U is for Unknown

First ghosts and now the...Unknown?

I had another post prepped, yes, just like the letter "S," but the fact was, it gave too much away. I can't have you figuring out everything about my life, really. Those who know me, know me; those who don't-well, they can figure out much by just reading this brief collection of authorship. But the fact is, I need y'all not to know who I am at all. I need to write as faceless as possible. My personality, well, that's a person and, as such, even if I don't like it, has certain expectations.

I look at this way.

Are you aware your parents have sex?

*shudders*

We censor ourselves in front of our parents. And we pray that they never have the nerve to be open in front of us. I have no urge to elaborate on my favorite positions in front of MotherUnitPrime. Heck it still takes me some time to come out of the proverbial closet with my being gay with people I don't know. In today's day and age, it's sorta a non-issue (unless, for some reason, you live n the Carolinas or the Deep South...they are deeply obsessed with gay sex and bathrooms) worldwide, but I still find that old wounds cut deep and I have pause, preferring to keep that part of me, well, Unknown.

And, that's okay. See, in show biz, we have a saying.

Always leave them wanting more.

Heck, when I write, even here, I try to stop somewhere at a good point, only to pick it up later, and start running. Leaving that void open, ahh, yes, that's where the good stuff is. I do it with strangers. When I need a character, I just look up at the coffeeshop and start being creative. Use the necklace, the lack of the wedding ring, the age, the hair style, the mismatched socks. Their Unknown becomes the tale before I even realize it.

Yes, very much like Sherlock Holmes.

I think, in the end, this is why I love, so much, the dark. I love the spooky stuff, like the ghosts. Like the mind readers. Like the Cthulhu.

All of those things have a limitless boundary which let's the real life imagination run wild just as much as our inner child. When we hear that creak when we're home alone, our imagination runs rampant. Besides the fact that the odds of us having an intruder are nil, the house is locked up (we checked), the cat is by your feet, and you're holding a gun....our primal brain immediately searches for the light.

When consistent evidence is the exact opposite.

I laugh on the inside. My friend's companion had to go to church because someone with tan skin stopped by the sanctuary and asked the address so he could picked up.

The Unknown took over. The terrorists were coming. Imagination is very, very exciting.

Trans people have never, ever attacked someone in the bathroom, rarely do pervs dress as women to get a glimpse of women in the bathroom. Research and reality back this up.

But, dang, makes a good story to make a law out of. Fuck finding jobs or raising the minimum wage. Better to work with the Unknown, drag it out over weeks with press conferences and then the session will be over and we don't have a lick of work ever to do.

I get it. I don't always like to do work.

The fact is, it's amazing how the unformed, the dark, and the fears of brain make terrific fodder. As Fox Mulder stated, "I want to believe." Because if he didn't, if we didn't even try, there'd be no season two.

The Unknown has been kind to us writers. Even basic human emotions, still an enigma to all humans, are basically unknown. Romance? Countless books on how to woe and win, yet everyone still seems to scramble. Because if we figured it out, fuck, it'd not be too interesting, now would it?

I'm thinking about this as I'm about to probably embark on authoring romance. And it'll be so similar to a horror tale, I'm thinking, in presentation.

I'm not too sure, however, since it is mostly Unknown to me.