Unreliable Narrators, or A Character Study on Charlotte Grimly

Charlotte and I have been spending far more time together lately. Part of my struggle with getting back into The Killing Type was the distance I’d formed between Charlotte’s narrative and the world I created in my second manuscript. We needed to reconnect, but I didn’t know how to reach her again. It’s not like I can call her up and ask her out for tea. Rewriting means needing to go back and rediscover who Charlotte is, and why.

Charlotte first appeared in my college fiction writing class in the short story, The Waiting Room. Though “Waiting Room” Charlotte and Killing Type Charlotte are two different characters, I loved the idea of an unreliable narrator. After all, my childhood mentor, Edgar Allan Poe, used them frequently.

She reappeared in my college thesis on the portrayal of madness in literature. My advisor made an offhand comment about writing a series of “Crazy Charlotte” stories, and the idea stuck. The decision that Charlotte should be schizophrenic seemed organic to her character. In my thesis, Charlotte is effected by what she reads, her hallucinations stemming from literature. In The Killing Type, Charlotte’s hallucinations are repressed memories.

I devoured everything I could find on abnormal psychology. I wanted to get it right.

I’m almost always nervous that I will get it wrong. I’ve a limited experience in dealing with mental illness personally, and I don’t want to criminalize or mock those who deal with it on a daily basis. Charlotte is more than a mentally ill narrator, more than merely unreliable. She’s a person (albeit fictional.) She has hopes, dreams, goals, and yes, secrets.

I was talking Cat about character development and diversity, about my concerns about my characters.

Charlotte is a blonde, green-eyed white girl from the midwest. Cat asked me why.

On the surface, it’s because that’s how Charlotte showed up in my head. It wasn’t a conscious decision. Then I realized Charlotte is this way because in order for the story to work, she would need access better medical care, the ability to see a therapist regularly, to afford the proper medications, to be in a nice, clean facility when the levee breaks.

If Charlotte were Mexican, or Indian, or any other race, it would be a different story. Though schizophrenia occurs equally in all races, the proper attention and care is not always available. The social stigma changes. That’s why The Killing Type didn’t work in its orignal setting (1920.) I didn’t have the materials I needed. Charlotte didn’t have what she needed. She needed to be informed, to be able to take care of herself.

She’s more than an insanity plea.

She’s a veracious reader. She’s interested in her own chemistry. She’s not afraid of how she is, but she still feels like an outsider. She’s still “other.” She loves her job. She grows flowers. She’s schizophrenic, but I’ll be damned if she’s not more than a diagnosis.

I still worry over how Charlotte will be seen, especially considering the things I dredge up from her past and the threat of a serial killer leaving bodies around town. I’m not a doctor, nor am I claiming to be. I took Psych 101 and read everything I could on mental illness, but that doesn’t equate to experience. I can only hope I’ve done Charlotte justice.

If you haven’t read it, and would like to, “The Waiting Room” is linked above. You can also find it under the “Short Stories” tab on the menu bar.

If you enjoyed this post and would like to see more of these character-centric ramblings, leave a comment below!

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Dancing in Cemeteries

I hoped in Wednesday’s blog that I’d have a story to tell after I went on the Decatur Ghost Tour last night.

You won’t be disappointed. I spoke to a ghost.

I headed downtown with several work friends and my mom. We’ve done a few ghost tours together, including the Roswell Ghost Tour. Decatur is artsy and adorable, with live music in restaurants and little indie shops.

We met up with our guide, Boo, a “professional psychic medium.” I’m always skeptical when that’s how people introduce themselves. It was only our collection of people, so the tour was very relaxed.

We began at the courthouse. Boo has a great voice for this sort of thing, and we trudged through the history of the building. The main reason I go on these tours are the stories. I love hearing them, seeing the buildings, walking around. The first couple of stops were interesting, but nothing mind-blowing. There was a hanged man in the courthouse, and a man who’d been pushed down the back stairs. There was a lady named Valerie in the “alley” that is now a pub. She breaks glasses and scares the women in the restroom.

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There’s a woman waiting for her son at the Presbyterian Church, not realizing she’s dead.

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There’s a priest who hangs out in the upper windows of the other church down the street.

