Ask the Author: Paul Guernsey
Answered Questions (7)
Paul Guernsey
I can—although you might think I'm cheating with the semicolon. ;)
So completely paralyzed that even blinking required a conscious effort, William lay for nearly a week on the dirt floor of the abandoned barn, helplessly staring toward the unseen top of the tall ladder from which he'd fallen after a swarm of insects—green, glowing, whining like electric drills—had plunged at him from among the rotten rafters to drive fiery stingers into the back of his neck. Some foreign kind of wasp, he guessed they were, some alien invasive species, although he'd never seen nor read about anything like them, and as soon as he regained consciousness he felt them crawling over his defenseless face, where after nearly an hour each one eventually paused to touch him with the sticky tip of her abdomen before flying off toward the ceiling; three days later, when he began to feel a renewed and even more horrifying sensation of wet crawling he understood that they had laid their eggs upon the stubble of his cheeks, and that those eggs had now hatched—and by the morning of his last day in the barn, just before his son found him lying there and called for an ambulance, the white larvae had all squirmed their way into his nose and his ears and his open mouth, and had wriggled deep inside his head, and if he listened carefully, he could hear them chewing.
So completely paralyzed that even blinking required a conscious effort, William lay for nearly a week on the dirt floor of the abandoned barn, helplessly staring toward the unseen top of the tall ladder from which he'd fallen after a swarm of insects—green, glowing, whining like electric drills—had plunged at him from among the rotten rafters to drive fiery stingers into the back of his neck. Some foreign kind of wasp, he guessed they were, some alien invasive species, although he'd never seen nor read about anything like them, and as soon as he regained consciousness he felt them crawling over his defenseless face, where after nearly an hour each one eventually paused to touch him with the sticky tip of her abdomen before flying off toward the ceiling; three days later, when he began to feel a renewed and even more horrifying sensation of wet crawling he understood that they had laid their eggs upon the stubble of his cheeks, and that those eggs had now hatched—and by the morning of his last day in the barn, just before his son found him lying there and called for an ambulance, the white larvae had all squirmed their way into his nose and his ears and his open mouth, and had wriggled deep inside his head, and if he listened carefully, he could hear them chewing.
Paul Guernsey
The character of a young (twenty-ish) ghost began forcing his way into my imagination. He died because of a series of mistakes he'd made—calculated risks gone wrong—and he was very frustrated because he'd been able to accomplish none of the things he'd wanted to do in life, including writing a book. That character was Thumb Rivera, and his book and my book ended up being one in the same.
Paul Guernsey
It starts with a character. I get exited about a character and what he or she might do in a particular setting and situation. Then, as I begin to write, more characters begin showing up to collaborate, or complicate. . . .
Paul Guernsey
Competing hypnotists battle for the collective imagination of a small Maine town.
Paul Guernsey
Get used to the idea that this work takes a lifetime. There likely will be highs, lows, and frequent rejection. My personal story is instructive: When I was in my thirties, I published a couple of novels with major publishing houses, one right after the other. Neither was a huge commercial success, and after that, even though I had the help of some terrific agents . . . I couldn't seem to place anything. This dry spell lasted a couple of decades. And, yes, it was hard, but I kept writing. I didn't give up. And now, my third novel, "American Ghost," has just come out, and every bit of the struggle was worth it. So, keep at, and don't let the bastards get you down.
Paul Guernsey
I love that I can fill someone else's imagination for an extended period of time.
Paul Guernsey
Fortunately, I've never suffered from writer's block. However, I've had periods when the writing hasn't gone very well. My solution is to take a few days off and do something physical—preferably some kind of work, such as splitting firewood. Or, I go fly fishing. Fly fishing invariably returns me to that enchanted state of mind in which I enjoy creating a story. . . .
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