All My Fun: A Tale of Terror

An (illustrated) thriller about the 1980s kidnapping epidemic. And sharks.

I am at my happiest and most psychologically sound when I am working on a big writing project. As in, a book. But I’m in between projects right now, having recently finished a novel, and I don’t have a clear sense of what’s next. The time-standing-still quality of this pandemic thing is not helping either. I know I am not the only writer—nay, person—struggling to feel a sense of forward motion.

BUT it’s a perfect time to dig back through my early works. Like, really early works. I give you one below, from what I’d like to call my Bloodhound Gang period, when I specialized in mysteries, thrillers and the dark underbelly of suburbia in the early 1980s. (See also: my chilling Halloween book) I think I was in second grade when I wrote this, judging by the handwriting and themes.

Don’t let the benign title fool you. This is one scary-ass story. (Trigger warning: Involves kidnapping. A LOT of kidnapping.)

Ready? Here we go.

What an opening! We get Lisa’s deepest, darkest fears right off the bat. This is important to make clear in fiction, the sooner the better: What is driving your protagonist? What do they want more than anything? Lisa wants not to be kidnapped. This makes her instantly relatable.

There are some biographical elements here: Like Lisa Ronly I lived in Fairfield, Connecticut. As a Gen-Xer living in the greater New York metro suburbs in the 80s, I was also somewhat afraid of being kidnapped—rumors of kidnappers in white vans abounded during this time—but I definitely think I played it up. Way up.

Also: while I did have a cat, it did not walk or run to and from school with me. I think as an author I realized that this part strained credulity, hence the hasty “even though pets weren’t allowed at school,” which was basically second-grade me saying, “Yeah, I know. I’m not stupid. Work with me here, people.”

Page two:

So, now one begins to think that Lisa’s fear of kidnappers may be a little…unhealthy. This is a kid who has trained herself to take her (apparently routine) multi-hour after school naps with one eye open (as seen in the illustration) to guard against potential kidnappers, even though Snowflake the kitten HAS SHIT UNDER CONTROL. Today, I think it’s safe to say Lisa would be diagnosed with generalized anxiety and seeing a therapist several times a week.

Still, I love how fast this story is moving, and how laser focused it is on the central conflict. (Lisa vs. her fear of kidnapping vs. possible actual 80s white van kidnappers.) And you have to admire the bold choice of the author (me) to so blatantly foreshadow a kidnapping incident. Like Chekov’s gun on the mantel in the first scene, you know that puppy is going to go off—whether in real life, or in the twisted torment that is fourth-grade young adult Lisa Rony’s mind.

Wait. WHAT? Now they’re suddnely sailing down the Mississippi? When? On what? A riverboat? A raft? Is this a family vacation? What the hell? (Theory: I’d just learned how to spell Mississippi and was showing off?)

OK, Fine. They’re sailing down the Mississippi one day, which is a completely normal thing for a family from Connecticut to do with their disturbed fourth grader. And now we learn that Lisa is not only afraid of kidnappers but she is irrationally afraid of freshwater sharks even though she KNOWS THERE AREN’T ANY SHARKS IN THE MISSISSIPPI.

But wait, no, what she’s actually afraid of are (of course) kidnappers on boats. The sharks are just a metaphor. Maybe? Jesus, Lisa. Get your shit together.

Again, though: I gotta hand it to young author me. The twists and turns are breathtaking in their boldness, unnerving in their complete insanity: First we get good news: None of the famed Mississippi child snatchers make an appearance, and, again, Lisa feels better (“I guess”).

But then, a sentence later, we get bad news. VERY bad news: While Lisa is reading the paper (I’m thinking maybe the St. Louis Dispatch?) while on her vacation to the Mississippi, like fourth graders do, she learns that an apparently long and drawn out kidnapping is underway 1,000 miles away.

Does this means of conveying a key plot point strain credulity? Much like a kitten accompanying a child to and from school? Even though print was very much still alive in the early 80s? Maybe. Shut up.