All of it was fairly routine until we arrived at the cemetery. I hung back with Julie, watching the more invested of our party reach to feel cold spots, or “pet the ghosts.” Boo showed us how dowsing rods worked, spoke to one of the spirits in the cemetery and let us see the rods cross and move away from each other. Interesting. I’d never been on an “interactive” tour before, and they several sets of dowsing rods for us to try.

We passed a girl named Anne, who’d died in a terrible carriage accident, and little boy named Robert. I got my hands on a set of dowsing rods. The little boy only said YES to if his name was Robert. The feeling them moving when you know you’re not moving them is bizarre. I could feel the energy traveling, the weight on the ends.

We moved along, apparently into the party of waiting spirits. Boo told us there were several people with us: a girl in a blue dress, Hattie, Mr. Cox (who was reportedly not very pleasant) and Terrence. Julie and I attempted to speak to the little girl, crouching down to her level. It wasn’t long before my mother called me over.

She was standing with another woman and told me to put my hand in the space between them. It was significantly colder than the surrounding area. They were speaking with Terrence. I asked if Terrence would like to come stand by me. My rods crossed: YES. The cold spot shifted.

According to Boo, Torrence was a 25-year-old man who’d died of the Spanish Influenza in the 1900s. He was–and still is–a ladies man, often stroking an arm or touching hair. He refuses to talk about his death.

I asked if he was 25. YES
I asked where he was standing. The rods point to my left.
I asked if he thought I was pretty. YES

It figures the first eligible young man I meet with an interest in talking to and dancing with me… is already dead.

Mom says, “Hey now, she’s my daughter, you know.”
I ask if he thinks my mother is funny. YES
I tease her, saying she’s always pushing me to meet men my age.
I ask if he likes to dance. YES
I invite him to accompany me through the rest of the cemetery tour. The cold spot follows me. We cross to the other side, where the orphans are buried. Julie has joined me.
We ask if he keeps the little girl in the blue dress company. YES
Does he dance with her? YES
Where are you standing now? The rods both swing over my left shoulder.
Would you like to take a photo with us? YES
Have you enjoyed our company? YES
Do you think we’re funny, walking around in this cemetery? YES
Would you like us to come back. YES
Julie asks him if he likes me. The rods crossed so quickly they go backward.
I ask, Do you have any plans to move on? The rods swing away from each other. NO

I thank him for his company, say goodbye, hand back my borrowed dowsing rods. The moment we cross through the cemetery gate, the temperature goes back up 20 degrees.

The tour ends with a young woman watching her two suitors walk across to the dueling field. The one she decides she loves is fatally shot. Her marriage is miserable, and in death she vows to change her fate.

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What you don’t change in life, you can’t change in death.

I’ve never experienced anything like speaking with Terrence. I’ve heard voices and seen things on occasion, but this was entirely different. I felt the energy, the shift in temperature. The rods crossed and uncrossed of their own will.

I’m not saying it was the spirit of a young man, but it was something. Someone.

And I intend to make good on my promise to return.

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It’s Sleeping with Roaches and Taking Best Guesses*

As you know, dear reader, I’ve been having a bit of a rough time. A few weeks ago, blogged over at Pen and Muse about writing and depression, and though I’ve come out of the darkness, I find myself stressed out and exhausted. The Day Job has been relentless (I’m just coming off of six days in a row, most 9 hour shifts), and even my days off aren’t truly days off. I finally, FINALLY realize what’s wrong.

I’ve fallen into the same pattern of neglecting myself, and this has thrown the metaphorical wrench into my writing life.

I slated writing as another line on the epic “to do” list that is my life. Once I finished the draft of my second MS, it was all about needing to fix the first. I sat down to this task and fried my wires before I’d even started. I tried drawing plot maps, outlining (that’s when I know I’m out of it), and though I could talk about the changes I wanted and why I wanted them, doing it was fucking impossible.

Kelly, my darling CP, suggested I take a break. Don’t think about it. Don’t open the document. Rest.

