Darren Endymion's Blog, page 14

I Love My Friends, But…

…sometimes I want to choke a bitch. Let’s be honest, everyone gets irritated with their friends, but there are times when the best remedy is just to be as far from them as possible, or to not spend four days with them at a stretch (which is why I totally forgot to post on Thursday).

But then I thought about why I was feeling this way and I came up with an answer right away. My friends are bitches. Not all of them, mind you, but just a few. And it’s the most terrible thing — I become the same way when I get around them. Am I succumbing to peer pressure, or is it just another side of me that I normally repress? Either one is completely possible. Or is it the only way to survive in that group?

My mind pointed me to one purposeful decision I made a few years ago, and the reasons I made this decision. Most people don’t know that I want to be a writer or that I’ve published anything at all. Several of those close to me know, but the friends I spend the most time with do not. Why? Why wouldn’t I tell these people I genuinely love and care about?

Because they are bitches. They can be the most supportive, wonderful people on the planet. When I almost died and was out of work for 6 weeks, they visited me in the hospital, looked after me, and gave me moral support. But they are also critical, sometimes to the point where it’s better just to not mention things. I tell these friends only what it is safe for them to know, that which I can handle having thrown in my face before long, usually as an amusing rip on me. We all do it to each other. It happens. We’re friends. But sometimes there is just an unrelenting Tidal Wave of Bitch that it simply becomes distasteful.

Why, then, would I tell them about a big achievement and a goal I’ve met? I already subject myself to the disdain and criticism of those out there, of anyone who wants to pick up their Kindle and order my novel or the two short stories I’ve had published. The actual critics who critique this genre have been incredibly kind to me. I learned to deal with the bile of publishing through what was…we shall be polite and say…a challenging editing run, and had to learn it more within the first two days of publication. I’m almost thankful that happened, because it toughened up my skin right away and taught me that I can only do my best (or what I’m willing to do).

But to tell your friends and have them come after you? Fuck that. It would be good humored. I doubt it would ever be truly or purposefully vicious. It would be aimed at my lack of writing since then (hmmmm…maybe I SHOULD tell them) or the genre or whatever. Critics online are one thing. Your friends being bitches in your face would end in a few maimings, a screaming match, a criminal trial, and an attempted exorcism. I came to this conclusion a few years ago when we were all carving pumpkins for Halloween and the fun banter turned vicious-funny. It’s all in jest, but two people were going at each other and I just thought to myself that these bitches would never know by my hand or lips that I have published so much as a single sentence.

I have no doubt that they would love me, support me, be proud of me, encourage me, read it, and tell me their honest opinions. I’m pretty proud of what I’ve written. I think it would be a beautiful, affirming experience. But that one time someone would think of something funny and I would be under their claws with one of the few parts that is sensitive (to them, anyway). So, I don’t give them that power.

I love them…and I keep them in the dark. And for now, I’m okay with that.

Review: The Amityville Horror (book)

“Get OOOOOOUT!”

When blessing the house (which is the real main character in The Amityville Horror) a priest hears this declarative command coming from a room covered with flies, inexplicably alive in the New York winter season. Yeah, you wouldn’t have to ask me twice. “Can I pick up a few things? No? Well, then, I’m out. You enjoy your house, and I’m sorry for the small pile of excrement I have just shaken out of my pant leg.” *sprint*

I would punt one of those bratty kids toward the fly room on my way out. “Take this, Great House Demon. They are crunchy and best served with ketchup!” Bleeding walls? Door blown out from the inside? Levitating above the bed? Fuck it all, every last bit of it.

These are just a few of the supernatural things that supposedly happened to the Lutz family when they moved into 112 Ocean Avenue in the mid-seventies.What happened to them is debated widely, and many call it a hoax. I don’t know that everything adds up, but there are holes. And I don’t care one way or the other. It’s a good story, and fits the “rules” of haunting (or infernal infestation), and it doesn’t matter for our purposes. It’s a good, scary story, and based  around a very true, very tragic event.

A little over a year before, the entire DeFeo family had been murdered in their sleep by the oldest son/brother. He claimed that he had heard voices telling him to do it; granted, he was a drug addict and likely insane. However, all the family members were murdered with a shotgun, each happened to be laying on his/her stomach, none woke up at the sounds of shotgun blasts, no neighbors heard anything, and none of the family had any traceable drugs in their system which would account for this. These are facts.

