1408 -- My Life

A while back I rented Stephen King's 1408.

At the time, I lived alone. Studio apartment. It was late at night when I started the movie. The beginning was creepy. Made my skin crawl. I had to shut the movie--figured I'd never get to sleep, not with the lights off, anyway.

The next day, when it was still light out, I finished the movie. And although it continued to creep me out ... something else happened.

The secondary story became more apparent. That's what a good movie, a good book contains. A secondary story. 1408 had one I did not expect.

See, the movie is about this writer. He visits haunted hotels, and sleeps in haunted rooms, and writes books about the experience.

When he is more or less dared to stay in a New York hotel, specifically in room 1408, it is the first time he ever encounters anything truly paranormal. Usually his writings uncover fakes and frauds. But this time, in room 1408, all of that changes ...

What the "ghost" does, however, is show the writer flashes from his own past.

And it was this writer's past that just wrecked me emotionally.

(MOVIE SPOILER--Don't keep reading if you don't want to know what happened in the film).

The writer was married. They had a young daughter--this pretty little girl, maybe ten.

Without much detail, we learn that the young girl is sick, dying, and eventually, died.

This guilt of not being able to do more to save his daughter, ruins the writer's life.

He leaves his wife. He buries himself in his work.

But the haunted room brings clips of his daughter to the forefront.

And at one point in the movie--she is there, in the hotel room with him. She tells him she loves him, that she wants to be with him and with mommy.

I kept expecting her to change into some horrid creature.

That never happened.

Instead, he hugs his daughter, tells her everything will be all right. He assures her that this time, this time, they can stay together.

And then she dies in his arms.

She goes limp. Lifeless...

He lost his daughter a second time.

The point of this blog is personal. I'm divorced. Didn't want to be. But there was nothing I could do. There was no saving the marriage.

I have three kids. They are my life. My world. My everything.

And though I live only a handful of miles away from them, and though I get them every other weekend, and one day during the week, and see them at school and sports events ... I can't help but feel, sometimes, like they have died. Or that I have.

The loss I feel is that great. The pain is that powerful.

And what is worse, at the end of each visit with them, when I take them back to their mother, I feel like they are dying on me a second time, or that I am. Every time.

It never gets easier.

Can't imagine it ever will.

I was that writer. John Cusack's character. Helpless, as I watched my kids slip out of my life. Lifeless am I each time I take them back to their mother ...

So, as I watched this writer in this movie writhe in agony over the loss and second loss of his daughter -- I was overcome with emotion.

I cried. I sobbed. It was uncontrollable. It lasted for what felt like forever.

It was a horror movie. Supposed to be scary.

And instead, to me, it was the saddest movie I'd ever seen. The realest movie. The rawest.

There is no real point to this blog.

Just that, to overcome the gloom and depression I feel, that sometimes sinks in, I thought I needed to write out my feelings.

If you read this, if you pray for people, please consider praying for me. Pray for my kids.

Divorce is awful. But when kids are involved, it is down right evil.

I know that God fills us when we are empty.

But at times, I feel more empty than ever imagined, than anyone should ever feel.

God bless,

Thomas Phillips
Author of the suspense thriller, The Molech Prophecy

Inspiration Comes From Living (Panorama/Pineapple Jacks)

As a novelist, I am often asked the question: "Where do you get ideas for your stories?"

The short answer is, the ideas just come to me. And that is the truth. I don't dream them. I don't struggle to come up with plots. I just, all of a sudden, have an idea and then grab a pen and pad (or napkin), and scribble out the basics of the idea.

However, that new story idea, is just that, an idea. The work I put in comes from fleshing out the idea to make it three-dimensional. Plausible. Believable.

A key to good storytelling, is realistic characters. Crisp dialogue. And plenty of action, regardless of genre. Action is what keeps readers turning pages.

Last night, I was overwhelmed with inspiration.

See, I posted on Facebook that I was headed down to a local watering hole to watch the Yankees/Orioles game. A good friend said she'd see me there. It was "Girls' Night Out" and I was invited to intrude on the get-together.

Most of the women going, I knew. Most I had not seen in 20 years. Not since high school.

I arrived at Pineapple Jacks a bit before seven. Found a place at the bar and ordered a drink. I paid with a twenty. The barmaid, always chatting up patrons, forgot to give me change back. I tried not to get anxious. But twenty bucks for one drink ... it was hard to not fidget on the bar stool.

When she came back around, the guy next to me held out money. She took it as he said, "This isn't my change."

