Here is a weird little story that has been a hard one to explain for some time now. It’s about the time I accidentally took part in a séance at a writing workshop. On the last day of the workshop we decided that we’d have a last-night-get-to-know-you dinner. Those who were still in town gathered outside of the main hotel and we all walked down to find a nice place to have dinner. Well, not super nice, it was Applebees. Then we were having such a lively discussion that we decided to stick around the hotel lobby and chat.

It only took a short while for the more mischievous of us (me) to find out the business room we’d been using during our workshop was still unlocked. We all shuffled into the more private setting. That’s when things got interesting.

See, writers are not like normal people. We all have our quirks and when left alone to our own devices we start to unleash our overactive imaginations. Some people started declaring special talents, which led to suggestions of tarot card reading. But we didn’t have tarot cards. One person volunteered to drive back to her hotel to get her own personal set, but we didn’t want to go to the trouble. I had index cards in my purse and we tried in vain to remember the tarot card set, but got as far as the death, lover, and joker before we all had exhausted our collective tarot knowledge.

“I can do aura readings,” one guy volunteered.

We all raised an eyebrow at this admission. This came from a guy you wouldn’t expect to admit to supernatural dealings. He was a clean-cut, city guy who had a respectable, ordinary job. At first I thought he was joking, because he was outrageously humorous during the entire workshop and our talk of tarot cards got a bit on the ridiculous side. I thought he was continuing the joke. Shows how unworldly I really am, because the guy proceeded to do a pretty good reading on my friend. Granted, we’d all been together for a week now and he probably had a good handle on each of us, but it was still good, even if he was just majorly observant.

We all got excited about his super-talent and each of us begged for a reading. It started out normal enough.

When he started reading me he looked a little concerned and I thought it was because he wasn’t able to come up with anything original or hidden like he was able to do with the others. It’s a lot more impressive to do a reading when a psychic can surprise people in the room. But again, we were playing around, not really serious. Amateurs…or so I thought.

“I, uh…” the guy paused, his focus not on me anymore, but on an empty space next to me. “I don’t know how to say this.” He looked a little embarrassed and I suddenly wondered what about me he’d found out, or maybe this was the set up to some joke. We all giggled and teased as if that was the intent, but he quieted them all with a look. “It’s not really something funny. Hey, I’ll just be out with it. I’m sometimes a medium for ghosts and there’s one here now.”

We all silenced. Either we were all waiting for the punch line, or wondered how to politely leave the room while this guy had some sort of mental breakdown. But since I was used to psychics by now (remember in my last post I talked about attending a local psychic meeting?), I waited patiently. It didn’t matter that I wouldn’t get a reading, and this might be more fun anyway.

There was some confusion as to who the ghost was and whom the ghost belonged to. It was apparently the ghost of someone’s grandfather. The grandpa would have to have been around to see part of our childhood. And I instantly was out. My grandfather was still alive and the other one died before I was born.

But the guy kept coming back to me. “Are you sure you don’t have a dead grandfather? He seems to be fixated on you.”

“I don’t have a dead grandfather that was around when I was young. I have a dead great-grandfather I knew.”

“This would be a parent of one of your parents.”

“I don’t know who it could be.” And I didn’t.

“He’s showing me a picture of when you were born. He died when you were really young. I think. Maybe two.

Well, that’s convenient, I thought. I won’t be able to say one way or the other since I would be too young to know if what the ghost whisperer is telling the truth or not.

“He had some connection to Las Vegas.

Nope again. I drew a huge blank.

“He’s showing me a picture of an arch.”

I still had no idea.

“He’s showing me a picture of a Native-American baby? Like on a board on someone’s back?”

The others in the room were trying to connect the ghost to someone else. Maybe a hotel worker? Maybe a really confused ghost? They all offered plausible suggestions. Remember: writers.

But something he said stuck with me. I remembered a story my mother had told about how my dad’s dad had called me a little papoose when I was born. So, he had to have been alive when I was born at least. I’d remembered incorrectly, but now I realized who it could be.

“Wait,” I said. “I didn’t realize it, but my dad’s dad was alive when I was born. I’m not sure when he died, but it must have been not long after I was born. Also, people called him ‘Archie.'”

We all sighed with relief. After realizing the ghost was there for me, it seemed to pick up a bit. Except for the fact I know nothing about this relative. Big fat nothing. Only a few clips of things here and there.

