Research. I adore it and I often get lost in it.
Sometimes I excavate gems from the great and vast Internet. Gems, I say. Pearls. Diamonds. Rubies. You get what I'm saying?
Today I was piecing together back story, character arcs, and answering annoying little issues like; how can that scene happen if X, Y, and Zee are missing, and plot points A through W are built on shaky ground?
No, not shaky ground, but swamp land. Murky, stinking, and bug infested swamp land.
This afternoon, however, I cleaned up most of my alphabetized issues and found some pretty cool locales for an important and creepy scene.
Here is a section of what I wrote today.
(Remember these are first draft words, and they aren't fully creepafied yet, so keep that in mind and try not to rewrite it as you go. This may prove impossible for my writing pals. I apologize.)
Chapter 12 or 13 or possibly 34
Next Day/Next week
They meet the psychic - Clarice
“Are you sure we’re at the right place?” Ford asked.
He checked the GPS on his phone, then considered the crumbling building that towered in front of him. Chunks of the stone steps had fallen away and dark green vines climbed the outside walls and across the windows on the first three floors. The rain gutters hung low, like a line of loosely strewn ancient Christmas lights.
“Of course. I am never wrong,” Ellie replied, but her voice quivered when she spoke. Ford stared at her. “Well, rarely,” she admitted.
“I sure hope today isn't one of your rarely wrong days. This place is creepy.”
Ellie took a deep breath and exhaled it fast, squaring her shoulders.
“It is just an old building. There is nothing to be afraid of. Paris is old. It is full of old buildings. This is just another old building, that you find. In Paris.”
Ellie’s nattering did nothing to ease Ford’s mounting sense of unease. She only rambled when she was nervous, which was atypical for his normally confident, fearless cousin.
“Nothing to fear, but fear itself, right?” Ford said, wiping his now sweating hands on his t-shirt.
“Exactly,” Ellie agreed and pushed on the black iron wrought gate. It screeched open, scraping a layer of moss off the cobble stone walkway. She dusted her fingers on her jeans and marched toward the front door. Ford followed, looking back at the ridge of earth that mounded at the bottom of the gate. When was the last time someone had used that gate?
“Hopefully Clarice isn't as scary as this building.”
End Scene.
(Remember this is a first draft. If you did rewrite it, send it to me.
I have a deadline after all.)
Here is the photo I later found on Pinterest. This building is so very similar to the one I pictured in my mind. An old apartment covered in vines, with a gate, just like this one, but older and creakier. This building's front steps are nicely maintained and the windows are newish, yet the resemblance is unreal.
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| (Of course this is New York not Paris and it is new world not old world old, but still.) |
I LOVE when this happens.
Kinda' creepy. Sorta' karma. Just plain cool.
