About Books: What Inspires Me?

 

 

Some time ago a friend asked me to write a blog about where I get my inspiration for my novels.  This set into motion my mid-month series of blogs on writing. I’m not sure whether or not I got the assignment right.

Many of those, while they discuss where my inspiration came from for individual novels or series, are more of a summary of the story.

I’ve now covered every series and individual novel not in a series that I’ve written so far.

So, what’s left? Until I finish another novel, not much, really. But I don’t think I really addressed where my inspiration comes from.

I’m not sure I understand how my mind works any more than anyone else does.

Frequently, the image of my mother shaking her head and saying, “I wish I knew what was going on in your head,” comes to mind. She clearly didn’t understand me. In fact, my summary of my relationship with my mother has always been, “She wanted a daughter, and got me instead.”

My thoughts that lead to stories come from all sorts of places. In the case of the Nicholas Keating stories, they started as a single short story that grew into seven. Those seven short stories morphed into two novels, and the other three grew out of a desire to continue to play with those characters a bit longer.

The inspiration for the first of those short stories was simply walking down the main street of my town on a December afternoon after we’d had what is now an early snow. The snow was the dirty shade snow gets several days after a storm. 

The day was overcast, and as I walked along, letting my mind wander, I slipped on some black ice. I didn’t fall; it was just one of those near things. But it reminded me of a pair of high-heeled boots I had in the ‘80s. They were perhaps the most ridiculous things I ever bought.

By the time I returned home, I had the beginnings of the story. A simple thing.

The Dark Faery series had its inception with Stephanie Meyers’ Twilight series. I thought some of the changes she made to the vampire trope were just wrong. But they allowed me to make some interpretations of my own.

While she didn’t inspire me to write a vampire novel, a discussion of her novels with a teenage friend did. I hadn’t considered writing a vampire novel until my friend suggested it. She thought I could do a good job. Personally, I needed a different hook from any I’d seen.

The idea of vampire fairies just kind of flew into my mind. It was one of those things you throw out to see if it sticks to the wall.

And it stuck for 5 novels.

The Schism novels (still unpublished) grew out of my reading two books: The Front Runner, a novel, and And the Band Played On, a work of non-fiction documenting the early years of the AIDS epidemic.

When I was in college, my core group of friends happened to be a group of gay men. They saw me as an ally – or perhaps just a beard, I don’t know and didn’t worry about labels – and wanted me to understand their culture, so they directed me to the novel.

I read it and was furious with the ending. Once again, for absolutely no reason, the author killed off the gay guy, for no better reason than that he was gay. I decided I could write a better gay novel, and there would be no killing off the gay guy.

Then I read And the Band Played On. That book affected me personally, since I knew people who died of AIDS.

The non-fiction piece was the ultimate push for me to write Schism, which begins during the early years of the AIDS epidemic (back when it was still called gay cancer), but – spoilers – the person in the stories who ends up with AIDS isn’t gay. It’s part of my twisted thought processes that I don’t make things easy.

The Unicorn novels started out as a single story about a day in the life of my childhood, which is why The Snow Unicorn, while the blueprint for the subsequent novels, doesn’t exactly follow the idea of the other novels being about a weather event that frightens the main character.

I Think I Will Have to Eat You Now started out as a joke. I wanted to play with children’s novels, but I didn’t especially want to be a children’s book author. I just wanted to see if I could do it.

As it turns out, there’s a formula for writing children’s books. I didn’t know that, and consequently, I didn’t follow the formula. I only knew children’s books needed pictures. I couldn’t afford an artist, since my books aren’t “really” published; they’re only on Amazon, so I drew my own.

Of all of the things I could imagine doing, drawing is the one for which I have the least talent. I was barely able to complete assignments in art class. There was certainly no talent involved.

Well, once, in 5^th grade, I had an art project that was good enough that my teacher actually hung mine up. That was a lucky fluke, and the only time an art project of mine was ever hung up. I was in high school before I could color in the lines – more or less. And my family made no secret of laughing at my attempts at artwork – as they laughed at most of my ideas of what I wanted to be when I grew up.

My 9/11 story, Love of my Life, came naturally from the idea of what it would be like if you were supposed to be in the towers on 9/11.

