I like to keep things...interesting. I like to look at things from different angles. One of my specialties. Not that it's always some mind-boggling revelation, oh no. But I am aware at all times of a) allowing the stories to develop organically, taking their own paths and b) again, looking at them, approaching them, from a different perspective. Seems after years of writing, this is a natural part of my process.
But it's always been like that, even before I had the skills, or at least solid inclination, to attack each story with this mindset in mind.
Honing one's writing, reading broadly, incorporating out-of-left-field nuances, yeah, well...that's just the way it works for me now. At least...at least I hope so.
Sometimes, really, a good story stands up no matter the leanings toward it being something 'original' or not, but I am always aware of this while writing as well.
"Headbangin'." I wrote this story long ago, but it's a really good indicator or my willingness even back then to allow the layers full reign, the absurdities, the weird perspectives and all that jive.
If it seems simply as though the main character has reached his wit's end and insanity is his only option, think again.
If you think that voice in his head is simply a product of his imagination, oh, yes, do think again.
I mean...what if it's actually an alien race, something ancient and earth-bound, and all it really wants is a way out of his head, out of its limbo existence.
What if this is actually a prelude to invasion?
Oh, man! Well, all that and more play out in this bit o' Heavy Metal Horror that actually was in an anthology called--oh my!--Heavy Metal Horror. I updated the story a couple years back when I heard of this anthology, tweaked it and modernized it a bit, and let it (rock 'n') roll.
Here's a taste of our protagonist Kenny's realization that he's not alone. And, yes, yes, since I have brought it up before, I would tweak the semi-colons a bit here, but not messing with it right now. For a future collection, oh, yeah! Looking forward to that... ;-)
It slithered into prominence, almost a presence unto itself, as Kenny drove home with Frank toasted unconscious in the passenger seat. With his window down, he bathed in the wind-cooled sweat, helping to simmer most of the abuse of which he had subjected himself. But his head throbbed, oh yes, it pounded its discomfort home, massaged and battered by clumsy talons, not the soothing fingers of icy, invigorating wind. It was a dull, monotonous assault, threatening internal evacuation from the confined quarters of his skull. Trying to abate the ache, calloused fingers rubbed hard above his eyes. Amidst this basic function, he felt it, or heard it: he wasn’t sure. A thought as mass, as substance--being--an inner illusion depicting solidity and formation. Regardless of veracity, it startled him to the point of swerving, a loss of control that almost landed him against the center divider. He had to jerk the steering wheel hard to avoid collision, jostling the still sleeping Frank first against the door, before slumping him brusquely to the dash. Drool flowed from his slack mouth, but even the abrupt handling did not wake him.