Brittany Maresh

writer

I have been informed that February is Women in Horror Month. As someone who is both female and writes horror, I feel the need to contribute something useful to this neat thing.

We’ll start with a list of women writers in horror that are awesome (this is by far not a comprehensive list – in fact, I admit, I am limiting myself to two authors per genre type so the list can’t grow hugely long):

Middle Grade:

• Mary Downing Hahn. A bit of a cheat since she could also be a young YA, at least with some of her books, but she was easily one of my gateway to horror reads, and even today, some of the biggest chills I’ve ever gotten are from her books. I don’t care how old you are. Wait Till Helen Comes, Deep and Dark and Dangerous, and A Time For Andrew are freaky novels, in the best, most thought-provoking sort of way.
  
• Pam Conrad is the only competition for this spot on the list (and only because of Stonewords – Zoe Rising wasn’t nearly as enthralling). Oh, no, wait, there’s also Zilpha Keatly Snyder.

YA

• Katie Alendar gets mad points for Bad Girls Don’t Die. Though the sequel left something to be desired by way of creep, the first was fantastic, solid, amazing horror and a book I want to make people buy, read, and love, purely so I feel less lonely in I-love-this-book-land.
• Amelia Atwater Rhodes, because her vampires actually bite, and her ghosts are out of this world, though I admit to heavily being influenced by having met the author a  time or three..

Adult

•  Mira Grant. By far my favorite female horror writer – scratch that, my favorite writer, period. Her book FEED changed how I viewed the role of female writers in horror. Her other self, Seanan McGuire, isn’t half bad, either. 
• Sarah Waters. Stephen King posted a recommendation for her somewhere, so I hunted out her book The Little Stranger. I probably went to the book store and asked about it thirty or forty times before it turned up. It was well worth the effort.

Graphic Novels

• M. Alice LeGrow. If only for her amazing name and because Bizenghast is neat. No, seriously, as a story Bizenghast takes a neat concept and interesting characters and makes something beautiul out of them.
• Serena Valentino.  Because of Gloomcookies, and her female characters, who rock. Sttrong female characters need to be more mundane, so I get less starry-eyed adoratiion when I find them.

I’m between novels. Between edits. Between submission and rejections. And I’m somewhere in that ditch between being a student and being something.

It’s a bit strange, this empty space between things.

2011 was a hard year for me. A lot of bad. But y’know, there was a lot of good, too. These are in no particular order or significance. They’re just eleven happy things from 2011.

1. The whole family was in the living room, listening to Ryan read a picture book about a lion and the blue butterfly he was in love with. It was Christmas eve. After, he proposed to my sister Melissa. She said yes. Actually, she said “yeah.” I don’t think she’ll ever live that down.

2. I finished my last semester of college, walked out of the building, and never have to go back. Not a lot to say about this one. It wasn’t a good semester. I was just so relieved that it was over. College for me was not a good experience, but I graduated. That matters.

3. Karina, Linds, and Beverly getting ready with me for the Esther Earl Rocking Charity Ball. We were hours late, because we were just having fun doing the sort of girly stuff I never do (even if our movie did keep glitching). I think we all had an amazing time, and it’s probably one of my most treasured memories.

4. Hanging out after the Funslam in the hotel room with Megan, Nutty, and Vanessa. Looking at pictures, laughing, and invading personal space. I didn’t know it was possible to just bond so quickly with people you hardly know, but we did.

5. Going up Hatcher’s Pass with Summer, Jean, Trace, and company. Madness ensued, few berries were picked, and a lot of dramatic photos were taken.

6. Karaoke with Heather, Sanaa, Klu, and the writing crew. Heather is just dynamite. I don’t know how she is real, but I’m so glad she is.

7. Meeting Jenn in Cleveland. She made the whole day magic, when it was stressful, and scary, and a little bit nausea-inducing. Nobody died, and that alone was good, but she made it happy, as well. (Thanks, Jenn!)

8. Working the fair in Ninilchik. It was a trip where everything went wrong. The car broke down. We had to leave gear behind. There were a thousand delays.  The rain was pouring and everything was sopping wet. It was cold, and windy, and thousand-pond tents were blowing over. I was working in a wax hands booth (making wax hands) with some cool people. The whole weekend was such a disaster, but we made it through and felt really accomplished for it.

9. American Heritage Girls camp. I love the girls. They’re exceptional individuals. Plus I got to work with Lexi, who I adore irrationally. Even with someone breaking in and stealing arrows (not mine – thank you, paranoid sleeping with my gear under my bed) and leaving early, it was a really happy memory.

