When we left our hero, John had called a friend and asked her what kind of story she’d like to read. Her response did not give John any ideas for a plot, but now John is thinking about “a ghost story” and “Giallo.” Now, hours later, John hasn’t come up with anything. Fade in on John, sitting at his computer, listening to music. Suddenly…
I don’t listen to pop or rock or classical or blues when I’m completely empty of ideas. I listen to electronic music, drone-y stuff that I can ignore. It’s like being in a little boat and getting a nudge from shore. Paddling will just force the issue, so I’m just writing some nonfiction for another project I’m doing.
Dumping it all out helps. Writing about an incident in real life, I just keep the fingers going, not editing myself, because I’m just trying to get something down, something to shape later on. It doesn’t have to be right, it just has to BE.
Then toward the end of the album, the music really gets to me.
This is Flow, the state of mentally moving forward into your story and yourself. It’s so complicated that it can be made simple: You’re surrendering to whatever happens in your head while your fingers codify it.
Ghost story. I keep thinking of someone under a sheet, like A Ghost Story, which buried that cliche. Giallo–let’s look for a definition (I know what it is, but it helps to see someone else put down specifics I can pick at).
Looking at a definition: mystery fiction, thriller, cheap paperbacks. But what makes Giallo what it is specifically?
Wikipedia. An outsider investigates–that’s what jumps out to me.
Ghost story. I’m thinking of that damned guy under a sheet but I’m ignoring it, because AGS has already killed that. Outsider.
A ghost–who looks like a person, of course, not a misty old movie figure–in an empty, long-abandoned house. Like that Black Sabbath cover…
That’s my location–not that style house, mine’s more Blair Witchy, far from the beaten path.
Hippies. When I see this cover I imagine hippies hanging out getting stoned. An old idea I never did anything with.
Not hippies. Modern hippies, in an old house, hiding out. Why? Who’s after them? Police. Or political opponents.
In the house, our heroine is stoned on a mattress in the empty, cold living room, and she sees someone in the corner who isn’t one of the small group of friends hiding out.
(The album’s last track is very spacey, like the final scene in an artistic horror movie.)
Where does the Giallo come in?
I don’t know. But with this, I’ve got enough to get started. Waiting til I have it figured out is death–why write it if I already know how it turns out?