Scrambled brains...

Can't focus, right now. I've got half a dozen stories slamming at me now that I'm done working on APoS-Derry. There's APoS-New World For Old, in Houston. Dair's Window, which I haven't touched in nearly 3 years. Part 3 of Blood Angel...then part 4, which is partially written. And APoS-Home Not Home is kicking at me with suggestions and notes and comments. And now a prose poem telling the story of a man who's kidnapped and held captive by a group of married men to be sexually abused, in secret...I posted the initial part I'd written on here weeks ago.

I'm feeling the urge to write something dark and brutal. Something in keeping with my other work. A need for it building up like a swollen river caught at a logjam, growing and pushing until it crashes through and causes untold destruction.

Part of the reason might be from my watching some of Peacock's John Wayne Gacy: Devil in Disguise. It focused a lot on Gacy's last victim, a 15-year-old boy named Rob Piest...a nice-looking kid who was just looking for a decent-paying job.

I have long had a room deep inside me that holds a near fanatical fascination with gay serial killers like Gacy, Dean Corll, William Bonin and Randy Kraft, amongst others. Men who kidnap, rape and murder young men and boys. I don't understand why they do it...and can't decide if I really want to know. I think something similar to their psychoses is hidden in that room and I don't want to confront it except through my writing.

I've been raped. I know what it means. How destructive it is. And yet...there's a part of me that finds the idea of forcing a man to be with me tantalizing. Sensuous, almost. I've had the opportunity to do that, a couple of times. Many years ago. And managed to keep my head and not take that step. But knowing it's there spooks me.

I mentioned that I could easily become a serial killer, to a co-worker, once. She said it wasn't possible; that I had too much empathy. I like to think that's why I never did anything to do that to someone. That using my books as an outlet was sufficient. But you never know, do you?

You never really know...