“He had land around here, Vegas maybe?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

Most of the information was a dead-end since I couldn’t confirm or deny. Then it got weird.

I love writing workshops, not necessary being haunted when I attend them.

The ghost explained how he’d have dreams and act them out for my dad and his siblings. This seemed to be a point of regret for the ghost. Then the insistence of the dreams became a more serious matter. For one, they were acting out deaths of some kind.

One of the other writers started to get agitated about our little impromptu séance. I didn’t blame him. This ghost was a little messed up. The guy who was acting as the interpreter seemed just as spooked as the rest of us. He wanted to stop, but the things he was saying did seem important. Our ghost medium informed us that my grandfather had a problem with the guy who was freaking out. My grandfather told him to “Shape up. Act like a man.” And a few other bully-ish comments. This was more on par about what I knew about my grandfather.

On to the deaths, which my grandfather corrected were murders of some kind. He described one particular death in detail, which I won’t describe here. It was using a very specific weapon, a very specific way.

Did he work for the mob? The others questioned. Not that I knew of.

Did he kill someone and hide the body? Yeesh.

This seemed really strange. And at this point we all decided to tell the ghost to go away. It was too freaky. For one, the ghost started calling me Lily Ann. A name very, very similar to a family member who I somewhat resemble on my dad’s side. He was referring to our interpreter by my dad’s name (and this guy did look pretty similar to my dad, one of reasons we think it attracted my grandfather). The ghost did leave, but not before he insisted I deliver a message to my dad that he “was sorry.”

It was late at night and so I went to bed, with the lights on. The next morning I packed for my flight home. The events of the night still confused me. I had no way of confirming them, unless I called my parents. I spoke to my mom first, gauging how my dad might react to this news. He doesn’t believe in psychics, just that people might have a really keen sense of observation, or really great Internet sleuthing skills to trick people.

I ended up on the phone with my dad and he straightened out a few things.

I was two when Grandpa died, people called my grandpa “Arch” for an even shorter version of his nickname, and he did own real estate near Las Vegas. So in all the areas I thought were not quite right during the reading were in fact spot on.

Then came the hard part.

“Did grandpa ever kill anyone?”

My dad didn’t hesitate. “He killed a lot of people. He fought in WWII.”

I then described the very specific death, one that no one would ever find described on the internet and never will. It’s not really something that can be guessed either, it was that specific.

“That did happen,” My dad confirmed. “Or at least, it’s a story he told from the war.”

I explained the weird part, the part about grandpa acting this out for his children. And I wondered how disturbed my grandpa must have been. And now that he’d maybe found some relief in death he must have regretted it.

“My dad never really talked about the war, but when he drank he’d have something like flashbacks. He likely had PTSD, before people really accepted it as a problem.”

This made a lot of sense. Especially the insistence of the medium that this was a “good ghost”. A lot of the other writers the night before started to say my grandpa was an evil spirit and this turned out to not be true. The medium had said that my grandfather had felt trapped into these murders and felt justified for them at the time. Although he struggled with the deaths years later. Just as someone who fought in a war might feel.

Then I gave my dad the last message:

“He says he’s sorry for that.” I assumed the flashbacks, the drinking, the not being fully present because my grandfather had been haunted by his own ghosts.

There was a long pause before my dad answered. “He didn’t have anything to be sorry for.”

I was able to get a message to the guy who saw my grandfather’s ghost and told us this information. It did make him relieved that it turned out to be a war and not that my grandfather was some mob hit man. It was also interesting to hear some family history, although not a very conventional way of learning it. And that’s so far the only time I’ve been involved in an accidental séance, but I did spend the night in a haunted house on accident. I’ll tell that one on Friday 🙂

I love comments! Every time you leave a comment–well, I get a comment and I love them. So comment away!

Welcome to spooktaular October.  I have a real live ghost story to tell.  (Maybe live is the wrong word, and it may not have been a ghost, but it scared the eight-year-old version of me so I will share it with you.)

