. “Would you see more dead? The Dokkalfar are strong.”
“We have numbers.” Bergen took a step closer.
“They have a witch, Brother. A Seidkona.”
Bergen’s face fell as he assessed the Dokkalfar’s strength against their numbers.
“One Seidkona doesn’t make an army,” Bergen said and turned away, but Rune’s hand flew to Bergen’s arm.
“They have weapons,” Rune said. “Forged from a steel the likes I have never seen before. If there is war…” Rune shook his head and left the thought unfinished. “We can’t win this.”
“There are others,” Bergen said. The rising darkness within him blanketed his face as his thoughts turned to the mountains.
“What others?” Rune asked.
“Rune. Bergen.”
Torunn stood on the steps of the keep. Her dainty shoulders sagged from the insurmountable grief they all bore these past few days. Her long black hair, always so neatly twisted and fastened to the back of her head, was disheveled, making her appear almost crazed.
“Your father,” she said. Her lip quivered. “He’s here.”
“I’ve never seen him like this,” Torunn whispered as Bergen and Rune entered the corridor behind her. “He came in, mumbling such madness. It’s like he’s gone. I can’t get him to talk to me. He won’t speak to Geirolf.”
“Where is he, Torunn?” Rune asked as she wrung her hands together.
Torunn stopped before their mother’s bower. The door was open just enough to make out the endless babble that accompanied the uttering of a mad man.
Rune pushed on the door and entered with Bergen following close behind. The candles were unlit. The hearth was cold. The queen’s bower was dark save for the streak of bedroom light that spilled into the sitting room.
The smell of death grew stronger as they drew closer to their mother’s bedchamber. The inane ramblings became clearer until they approached the threshold where they could hear the words.
“Please forgive me…Caoilinn? Please…I didn’t mean to—I didn’t mean…”
Rune pushed open the door. On the bed, his mother lay. And on the floor, by her side, sat his father. Weeping, Tryggve clutched his wife’s cold hand.
“Swann…Sweet Swann,” he muttered, smiling at Caoilinn’s lifeless eyes. “With silver eyes…” he said. “So like yours. They glisten like pearls. Can you see them, Caoilinn? See them.” His lips quivered and his face turned down with anger. “Won’t you look at me? Look at me. Please look at me, Caoilinn. Please? It’s because I killed them, isn’t it? That you won’t talk to me?”
Bergen stopped at the door beside Rune and both brothers watched, unable to speak.
“I killed them…” Tryggve said. He stroked her golden hair. “I killed them all…every child…every mother…every soldier…I killed them all. I had to. They killed our Swann…our precious…” Tryggve pursed his lips. “Please talk to me, Caoilinn. Talk to me…Won’t you speak to me? You’re mad at me. Because I couldn’t…Forgive me? You must forgive me. Please forgive…”
Bergen turned without a word and stomped back through the sitting room to the corridor. Down the steps into the Great Hall, he ran, not bothering a glance to the empty throne seated between the High Seat pillars engraved with wolves.
His hands struck the great oak doors and Bergen ran down the steps, past the stream of mead into the courtyard to the stables around the west tower.
“Bergen!”
Bergen paid his brother no mind.
“Bergen!” Rune was already closing in on his heels, but Bergen kept running. “Where are you going?”
“To the mountains, Brother.”
Rune stopped at the stable door as Bergen began saddling his horse.
“The Dvergar,” Rune said. “Bergen. You can’t go. They’ll kill you.”
“Their enemy is my enemy,” Bergen said. “They will help us.”
“They will kill you!”
Bergen stepped in so that he stood face to face with his brother.
The soft sob at the stable door quelled the argument and drew their attention to Torunn. A beam of moonlight flooded her reddened face enough that they could see the fresh wave of tears. He knew that shadow that clung so desperately behind her eyes.
“The king…” she spoke between sobs. “Your father…he…”
Shaking her head, Torunn turned. Hugging her arms, she wandered back to the keep alone.
“No!” Bergen screamed and lunged right into Rune’s fist. Bergen fell back, shook the initial shock off and returned a punch to Rune’s jaw. Before Rune could recover, Bergen slammed himself into Rune, who dropped his hands hard onto Bergen’s shoulders and held him there.
“He isn’t!” Bergen growled and Rune dropped his brow to his brother’s. “Not Father! Not…” Bergen’s breath punched the air as his head spun as if desperate to find something to cling to.
Zabbai.
His chest throbbed with that pain that twisted his insides.
Swann.