I am 100% on board with the father and the decision of the school district here.

As for “everyone” being happy about the school closure because they’re not aware of the whole kidnapping thing, I assume this means every other kid? It makes sense, I guess. Not every elementary school child is savvy enough to read the paper every day, including while on a riverboat excursion. Lisa 1, other kids, 0.

Although, actually, I sort of wish Lisa didn’t know either. I mean, Jesus, the poor kid. Maybe her parents should try to shelter her from this stuff a bit more, given her phobias. Unless it’s some kind of exposure therapy thing?

No matter. At least she’s not going to school. But…wait. What if the kidnappers come in her bedroom window like she fears???

OH MY GOD, I AM STARTING TO IDENTIFY WITH THE PROTAGONIST!! This is disturbing…but quite a feat on the author’s part.

Bravo, me. Bravo.

Yep. Lisa and I are on the same page: She knows she’s in trouble, because she knows those motherfuckers are coming in the window.

Things get a little…confusing on this page. It’s jarring, given how tight the rest of the prose has been up until this point. But we get the basic jist of things. It can get cleaned up in the copyediting stage.

Moving on.

Holy crap — we’re only on chapter two? And so much has already happened!

So, now these parents left their 9-year-old, phobic daughter home alone even though there is an rash of kidnappings in progress that’s making national news. Although I guess it is the 80s—an era in which kids Lisa’s age were helping extraterrestrials escape from federal agents on nighttime bike chases and whatnot. So guess I’ll buy it—especially since it leads to the climax we all knew was coming.

Shit is getting real.

And, yeah, no kidding her parents were terrified when they got home. I’m not going to say I told you so, but…

Aside: I miss Snowflake.

Wow, OK, these kidnappers are pro. They have a prison on a dezert island and everything. Which means they also have boats. Which means maybe Lisa’s fear of riverboat kidnappers was justified! (Cue “Old Man River” in a minor key.)

But wait, wait, wait….I don’t like what happens next at all.

Fucking Wonder Woman is here?

So…all along we were reading DC Comics fan fiction?

Dammit, Jane. I know you loved Lynda Carter, and sometimes spun around in the backyard hoping to turn into a superhero of some sort, but I feel like you kind of broke the contract with the reader here by bringing this element into an otherwise realist (pretty much) story. What gives? Did you just run out of ideas? Was this the plan all along?

Or…No. I think it’s something else.

Sigh.

I think, kiddo, you bumped up against the painful reality that it is really, really hard to finish a book—or any piece of writing. Especially after that initial rush of inspiration. The time and energy and mental fortitude it requires are huge even for a non -cocaine-snorting adult to handle, let alone a child.

And maybe, too, your inner critic was whispering in your ear. This is crap, Jane. You’re a hack. You’re kidding yourself if you think anyone will want to read this. Go back to collecting stickers and selling Girl Scout Cookies and learning how to jump Double Dutch.

I get it, young me. I totally get it.

And still, I can’t help but wish you’d pushed through. I really would have loved to see Lisa defeat the kidnappers and, more important, defeat her paralyzing fear—with or without Wonder Woman’s help. After being kidnapped, she’d certainly have some serious trauma to work through, and I would have stayed with you for that narrative journey too.

But, I understand. If I had a buck for every story and essay and book I began and then abandoned, it would probably rival my latest stimulus check.

Writing is hard.

But you know what? Stick with it. Because you’re going to write a lot of stuff that you actually finish, too. Essays and stories and books. You will face rejection and failure and frustration and self-doubt along the way—that bitchy inner critic doesn’t go away, I’m afraid—but you will persevere. And, believe it or not, some of what you write will be even better than All My Fun.

Keep going. Even when inspiration seems shark-infested rivers away, keep going.

The author, pictured several years after writing “All My Fun,” opening her favorite kind of present ever.