I need to listen to Kelly more often. For the last few days I’ve done nothing because I stopped berating myself over NOT doing it. Sometimes you need glut yourself on other things:

  • Plug in and rock out: I’ve listened to A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out by Panic! at the Disco so many times, it’s borderline obscene.
  • Read books that aren’t your own: I finally cracked open Chuck Wendig’s Blackbirds. I cannot express to you in words how in love with this book I am. If you’re not reading him, get your ass to a bookstore or buy it off Amazon. Immediately.
  • Get out of the house: I have trouble with this one. It’s usually work-home-bed-work, but I was off by 2pm Saturday and I took my happy ass to the mall. Tax returns AND a 15% off coupon for Sephora? A deal I will not pass up. Nothing revives me like shiny new makeup and kickass lipstick.
  • Get out of your head! This, too, I struggle with. Recently, my friend Delilah hopped on her Twitter Soapbox about what it means to be a writer, which you can read here. You don’t need a fancy degree or a muse or a ritualistic blood sacrifice to Satan. If you write, you’re a writer. That doesn’t mean you’ll never feel insecure, even after getting an agent or getting published. Part of you will always wonder if you’re good enough, if your That’s okay. “Complacency is the enemy of growth.” I’m ridiculously lucky to have her as a friend.
  • Fuel something you enjoy: It’s no secret by now that I LOVE weird medical history and when I stumbled upon Sawbones podcast, it was like creep girl heaven! I listened to the episode on Reanimation (ok, I MAY have cheated on the not thinking about your own work rule with that one), and not only are Justin and Sydnee hilarious, I learned some amazing new things about 1700-1800 theory and practice, and what and WHOM may have inspired Mary Shelley to pen Frankenstein.

I feel SO MUCH BETTER. The narrative style of Blackbirds helped me realize the direction I’m going with The Killing Type is the right direction. I’m going to be fine. Feeding my mind with different writers, better writers, helps me better myself. Drink it up!

Effective immediately, writing is no longer relegated to the “to do” list. Writing needs to be what it always has been: my escape. I’m not on deadlines. I have no one to answer to. Sure, that’ll change when I’m agented, but for now, I’m not racing against a clock and shouldn’t make myself crazy over nothing.

As Delilah told me the other night: “YOU REMIND ME OF THE BABE (what babe?) THE BABE WHO SHOULD GET HER ASS BEHIND THE KEYBOARD AND WRITE.”

You can find Delilah on Twitter @DelilahSDawson, and at WhimsyDark.com. I strongly suggest you follow her, and not just for her Labyrinth references.

You can find Chuck Wendig at @ChuckWendig, and at TerribleMinds.com, especially if you like profanity-laced advice.

I’ve got a book to revise, darlings, so let’s play a game. Let’s play… murder.

*Title taken from “Build God, Then We’ll Talk,” by Panic! at the Disco. I might just really love that song. Go listen to it.

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Lovesick by Meghan Schuler! #BleedingHeart2014

ExquisitelyStrange:

Want a peek at the world of my second ms, The Mortality Vice? Here’s a little taste, brought to you by The Midnight Type, by and for those of us with Bleeding Hearts, both metaphorical and physical.

Originally posted on the midnight type:

Bleeding Heart 1

It’s Friday! Halle-freaking-lujah! Once again we’ve all managed to make it to the weekend in one piece. Apologies for the hiatus–as I’m sure you’ve heard, some of us here have been dealing with some serious shizz. Accept our heartfelt virtual flowers.

Last time you heard from us, OH so long ago, we brought you a short by our own Jessie Devine. Today, we give you a Bleeding Heart courtesy of the Queen of Horror.

Meghan Schuler is one kick-ass chick, and if you’re not following her on Twitter, you should be. If you love her hauntingly excellent story (which you will!) please leave a comment or hit her up online. We’ve even given you little links because we’re just that nice. Enjoy!

 Blog | Twitter

LOVESICK

By

Meghan Schuler

I drummed my fingers on the desk, tired of the silence, tired of waiting, my chin propped on…

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Dreadlords and Sass

LIVE FROM CAT AND MICHAEL’S LIVING ROOM.

Well, no. I mean, it was live on Saturday, but now it’s Tuesday.

Saturday was the Inaugural Gaslamp Gala, hosted by The Artifice Club. True to my word that I would be less hermity this year, and with the promise of dance lessons, I threw together a costume. I don’t have any steampunk characters, so I decided to channel Annabelle McKittrick from my waiting-for-edits MS, The Mortality Vice.

Anna is the first female surgeon to enroll in the Medical College of New York, which means her dresses are simplistic (because blood ruins everything) and I don’t need to go crazy with the makeup. The most extravagant thing I did was pop on a set of false eyelashes.