Rage burned his skin from the inside out.
Mother.
“Breathe, Bergen,” Rune said.
Now Father.
“No!” Bergen shouted and shoved Rune back. “I will go to the mountains!”
“Bergen, they will kill you,” Rune said.
“I have no choice!”
“You always have a choice.”
Bergen shoved his hand through his hair again and again, each time he saw Zabbai then Swann then Caoilinn…
“Do I?” Bergen gasped. “What choice is there? To stand here and watch you die? Do you call that a choice?”
“It’s a risk I must take as king,” Rune said.
Bergen studied the silver-blue eyes so like his. Apathy was taking his brother, the king. Bergen knew the signs well. Rune, who spent his youth training for this day. His brother, Rune, King of Gunir. Choice and risk were two things Rune would never have the luxury to exercise.
“I am not king,” Bergen said. “I don’t have to risk.”
“There is another way,” Rune said. “War isn’t our only option.”
“Isn’t it?” Bergen said. “And will you be here when the Dokkalfar find their dead and come to tear down our walls? Will you stand by, idle and ready to negotiate while they carve open your back and tear out your ribs?” Bergen shook his head. “No, Brother. I will not be one who stands and fights to die. You said yourself that their weapons are too great and they have a Seidkona.”
“The Dokkalfar will come and we will defend ourselves,” Rune said.
“They started this!” Bergen shouted. “When they took Swann’s life from her, they took the very spirit from this city. Just like Zabbai!”
A familiar cold plunged itself through Bergen’s rage as he realized what he had just said.
“Bergen,” Rune said.
Bergen’s throat clamped shut and he turned his attention to his hate and the saddle.
“Bergen, what happened in Râ-Kedet?”
“I’m going,” Bergen grumbled.
“Bergen.”
Bergen raised his eyes to his brother and shook his head. “I can’t stay here.” He pulled himself into the saddle and pulled back the reins, steering the horse from the stall. “I’m going for help.”
“Bergen.”
“Goodbye, Brother.” And snapping the reins, Bergen sent his horse cantering out of the stables.
“Bergen!”
Series: Tales of the Drui
Dolor and Shadow (Tales of the Drui Book 1)
Authors: Angela B. Chrysler, Angela Chrysler
Series: Tales of the Drui, Book 1
Genres: Dark Fantasy, Fantasy
As the elven city burns, Princess Kallan is taken to Alfheim while a great power begins to awaken within her. Desperate to keep the child hidden, her abilities are suppressed and her memory erased. But the gods have powers as well, and it is only a matter of time before they find the child again.Whe... More info →
Fire and Lies (Tales of the Drui Book 2)
Authors: Angela B. Chrysler, Angela Chrysler
Series: Tales of the Drui, Book 2
Genres: Dark Fantasy, Fantasy
Blood waters the fields of Alfheim. War rips across the land of usurped kings and elves. The Fae gods draw near, and Queen Kallan’s strength is tested as she follows King Rune into Alfheim. But the Shadow Beast caged within Rune’s body writhes in hunger, and Kallan’s newest companion, Bergen t... More info →
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Sacred Atonement: A Novelette (The Birthrite Series, #1.5)
Author: Tiffany Apan
"He wondered how she would react to seeing him. Not just his physical appearance, but seeing him for the first time since what happened between nearly a year ago. And what would happen once she found out what he really was?"The year 1932 is one Linda never dreamed of ever having. As a single mother ... More info →
The Scary Stories Trilogy Corrupted Me as a Child…and I’m Glad It Did
by
Tiffany Apan
Those of us born in the 1980s, I think, had it pretty good. We had all the good Nickelodeon shows (You Can’t Do That on Television, Are You Afraid of the Dark, All That, Roundhouse, all the cool Euro-anime-like cartoon shows like Spartakus and the Sun Beneath the Sea), Ninja Turtles, My Little Pony, Rainbow Brite, books like Wait Til Helen Comes and Dollhouse Murders. All of those have many amazing memories attached to them, but what really stands out for me is one particular night during the summer before I started second grade.
On that night, my parents went out for the evening and of course (since I was seven and my sisters were five and three) our baby-sitter came over to watch us. It was a beautiful night and we were sitting outside at around dusk. I forget what I was doing that had me so distracted, but I hardly noticed my baby-sitter going to get something out from her bag. Next thing I know, I hear this high-pitched almost witch-like voice from behind me say “Hi, little girl…”
I turn around, and saw a rather grotesque image staring back at me.