The book itself is scary, and that’s what we paid admission for, isn’t it? Remember when The Blair Witch Project first came out? It was a good, effective movie, and made roughly eleventeen trillion dollars, even once everyone realized it was a movie and nor real. Why? Because it’s a good story. Same with The Amityville Horror.

The writing is a little amateurish, and there’s a profligate number of exclamation points which eventually become like little daggers inserted directly into the corneas. But read it with dim lights in a quiet house…or with a playlist of horror movie themes. Read it with your back exposed or in a chair which is not against the wall. You’ll see what I mean. It’s still frightening. You feel like something is watching you, usually from behind. You open doors, expecting something to be behind them, grinning at you with gentle, murderous malice.That sound you just heard from the other room…what was it? The house settling? Someone outside your apartment? Or some wretched, demonic thing coming for you when your belief and fear are blown wide open? Who can say?

Regrettably, the book is not yet available on Kindle, so you can’t read it in total dark with a gently glowing Kindle. But that might not matter.

The haunting at 112 Ocean avenue progressively got worse and worse, eventually driving the family out after a mere 28 days. If you can get a copy (the paperback is still available for about $6 from Amazon). I have the book and the audio book. While the audio book is acceptable, the true experience is had by reading it. If you don’t like it (or if you do), I’m sure I’ll be here before long with better recommendations.

In the meantime, hope you enjoyed my first rather scattered review.

Signs, wolves, and the ocean

The ocean has always called to me. I was a beach baby and my mother was a sun worshiper — when I was on summer break she would fire up her old VW bug and we would drive to the beach. I loved the ocean. When I was older and pale again, we started going more with my sister and step siblings. The ocean impressed its mystery and beauty on me once again. I wanted to be a marine biologist. That didn’t happen, largely because I’m as afraid as I am in awe of the oceans.

As an adolescent I wrote stories about a merperson and a young human boy and their adventures together. The Little Mermaid is one of my favorite Disney movies. That love of the ocean and my urge to write a mer story have never diminished. However, as is typical of a beginning writer, when you have an idea for so long, it becomes this great intimidating thing, and I am prone to have big ideas that overwhelm me. I have been writing and researching and planning a mer novel…and it got the best of me. I slowed down and blah, blah, blah. Anyone reading this for some time is as sick of this goddamned broken record as I am.

My one published novel, Winter’s Trial, is set in current times and is about a werewolf abused by his pack, yet he is unable to leave them. His name is Austin Holcomb and he lives in Minnesota. He meets his mate, Cristiano, and lots of stuff happens. They look for a pack they can move to together and center in on a pack in Massachusetts where they visit and make friends and want to move.

I recently checked my Facebook account and saw a message from someone I had totally missed. This person wanted to know when the next wolf novel was coming out. I have a recent review on Amazon from another kind person who came there to buy the sequel. It is not yet even in the planning stages (though I very much know what is going to happen. I had a mental orgasm regarding the plot which hit me with the force of a snow shovel to the face…if it was wielded by a big rig truck).

With my last anthology entry I had the great fortune of working with a wonderful freelance editor, Deelylah Mullin. She is funny, personable, kind, and good at what she does. She taught me more in the course of the 30ish page anthology entry than I learned in the entire novel writing process for Winter’s Trial. She has extended an offer for me to request her editing services in the future, which I fully plan to do, and that alleviates a great deal of my writing anxiety. I won’t go more into that, however.

So, as I was compiling the concordance for the mer story I have been working on (and loving every second of it), I thought about the requests for the next wolf book, my recent epiphany about the story, and my very positive experience with Deelylah. I became confused. What should I be working on? What would make me feel better? What would behoove me to start up?

When I was working on Winter’s Trial, I was plagued with similar doubts. I asked the Universe for a sign, and the next day I was walking home and I saw a name tag sticker stuck firmly to the ground. It said, “Hi, my name is…” and the name Austin was written in. The sticker was green, not the usual blue. Austin’s eyes are an emerald green. The next day the sticker, having been firmly stuck to the ground, was gone with no trace of sticker residue. I started work on Winter’s Trial right away and the rest is history.

Today I asked for another sign. What should I be working on? Right after thinking this, I returned to do a quality assessment for one of my team members. I use a random number generator, go to that line on a spreadsheet, and look up the customer interaction that ensued.

The customer’s name was Austin. And he lives in Massachusetts.