She Oops, and goshed, and gave me the change I waited for. I bought the guy next to me a bubble (next-drink-on-me-kind-of-thing), as kind of a reward for returning a lost wallet idea. We shook hands, he thanked me, I thanked him. In return, the barmaid gave me a bubble. Karma?

My friend Mindy showed up. Said she and her friends had a table out front. I followed. The only guy among eight women. Not a bad night, eh? No. Not at all.

We spent an hour catching up. Turns out most of the women hadn't seen each other since school, either. Cell phones with pics of kids and husbands were passed around. Memories shared. An abundance of laughter ensued.

Unfortunately, I smoke. Bad habit. Filthy. But I do. So did a few of the women. Four of us entered the smoking section at the bar. (One of the only bars I know of in Monroe County that has a smoking section, part of why I love going there to watch games).

While Mindy went to the bar, Abby, Kim and I went to a table. Mindy was harassed by a large man while waiting for a glass of water. The guy, apparently was rude, and obnoxious. His comments to vile to post on a public blog.

When she came back to the table, so did he. Mindy, tough like she is, told the guy off in equally obnoxious language.

See. I'm the guy. There's an obligation to stand up to the man, and put an end to the situation.

So I did. I turned to the guy. He sat next to me. I said, "Look, you're upsetting my friends. We're just here to hang out. I'd appreciate it if you'd leave the table."

Don't think he expected me to stand up to him. He looked at Mindy, who wasn't listening to him, and said to me, "She's got nerve." (Nerve wasn't the word used, but I use poetic license here to get the point across). Then he turned to me. "And so do you."

But he stood up. Was ready to leave. Mindy missed the exchange. So she started in on him. Insults flying from her mouth so fast and furious, all I could do was cringe. I said to Mindy, "Dear, I handled it."

She wasn't listening. Kim and Abby tried to tell Mindy, it was over. That I'd handled it. But Mindy was on a roll.

I expected a chair over the back of the head, or a sucker punch to my ear.

After all, this guy wasn't going to hit a girl. He was going to hit me. Right? Of course right.

Kim, who'd just told me a story about a fight she'd been in at Roller City, had used one of her roller skates to pound her adversary, and assured me--had a bru ha ha erupted, she had my back. Abby, who'd also shared some fight-stories from her youth, let me know she was ready to use her chair to smack the guy across the back of his head if necessary--despite having just undergone back surgery. And Mindy--no doubt--was ready to duke it out.

Eventually, we finished our cigarettes and made our way to safety, er, ah, um, I mean back to the other half of the bar outside of the smoking section, where we joined our other friends.

Of course, we recapped to the other ladies what had just taken place in the smoking section. Everyone laughed. Apparently at my expense.

"If Kim had a roller skate with her, I'd have felt a lot more prepared," I'd said. This, for some reason, made everyone laugh ... more.

My imminent doom seemingly caused much delight.

What I took out of the event?

Emotions. They'd surged. Anger, that some guy would continually insult my friend. Fear (not for me, mind you, for the obnoxious guy. I don't think he knew the hornet's next he'd stirred was buzzing and ready to sting, relentlessly). Courage, for not having backed down. Inspiration, because I knew I'd get a blog out of the deal, and some character attributes to store away for use in future writings.

All in all. It had been a great night, with many, many inspirations tucked away.

Had I of stayed home, on the sofa, in jammers, and watched the Yankees game on TV, I'd have missed out on all the free inspiration oozing at Pineapple Jacks.

You want to write? You have to live. No way around it.

--Hey? Did the Yankees even win? I missed the whole game!

Until next time ....

Thomas Phillips,
Author of the suspense thriller, The Molech Prophecy
(Click the link above to purchase a copy of my novel)

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

Unidentified Flying Object Spotted in Rochester, NY

Wednesday, August 26, 2009.

It was my day with the kids. At 9:45 PM, I took them back to where their mother lives in Greece, NY.

My oldest son was telling me a story. He'd seen something in the sky. Since we were fifteen minutes early, their mother wasn't home. I parked in the drive-way. We climbed out of the car. We stood on the lawn. Phil, the oldest, pointed toward south in the sky, toward the moon. He said he'd seen something big, bright, flying across the sky.

I believe in aliens. Hard not too. Outerspace is too open, too vast for me to believe that life only thrives on our one, insignificant planet.

Had I ever seen a UFO before?

Nope. Not until that night, that is.

