Apologies for my absence. It’s not for lack of ghostly encounter. They’ve actually been super active lately (and I’ll get to that in a moment) but the truth is, I’ve been busy with my other writing. My fiction. The book I’ve been writing for seven years now.

I swore I’d never embellish anything on this blog and in the interests of keeping that promise I’ve just stayed away. My fiction and non-fiction are two different babies. And like any dutiful mother I must keep them separate or else they’ll fight and make me crazy.

But you want to hear about ghosts, right? Well. Sometimes my worlds collide. Because the writer’s world is full of torment. Oh is it ever. Why don’t they like my book? Why this rejection? I pray for energy, creativity, and time to make it happen. I find the time but then I’m not feeling it. Then I’m feeling it but the  kids won’t shut up. Then house is quiet but my husband, who calls himself the “Writer’s Widow,” wiggles a bottle of Merlot at me. And sometimes I sit down full of vigor and retype the same sentence for 4 hours. That’s my reality. And that’s when the other voice creeps in. The ego. The voice that says: Take your sorry little manuscript over to Kinko’s and make a copy for your kids  cos ain’t no one else gonna read it. …And then I have a pity party for a day or two until ( in typical Capricornian fashion) I tell ego to go screw itself and get back to editing.

Well two weeks ago after my most recent pity party (Bitter? Table for one?) my son approached me. I stabbed the keyboard with sweaty determination and he said “Why is it taking you so long to write your book Mommy?” My mouth was open to respond when I heard a male voice, clear as day, say It’s not taking you this long to get published Jennifer. It’s taking this long to perfect your craft. Do you really want to publish if it’s not ready?  I froze.

 Imagine a ticker tape full of cosmic wisdom streaming above your head. That’s what its like. I freeze because I don’t want to miss a word  but also, even, now, I’m still amazed I hear these things. The second I heard him (yes him) I looked at my son surprised.”What?” he asked. I must have looked strange. But I relished in truth. I’m not some wannabe. God gave me talent and drive for a reason and I will be published. I’m just not ready.

And to drive the point home, at my Children’s Book Writer’s meeting a few days later the key-note speaker addressed the subject of being READY. Our eyes met as she lectured. “Why would you want to publish anything less than your best work?” I swear she spoke to me directly. Because YES I’d be mortified to read my book and KNOW I could’ve done better. Like looking at your 7th grade picture saying what the hell were you thinking with those bangs woman! *shudders*

So with brand new perspective I tucked into editing. But then something weird happened.  (Here comes the ghosty bit.)

I sat here typing on my chaise longue, and the atmosphere changed. A sudden warmth to my right, like someone opening a door to humidity. I saw a few pops of  light in the periphery and turned slowly. Someone was watching me. And it wasn’t my muse. The corner of my bed sank down. Someone was sitting on my bed. The warmth turned to unease. I couldn’t SEE this guy, but even if the bed hadn’t sunk I’d have known he was there.

“Christopher!” I yelled.

I ALWAYS call Christopher when I feel the ickies because I hope he’ll feel them too. He pretends not to believe in Spirit which translates into I-don’t-understand-this-so-I’ll make fun-of-you-instead. But with Spirit, you don’t have to SEE them to FEEL them. I hoped he’d at least acknowledge the atmosphere which felt like a room after two people have had a fight. But Christopher shrugged and walked out again. I asked Mr. Icky Spirit man to please leave which he did… but he came back again the very next night.  Again he sat on my bed to watch me type. So I clasped my hands in prayer. One can only say Go to light Carol Ann so many times. Luckily I had a paranormal investigation team coming out for a private project that weekend and bloody well timed if you ask me.

So what happened?

Well I’m vindicated. I can’t spill the details of the investigation just yet but even Christopher can’t dispute the evidence.  He listened quietly, then only said “Damn.”

EVP stands for Electronic Voice Phenomena. EVP recorders pick up sound our naked ears can’t hear. “We caught a Class A EVP in your bedroom,” the investigator emailed. I had to google ‘Class A  EVP’. It basically means the voice is loud and clear, needs no amplification, and everyone who hears agrees on what it says. The EVP  is also usually a direct response to a (human) question. I listened to the clip and tingled. But not in a good way. There WAS a man in my room. And he had something to say.

 

I’ll share it soon enough.

I need to work on my fiction now.