I’m not even kidding. I got chills, took a small walk around my department, and realized that I couldn’t have had a better sign. The ocean may have to wait. It has lived in my heart all this time, and it will live there for some time longer. The concordance can be compiled still.

But it seems the wolves are calling me.

Confusion, Thy Name is “Calendar”

So, yesterday was Monday and I missed my blog day entirely. I took Monday off just for the hell of it to spend with my friends and spent the day eating, having fun, watching movies, and doing nothing. In fact, it was so much like a Sunday that I thought it WAS Sunday. I got home late, talked with my friend, and went to bed.

I got to work and started on my normal Monday work, wondering what the hell everyone was talking about. Yesterday? Why were so many of these bitches in on a Sunday? I make a weekly list of things I want to do and a daily work list. I got a text from Amazon letting me know that my pre-ordered copy of Jurassic World would be delivered today and was impressed that I would get it a day early…and it was then that I realized that today is Tuesday.

So, I kicked ass at work, thinking that I had all this time to catch up and was making good headway when it turns out I was only just keeping pace. *sigh*

Thus, I am a day late with this utterly nonsensical entry. Because I apparently have lost touch with how a calendar works. It’s sad really.

The only real thing that changed for me this weekend was a conversation I had with a friend relating to a previous blog entry about intuition and trusting yourself. It worked tonight when I pushed my excited friend aside (who took over the last time I made this dish) and made Pad See Ew from a recipe I mentioned earlier. It turned out amazing. I changed from the crappy hoisin sauce I was using to one with garlic in it, and I allowed the noodles to brown and cook a little more. I added more soy sauce to taste and sort of felt it out. I trusted my instincts.

At work, I got a request for some information from a very nosy woman asking us for procedural information that is none of her business. It felt weird, and it doesn’t help that I already don’t like her for doing trying to do the same thing previously and having the nerve to get cranky when I told her what was wrong with her plan. I neglected to tell her anything and informed my supervisor that she was rooting around. It turns out that she was trying to get involved again and we stopped her without giving her the information.

Often I ignore this voice. I was talking to a friend about a bad date I went on. Something within 15 minutes told me that it was a bad idea. I figured I was being judgmental and I should give him a chance. Turns out he was a recovering addict who fell off the wagon within two weeks of our date. He looked fine, healthy, normal. He wasn’t sketchy or twitchy and didn’t pick at the imaginary bugs on his face. He was cute as hell, nice, and seemingly normal. But something told me to walk away.

Maybe I should have listened to that instinct when it told me that I had something to do yesterday and again this morning when something was nagging about the work I was planning to do.

But here we are…one meaningless, disappointing entry down. I think I may review something next time. On Thursday…for real. I have access to a calendar this time. So I leave you with a promise to be better. My intuition and calendar demand it.

…And Still Insists He Sees the Ghosts

I don’t understand people who insist that there is no such thing as ghosts…or worse. Ironically, I have found that these people are usually religious types, as if the idea that their god (whoever that may be) would let someone not go to whatever exists in the afterlife is unthinkable. That, or they just don’t believe. That close minded approach to something they have no experience with is annoying.

Those people I won’t convert, so I won’t try. For the rest, I will tell a freaky little story.

When I was in my early 20s, my friend and I were on the way back to my grandmother’s house very late at night. To get there, the fastest way was this very dark street, barely more than an alley with a lane going each direction, set between a church and a small industrial strip. I remember having an odd feeling that we were being watched and looking around. The street was totally empty in all directions. There was a stop sign, and to the left of that was a small alley. In front was a small Jewish school with a large parking lot. To the right was a street. We turned right.

On our right side was the fence around the church, and the fence was made of close metal bars set into a brick wall about a foot and a half high. Suddenly, everything got really cold. We hadn’t gone more than 50 feet when we both gasped.

A young guy, about our age, was riding a bike directly in front of us. He was handsome, but his face was twisted with rage and hate. He was wearing a light jacket and jeans, yet there was something outdated about him. He glared at us, and we both felt the icy cold of his hate, as if daring us to hit him. His face, which I can still see in my mind, was dark, as though poorly lit on an already darkened street.

My friend slammed on her breaks, jerking to a stop, but it was too late. We hit him…yet there was no feeling of impact. We got out and looked around. We looked under her car — that’s how convinced we were that we hit him.

Nothing was there.

We looked to our right, but there was no way anyone could have come from the church side — we were nowhere near a driveway, and there was a fence with the bars too close together for even a small child to fit through. We looked to our left where there was the Jewish school with the large parking lot and a field beyond that. It was empty. We looked all around…and nobody was there.

