authors, books, horror

FanGirl Friday: Stephen King

This week’s author is one who oozes creativity out of every pore. It’s because of this creativity you will often see me mention him in interviews as an author I admire. In my opinion, there is no match for Stephen King- never has been; never will be. All contradictory opinions will be rejected.

I won’t deny there are others with talent equal to, or even greater than, Mr. King’s, but he has a way of making the unbelievable, believable.

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I’m still waiting for a psychically-powered typewriter (that doesn’t run off the energy of a poor, old dog), and I’d love to walk down the beach by Big Pink and hear the seashells whisper to me at night. It would be fascinating to stand in The Overlook hotel with just a touch of the shine and see what can’t be seen. Or, maybe, just step into MidWorld where Mr. King brought so many of his characters and concepts together. I’d definitely take a ride on Blaine and play a game of riddles.

Over and over again, Mr. King amazes me with his story-telling ability. I won’t claim to have read everything he’s ever written, but some day maybe I’ll get close to that goal.

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As with all authors, he didn’t start out at the front of the game. He struggled in the early years of his writing career, but he endured. He gives me hope that some day I won’t be the author who is struggling to put my work in front of readers.

While the term “idol” is one that makes me uncomfortable, Stephen King would be mine within the writing world. The man is a machine built to put incredible stories out for consumption. His fan base has extended passed those who read with many of his concepts turning to TV or film. He doesn’t need commercials threatening to kill off beloved characters; he just needs to finish that next book and watch them fly off the shelves. He is the King of Horror, plain and simple.

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authors, books, horror, interviews

In the Words of an Author: An Interview With Ellie Douglas

Have there been any authors who have influenced your work? If so, who?

Stephen King is my biggest influence, having grown up reading his books and being inspired by horror.

 

Out of all the characters you’ve written, who is your favorite? Why?

Dr Felix Bloom from my latest novel just released Fear Inducer. Why? Because he is pure evil, exactly how I imagined him to be. He’ll be hated by everyone, which is what I wanted.
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Are there any types of scenes you find more difficult to write? Which ones and why.

The in-between scenes. I find that the most difficult. Not really sure why, perhaps since the character is between murdering it’s difficult for me to give them something interesting. So I work a lot harder on those scenes to perfect them 🙂

What would you say the most rewarding part of being an author is?

Great question, the most rewarding part of being an author is finishing the book.

What advice do you have for authors just starting out in their journey?

Research. It is so important to research whatever topic you are writing about, even if you think you know all there is to know about it. Learn more. Be the master of that topic so you can write better about it. Professionally better.

 

Do you have a writing ritual? If so, please explain.

Not really, I don’t have any kind of writing ritual. Some days I feel like writing and other days I don’t. I go with the flow 🙂

Was being an author something you always wanted to do?

Yes, as early as the age of five. I have always wanted to be an author 🙂

 

If you could have a conversation with any one person, alive or dead, who would it be and why?

Michael Landon, why because I grew up watching him on the telly and he instantly become the father figure I didn’t have. He was the dad I wanted, he inspired me, he was so wholesome and delightfully amazingly talented. He would be the one person I’d love to chat with if I could bring him back to life I totally would 🙂

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Would you care to provide an excerpt from one of your books as a sample of your work?

Ethan could feel hot, then cold venomous liquid shooting inside his leg. He bit his bottom lip and kicked the cobra in the face, but it refused to let go. Using the bat, he bashed it hard on the top of its head twice, before it finally let go. Holding the bat tightly, so tight that his knuckles turn white, he raised it high and slammed it across the cobra’s head. Then he quickly swung it into the side of its face. The cobra’s face jutted sideways and Ethan heard the wet crackling sound, as it made contact with the bat.
He hit it again and again. Each time he made contact, Ethan’s ears wished he could drown out the chilling, blood-curdling, cringing sound of each bone breaking, like snapping chicken legs with pliers, echoing in the pit. The cobra’s face was pulverised. Its blood spurted like a fountain, hitting Ethan in the chest and neck. The flesh on the cobra’s face had split, exposing its smashed in skull. The mouth had separated from its jaw. Its two fangs just dangled outward, bent at an awkward angle.