Totally true story; my baby-sitter thought it would be funny to sneak up behind me with a certain book open to the illustration that went with a story called The Haunted House. Yes, it was the very first book in the Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark Trilogy.
After my seven-year-old self jumped about six feet in the air, I did become very intrigued by the book, especially as she began to read some of the stories aloud. From that point on, I wanted her to bring the book all the time, and when the second and third books came out (More Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark and More Tales to Chill Your Bones), oh you better believe I was all over those.
That seemingly passe evening from my childhood actually would go on to have more of an impact on me than I think even I knew at the moment (a reading of Washington Irving’s The Legend of Sleepy Hollow at school later that Halloween also sealed the deal as far as my tastes were concerned). From that point on, I was a fan of dark fiction and horror, and the Scary Stories series would also be among those works that would go on to shape how I write my own stories. Yes, I very much thank my baby-sitter, Alvin Schwartz, and Stephen Gammell for that one.
With that said, I also pose the question of what it was that really intrigued not only myself, but other kids who were fortunate enough to grow up with these books. Even as adults, many of us still love them and remain freaked out by Stephen Gammell’s illustrations. Oh, those illustrations…like the one from The Thing. Yeah, that one still makes me cringe (if you don’t know what I’m talking about and are feeling brave, google Scary Stories to tell in the Dark, The Thing and you will see what I mean).
To be honest, I really can’t pinpoint one specific reason as to why the stories in those books stay with me, even to this day. There are several aspects of these books that continue to intrigue me and influence my own writing:
-One aspect IS the illustrations. I mean, come on. Even the stories that weren’t even that scary were given gruesome visuals that made them so. And Gammell’s drawings are so wonderfully macabre and detailed that one can almost feel the terror and unease experienced by the characters of the stories.
– Another is the pure simplicity of the stories. In fact, the stories aren’t even that long. Some are only a page long. But when the stories get going, they really get going and pack a lot within a mere couple of paragraphs.
– Much of the stories are based in urban legend and folklore. I love the idea of some incidents told of within the books’ pages might be based in some fact.
– The stories embrace the unknown and acknowledge that some things don’t always end happily or turn out the way you might like for them to. I’m sure some might disagree with me on this, but I do feel this is an important lesson for kids to be taught early on. Not all my stories end happily, and even those that do often have some sort of unresolve. Then there’s delving into the unknown, not really knowing what might be awaiting you at the end of the road, or who the person sitting next to you on the bus or subway is. Or even the person passing you by on the street (as per The Walk: “…and the man looked at my uncle, and my uncle looked at the man…”)…
The more I think about it, the more I am able to acknowledge just how much these stories have shaped my own writing and storytelling. In fact, my short stories series, Stories from Colony Drive is named for the street I grew up on. The street on which my baby-sitter sneaked up on me with one of Stephen Gammell’s brilliant illustrations in front of her face. My novel series, The Birthrite, also has a tinge of that old world folklore and delving into the unknown is a running theme.
Scary Stories kept me up at night, I’m not going to lie about that (I would sometimes lay in bed wondering if the creepy lady from The Dream was going to come out of my closet…). But they also stirred my imagination, and really influenced me to think outside the box and start to challenge myself as a writer and a creative individual from a young age. It was the reason I began writing stories and wondering about the world around me. It was the beginning of me becoming someone who constantly questions things and isn’t of afraid doing so.
I look back on that fateful evening on Colony Drive with great fondness and I am thankful to my baby-sitter for getting the idea to scare the ever living crap out of me.
And, thanks to Alvin Schwartz and Stephen Gammell for awakening my imagination and probably those of many others. You guys rocked it.
February 27, 2017
Zombies From Space…Preorder now!
Alien invasion? Zombies? Vampires!? I don’t think so!
Aria was an average 19-year-old with average problems. Average was quite realistic until zombies landed their UFO in her backyard. If Aria wants to survive, she’ll need some help, and who better than a pirate captain, a steampunk inventor, a bazooka wielding slayer, and a deranged Englishman who insists he is Doctor Who?
Stuck in a war between vampires and zombie-walking Weeches, Aria and her eccentric crew take a stand for mankind as they fight for their right to survive. Hey, if you have to slaughter zombies and vampires, why not enjoy it?
Scheduled for release 7 April 2017.
Quick Q&A
Can I pre-order Zombies From Space?
Yes! Preorder now!
How big is the paperback?
This is a novella at approximately 18,000 words. It’s only about 40 pages.
What formats are available?