Bj608ruIIAAhKjEI made the 1800 style walking skirt out of a thrifted prom dress and two curtains. The ruffled top I bought and expanded with panels from the curtains, and the white shirt and corset were purchased from Damsel in the Dress. I LOVE that corset, but since it’s brown and not black, I didn’t have an outfit for it. Now I do. The shoes I found the shoes a few years ago, at Target of all places.

Yes, the rest of my arm IS there, I’m just the shade of porcelain that reflects light.

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My bathroom needs better lighting.

Since Anna wouldn’t actually have worn makeup, all I did was put on my usual foundation, some brown eyeliner (mostly to mask the band from the lashes), and a bright pink blush. I also used a pale pink lipstick and tiny bit of brown eyeshadow in the crease.

 

I picked Cat up and we headed to the Gala. Unfortunately, it was horrendously windy and overcast. There were a few vendors set up outside, one physically holding the tent so it wouldn’t blow over. Inside the Solarium, we grabbed a veggie burger and I think I surprised Cat with my enthusiasm for the event. I’m a terrible at talking to people in person, but give me a costume and it’s on.

We talked about why I liked Steampunk events and the inclusive nature of the community versus other, more “traditional” cosplay. I gushed about Anna and my time at the Jekyll and Hyde Club in NYC. We learned to swing dance, which was awesome, even though one of my partners bowed out. I ended up dancing with the instructor a turn.

I also learned that it was a terrible idea to dance in those shoes. Remind me to wear comfy ones at the next gala. Preferably not heels.

The live band, Megan Jean and the KFB, were awesome.

We headed back to Cat’s house for carrot cake and tea. Tiny Nephew was up and about. I’m telling you, that kid is a mutant genius baby. He was flicking through the photos on my phone and pointed to one picture and said “glasses,” totally unprompted. He’s almost 2. He knows more words than most of the people I work with.

One of his favorite things when I’m around is The Sassy Song, which I stole from YouTuber Grav3yardGirl. Saturday night, he finally said “sassy.” My life’s work is now complete. He’s also learned to say “Nightvale” and “Cthulhu,” though it comes out more like “hoo hoo,” which is significantly less dreadlordy.

Of course, all of this meant that once Tiny Nephew was in bed, Cat immediately went to tweet about Tiny Nephew’s new skills. Which I was also tweeting about. Which prompted this:

SO SASSY

Skeletor sassy

And then we playedRockBand, which I am not good at.

 

I hope you guys had as great a weekend as I did. I hope you’re enjoying these “real life” posts as much as I am. I’m going on another ghost tour next Thursday. I hope I have something spooky for you. Now it’s back to the writing board.

Rock step, step, step. Rock step, step, step…

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Playlist for a Serial Killer

I can’t write while listening to music, but that doesn’t mean I don’t rock out in my car every chance I get or that songs haven’t inspired my writing. And honestly, what’s for fun than making a playlist for a book about a serial killer?

I may have had too much fun day with the Pulp-o-Mizer.

I may have had too much fun day with the Pulp-o-Mizer.

Music plays a huge part in helping me visualize scenes, develop characters, and you know, I have to dance around to something.

Even though I can’t focus enough while the music is playing, I have a list of songs to help me get into that world and my character’s mindset. Since I’m back to working on THE KILLING TYPE, I’ve been indulging in Marilyn Manson’s cover of “Sweet Dreams” on repeat.

 

The songs aren’t in any particular order, but I wanted to make sure I had a balance of “character” songs and “scene” songs, this way if there was something I needed, I could plug right in. As fun as my visual representations on Pinterest are, music activates a very different part of my writer brain. I feel emotions clearer, and occasionally solve plot and development issue.

Plus, it’s fun.

Charlotte Grimly, MC and local schizophrenic, has Egypt Central’s “White Rabbit” as her main theme, along with Lauren O’Connell’s killer cover of “House of the Rising Sun.”

Elizabeth Géroux, bored musician and would-be femme fatale, gets “Rock ‘n’ Roll Sweetheart” by The Creepshow and Panic! at the Disco’s “Hurricane.”

Jonathan Gale, my darling detective, rocks MCR’s “Thank You for the Venom.”

“Danse Macabre” is dedicated to a costume gala while “Sweet Dreams” is relegated to a filthy, smoke-and-lust-filled night club.