I had finally gotten to the ripe old age where I could take a bath and be trusted not to squirt the entire bottle of Pert into the water or forget to wash. I was a Big Girl.  And I had a brother and a dad and I craved some privacy.  The parents and the brother sat watching television in the living room while I locked the bathroom door and slipped into the tub. Deep into applying enough shampoo to create a lovely pointed foamy cone, I felt a wave of cold run down my back and raise the tiny hairs on the back of my neck.  The room felt arctic and I swear I could see my breath, my whole body shook.

Then a rattle.

I knew. Absolutely, beyond the glimmer of a clever-second-grader’s doubt, that I had locked the door.

The lock twisted.

From the inside.

My breath stopped. My lungs shriveled and I couldn’t take in air, and then the doorknob turned and the door swung open.  No. One. Was. There.  My airless lungs couldn’t send a scream, only a hoarse, strangled whisper clawed from my throat.  “Mom! Mom!” My heart nearly exploded. The cold feeling intensified and I felt…something there.  I tried to scream again.  Nothing came out.  I had to act. I forced myself up and snatched a towel, wrapped it around me, and ran into the living room.

Three pairs of eyes stared at me, standing, dripping and trying to speak.  I don’t remember much of what happened next, except I was told to go back and rinse my hair and stop being so silly.  All I know is that from then on I never doubted that there is more in heaven and earth that is dreamt of in our philosophies.  And going to the bathroom became an exercise in fear control.  Eventually, I stopped being scared of the bathroom, but I did think the knots in the stained wood of the door always seemed to be looking at me, unblinking. Waiting.

What about you guys?  Any spooky encounters that you can’t explain?  Please share or just say hi.

When I first heard about power animals I probably giggled. Who doesn’t imagine a moose with a cape, boots on every hoof, who is tripping down a rocky mountainside? Oh? You don’t? Maybe it’s just me.

But seriously, don’t kid around with power animals. Just don’t. Below is my cautionary tail:

We all have interesting moments in our life. Moments where we did something completely off the beaten path and chose to try something different? For me one of those times was when I accidently became part of a local psychic group.

Okay, okay. It wasn’t exactly “accidental” and being “part of” the group wasn’t exactly an accurate term. It was more like they allowed me to attend the meetings for a little over a year and I became an observer and learner of the culture.

It started when I found out someone I knew (a friend) had some psychic abilities. It was uncanny the things she could do/guess. A lot of people argue that being psychic is just being more observational than the rest of the general population and if that’s *all* it is then it’s a talent indeed. I was/am slightly skeptical. They knew this about me and still were completely fine with me attending. I learned about raki, shamanism, eastern medicine practices, how the dead communicate with us, Wiccan rituals…I learned a ton of different things. It was pretty cool. Mostly they let me ask questions and take notes. They hoped that I could “use some of the stuff in my writing.” To me this was science fiction and to them “it’s real”– was a common joke between the group members and me.

But one of the most interesting things that really seemed to speak to me was the concept of power animals. Maybe it was my Native American heritage and the fact that this was not a new concept to me, but I really liked the idea of animals bringing certain messages to us. Just like any cultural concept, power animals (or spirit animals, or totem animals) have a variety of facets, uses, and whatever. It is sort of another type of horoscope (I know, most people find those unhelpful. If you don’t find it helpful, then it won’t be, but there is no harm in it, I figure, since it’s nothing that will alter my decision based on the outcome or message. Or maybe it just reaffirms a decision I would have made regardless. Whatever).

Anyway, a few months ago I saw a turtle on my morning walk. Usually I see all sorts of squirrels, scrub jays (sort of like a really mean bully-ish blue jay), worms, various bugs. Being it’s not a common animal to spot on my daily walk, I took note of it (read as: I took pictures and texted them to Pam, who loves turtles). At the time it was just a fun animal finding. I did look up the animal’s meaning (needing, providing protection—stay strong despite obstacles, being overwhelmed, preparing to make your home anywhere). The next day I saw a group of deer in the same area. This again was not a common animal spotting (not a squirrel, not a scrub jay, not a worm or beetle) so I took some pictures and looked those up, too (don’t be hard on yourself, you can’t change others, be at peace with other’s decisions, or things you can’t fix/change). I saw a group of rabbits (protection from fear brought on by illness, tragedy/disaster). This same week in the same spot, I’d see other various animals that pretty much could be put in this category all adding up to “some bad things are going to happen and I’d need to protect myself emotionally.”