Zombies From Space…and Vampires will be available on Kindle (MOBI) and Nook (ePub). The paperback will be released on 7 April 2017. You can preorder the eBook now on Amazon.
I noticed you refer to this as a season and episodes. What does that mean?
The terms “season” and “episodes” communicate a few clear things to readers. 1 – This will run similar to a television drama. 2 – Expect cliff hangers. Whereas “Novel” and “Chapter” tells readers to expect more of a slower paced with a tidy conclusion all wrapped up at the end. This also changes my approach to the writing forcing me to write in a very different style than if it were a novel.
This is so cool! Where did you get this idea!?
Short answer. I conceived this idea while watching Kung Fu Panda 3. The preview in the beginning showed two guys standing there… “zombies… In space!”
Will there be a sequel?
Heck, yes! It’s called Zombies From Space…Fists In The Dark
Where did you get that title?
Well, I have a 13-year-old son, and he had some friends spend the night…
When will the sequel be released?
The Zombies From Space series is a blog novel, which means I always release the boo,k a chapter at a time, on my website. Once the story is near completion, I release the novel on all major eReaders. So when is the sequel released? Next month, I release Chapter #1 Zombies From Space…Fists In The Dark at www.angelabchrysler.com. Subscribe and receive the next chapter in the monthly Newsletter along with a free bookmark (US residents only).
February 22, 2017
Pancake Recipe
I’ve had readers ask for some of my stone mill recipes. Here is one that immediately became my family’s favorite. I cook up one to two brown cage-free eggs and sandwich them between two pancakes. I then drizzle maple syrup on top. Do not substitute the Whole Wheat Pastry Flour or the buttermilk. These alterations will create an entirely different recipe that drastically alter the flavor.
Pancakes
1-1/4 cup of this Whole Wheat Pastry Flour
1 Tbsp Sugar
1-1/2 tsp Baking Powder
1/4 tsp salt
1/4 tsp nutmeg (Optional)
1 Egg
2 Tbsp water
2 Tbsp melted butter
1 cup buttermilk (Be ready to add up to 1/2 cup of additional buttermilk—1 tbsp at a time—until desired batter consistency is reached)
This recipe is an alteration on Bob’s Red Mill Buttermilk Pancake recipe.
February 14, 2017
January 30, 2017
Vipassana: Understanding Calm
Since I was fifteen years old, I have dedicated my life to philosophy, religion, and the pursuit of my happiness. I have since refrained from such religious labels and strayed from categories like Christian, Atheist, Hindu, Muslim, or Buddhist. While I have been clear on what I don’t believe, I have been less clear on what I do believe and am discouraged to put any singular label on what it is I believe.
Labels are walls that lock us into one thing. The only label I was satisfied with using was “Agnostic,” which simply means “I don’t know” or “the pursuit of truth.” Weak Agnostic meant, “We may know one day…maybe.” Strong Agnostic was too strict a label for my taste as it meant, “I don’t know, nor will we ever know the truth.” To this I ask, why bother searching? To claim “we don’t know the truth” is much like saying, “I have all the answers and can tell you that we will never know more than we know today.”
Weak Agnosticism allowed me the freedom to search and pursue the truth while keeping an open mind that everyone may be wrong. I soon realized that “right” and “wrong” were labels.
This last week, I have been watching “Life:” A nature show produce by BBC. Every episode focuses on a different life form and how they live from hunting, to reproduction, to birth. One lizard left me stunned. Like so many animals in the animal kingdom, predators are a threat to their young. This lizard had developed the instinct to locate a haven to lay its eggs, and bury them so well that not even she could find them again.
I watched this lizard carefully select a location where she was certain her eggs would be safe. I watched her lay her eggs and bury them, unaware that a snake was watching, hidden nearby in some foliage. The moment the Lizard finished laying her eggs, she erased all evidence and departed. The lizard hadn’t crawled two yards before the snake emerged. The lizard watched unemotional as the snake located her eggs, dug them up with its snout, and ate all five eggs in front of her. The lizard observed completely without emotion, or so it appeared, as a predator ate her offspring. She would not be able to lay eggs again for an entire year.
While this was certainly a behavior I did not want for myself, it was all at once interesting and quite disturbing. I put the episode out of my mind until today. As I sat with my daily meditation, my eyes closed, I breathed deep and followed the directions. Just observe. No emotion. Just notice. Observe. It is with expectation that we find anger, stress, hate, rage, sadness. frustration, and sorrow. This is Vipassana.
