Little Girl Lost: A Ghost Named Jenny

I remember after spending a year at SUNY Brockport, that I'd taken an English essay writing class at Monroe Community College. The professor gave an assignment: Write about something that effected your life in some way.

I thrived in English and writing classes. While students asked for bare minimum guidelines, I asked if there was a page maximum. I knew what I'd write about, didn't have to think about it, and didn't want to be held back by any limits.

Although we had a week to complete the assignment, I completed mine that night.

I wrote about Jenny.

I got the paper back the following week with a D. Under the grade it said: "Too much like King/Poe. This was not a fiction assignment."

Jenny effected my life forever. So, you tell me, whether I imagined the below tale or not, I believe it happened ...

When my parents bought their second home in Gates (Rochester, NY), I was nearly two-years old. It is where they still live today. Three bedrooms were upstairs. There was a living room and kitchen on the first level, and below, a family room, and below that a basement.

If you stood in the living room and looked up the stairs, you'd see my sister's bedroom door. Hung on the wall was a painting. A young girl, in white dress stood in a field of yellow flowers.

I always disliked the painting. We all know that when you walk by a painting the eyes of the person depicted follow you. The girl in this particular painting was no different. Her eyes followed me. Really followed me. I swore they moved.

When I was fourteen years old, I could stand it no longer. I took the painting down and out into the garage. I used a grilling fork--the ones with two long, sharp tines, forked the eyes out of the painting. and dropped the framed artwork into the Dumpster.

Two days later, when I went into the garage, I stopped short. Leaning against the far wall stood the painting. Eyeless, but still staring at me.

I took a hatchet and hacked the thing to pieces. I gathered the destruction in my arms and once again dropped it all into the Dumpster. My parents claimed, and still claim, that they took the painting out of the garbage. Said they wanted to hang it back up. But without eyes? I don't think so.

This was when it all started.

Had my actions caused a stir in the spirit world? Perhaps.

In no particular order, I want to inform you that since that day I never slept in my bedroom again. I spent the next four years sleeping on the sofa in the living room until I moved away to college. And when I returned from school, I still slept on the sofa.

Why?

That first evening I fell asleep on my bed. I was on my back. My hands on my chest. I woke up. My right hand was numb. Under it, I felt another hand, a third hand. I lifted both my arms in the air. The other hand was still on my chest. I could not see it, but felt it. Cold. And now my chest, too, was numb.

I screamed. I called for my mom, and for my dad.

When my bedroom door banged open, the hand flew off my chest, and a cool wisp of wind blew by my face.

I fell out of bed and scrambled for my father, who told me I'd just had a nightmare.

I was prone to nightmares. Walking and talking in my sleep. My waking up screaming was nothing new. But this was different. I knew the difference.

Something of a slob, each morning I took my blankets off the sofa and rolled them up in my arms. I'd go up to the hall closet. Open the door, throw the blankets in and slam the door before the ball of fabric rolled back out. One day when I did this, a corner of blanket got caught in the door jamb. My sister was right beside me. Laughed at the fact I'd have to open the door, and try again. When I opened the door, we both gasped. Literally, gasped.

Every blanket in the hall closet was folded and neatly stacked. Including the ones I'd just tossed in. There was no corner of a blanket by the door jamb.

One night when my parents were out, some friends were over. It was winter. I was sixteen. They were headed to Blockbuster to rent a movie. I stayed home. In the living room I watched TV. Alone. I heard floorboards creak. (The house was carpeted. No hardwoods). Someone was behind me on the stairs. I was dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. No socks. No shoes. I needed to get out of the house. My legs didn't seem to work. I couldn't turn around. Wouldn't.

Instead, when I could finally stand, I stood. I kept my back to the stairs. I moved along the back of the couch slowly, and when I reached the door I booked out it. Into the snow. Feet cold, and ran for the street. Once in the street I turned back to the house. The front door slammed shut.

I waited outside for nearly twenty minutes, shivering, waiting for my friends to get back home. They all had a good laugh at my expense. I laughed along with them. Inside, my heart beat wildly against my ribcage.

It was on one night in particular that I learned Jenny's name.

I was asleep on the sofa. This may have been a dream. Felt like one. I'd opened my eyes, and seated on the chair across from me was a girl in a red robe. Her hair was wet, long, worn down over her face. (I wondered later if her hair covered her face because she had no eyes...)

She told me her name was Jenny. That she was not here to hurt me, but that she wanted a friend.

A friend.

One weekend when I was home for the weekend from Brockport, I'd brought a friend. She and I were in my room. We sat on my bed. She opened up to me, told me that she "saw" things no one else could see. I just politely nodded and listened as she counted off strange things she'd encountered. Know what? I didn't believe her. But I listened.

And then she looked at me with wide eyes. She told me, we're not alone. I almost laughed. She wasn't joking. She asked me, "Who's Jenny."

My breath caught in my lungs. "What?" I asked.

"Jenny," she said. "Who's Jenny ... because she's not happy I'm here."