10. Making my birthday cake with Michael. He was five, and everything we did seemed like magic to him. He’s my favorite little brother. Also, my only little brother. Also, we have candles that burn the color of the candle, instead of ordinary flame colors.

11. Deciding to go to New York on a whim, and being there less than 24 hours later (with tickets to a “sold out” concert, thank you, Stubhub). It was for a friend (and I’m glad I was there for her – she seriously needed support), and it let me spend time with people that I like, and rarely get to see (like Jenn).

Bonus memory: a thousand small moments with people online. Nyeusicrew, Hounds, fellow Asurans on FFXI, former Clandestites, all of you from all over. I honestly couldn’t pick just one. You all make my life so much more interesting, and encourage me on in my madness when I think the thing to do is, say, write a novel in three days for a contest,  build walking gingerbread men, level up BLM to my main (never again!), make a BLM cos for Halloween, or make cupcakes with gold-dusted chocolate tri-forces on top. Thanks.

Reasons I have not been posting the neat things I’ve been up to:

1. Server got infected. I’m not up on the details, nor do I wish to be, but I’ve been reassured the site is safe, and the problem has been eradicated. Or it might have been irradiated. I wasn’t really paying attention when they told me.

2.  In a fit of anti-social, I pulled my laptop out at a Halloween party and promptly knocked it over and broke it. Yes, I have bad luck with these things.At least everything was backed up.

3. I spent most of November being a fangirl going to different stops on the Team StarKid SPACE Tour.

4. I was desperately ill for about a month. Lose 20 pounds, spend a week unable to talk, start to think you might need to see a doctor, lack of insurance be damned sort of sick. I have since recovered.

5. My attempt to take over the world using bloodthirsty gingerbreadbots required more time than expected. The results are as of yet inconclusive.

Moving on to serious stuff:

The year isn’t over, but I can already say this is the single least productive year I’ve had since I was in 10th grade, as far as novel output goes. A lot of reasons, but it’s still disappointing to think of this as a three book year (LEGACY, UNTITLED HANDWRITTEN GAMER BOOK, THE PRINCESS OF ICE AND SNOW).

I’ve done mad edits, though, on a lot of things (MESSAGES FROM THE DEAD, AT HOME IN EXILE, INTERNET FAMOUS, FOREVER FIFTEEN, to name a few). I’ve sent out query letters. I’ve gotten rejections, partial requests, and some very lovely responses asking me to send future projects. All in all, disheartening  but mostly okay.

Still. Three books. That’s all.

I sort of feel like that’s a bad thing.  For some people, that’s great output. But I’ve always been prolific. Writing has always been something that consumes everything I am. I haven’t ever neglected it so horribly.

On the other hand, I am being paid to write a nonfiction piece for a professor at the university. So maybe a four book year. Which isn’t great, or even good, but could be worse.

If I forgot a book, and you happen to know it, tell me. Because it would cheer me up like nothing else.

It’s my birthday, but my five-year-old little brother wanted to help with my birthday cake. He wanted to make a Lorax cake with me. I sort of went with it, because, well, he’s five and he’s my little brother, and I’m a bit of a sucker.

You can’t tell from this photo, but it’s three layers, each layer half one color, half another. The icing was something of a lie. It’s raspberry, but yellow, and I’m pretty sure I got more of it in my eyebrows than on the cake. Well, no, but for sure the little brother ate more than he put on the cake.

Also, someone may have driven their Hot Wheels on the cake. I’m not going to point any fingers, but let’s just say it’s the only person in the house shorter than I am.

The candles were sort of ridiculously adorable. I wanted the ones that burned different colors, but the five-year-old vetoed that. Again, I’m a sucker.

The older brother lit the candles for us. Given the only other adults in the room are half blind in a sort of literal fashion, this was probably good planning on our part.

There are no good post-first-cut, pre-decimation photos. I was a little busy making wishes and cutting things, and spaced on the camera. I like the way the layers turned out, though. I was sort of afraid they’d mix too much, or they’d look stupid. I’m just now noticing I got my yellow and orange backward. What can I say? I was distracted.

Needless to say, my little brother was very pleased with the cake. Well, mostly. He’s a bit disappointed at the lack of sprinkles.

Next time, I’m breaking out our mini cotton candy maker for the Truffula trees. The ones we made were somewhat stupidly adorable, but there was no way they would have stood up in the cake.