I heard stories of people who called out sick that day, were running late, or who had just stepped out for coffee right before the planes hit the towers.

There is also a sub-theme of being the favorite child, as well as what if you have a child you simply don’t like. For as short a novella this story is, it tackles a variety of subjects. In a way, it’s as ADD as I am.

Probably my least favorite novel is Fiona Finn. Ostensibly a story about the challenges of being different, it hits close to home.

I spent elementary school being bullied by different people at times, and often simply being excluded. I took that memory and expanded it to include people with challenges.

The fin is a metaphor for any reason others have to not accept you, so anyone can feel included by what Fiona goes through.

I think just reliving the indifference of the adults in my life made me want to get away from the novel. However, I felt it was an important message to put out there.

Wolfbane highlights my weird bent. I had read the Thomas Covenant novels and hated them because I thought the main character was both a drama queen and stupid. He waited until the last possible second to save the day. It didn’t heighten the excitement; instead, his lack made the reader do an eye roll, sigh and say, “Oh, come on!”

So I wrote one in which my character also enters an alternate universe, but who uses whatever he has at hand to accomplish his mission -- without becoming McGyver. While he doesn’t have magical powers, he actually thinks about things. He just doesn't take the alternate universe seriously.

The Search came from my love of things medieval, and is kind of a combination of the renaissance fair and Dungeons and Dragons. And none of these things.

It’s also pulls from the British Royal Family. There was some media hype about Charles being single into his 30s, mainly because at that time the royals still clung to the idea that the heir had to marry a virgin, even though the common man had long since abandoned that notion or caring whether or not the monarchy did. Later, Prince Edward apparently had some words with his father about being single.

While my story has nothing to do with the British Royal Family – or, in fact, with this world, per se, it does involve a young heir who thinks all he needs to do is be the heir and be popular to get on in life.

He knows nothing of the things he’s supposed to study, and has been the cause of more than one scullery maid being dismissed.

It isn’t until his father threatens to disown him that he is forced to buckle down and re-learn things his younger brother and his twin sister can do with ease.

In the course of his study of weaponry he is injured, and on recovering, decides he needs to go on a search, a wandering alone into the deep forest, to prove himself.

Few ever attempt a search, and fewer still return. No heir to the throne has ever attempted it, and his father, the king, is inclined to refuse permission. But he sees that the search is the first thing that has ever kindled any sort of passion in his son, and finally allows him to go.

Usually my current novel is my favorite.

The Invisible Twin, my current novel, is near and dear. I used a lot of information I have about twins from having a mother who is an identical twin, as well as having known many sets of twins in my life. I also enjoy novels where the main character is trying to work out life, since that’s what most of us do on a daily basis.

But my all-time favorite is the Nicholas Keating series. I’ve read those novels several times, and I enjoy them. It actually amazes me that I wrote them. I always feel like I’m reading someone else’s novel.

Until I write another novel, I won’t have any comments on writing to make, so this is my final "About Books" blog for the time being. It’s back to a once-a-month blog. But if anyone has an idea on something you’d like me to write about, let me know.

Bits and Pieces

 

Originally, This was a December piece. I wrote it to replace a different piece that  I took  down. The one I took down was quite long and got a bit dark and angry, and I decided that wasn’t the appropriate approach for the end of the year when people are supposed to make merry and be cheerful. But this wasn't really quite right for the holiday season, so here it is in January, and I hope my bit about Christmas carols at least brought a few smiles.

Instead, I’ve decided to take a look back at my blogs for the year. I hope no one found them offensive in any way. If you did, I apologize. No offense was intended.

I try to look at my writing from different angles. I suppose some people could get the idea that some of my posts are, “Poor, pitiful me” in essence. Nothing could be further from the truth. There is no intention on my part to make people feel sorry for me or pity me. If you have gotten that impression, re-read the piece. I’m generally poking fun at the silly child I was. I’m always looking for the humor in a situation.

For example, after you’ve been told dozens of times when you ask the question, “Why?” “Because I’m your mother and I said so,” you begin to believe that’s the only answer you’re likely to get to that question. I did. That’s why I stopped asking. There may be no such thing as a stupid question, but if the answer is going to be, “Because I’m your mother and I said so,” there will be questions left unasked.