The air suddenly warmed to the normal night temperature. My friend and I got in the car and described the guy on the bike to each other. Each little detail matched. We drove home, and I felt that feeling of cold for the briefest of seconds and it was gone. Nothing was there.

Years later, my friend and I still talk about the guy on the bike and agree that he was indeed a ghost. For two people to not be discussing anything of the sort, to see the same exact man, to freak out because we would have hit him, and to have him absolutely nowhere, there seemed to be little other explanation. It wasn’t hysteria or a group hallucination because that would imply that we had that image in our heads, and that wouldn’t explain us seeing exactly the same thing. We don’t know who he was, what he wanted, or why he was even there.

Later, three different friends and I were driving toward the same house. In the car was the woman who taught me a great many things about reading tarot and her boyfriend, a genuine psychic. I had never mentioned this story to any of them. The boyfriend suddenly turned to me and asked if someone had died in that area. I said I didn’t know. He said that he felt something — someone on a moped or a bike. My tarot-reading friend said she felt something too, but couldn’t pinpoint what it was.

I nearly shat my pants. I told them the story, and we all sort of just sat there, looking around. We saw nothing, but we felt a lot.

After that I saw him one time as I was walking home from work late at night. I heard a bike coming toward me on the sidewalk, turned, saw someone fairly near, and moved to the side to let him pass me. Nobody ever did. I looked around and saw him right behind me. Same outfit, same guy. But I only saw him for a second and then he was gone. And that was it. We never saw him again.

Of course, that wasn’t the only paranormal incident I’ve had, however relatively insignificant it was. But that’s a story I may tell another time…when it’s late and I have nothing else to talk about.

Maybe.

 

Hell Hath Come to October

Every year I complain about the (theoretically) unseasonable heat that visits Southern California. This year, I told myself that I wouldn’t do it. It’s something I have to accept if I’m going to live here (which I don’t want to, but that’s a whole different story we don’t have time to get into…or the will to sit through again, I assume).

But then we had a heatwave. Sunday, October 10th it was 100 degrees. Yesterday, it was 96. Today it cooled to 89. The weather forecasters (who must be in league with the Dark Prince of Evil) say that this trend will extend into next week when it will finally cool into the 70s…for about two days. However, Satan’s Hellfire won’t be denied. That hateful bitch is sending his minions to pump up the furnaces again, so that next Wednesday, the twenty-fucking-first of goddamned October will be 87 degrees.

We have not but 14 drops of water in the whole state. California is drying into a husk. It has rained more this year than it has in years past (read: more than three days), and they say that a strong El Nino is coming to drench us…but not solve the drought. What it will do is the worst thing water can do to burned out soil, trees, and idiots who insist on building homes on great, dry hilltops. You add a bucket of water to those hillsides, and the residents are surfing into the valleys. So, if we get cool weather and the rain we so desperately need, death and horror will follow.

My only conclusion is that the great Beings beyond space and time, call them Jesus, Zeus, Yog Sothoth, Allah, Buddah, the God and Goddess…they all hate California. I’m aware they won’t be the only ones, but they matter…because they seem bent on destroying us.

Or, at the very least, cooking us in a dastardly crock pot.

Reviews and Changes

I’m almost certain that I am going to wade into decidedly murky waters for an aspiring writer and start doing book reviews. This won’t be frequent or something I do on every book I read or listen to. If I did that, I could just do it on Amazon or the ever-ghastly GoodReads and be done with it.

I plan to do only books that touch me, tickle me, and take me out on imagination dates. (Perhaps this view of books is why I date little and read slowly? Is there a therapist in the room?!) I will also do ones that affect me as a writer, ones I admire and ones I loathe, and try to pinpoint why I did or dd not like them. Since this is traitorous territory for a writer with basically no standing in the literary world, my opinion is probably laughable…but I like it anyway. And I think I’m funny. So, piss off. *cackle*

I will also likely do it with movies, though less frequently. I also think it will help me to force conciseness on myself as well as entertain me and give me something to write about other than the typical, “Gee, I wish I was writing, but here are the 75,000 mostly fabricated reasons I’m not.”

I’m self aware if nothing else.

I may do this for video games, food, recipes, people…I just don’t know. The people thing…well, that could just resort into good old shit talking. Good lord, can you imagine me doing a review on Gwyneth Paltrow? I can do it in two words. That will be your treat for tonight. Ready?