I don’t usually print my manuscripts after I’ve edited them because the editing is never really done. The book can always be made better, and I write so many books, and they take up so much space. At some point it just became impractical to have them all stand like corpses waiting for cremation on a shelf.

Messages From the Dead is different.  I mentioned to my mother today that I’d submitted queries for it. She wanted to know what I’d made, even though she always hates my work, so I showed her.

It’s the first thing I’ve written in as long as I can remember that my mother doesn’t hate.  She didn’t accuse me of wasting my potential when she read it. Or of being morbid. Or ask why I couldn’t just write nice things like when I was little.

It’s not a nice book.  It’s not a happy story.  But it speaks to her in a way that makes that okay.

So I don’t usually print my manuscripts. But this time, I did. For her.

I’m feeling a little less than optimal today, so I’m going to write about something happy:

The bus bumped down the road heading to Detroit, away from Chicago, StarShip, Sue the T-Rex, Ashley, Angela, the Shedd Aquarium, the Field Museum, the Adler Planetarium. Next to me Bonnie was reading Messages From the Dead, a 60,000 word mess I’d printed for her on a whim. Across from us a balding black man slouched low, listening as Bonnie and I bickered back and forth between chapters.
The night was warm and dark, and even though I’d handed Bonnie something that felt so very, very important, I was welcome, and wanted, and just loved. I was happy.
<3

Father-figures don’t feature prominently in my work. There is no wise male mentor, no reassuring dad.  And that’s because I don’t have one, never have, haven’t even ever wanted one.

Except today.

Today, when I was selling my car, I wished I had a dad.

Dads are supposed to know about cars, and give advice, and look out for your best interest.

I had to tell everyone who came to see my car, “I don’t know,” a thousand times.

“Is it automatic?” “I don’t know.”

“How did it die?” “I don’t know.”

“What’s wrong with it?” “I have no idea.”

And I think, if I had a dad, I might not have had to say it so much. Because HE might have known.

Maybe that’s the solution to the novel problem I’ve been struggling with for ages.

That terrifies me, a little. Because what do I know about father figures?

Absolutely nothing.

This last week was rough.

No, wait, this last week was a nightmare.

No, even more. This last week was that moment after you jump, before you land safely and wonder what you were afraid of.

Two of the people who have taken up the most of my time over the years are gone. One to get cancer treatment, the other to start a life with a boyfriend I have personally witness use aggression to control her.

I have no way to know if I’ll ever see either of them again.

I have no way to know they’ll be okay.

We had camp inspection, as well – we aced it. 100%. It was the day my sister left, and I was too busy working to let myself cry. But boy did I want to.

I’ve been sick – sore throat, runny nose – and plagued with this inability to sleep. I just get silly.

My head has been ready to explode. I think I need new glasses, though I’m afraid something worse is wrong and I just don’t know it yet.

I snapped at two of the kids at work, I was in a horrid mood, and I’m pretty sure everyone could tell something was going on, not that anyone had the inclination to ask or the motivation.

I know I was having to struggle through, because I read a different book every day. Yes, that means I finished reading seven different novels – including a nonfiction book about Sue, the tyrannosaurus rex in the Field Museum in Chicago.

Today – Saturday – was no exception. I went back and forth to the store five times before I had everything to make vegan cookies.

It was a bad week.

But y’know what?

Tomorrow’s Sunday, and according to my calendar, it’s the start of a whole new week.

I’m looking forward to it.

-Brittany Maresh

There’s this time of day where magic seems possible, where if you look just right, there’s a fairy in the flower garden and a goblin lurking beyond the range of your pumpkin patch. Where the winter comes with Jack Frost, who spends nights breathing frost upon the land, and you don’t visit the cemetery, because of who you’d meet there.

There is a time of day when the moon is looming, and the sun is fading, and for a fraction of a minute people are forced to remember these instinctive fears. The dark. Being alone in the woods. Dangling your feet off the edge of the bed.

It’s summer time in Alaska. There is sunlight, and there’s twilight, that not-quite-night time, before the monsters and shadows take over completely.

On Sunday night, I return to the woods for a summer spent largley isolated in a wooded environment. My morning will include hikes back to an archery range in bear territory, typically alone, when it’s just light enough to be almost day, but not quite.

I’ll see more than one thousand children. They will shoot a total of more than twenty thousand times. If I’m lucky, I might even get some writing in. Even if I don’t, I’ll be stocking up on novel fuel.