Needless to say that Power Animals became not as fun at that point, because two weeks after my turtle sighting my parent’s house burned down and my friend found out she had cancer. And that was just the tip of it. After the main events happened, the animals stopped appearing on my morning walk.

Lesson: don’t mess with power animals.

Okay, got it, Power Animals. You’re not just a fun, light pastime like horoscope reading or tarot cards or ouija boards at sleepovers (All things my psychic friends giggled at and would give me a look that would say “that’s adorable” when I’d mention them).

So I’m not really a huge believer, but that power animal experience was enough to make me not look at it the same. It’s sort of like when you burn yourself (which only takes once) and learn to take the fire a little more seriously.

So last week I saw a group of wild turkeys in that same spot. I literally stopped in my tracks and paused. I might have held my breath. I didn’t move until they were gone. Then I walked a little quicker back to the house. I know, it’s funny, but this is how superstitions are created right? The next day there were cats, tons of them. All frolicking and pouncing in the same field where I saw the turtle, deer, turkeys, ect. I sort of wondered if crazy cat lady had unleashed her collection. The next day just one cat, a black one that settled herself/himself directly in my path and her/his tail flicked while I carefully walked around it. Her/his gaze followed me the whole time. Today I had three cats do this to me, one in that same spot, and two later on in the walk.

Okay! I get it, cats. You have a message I’m guessing? So I looked it up and so far it looks like something more positive this time. Yay!

Or Northern California really needs to crack down on its domesticated homeless cat problem.

I love comments! Every time you comment, share your spooky story below, or heckle mine a power animal will burst through the psychic plane to taunt a non-believer.

There are only a handful of moments in life that define you, that you remember vividly years later. When you say, “Yep, that was when it happened.”  One of those moments came when I finally decided to take a writing class from Margie Lawson.

I had first heard about her on the RWA Yahoo loops I’d been using for critique, in a comment directed at another author.  “You would benefit from a Margie Lawson class.” Which broke down into a discussion of who Margie was and what she did, which disintegrated into a love fest.  It was the kind of devotion I’d only seen before in religious zealots or newly, reformed ex-smokers.

Curious, I looked up her stuff online.  She wasn’t writer turned teacher but a psychologist turned writing teacher which intrigued me more.  After watching Margie’s graduate blog post, the number of published author who listed her as a mentor, the boatload of contest winners who gave her credit, the crazy amount of NYT best sellers who used her techniques, drew me to explore farther. I circled her online for months not wanting to commit cash (wasting money to me is akin to spilling life’ s blood, so I hesitated).  I scoured the internet for references and found pages,  upon pages of glittering recommendations.

I finally caved and tried the first class.  In that moment, I knew. This is what my writing was missing. (I also met the one and only, super awesome Tina Gower in that class but that’s another story).

Some of the techniques where things I’d never heard of or tried, some I was familiar with, but the key for my learning was the assessable way the ideas were presented with examples. When I applied the ideas to my work the results proved astounding. Critique groups gave me positive feedback. I finaled in my first contest.  I saw, at last, what was wrong with my writing, and used Margie’s toolbox to fit the problems.  I was hooked.

And like a good junkie, I soon soaked up every class she had to offer except the big one—Immersion. This is the mecca of Margie’s classes which she usually teaches in her Colorado mountain home.  I worked my budget, I tried to find transportation, I crunched the numbers and considered not eating for a few weeks in order to subsidize, but I could find no way to get to the mountain.

One night I was stalking the Immersion page on Margie’s site, trying to come up a with a plan, and some magic happened.  Margie was scheduled to do Immersions offsite and one happened to be in Ohio within easy driving distance.  After doing a long and enthusiastic Snoopy happy dance across my living room, I claimed a spot and waited, edited, and reviewed my material.  That was five months ago.  I go to the Immersion in less a week and I’m beyond excited and open and willing to absorb all the great teaching she can impart during my four days.  I am not only geeked to see Margie but to meet my classmates who must be equally obsessed with perfecting their writing and perusing a writing career.

I feel this conference will be another huge step into the direction of publication, whether it be with a trad publisher or indie.  I know with a fabulous mentor and wonderful support, this will be one of those moments that I look back on in ten years and say. Yes, that was it. The moment that changed it all.  I will be reporting back with an afterglow blog post.

Please comment if you have had an aha moment in writing or life, a positive turning point, or just say hello.