Standing on the grass, Phil and Grant in front of me, Raeleigh on my right, we tried to follow Phil's finger as he pointed up at the night sky.

For some reason--no reason I can explain, or care to try to explain--we all ... yes, we all ... turned right. We turned right, and we looked up toward the north-west sky.

At that moment, that exact moment, something large and round, and flat -- not saucer shaped, but like the moon, or a plate, fell from the sky. It dropped fast, between the V-scope of two Maple tree tops.

I saw it. All four of us did. And all four of us gasped.

Phil swore the object was only hundreds of feet away.

Grant, Raeleigh and I believed the object was much further away--maybe not as far up as an airplane might fly, but farther than a few hundred feet up and away.

It didn't glow. It didn't have lights. Like I'd said, it was flat. Round. Off-white, kind of nicotine stained looking.

The thing didn't float.

What it did, if I can believe my eyes, is drop.

Drop, like it had been watching us search the sky for signs of UFO's, and when we turned, turned and saw it, it hid.

Sounds crazy. I feel crazy even writing it.

But it happened. Something had been in the sky. And when we discovered it, it dropped into hiding.

Whether hundreds of feet away, or thousands, it was there. I cannot deny this. Won't deny this.

We did not see aliens.

Nothing flashed. My car didn't turn on. Headlights didn't flicker.

What had we seen?

It may not have been some alien ship, but clearly, undeniably, it was something I would classify as a UFO, an unidentified flying object.

We've told friends. Family. No one believes us. Had my kids of come to me, I might not have believed them either. I'd have nodded, and would have believed that they believed in what they'd seen ... but that might have been all. The extent of my belief.

But I was there. I saw it. I have no idea what I saw. Just that it was something. Not a plane, not a shooting star. Not a kite. Not a weather balloon.

I know. I know. I write mystery novels. Horror stories. I use the supernatural to plot my tales. This, though it may seem, may sound like a gimmick, a writer stunt--I assure, it is not.

What I'd like to know is--how many of my readers have had similar, or for that matter, even unique encounters. What I'd like to know, to prove, is that my kids and I are not alone in our sighting.

Thomas Phillips,
Author of The Molech Prophecy

Write About What You Know.

I have been writing since I was fourteen. Grew up with a reading disability. Hated books. Did all I could to never read. In seventh grade when our teacher assigned S.E. Hinton's The Outsiders, everything changed.

I not only became an avid reader from that point on, but since have worked hard at writing. Born a storyteller, it only made sense that I work to get my ideas down on paper. My first writing instrument was a Sears electric typewriter. Uh-huh. I remember saving money up to buy it, and cringing everytime the ribbon (with corrective white tape) ran out.

I spent hours in my room pounding out stories.

My first real short story, I Made It, was published when I was a freshman in the Cardinal Mooney annual literary magazine. (I have copies stored away). You write about what you know. My parents never had much money. They worked hard. Just never seemed to catch up. I really wanted to go to Cardinal Mooney High School. I got a job at the end of eighth grade, and worked all summer to pay the tuition. My job was as a busboy at a party house. The Diplomat.

Well. I was hired as a busboy. But what happened was, new hires had to "earn" the right to bus tables. I worked weekend mornings. Cleaned up after parties the nights before. Vacuuming, setting tables, cleaning bathrooms, sweeping and mopping floors. Soon, I worked nights, too. Washing dishes, scrubbing pots and pans. And eventually, I worked parties.

My first day of work was a Saturday. Like any business, communication was terrible. When hired I was told I needed to wear black dress pants, black shoes, a black vest and a black bow-tie, as well as a white dress shirt. Standard busboy attire, right?

So, Saturday morning I showed up to work all decked out in new duds. The "head" busboy, Gary, looked at me, shook his head, and said, "Lose the tie." I spent the next seven hours breaking my back cleaning party rooms--wondering how everyone else there knew to wear jeans and T-shirts.

And this ... this true-story became my first published piece. It told the tale of how I went from showing up to work ill-dressed, to getting the call one night to come in (on a day off) and to bring my bus-clothes.

I'd made it.

Key point of the blog, write about what you know. Remember, fiction still needs to be factual!

Ta-ta!

Thomas Phillips,
Author of The Molech Prophecy

Writing is Just Like Going to the Gym

I like to tell people I used to jog ten miles a day. But I found, if I take the car I can be done much quicker.

Lame joke. I know.

But writing is a lot like exercising. It's about developing a routine, following a schedule.

It's been said many times that if you want to write, then write every day.

This is sound, solid advice.