Every song fits an aspect of the character, including his or her personality. Charlotte is often torn between eerie quite and foreboding and a mad rush she can’t control. Lizzie is a whirlwind, excitable and volatile. Jonathan has a bit of an edge to his outer analytical detective.

I can’t tell you all the secrets behind the songs, but if you ask nicely, I might drop a hint or two. There’s also a playlist for THE MORTALITY VICE, but that, for now, is a secret.

What are your favorite tunes to get you in the writing mindset?

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The Unexpected Origins of a CreepGirl

Once upon a time, I blogged more about my crazy and weird adventures. I miss that. I’m not exactly promising two blogs a week, but there will be more, starting now. A conversation with Caitlin (@Cait_Greer) over on Twitter made me think about how I went from relatively normal to spooky.

Growing up, my mom was a huge fan of Stephen King and Anne Rice. Horror was nothing I hadn’t already been exposed to. I’m pretty sure it was part of my infant vaccination process. However, I was thinking back to my first injection of monster madness and I realized it wasn’t my love affair with Edgar Allan Poe or Labyrinth or picking up the weird horror novels on mom’s bookshelf.

It was the Backstreet Boys.

When I was nine, I was a ballerina. Actually, when I was four, I was ballerina, and I didn’t quit until I was thirteen. I did tap, lyrical, and jazz, too. When I was nine, we did a jazz number to “Everybody (Backstreet’s Back)” and I was THRILLED. I’m reasonably certain that music video sparked my love for monsters.

All my boys are there: the Wolfman, Phantom of the Opera, Dracula, the Mummy, and Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde.

I’m going to be completely honest right now: I thought Kevin/Mr. Hyde was the hottest thing I’d ever seen.

bitthf

“Am I sexual?” Oh yeah.

Maybe it’s the scales. It’s probably the glasses. I just…

<3

I may have downplayed my childhood spook.

…I liked it.

The show we did involved coffins, and we were undead, and I remember wanting to be a vampire so badly.

I was not. I was a zombie girl. The parents turned down the audio to bleep out the word “sexual” because we were nine. It was hilarious.

We did the Thriller dance, and I loved it. For the record, yes, I knew the music video dance.

MAYBE I STILL DO.

It wasn’t until I was in college, and having a terrible day, when my roomie broke out the “Oldies, Yes Ma’am!” cd her friend had burned her and we rocked out to BSB again. I rewatched the video, in all its cheesy 90s glory, and a tiny part of my creepgirl soul thrilled. I love those monsters, especially the little “shout-outs” to the Invisible Man and Frankenstein’s monster.

Bonus: AJ’s Phantom makeup totally trumps the shit they pulled in the 2005 movie. Actually, all the make was extremely well-done.
Super bonus: They acknowledge the Phantom’s name, which is Erik.

I still want to be a vampire. My love of monsters has only grown, influencing the ever-expanding weirdness of my life. That song is in my iTunes for when I need it.

So now you know my “origin story.”

Tell me yours in the comments below or give me a shout on Twitter @EquisitelyOdd

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Tooth and Nail

Writing a novel is hard. You sit and pull words and characters from your brain and shape them into something like a story. You revise and edit and change and eventually end up with a finished draft.

Rewriting a novel is even harder. I finally finished the rewrite on the first chapter of The Killing Type.

I’ve been fighting with myself mentally for weeks. I’ve been in a state of suspended animation, not looking back but unable to move forward. I had a death to deal with, a memorial service, the swing of mourning to readjusting to mourning again, and finally everything seems to have settled down.

I spent last Saturday with Cat. I realized I’ve forgotten what it’s like to have fun. We had lunch, spent all day at the outdoor mall with her husband, his brother and tiny nephew, went a series of student plays, and then watched a movie and drank tea on her couch. I’ve spent so much of the last few weeks internalizing and shifting, that I’d neglected letting myself have fun. We talked about writing and where we were in revisions.

I felt better about where I was headed, but when I sat down to gut my novel, I couldn’t. I stared at it, I watched makeup tutorials on YouTube, I thought about the changes I wanted. I edited it, little by little. As difficult as it was to pour out those first 80,000 words, this rewrite felt like I was sinking my nails into a beast and scraping at bone to find the better story. And it sucked.

Confession: It’s terrifying. I’m afraid. Afraid that it’s just a lost cause, that the story sucks, that I suck, that it will never be good enough, that I’m wasting my time, that I’m wasting my life. What if I can’t fix it?

