I’m serious.
Well, my heroes, anyhow. They come to me
at night when I’m in that fragile, fluttery state between wakefulness and
sleep. This is how all my stories are born—with my heroes' appearances. And they've all been dramatic in their own way.
For some writers, it’s the nub of a thought,
or a snippet of an overheard conversation, or something read in a newspaper or
magazine that sparks a “what if” idea.
Not for me, though.
For me, it’s the men.
One night, a couple years ago, a man
sauntered into our bedroom wearing nothing but a black Stetson and a pair of
cowboy boots. I glanced over at Calvin, who was snoring away and then at our handsome
intruder. His sneer was intimidating. The man was clearly aggravated, while I
was spellbound. He took off his hat and placed it in a more strategic location.
“Ever notice how the full moon brings out the madness in people?”
I couldn’t respond--I mean, I thought I was near mad, myself. I just left Storm
talk about the blue-eyed woman he’d been dreaming of while I drooled onto my pillow.
Several months later, I was writing a
romantic suspense set in Paris. My hero was a French government agent and my
heroine an older American school teacher. Things were going fairly well for
this pantser. After all, writing a story set in the City of Light was like
revisiting the jewel along the Seine. I was enjoying the process.
After we’d gone to sleep one night,
someone slammed our bedroom door. I sat straight up in the bed. Wh…what was that? I glanced at Calvin,
who hadn’t so much as shifted at the sound of that door slam. I must be dreaming.
I’d just dropped back to sleep when the
door banged shut again. This time I saw who the culprit was—Niko, my French
government agent. “What? What do you want?”
“That’s it? You woke me up for that
piddlin’ little bit? Why is Alyson tied up? Why are you angry?” Oh, I was not happy.
It took me four chapters to set-up that door slamming scene in Mona Lisa’s Room.
Another night, a man roared into our
bedroom on a Harley. Niko and I were still arguing. Seems he didn’t think he
needed to wear his Kevlar vest. Frenchmen and their egos—go figure. So, really,
the absolute last thing I wanted in my crowded mind was another man. I grunted
and rolled against Calvin’s back.
Mr.-Harley-Man started circling our bed, slow and easy just the way my youngest boy resorted to when he wanted to get on my last nerve. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I flopped onto my back. “What? What is it?” He got off his bike, took off his helmet, and adjusted his prosthesis. Somehow I knew he’d lost part of his leg in Iraq. “My name’s Win, short for Sherwin. Would you write my story?” Well, he was so polite with that Texas twang. I mean, what else could I do?
Mr.-Harley-Man started circling our bed, slow and easy just the way my youngest boy resorted to when he wanted to get on my last nerve. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I flopped onto my back. “What? What is it?” He got off his bike, took off his helmet, and adjusted his prosthesis. Somehow I knew he’d lost part of his leg in Iraq. “My name’s Win, short for Sherwin. Would you write my story?” Well, he was so polite with that Texas twang. I mean, what else could I do?
Not all the men who come into my bedroom
late at night are grown. Eli, a golden-haired three-year-old threw a tantrum on
my bedroom carpet one night. His chubby little hands were clenched in someone’s
blue calico skirt. “Mine. Mine.” I had no clue what to make of him. Then a tumbleweed
blew into our room with a piece of matching blue calico tied to it. And Tumbleweed Letters was born.
One lucky commenter will be chosen at random to win a copy of Storm's Interlude. Paperback or eBook, your choice. All you have to do is tell me what kind of dreams you have about men...well, the PG parts, anyhow.
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