Instead, I tried, with my little child brain, to fathom the answer when I was told something that didn’t make any sense to me. Often the reason something didn’t make sense was that the adult in the situation was using an idiomatic phrase that I didn’t yet understand.

An example of this is when I was told to look up and down before crossing the street. While logic would tell me to check for cars coming in either direction, which I did, I could see no possible sense in looking up or down (in the literal sense) before crossing a street, even at age three. My mother simply assumed I understood what looking up and down meant (in the non-literal sense). I did not. But she was my mother, and she said so, so I obediently looked at the sky and the ground before setting foot across the road.

I was carrying out the letter of the law, as I saw it. She thought I was being a smart alec. We were both wrong. But it was funny, even if I wasn’t trying to be when I was three.

My truths are that I am an introvert, and I have poor social skills, in that I often don’t pick up on the social cues people are shooting at me. But in the retelling, I see where I went wrong, and try to find the humor in it.

I tend to be sarcastic, but often hold that in check because I’m not always sure the other person gets sarcasm. I myself am never quite sure if someone else is being sarcastic or truly means what they’re saying.

When I talk about being kind of smart, it’s not a brag. The older I get, the more people I meet that are much smarter than I am. It’s just that in school, as a point of reference, we were “tracked” into 4 learning tracks. First track was the students who generally placed high in tests and learned easily. They were considered college-bound. I was in the middle of that track, although in a couple of subjects, like chemistry, I was at the lower end of the track.

Having friends was always a big deal when I was a child, and I didn’t know how to navigate that. I still wonder why some people bother since they seem to simply use me as a space saver until someone else comes along. That’s on them, not me.

In recounting things like having a partner in line in first grade, the assumption on my part was that being someone’s partner in line made you friends for life. It is so wrongheaded and silly from an adult perspective that it’s at least cute, and at best kind of funny that anyone would equate that with friendship.

Things that are important to children often escape the notice of adults. While I thought not having a partner in line meant that I was behaving badly in the perspective of my teacher, she probably thought, “Why doesn't this child ever pick a partner?” if she thought about it at all. It didn’t matter to her who she stood me next to. She was simply trying to shorten the line. But to me, who you stood next to was important; if I stood beside one of the outcasts – tales of the Good Samaritan not equating in a six-year-old brain to anything to do with me – I became an outcast.

My family life was rather strict, but in terms of how my peers were raised, not so much. We were held to a different standard than people today.

I’ve had some tell me my upbringing was too strict. I didn’t feel that growing up at all. But perhaps the way I was raised contributed to my social awkwardness. It doesn’t bother me. I just shrug and say, “Oh, well!” knowing that I was given standards with which to measure my behavior. And often, my take on things is so far off the mark of what other people do or say that I’ve been told on a few occasions that I should be a stand-up comedian. (I know better. I simply don’t have enough material.)

What I find unjust is when I’m held to a higher standard than my peers. Why is it okay for them to do and say the most hurtful and atrocious things, behave in a way we were all taught was morally bankrupt with impunity when I am held to account for something  that is simply clumsy that I may have said? That is the one thing I find annoying that has persisted throughout my life.

I was and am socially awkward. It doesn’t bother me now. I use it in my writing. It’s why I can think of people who don’t fit in, what they would do or say, and how other people see them. It’s my way of putting lime juice in something no one else would think to use lime juice for.

Often I don’t want to be a bother to people. I assume, if they haven’t asked to get together with me, or friended me on Facebook, or made some other attempt to contact me, they’re not interested. I have, at times, reached out to people to get together for one reason or another. If they accept, it tells me they really want to get together. If they say no, it might be that they simply can’t get away at the time, for whatever reason. I know people have lives. But it also might be that they have no interest in getting together, and that’s their polite way of getting out of the situation. I never know. So, to use a phrase from one of my favorite authors, I let the hare sit, and don’t ask again. It’s not that I think I’m all that. I just don’t want to bother people who don’t want to be bothered. If they want to get together, they can ask. I asked; your turn.