I’m lucky that I have an amazing group of friends who listen to my worries and support me. I don’t blame myself for being out of sorts. I don’t blame myself for recognizing the “writer’s slump.” I unchaptered everything and dissected it. It’s waiting to be rebuilt. I’m not out of it yet, but I’m still fighting, tooth and nail.

And I finished it. The new first chapter is sent to my CPs and I await their judgement. I feel good about it. It’s not perfect, and that’s okay. It doesn’t have to be. I’m starting again, starting over. It’s okay that I’m afraid, it’s okay that this will be difficult. I know where I’m going and I’m determined to get there.

Now let’s cut up chapter two.

Other news: You may (or may not) have noticed that my blog has a new name! Inspired by my favorite quote from Edgar Allan Poe: “There can be no exquisite beauty without some strangeness.” I’ll be slowly revamping the blog. If you have suggestions on content you’d like to see, please leave suggestions below or feel free to message me on Twitter @ExquisitelyOdd

Unfortunately, I have not been able to make any vlogs lately due to my built-in camera refusing to play well with iMovie. Hopefully, I can fix this because I really miss making vlogs. For now, it’s just one blog a week.

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Off-Kilter

Good news: I finished the draft of The Mortality Vice!
I celebrated with froyo and dancing. I’m very happy to be done with the draft and I’m really (strangely) looking forward to revisions. I’ve taken down notes on things I’ve forgotten and things I need to add or change.

But before I can do any of that, I need get some distance and let it rest. The docs are closed, the files filed away. Meanwhile, I’ve started revisions on The Killing Type.

At the risk of being overly dramatic, this first chapter is like pulling teeth. My own teeth. With rusted pliers. I don’t know if I’m apprehensive, or scared, or my mind demons are just out for blood, but I am struggling with this first chapter. I have a cleaner plot I want to integrate, things to add, characters to develop more, and a new opener, but I’m a putting up some hardcore resistance.

Maybe it’s coming off TMV, which was actually fairly easy to write. Maybe it’s switching back to a third person narrative. (I did try TKT in first, but it got too muddled with Charlotte’s schizophrenia.) I’m just… stuck. And in order to make it better, I have to push through it.

I deleted the whole first chapter. Oh! Sidebar: Apparently Scrivener keeps automatic backups, so if you read this post, turns out I didn’t delete it after all! Well, I did. But there was a backup! Anyway…

I basically started over. I think that’s why I’m fighting against myself. The thought of starting over hurts. It’s the same story, but now I’m different. I wrote a new book while thinking of ways to fix this one. I queried and I received rejections, and unanimously it was because I didn’t hook my reader in the first couple of pages.

It might also be added life stress. Here’s another blog Thursday night instead of Wednesday, but at least it’s here. I don’t think I’ll feel like myself fully until after next week. I don’t know if there will be a blog next week.

I’m going to push forward with this new chapter. The only way out is through.

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#WriterProblems: Google Search Edition

This morning I had a chat with Nicole Sciortino about writer problems and the things we have to research.

Fact: I often wonder what people think of me when they see me reading up on surgical procedures and poisons while sipping a chai latte in the middle of the coffee shop.

I’ve been less than stellar at blogging lately due to some family stuff, so I thought this would be a nice, light-hearted topic. Until I actually looked at my search history and realized all my fears were justified. In the last month, I’ve looked up:

  • How to remove a brain during autopsy
  • How open-heart surgery is performed
  • Aconite root
  • 19th century surgical tools
  • Ether bottles
  • What an ether high feels like
  • Post-mortem photography
  • Blood infections
  • Popular Victorian poisons
  • Cadaver prep and storage
  • How to exsanguinate a cadaver in the 1800s

I’ve also seen a collection of students at medical colleges in the 1800s, skeletons, bone saws, and reviews of Urban Decay’s Naked3 palette. According to Kristen Strassel, my Twitter feed is all “cremation and Starbucks.” An accurate assessment.

I do wonder what people who catch sight of my laptop think, not necessarily about me, but what random thought flies through their heads when I’ve got “Vivisection in 10 Easy Steps” sitting open on the screen. We all know we do it. A casual glance and you walk past, looking “at the clock” when you really want to know what was in that photo.

What crazy/creepy/out of the norm stuff is lurking in your search history?

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