 

Review: Gwyneth Paltrow

Pretentious twat.

 

Woooooooo! See? That was easier than I thought. This could be fun.

I’ve also stopped publishing these things on my Twitter, since I do that in lieu of real content there. Either my Twitter will die or I will start to put something entertaining there that will likely eventually get me in trouble. Essentially, I’m going to try to liven things up, change them up, and break out of the rut I’m in on this tiny blog as well as my writing junk.

When will the reviews start? Whenever I want. They will be sporadic at first, though that may change. We shall see.

Until next time, thanks for reading.  Unless you’re Gwyneth Paltrow.

Mental Os

I just got back home from a long weekend I took at my friend’s house. It was alternately good and uncomfortable, lazy and achy from activity, and overall very fun. The thought of returning to work tomorrow is rather like the thought of returning to a medieval torture chamber manned by a sadistic and weak jailer who can only irritate and scare you rather then just get the torture and death over with.

With that attitude, perhaps it’s time to dust off my resume and fill out some applications, no?

Anyway, my friends and I love the autumn. We hang out almost every weekend, cook, shove everything we can into our faces, gain weight, talk a whole lot, go out some, and watch movies (though mostly the latter).

(This next paragraph may seem unconnected, but stay with me.) I haven’t talked to anyone about the new writing project I’m working on as anything other than that — something I’m working on and planning. However, it’s usually when I’m doing something else (or procrastinating) that unconnected thoughts kick me right in the face and…well, become the plot of something totally different.

We were watching a movie on Netflix (They. Very meh for me, but my friends liked it), and I was unlocking my phone to jump on IMDB to see where I knew an actress from, admiring the wallpaper art I have on there to inspire me, when I had what I call a mental orgasm.

A mental orgasm is a vulgar way of saying an ah-HA moment. Eureka. Something that wasn’t clear or worked out before is handed to you on a decorated, jewel-encrusted platter. Sometimes it’s fully formed, sometimes it’s the bare bones without all the juicy parts, but the structure. Sometimes it is a connection your subconscious has been working on behind the scenes which it then presents to you with a grin that tells you this one is good. If you’ve read my novel Winter’s Trial, I had a mental orgasm concerning the late-game reveal about Tim’s connection with someone. I think a part of me knew all along, but it came as a shock to me, too.

So, I’ve been thinking about my next wolf book off and on, debating if I will return to that after my newest project or what. I know the characters and I thought I knew the plot…but it wasn’t very good (or as good as I would like). I know the plot of the third book more, and I knew certain changes I wanted people to go through, but not how the second book would take them there. I knew the separate elements, but nothing conscious was happening.

Suddenly, I had a mental orgasm. Everything fell into place for my second wolf book — the changes for the characters, the plot, the resentment between two characters I wanted to be evident in book three, and the slow ramping up toward the third and/or fourth book. The whole scenario was presented to me. What was weak is now strong. Minor details remain.

There’s nothing like a mental orgasm that essentially writes an entire novel for you. May all our days be filled with mighty Mental Orgasms (more politely referred to as “Mental Os”). May we use them for good. And may they not cause us to make actual O-faces in public, or while watching a horror movie with your friends. The return looks are awkward, the blushing is distracting, and the questions are insufferable. I should be allowed to enjoy my mental orgasms in peace, thanks.

When Modern Conveniences Leave You

You don’t appreciate the modern conveniences until they are no longer there. The place I live has the power go out all the goddamned time. You’ll just be sitting there and the TV goes off. About five minutes later it will come back on. You reset your clocks…and they go off again. It happens more than any other place I’ve lived. It’s not just during the summer with the air conditioning blaring everywhere, it’s like the power company spins the Wheel of Randomness and decides to piss off certain areas five minutes at a time. Then, when they plan to shut off the power to work on it and send you several notices to prepare you for the loss of power…they don’t. Sometimes they stay off for a while and you just deal with it.

I have learned to keep things charged.

No lights, no TV, no DVDs, no Internet, nothing. I resort to my Kindle and (hopefully charged) laptop.

The Internet is practically dial up. If I can get through a full Netflix movie without cursing my TV out, it’s a miracle. My landlord has a wireless router he thinks is good…but his stuff is connected right to it. My Netflix is stuck at 25% buffering as I write this.

