by
Joyce FrohnThis story began during the proverbial ‘dark and stormy night’. Okay, so it wasn’t really night, but it was stormy and I was stuck in my Grandmother’s farmhouse. I did what many of us did when we were kids, went looking for a something to read. After thumbing three dog-breeding magazines, I found a ten-year-old copy of
The Whole Earth catalog that had a serial story in it. I don’t know how it began or ended. What I had was a piece with a drug-addled guy, a girl, and a van crossing America. The van told the story. It complained a lot, especially that its carburetor was painted purple in an attempt to improve its feung-shui. The guy kept saying there was an invisible dragon in the backseat.
For some reason, this hippie mess fascinated me. For the first time in my life, I took a story apart in my mind. I liked the van, if it would shut up. I liked the girl and the invisible dragon. I jotted down some things and tried to figure out where I wanted to place these characters. Little did I know this was me becoming a writer. I was twelve and had already learned to read everything: the good, the bad, and the cereal box.
I had already learned one important lesson of writing; there is no story so bad that it can’t inspire something. I took those characters and popped them into various places which meant I threw away a lot of stories. The first one involved the girl being a ballerina and was set in Medieval Europe. Before burning it, I learned something else. There needs to be a balance of weird and normal to make a good speculative story. I also needed to get rid of that druggie.
Later, I spoke with a former drugged-out hippie. He said the strangest thing that ever happened was after he got sober. He went to a gas station for the first time in more than ten years. After that, everything fell into place and it only took a little more than thirty years.
There’s another important thing; don’t throw away all your early work, there maybe something worth salvaging. I recently had the shock of being paid for the scribbled notes that I put in my Jr. High Student Manuel where I fantasized about how much better the school would be if there were werewolves, vampires and other assorted monsters in attendance. Think about it, it would make Jr. High better wouldn’t it?
And from those dog breeder magazines, I learned that my version of a nightmare killer dog is a Rhodesian Ridgeback crossed to an English Mastiff. I still haven’t written that story, but the notes are saved.
Joyce Frohn has been writing since childhood and published since her research on slime molds ended. She is married to a man who says he never wants her to stop writing. Jouce has a nine-year-old daughter who envies how much time Mom gets to spend on the family computer.