In meditation, we are taught to feel an itch, observe it, name it, but to not react. Don’t scratch. Don’t call it good or bad. Just call it by name and observe. I did so, never truly understanding the exercise until today.
I observed the pain in my shoulders from knitting, but didn’t move. I noted the sounds around me, but didn’t respond. I listened. I felt. I cleared my emotions and simply observed. It was as if I stepped out of my body, changing my perspective, and just watched. I noticed the sunlight, but didn’t feel happy or sad. I observed and called it what it was. Sunlight. I removed the good and the bad from the label and only saw.
Finally, I understood. Like a lizard who stands by and watches her young being eating, neither good nor bad, it just is, we are encouraged to apply this same lifestyle to the lesser things in life. A red light directing you to stop in traffic. An overcooked steak. A misplaced cup of coffee. These things are not bad. Nor are they good. They just are and hardly warrant an emotion. By removing the expectations from these fleeting moments, you remove the negative emotion that follows. You remove disappointment and discouragement. You remove sorrow and sadness.
This is Vipassana: the heart and core of understanding what Buddha discovered. From the outside, mediation looks like sleep or rest. But it is the mind and our perspective that is kept from the observer. It isn’t a hum that gives us peace with our legs crossed, eyes closed, and fingers pinched together resting on our knees. It is the act inside of clearing our hearts and just noting. Observe without label.
The freedom that opens following this change in perspective was illuminating. Shrug and feel the stress fall from your shoulders. Shrug and feel the rage slip away. Patience and calm slides in its place and suddenly, you can breathe the clear air. Slow down and observe. Take note without labels. Watch. Understand. Observe the calm settle over you and smile.
December 27, 2016
The Book Cover Factor
I mingle a lot within the author community. My daily conversations range from editing jobs, writing styles, and quality book covers. Prior to the holidays, one of my most respected of author friends came to me with a book cover he had started putting together.
Book building: An amazing journey for every author. In this journey, book covers are one of the most exciting moments for authors. For most of us, it’s as close to seeing a visual picture of our world as we’re ever going to get. In our dreams, we envision throwing down thousands of dollars on the ideal dream cover. In reality, many of us scrape pennies together to purchase a barely affordable cover. Too many of us attempt to hand draw our own cover. Others are lucky enough to get the quality on an affordable budget.
A lot goes into the cover. We argue color, mood, and people… Sometimes the covers we get back from our artists are dead on while other covers are disappointing. To show the character or to not show the character. Male or female…action scene or still…Such decisions. Some authors put more into the cover than they put into the writing and editing.
In the end, what most authors fail to remember is the purpose of the cover. The purpose of the cover is not to wrap your book in the finest of evening wear. It is to sell your book to the correct reader. Ayn Rand comes to mind.
Ayn Rand had just written her masterpiece: Atlas Shrugged. The cover her publisher envisioned was less than ideal. They had wanted to plaster a defrocked John Galt embracing the voluptuous Dagny Taggart much like Rhett Butler embracing his Scarlett. Actually…just like that.
Ayn was enraged and her words were perfect for the occasion.
“The people who would buy this book for that cover would hate it! And those who would love the book wouldn’t buy any book with a cover like that.”
Ayn Rand won her cover.
When I was 14, I got to buy my own copy of the first book I ever read. This was a big deal for me. The book was The Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux (1911). I had found this book in the school library when I was 12…13 years old. It was a hard copy edition. A basic black cover with Lon Chaney, Jr. dressed in one of his thousand faces. At the time, I had no idea the picture was of Lon Chaney in his silent portrayal of The Phantom of the Opera. I loved that book and managed to hang onto it for a year. I had dreams of buying it from the school library. When I finally could afford my own copy, I rushed to the book store convinced this wouldn’t be an issue. It was.
Instead of finding the cover I had clutched to for a year, I found three other choices. One was of Christine and Erik in the boat. The characters were washed out, drowned in the background of black and blue. Ugh! It was terrible. The second cover I had to choose from was the Broadway poster. I hated it. While the Broadway musical was stunning, it was not the same creature as the book.
The third choice I had was the grand staircase of the Paris Opera house. Gorgeous cover. My heart broke when I realized the edition of Lon Chaney was unavailable, but that Grand Staircase was just as magnificent in presentation. This is the book I settled on.
A picture speaks a thousands words…But when the book is 50, 70, or 100,000 words the picture and its thousand words doesn’t do the book justice. Maybe, just maybe having multiple covers for a single title isn’t such a bad idea after all.
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