I grabbed the girl's hand. I got to my feet and ran for the bedroom door, pull/dragging her with me. As we stepped out of the bedroom, the bedroom door slammed shut. We practically flew down the stairs. Up in my room, things banged, and thumped and fell.

We ran out of the house ... breathless ...

Jenny might have wanted a friend, but she was jealous, it seemed.

Unfortunately, I never looked into Jenny, to try to figure out who she was, why she was haunting my parents' house, the way people do in movies, and in books ...

After getting married, and moving out of the house, I never saw signs of Jenny again. I've been back to my parents' house, have spent nights there, and nothing. Nothing.

I wonder if Jenny left; if she actually was a figment of my imagination, or real.

To be honest, at this point -- I just don't know.

What I do know is, from the time I was 14, until I was 21, something kept me from sleeping in my room, kept me from ever getting a solid night's sleep. And, from the time I was 14 until I was 21, Jenny was as real as any ghost ... real.

That professor giving me a D was uncalled for. And I fought for a better grade, explaining all of this to the professor who decidedly changed my grade to a B.

Sincerely,

Thomas Phillips
Author of The Molech Prophecy

Nightmares About the Ex (Part II)

After writing, and re-reading my post (Can Nightmares About the "Ex" Inspire Writing, 3/5/09), I realized I talked a bit about the importance of keeping a journal for both aspiring and established writers, but left out something equally as important.

Writing exercises.

Like the body, the brain needs a work out. I belong to two creative writing groups. One meets on the second Thursday of each month at the Barnes & Noble in Greece, while the other -- one I co-lead with the talented and award winning humor columnist, Joanne Brokaw -- meets on the third Tuesday of each month at the Barnes & Noble in Pittsford.

At these writing groups, we do a variety of warm-up writing exercises. They get the thoughts flowing, and work to help writers get ... in the mood for writing.

My previous blog was about a detailed nightmare I'd had the night before. I explained how I jotted down emotions and information from the dream to use in later writing pieces.

However, I think -- or the more I thought about it -- that writing out the scene with as much detail as possible would serve as a wonderful, independent writing exercise. Being sure to include dialogue, description, and setting.

It is quite possible a nice short story could appear. If anything, it would provide an opportunity to sit and do some writing, especially for the not-so-disciplined writer.

Anyway, I felt like the previous blog was only half written, and wanted to stop by and complete the thought with today's posting.

So:

1. Keep a journal
2. When you have lucid dreams, write them out as a writing exercise

And again, maybe tomorrow I will blog about People Watching. A pastime I enjoy :-)

Thomas Phillips

Music Inspires My Writing

I know many writers that require dead silence when writing. The slightest noise becomes an immediate distraction. They'd rather sweat in heat and humidity instead of listening to the hum of an air conditioner; or write in a vacuum to prevent the rattle of basement pipes from breaking a train of thought; or lock themselves in the attic if it will muffle the laughter of children playing outside from reaching their ears ...

And, I know other writers who will allow classical music -- as if trapped in an elevator -- to softly spill from tiny stereo speakers, a stereo kept in some other room, so that the sound just barely reaches the ears ... but is there. Still present. Ever so soothing.

Then, well, then there is me.

I can't write at home. Or rarely. Writing at home, regularly, is a distraction. The fridge is too close. The TV--right there. The bed--and the thought of a quick nap--too tempting.

No. When I write, it's in a public place. A loud place. A crowded place.

I saw an episode of Family Guy once. And in one of the (endless) flashbacks, it showed two guys in a Starbucks -- laptops open. One guy says, "Everyone look at me. I'm writing. I'm a writer..." And the other guy, says something along the lines of, "I need to let everyone see I'm writing...."

Yeah. I laughed. It was funny. I saw me in them. I do not write in public to "show off". I write in public because it inspires. I am a people watcher. A people studier. And as much as I enjoy listening to snipits of conversations as they take place around me ... I write best when I am listening to music.

There are really only two places where you can find me writing. At the Starbucks in Barnes & Noble in Greece Ridge Mall, or at Cafe Amenity on Ridge Road. I buy my coffee--what's that? Oh--yes, I like to buy a ... don't laugh ... iced vanila-flavored coffee with cream and heavy sugar. Heavy sugar. When you think enough sugar has been added. Add a ton more ...

Anyway, I sit with my coffee, turn on the laptop and --here's the important part-- pull out my Ipod and earbuds. While the computer boots up, I get the music started. When I write, I write with the music loud. My feet tap. My knees bounce. I sometimes sing along (tragic as that may be for those around me).

What happens is, the style of song I am listening to inspires the tempo and tone of my writing. Something fast, and hard has me typing fast and furious. The thoughts pouring from my brain quicker than my fingers can transpose them onto the LED screen. When a softer, slower song comes on, my brain down-shifts. My words are more articulate and timed, more careful and exact.

If my Ipod battery dies -- I'm done writing for the day. And if the battery was fully charged when I walked in -- and it still died, well then I must have had one heck of a productive day.

The art of writing is about your classic Three-Ds. Drive. Dedication. Devotion. Whether you write in the morning, at night, with music or in complete solitude -- I guess every writer needs to find what works best for them. The important thing is, if you have a story to tell, tell it. Without music, who knows, maybe I'd never have become a published author ...