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Like what you’ve seen here? Find more information and connect with Ellie Douglas:

www.authorellie.com
http://bit.ly/LinkedIn-Ellie
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https://twitter.com/AuthorEllie
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horror, short stories

Night of Shadows

Unable to sleep, Miranda had taken to counting sheep. It didn’t take long before the desire to continue the count felt like an obsession, a compulsion she would be forced to continue until she could count no higher. Boy, was this going to be a long night.
When the count reached thirty, she decided white was boring. She imagined the sheep painted in a various array of colors: pink, purple, blue, green. Even that became redundant and she just let her imagination take over.
Her mind decorated the sheep with gems and jewels, hats and shoes. She imagined their fleece sheared into poodle cuts until she could no longer stand the absurdity their costumes had taken on.
She groaned as she rolled onto her back. She had too many things to do tomorrow. She didn’t need this random burst of insomnia. She put her hands behind her head, interlocking her fingers and began inhaling and exhaling slowly. With each breath she reminded herself, “Bad energy out, good energy in.”
Within a few breaths, she could feel her muscles relaxing, her mind emptying. She continued her breathing exercise as she stared up at the ceiling.
The shadows were dancing in the dim moonlight that flowed in through her bare window. She found herself mesmerized. As sleepiness stole over her, she found shapes emerging as one might find in the clouds on a warm, spring day.
The shapes turned into pictures and the pictures began to shift. Her limbs felt heavy. She could no easier move now than if she’d had sand bags packed over her extremities.
A surge of panic shot through her as the shadows shifted once more from innocent daydreams to creatures that screamed with malicious intent. Her even breathing technique forgotten, she struggled to pull in hurried, ragged breaths.
Was this a panic attack? The onset of the madness she now believed had to have been inherited from her father? She didn’t know. The only thing she knew was these shadows with their tiny teeth- Razor-blades! Her mind shrieked- and giant claws wanted to hurt her.
She was alone in the house. If she screamed, no one would hear her.
Then again, would she really want anyone to find her like this? Paralyzed with the fear of what had to be, could only be, hallucinations? No, screaming had never been an option, even before the idea had been fully formed in her mind.
She fought to lift her head against the pressure encasing her. She strained against the invisible bonds, securing her hands into their current position. Once her hands were freed, she threw the entire weight of her body (all 140 pounds) into rolling over towards the bedside table.
She told herself her fear of turning her back on the shadows was irrational. “It’s just my imagination,” she assured herself aloud. But she didn’t feel reassured. In fact, she felt quite the opposite.
As her hand reached the button on her table-top lamp, she felt something sharp digging into her back. She pressed the on/off switch and blinked away the darkness.
Her body no longer felt heavy. She moved to a sitting position to prove to herself she could. Her muscles moved freely. Her breathing returned to normal. “Just your imagination, see?”
She let out a deep breath and then, began laughing- hysterical laughter. Tears streamed down her face. “Shadow monsters.” She shook her head as another fit of hysteria overtook her.
Over the sound of her own chuckles, she didn’t hear the crackle of static. The amused water in her eyes blurred her vision so she didn’t notice the flicker of the power.
Then, everything went dark. Miranda was immediately silenced. She pushed the switch on the lamp. Nothing. Again and again, the same result. “No, no, no,” she whimpered. “This can’t be happening.”
She wanted to strike out. Fear had once again reared its ugly head and adrenaline surged through her blood. The fight or flight instinct had taken over, but she could already feel her body once again being weighed down. In the dark, she was helpless.
She turned her gaze from the useless lamp and looked to the ceiling. The shadow things were no longer floating there. So, where were they? She wondered.
She let her gaze fall. This was it, she thought. The shadow beasts had surrounded her. If she could have run, she still couldn’t have escaped, so tightly had they encircled her.
She felt the razor edge of teeth biting into her flesh. Claws scratched at her skin. Not all the wounds drew blood, but a few had. She watched in horror as these creatures mutilated her, there was nothing she could do to fight them off.
She screamed- not just in pain, but in fear. She shrieked from that inner-most place that held all of her repressed emotions until her throat was raw and no more sound escaped. And still her mind shrieked with that soul-piercing quality.
Somewhere in the distance she heard sirens, or at least, she thought she did. The only reality she was sure of was these things were real, her father hadn’t been crazy. They had killed him as surely as they would kill her.
On some level, she was aware of the conversation happening around her; of someone flicking on the overhead light. She was vaguely aware of the blood running down her cheeks, her chest, her legs. Her nightgown had been sliced in several places. Sweat had matted her hair to her head. She was not aware, however, that nearly half of that hair had been turned silver. She was, quite frankly, a mess.
She knew whatever demons had infested her room, the light had banished them. But for how long? She couldn’t be sure and so she continued that God-awful, horrible wail.
Her body trembled from the stress of the torture it had endured.
They were asking her questions, now. She had no answers.
Later, when she could speak again she would only mutter these two words: “They’re real.” Always, her words were spoken in that same monotone. Always, she rocked herself back and forth against the padded walls that were now and forever to be her home.