If you belong to a gym, my guess is you have some kind of a work-out schedule. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, let's say. And I'll also bet, when many of those days roll around you do not feel like going to exercise. However, I'd continue to wager, that once at the gym, you are fine and the work-out begins.

That's how it can be for writers as well.

Or, more specifically, that's how it should be for writers.

I have a small key-group of people, writers, that I write with.

For me, writing at home does not always allow me the ability to write for as long, or to produce the best writing I can. Too many distractions. The TV. The refrigerator. The sofa. The phone.

On Mondays/Wednesdays/Fridays, me and these other writers make a plan to meet at a local Barnes & Noble's to write. It's a way for us to hold each other accountable. It's a way to ensure quality writing time. We tend to power up laptops, sharpen pencils, and plug headphones into Ipods, and write without disrupting each other.

At the same time, when one of us hits a stumbling block, a speed bump, seated around that person are potential resources to help overcome the hurdle.

I may say, "Steve, how does this paragraph sound? Does it sound like writing, because if it does, I need to re-write it."

Or Steve may say, "I need my develop more sympathy for my character. I tried this, does it work?"

It's not always possible to make it to B&N on every day scheduled for us to write. When this happens, there is guilt associated with telling the others that you can't make it.

Guilt is an awesome tool that keeps our group from canceling more often than we may want to cancel. See what I'm saying?

If you want to write, to improve your talent, to hone your skills as a writer, then it will be more than important, it will be essential, that, as a writer, you develope a writing schedule that fits your needs. Whether it is every day, first thing in the morning, or at night after everyone else in the house has gone to bed, or heading to a coffee shop after work. Whatever the case may be, you need to know that you have a schedule to follow, and devaiting from it will cause your writing to suffer.

Teaming up with other writers is helpful, not necessary. Two or more with the same goals, same dreams, will help you hold yourself, and them, more accountable for the work that needs doing.

Writing should be satisfying, just like when you leave the gym -- feeling pumped and energetic, and excited about the work-out you'd completed for that day. With writing, whether you completed a chapter, a few pages, or some complex portions of your tale, when you finish writing for the day you should feel pumped, energetic, and excited about the words you'd strung together.

Like with exercise, writing is theraputic, inspiring in and of itself, and a wonderful stress reliever. I'd go as far to say that writing is healthy. Maybe not for physical results, but certainly for emotional and spiritual purposes.

Now, enough with reading the blog. Get out there and write!

Thomas Phillips
Author of The Molech Prophecy

Life Interrupts The Day

Has it really been two months since my last blog? I am so sorry.

I have been very busy. As a midlist author (which means, not a best seller), I still need to work a full time job. Writing does not pay the bills. It barely covers enough to Super Size at McDonalds, these days. But I am not complaining.

I thought about this the other day. If I never sold another thing, I'd have nothing to complain about.

In 1995, I sold my first short story. It was a western that took place in Rochester, NY. That was what the editor liked about it. It was called, Eye For An Eye. The magazine, Western Digest, was a new Canadian publication out of Alberta. I'd found a listing for them in Writer's Digest. I'd never written a western. I'd also never been published. But I set out to write and sell a short story, and did exactly that.

My tale concluded at 8,000 words. I was paid a penny per word. Canadian. Got a check for about $45 dollars (U.S.). And I actually did take the family to McDonalds -- and spent the whole thing!

After that, I went on to sell over 75 short stories to an array of publications. In February 2000, my first novel, MIND PLAY, was released by Dry Bones Press.

Dry Bones was actually a non-fiction, medical oriented publishing house in California that wanted to expand into fiction titles. I was one of the first signed fiction authors.

Here we are in 2009, and I've sold not just 75+ short stories, hundreds of articles, six mystery/suspense novels, and two books for young readers, but I have done hundreds of interviews (TV, Radio, Print, On-line), hundreds of book signings, countless speaking engagements, attended conferences, and have been recognized as "the author" enough times to make me feel a little special ...

How could I ever complain if I never sold another thing?

The good news, I do have some publishers now considering some of my completed manuscripts. So I am far from down and out. And in the waiting-time, I am hard at work on a Mafia thriller, and have completed a rough outline for a supernatural thriller, as well.

Also, I continue the hunt for a new literary agent. Seems they are as hard to find as a solid publisher. But I have not given up!

I will be back -- hopefully with good news about signing a new contract for another novel soon!

Until next time, have a wonderful day!

Thomas Phillips
Author of The Molech Prophecy