What can you find on my Ipod?

Jars of Clay
Jeremy Camp
Fuel
3 Doors Down
Hawk Nelson
Casting Crowns
Goo Goo Dolls
Garth Brooks
Randy Travis
Avril Lavigne
Chris Tomlin
Kutless
Switchfoot
Todd Agnew
Tesla
The Fray
Chris Doughtry
Counting Crows

Thomas Phillips
Author of, The Molech Prophecy

Wiccans vs. Christians

I held two book signing events in Buffalo this past weekend.

At the first, two Wiccans approached the table where I sat and signed copies of my novel, The Molech Prophecy. They read the back cover of the book (provided below), and then proceeded to tell me how upset and offended they were about the story I’d written.

At the second signing, oddly enough, two different Wiccan’s came over to the signing table. They read the book’s back cover, and –seemingly excited—bought a copy.

To be clear, when writing fiction, everything still needs to remain primarily factual.

In The Molech Prophecy, the principal story revolves around Christians and a rogue Wiccan.

In my extensive research on Wicca, their beliefs and practices, I often came across their principal rule: Harm None.

The story I tell centers around a Wiccan coven leader who, in order to fulfill a prophecy, breaks the cardinal rule of his faith.

Is it “Hollywood” story-telling. Sure. Was it meant to be offensive? Of course not. Are the facts about Wicca that I incorporated into the story factual? You bet they are.

Unfortunately, when you write fiction or non-fiction, you will stumble across critics. Generally, I do not mind criticism—from someone who actually read my book. However, I do get offended as an author when my book receives negative criticism from someone who only spends forty seconds reading the back cover summary of the entire novel and from that, passes judgment.

What’s the best way to decide if The Molech Prophecy is offensive, or entertaining, is for you to read the book yourself – and then decide. And if you do—I would love to hear your thoughts, good, bad, or indifferent!

Here is a definition of Wicca, as described in an article found on Suite 101:

Wicca is a Pagan revival of European pre-Christian religions. Often called the religion of witches, the Wicca practice a religion of secrecy. They do not actively seek new members and they do not convert people to their religion.

Wicca is a loosely woven religion. Each Wiccan is allowed to choose what he or she believes. For example, some believe in reincarnation of the soul. Others believe that the soul travels to Summerland after the body dies. Still, others believe that we travel to Summerland after death and, when we are ready, reincarnate as birds, animals, and plants.

The origin of Wicca is hotly debated. Some believe that author Gerald Gardner invented Wicca. This is a half-truth. Wicca evolved from ancient Shamanism. It traveled through the ages, shaping and changing into classical Paganism. When Christianity gained power, Paganism was perverted into a fairytale of evil witches, imps, and satanic goats. Gerald Gardner, and others, took what was left of the Old Ways and rebuilt a new Pagan religion: Wicca. Wiccans practice a religion of duality. They believe in the God and Goddess or the Lord and Lady. Both God and Goddess are equal, and each presides over different aspects of nature and life. There is the Lord of the Hunt, Lady of the Woods, Sky Father, and Earth Mother.

The Wicca internalize their God and Goddess. They believe that their deities are within them and within all things in nature.

Wiccans are often accused of not having morals because they do not have a book that lists rules for behavior. Instead, Wiccans have one golden rule: do what you will, harm none. This simple rule governs all that Wiccans do.
Suite 101, Wicca Defined
http://paganismwicca.suite101.com/article.cfm/wicca_defined

Thomas Phillips
Author of The Molech Prophecy
In Stores Everywhere

FIRST Wild Card Blog Tour

It has been some time since I've blogged. I apologize. I have been busy behind the scenes, in an attempt to make the upcoming release of The Molech Prophecy as successful as possible.

Today, FIRST Wild Card Blog Tours launches blogs about The Molech Prophecy.


http://newtitlesfromwhitakerhouse.blogspot.com/

That's pretty exciting. This whole thing is possible because a teenager, Caleb, introduced himself to me on Shoutlife. (He is my #3 friend on the site). He said he writes regular book reviews. He wanted to review a copy of The Molech Prophecy. He also went on to contact my publisher. He told them he wanted to manage a blog tour for the book. And he did a fantastic job!

Tuesday, the book is going to be in stores across the country. That feels both amazing, and makes me a bit apprehensive. My dream is being realized. Tough concept to grasp. I'll say it again, see if it sinks in some. My dream is being realized.

Man, that's scary.

On-line purchased shipped to buyers the last few weeks. Which is cool.

I found the book at deepdiscounts.com for $7.19 -- with Free Shipping.

The book sells for just $9.99 anyway. But $7.19??? That's awesome.

Okay -- I don't want this to be rambling.

I have a ton of on-line interviews that should be popping up on the Internet the next few months. And am generating a host of book signings across Western New York and down into PA. Check my websites for dates/times/locations.

Have an awesome weekend all, and be sure to check out the FIRST Wild Card Blog Tour for The Molech Prophecy!

God bless,

Thomas