All this is normal-ish. However, some work is being done tonight on the outside water hookup. (You see where this is going, right?) So, after I got home from work today, I noticed that the water was off…when I used the one goddamned flush in my toilet for pee. (My friend/ex is here and desperately needs to use the bathroom for more nefarious, toilet-punishing purposes, and there’s nothing left. Bwahahahaha!)

I meant to boil some chicken in yummy herbs, shred the chicken, and use the broth to further cook the sauteed mushrooms, spinach, onions, and diced potatoes in garlic salt. With no water? I ordered pizza. Damn it! I wanted my damned chicken!

I went for a walk to get the pizza and came back sweaty — because I live in California and it was 84 fucking degrees today. My friend/ex came here right from work, a labor job, thinking that he was going to be able to shower. I have him sitting on a doggy pee-pad so the stink doesn’t touch anything I can’t eventually incinerate.

I take showers for granted. I take electricity for granted. I take being able to cook for granted. I used to take good Internet connection for granted. Now…I have been humbled. May you never know the pain.

Concordance Importance

Everything lately seems to remind me of a Stephen King novel. Today I have been reminded of one of my favorites, Misery. When Annie Wilkes demands that Paul Sheldon bring her favorite literary character, Misery Chastain, back to life, he realizes that to do anything but obey her would mean his slow, agonizing death. Given the alternative, he complies with her demands.

He asks for all her Misery books, saying that he doesn’t have his concordance with him. Annie immediately tunes out, and Paul thinks that she is the perfect reader — someone who enjoys the stories without having the slightest interest in how they are written. Paul thinks that this was the second time that she showed not even the slightest interest in a trick of the trade that would fascinate a room of would-be writers.

I read this book originally when I was very young and didn’t know that I would actually grow up and have any pretense of wanting to be a writer. When I experienced the book later in life, then having aforementioned pretensions, I realized what a valuable tool a concordance is.

With my wolf book, I knew that there are going to be at least two more, probably three (however long it’s taking me to get around to writing them), and that I would be using the same characters. I also knew that events would change these people and kind of knew where I was going with the stories. (Here’s another piece of unsolicited advice: If you’re writing a series, know where you’re going! I know someone who is writing a series like this and has no plan. Consequently, the books seem disjointed and have no real cohesion. Additionally, some characters have to abruptly change to suit the new story when everything we knew of them before contradicts this personality alteration.)

So, I started to write a concordance, which was little more than a glossary of characters, what they did, and how they interacted with each other.

Now that I am writing something in the realm of total fantasy, the concordance will have to look a bit different. It will include the glossary, familial ties, rules of magick, a map of the area (invaluable. I’m not even kidding.), family trees, and notes on the religions and pertinent folklore of the three main cultures that will be the focus. Also, creatures that I have made up or altered will have to go in there.

It’s not a substitute for anything, but more of a reference guide. Say I forget which hero’s name is tacked on to the end of one of my characters’ names, and have made a reference to that person. I look up the information in the list of honorifics, and that triggers my memory as to why he is in tune with the human priestesses of the convent in the eastern sea cove. Shit like that.

It also helps to keep feuding families and courtly drama in check. To use a real example from history, I may wonder why everyone hates Jane Parker/Boleyn/Rochford and what family drama she was involved in. I would turn to Jane’s section and see that she was the sister-in-law of Anne Boleyn who lied about Anne and her own husband, which led them both to be beheaded. I would see that nobody trusted her afterward,and that she was involved in MORE drama that got another queen killed, and that Jane herself finally lost her head in the bargain. That’s it. A whole life and fodder for multiple books squished into a few sentences. Were she a fictional character, I would have included a description and possible family ties and any magick she might possess.

Yet, if organized properly, the concordance is an invaluable tool for certain types of writing…unless you are like a certain very dear friend of mine who has a photographic memory and has no need for the tools and tricks of the common mortals.

Some people don’t need such things. For the rest of us, a three ring binder, a Word document, etc. can be a life saver. It needs to have room for additions, and cross references are recommended. In the Jane Parker example above, I would have a note to see Anne Boleyn (sister-in-law and first beheaded queen), George Boleyn (beheaded husband), and Katherine Howard (second beheaded queen). For minor characters, those who tend to slip out of our minds easily, it’s a good, concise reminder so that we can get on with the real fun and the real business — making believe.

Truthfully, it can range from an organization of existing notes to something written just for the occasion. 3×5 cards or a color-coded index. Just experiment with what works for you.