Ask the Author: Sean Best
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Sean Best
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Sean Best
The mystery in my own life that could be a plot for a book is how can it be possible (by what macabre occult forces) that as a child in Florida I suffered an ill-omened recurring nightmare about a gargantuan green snaky dragon who would menacingly appear to me on the blank side of my grandmother's old house that faced the grim brooding haunted quagmire swamp, then, twenty years later while sleeping off a hangover at midnight in the drunk tank of a hole-in-the-wall in the backwoods of north Alabama (to my utter terror and disbelief) I saw the same snaky green dragon from my childhood nightmares painted portentously upon the bland concrete ceiling of the jailhouse I was in.
Sean Best
Master the language in which you write - grammar, syntax, semantics, spelling, punctuation, the history of the language, verb conjugation, past participles, gerunds, the differences between adjectives and adverbs, the reason for using expletives, intensifiers, etc. and so forth. Verse yourself with formal definitions of character and plot. Make frequent use of a thesaurus. Study the mood generating effects of scenery upon the human endocrine system. Apprise yourself of modern techniques for subliminal messaging and psychological warfare. Read something and write something every day and every night. Travel to a place that is far remote from your usual surroundings. The place should be sparsely populated by humans. When you arrive at this distant wilderness locale, sit alone in the dark in silence.... then write about what happens to you.
Sean Best
The idea of Bloodstone and Broomcorn: Curse of the W.I.T.C.H. appeared in my mind suddenly like a brilliant bolt of lightning when I accidentally drank from a glass that I thought held egg nog which actually contained buttermilk. The shock was so great that the eerie image of the truth about the link between swamp gas and UFOs began unspooling in my brain so I opened my word processor and began typing as fast as I could while the eerie legend burgeoned and rapidly expanded exponentially into a chilling narrative revealing ancient secrets of the Forbidden Occult which have been hidden for eons in a rotting hovel maintained by witchcraft in the shadowy depths of a primeval bog where extraterrestrial biological entities voyage for many light years in order to consult with the festering hag who guards the powerful knowledge in a Book of Mouth overflowing with translucent touch-sensitive pages covered with inscrutable hieroglyphs which only she can comprehend. This olden tome is secreted in the depths of a bottomless pit of green slime at the brooding heart of a gurgling quagmire the foul stench of which the lethal hag alone conjures and reigns supreme. The mystery of the Book of Mouth is explained among the cryptic pages of Bloodstone and Broomcorn: Curse of the W.I.T.C.H.
Sean Best
The best thing about being a writer is joining the global secret society of books. In Three Days of the Condor covert operatives read novels in search of clandestine plots disguised as pulp fiction thus mass disseminated in disguise to other agents of the conspiracy. In All the President's Men the shadowy informant in the underground parking garage at night whispers, "Follow the money!" The X-Files motto is "The truth is out there." The truth is stealthily encoded in writing. Being a writer means being a Sorcerer of Secrets. I have cryptically encoded many secrets of the Forbidden Occult among the mystical pages of Bloodstone and Broomcorn: Curse of the W.I.T.C.H. and in Swamp Lore Campfire Legends.
Sean Best
Writing inspiration for me comes from haunting voices calling from very far away distant places that are shrouded in mists of mystery bejeweled with ancient primeval occult secrets that are whispered in Legends amid the ruddy glow and dancing shadows of campfires and boiling cauldrons of witchy ghostly lore. When I see a weed-choked abandoned burial ground with leaning crumbling tombstones or a set of stairs so old that the steps are worn low in the center or a barnacle-encrusted trawler sunk to the gunwales worm-eaten wood rotting in the ebbing tide or a dusty cobweb-smothered trunk in the sinister shadows of a silent attic I am swept away by the euphoria of hushed echoes of yesterday and eyes from the past that watch....and wait. Thrilling words of the macabre flood from my excited mind filling page after page with beguiling intrigue in the specter of spooky characters and eerie plot.
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