I know I don’t look at the world the way most other people do. I’m the one who used to hang upside down on the monkey bars and wonder what it would be like to walk on the sky and have grass overhead, or walk on the ceiling of the house and have all of the furniture glued to the floor overhead. It does sound like having way too much time on your hands.

Some of my writing seems to come across as my thinking I’m ugly and have no talent. Again, no. I’m not ugly. I’m not pretty, either. I’m just ordinary. I’m always surprised when someone I haven’t seen in a while recognizes me. I assume I blend in with the furniture.

I do have some talent, as well. I am a good singer, and I think I’m a pretty good writer. I could be wrong on that last. It’s hard to know because it’s like pulling teeth go get anyone to give feedback on my writing. Sometimes I get a comment like, “It’s good.” Whatever that means. Sometimes it means, “I have no clue what good or bad writing is.” Other times it means, “I don’t think I have the expertise to critique someone else’s writing.” And probably more often it means, “Oh, no. I’m expected to say something. It’s good. That should satisfy her. At least she won’t ask anymore.”

My blogs are meant to be fun, or sometimes challenge people to think of something a different way. I don’t know who reads them. I don’t get much feedback. And when someone asks a question in the comment section, there’s not really a place on the blogsite to answer questions. I think in the new year I’ll answer any questions at the bottom of the next blog.

The blogs that are short stories are there in case – again, I’ve had no feedback – some people would like to read a story for a change. I use some experiences from real life, and some sheer fantasy. No character is a real person in disguise. It’s experiences that did or could have happened mashed together and baked at 350 for 30 minutes to produce an experience you may or may not ever have had.

I hope you enjoy what I have to say and keep coming back for more. And please, tell me what you think.

About books: Love of My Life

 

Many of us like to engage in “what if.” What if someone who was killed in a car crash had decided to wait to leave? What if the alarm hadn’t gone off? What if you’d decided to stop in to a particular restaurant, and the person you needed to make your career a success was there?

What if someone else told the story of your life as they knew it?

Tom Morton is a successful businessman. He has an attractive, successful wife and a teenage daughter who has never given her parents any trouble.

What a change from his formative years!

Tom was the third of three sons. The eldest was trouble from the moment he was born, and the family mainly feels the less said about him, the better. The second son was mentally challenged, and although he ended up doing well enough given his disadvantages, he was not what his parents expected.

So, when Tom came along, was intelligent, and didn’t give anyone a hard time, he was the shining star of the family. Everything seemed to come easily to him, and his parents didn’t look too hard to see if he was exactly what they thought. His mother certainly wouldn’t have listened to anything against her “good” son.

Everything seemed to be going right for him, and it looked like he was headed for a big advance in his career. His boss even brought him along for a meeting with another company they were going to merge with.

The meeting was in the World Trade Center. The date was September 11, 2001.

The story is told by four different women: his teenage daughter, whose last words to him the night before were, “I hate you!” because he refused to let her date someone he and her mother thought was too old for her; his wife, who felt so blessed to be married to such a wonderful man; his mother, whose world revolved around him; and Marty, a friend of his since childhood, who had reconnected with him just before he married, and had stayed in touch, even though they had long ago realized they would not be a good match.

Many people were saved on 9/11 because of “what ifs.” One man was saved because his daughter was ill, and he decided to work from home. A woman’s lived because she couldn’t decide what to wear, and missed her usual train. Another went to work early that day, and left the building a few minutes before the planes hit to go get coffee at a local shop.

The what ifs of this story come because he was never able to contact anyone to let them know whether or not he was all right. His boss managed a call to his wife just before the cell towers came down. He lost the call just as he was about to give her a message about Tom. Tom had left his phone home that day.

What if his boss was about to say Tom wasn’t with him for some reason? What if he’d gone for coffee and was about to return as the jets hit? What if he was on his way up in the elevator and it had just reached the point of the crash, killing him immediately?

The first three women had no way of knowing what became of Tom. All they knew was that he was presumed dead. His wallet was all that was recovered, with the remains of a few burnt bills.

Marty was the  only one who might have known, but whatever she knew, she never told the others.

I’ve always been fascinated by what if ideas. This is a story of what if, and how it affects the lives of four women. It’s a story Tom couldn’t tell because of the events of 9/11.