Book Three … I actually had Envy.Exe ghosted out to lead into the theme of jealousy, seven years ago, and there were a lot of thick threads I had waiting on the loom, ready to weave into a plot. But something happened as I went full tilt into writing Envy.Exe. I did a few searches on Revenge Gifts and found that the fires are still burning beyond all rational sanity by a handful of bloggers who still … after seven years … continue to go out of their way to post anonymous nasty reviews on it and whose blog posts trend up to the first page because they are still obsessing about fairly minor posts of mine criticizing them for being rancid excuses for human beings.
One blogger hits my page every day on her name even though the posts are long archived off line, she searches her name and hits a 404 on this site.
It’s just amazing how long hate can burn in the complete absence of any new material to feed it. It’s like a vampire boxed under a silver cross, after seven years they are meaner, hungier and far more vicious.
I pondered that for a day or two and a hate matrix took shape in my head even as I was writing furiously about all the permutations of envy.
The sheer weight of it, man. Mind bendingly sad.
So as I was writing Envy I decide to go a little heavier on the generational introductions and family history to set the stage for every possible trigger, combination, dynamic and permutation of how people hate their way through life, not just for a day, but for decades. Some hate is a flash of light and gone as fast as it hits. I open the first chapter with a flash bang of hate to set up the ride. Most hate, though? You don’t illuminate the eons of space with a burning hate unless you’ve known the object of your dislike for a very long time.
I think that we dance with these devils and keep collecting them over time until we suck the very oxygen out of our own lives.
How to you get the air back so you can breath again? How do you stop crippling your brain with obsessive loathing so you can think again of the things that make your life better?
How does a character, like Aileen the food poltergeist as an example, get past the screaming banshee hate that traps her in Haunted Bungalow Number Three so she can move on to the next adventure and expand her world?
When will these lunatics online stop stalking me?
And that’s what keeps people like me coming back to write about it.
Excerpt from Hate.Dat by Cindy Cruciger© – all rights reserved
Chapter One: Crusty’s Bar ~ Ocean Side, Islamorada
Live and let live is a fine and dandy philosophy to live by unless you are dead, in which case … well … you are dead and probably not feeling quite so magnanimous.
“I want Angel Marquez hideously dead and my bitch of a sister Helene horribly disfigured.”
Arrissa, dead daughter of Oscar, the mysterious boss of Darius and Angel, appears to be fully charged up for some reason, no longer in Puerto Rico where she belongs and looking for some payback.
“And you think I can help you with this … why?”
“Don’t talk to that girl.” Riqué said though the pass-thru from the kitchen. “She cause her father nothing but trouble and she do the same to you.”
“You can see her?”
It does not surprise me that Riqué can see Arrissa. Riqué introduced me to Miss Good Voodoo aka Gigi a year ago and he’s weird as hell. He told me not to believe in voodoo and magic or it could hurt me and that was good advice I didn’t take. I am not stupid enough to ignore him twice … I hope.
“I can see her. I see you. I see everything.”
“So. I shouldn’t talk to her.”
“Do what you want.” He said dismissively.
“Look I am genuinely interested in your advice. If I had listened to you before I would not be dealing with …” I waved a hand at Arrissa. “This.”
She smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile.
Arrissa is about five foot ten, Miss Universe proportions, long, wavy black hair and she is dressed in Gucci from head to toe. Her make-up is perfectly applied. A long time ago mom’s used to tell their kids to always make sure they wear clean underwear in case they get in a car accident because, god forbid, the ambulance driver might see that your underwear is old and ratty when he or she cuts it off of you. Arrissa must have taken that advice to the max. She died young and left a good looking corpse.
I hate her.