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| Getting inspiration from a setting |
In every book I've written, there's a piece of me or someone I've known. It could be a phrase that someone I know likes to use. It could be gesture or a style of dress. There might be a setting or a restaurant or a favorite food. I've used my personality traits as well as others.
Or it could be a whole scene from real life. Years ago, my brother spent a miserable night in a motel, but as he told it to me, had me laughing my head off. I promised it would someday show up in a book. Two books later, I used that scene for my male protagonist in The Power of Love and Murder, the fourth book in the series, and my latest release.
This is the scene that led to the book. Please keep in mind, the character isn't my brother. But the hotel was real.
Sometime later, he jerked awake and
knocked the book from his chest. He was freezing. He pulled the sheet and
blanket over his head, but the chill reached all the way to his toes. Silence.
No click, click, bonk noise of the heater. He slid one arm out, brought his
cell under the covers, and pushed a button. Four twelve a.m.
Reluctantly, he turned on the lamp,
shivered out of bed, and padded three feet to the heater. He leaned over and
shut it off then turned it on. Punched low, high, and fan-only buttons over and
over. He pounded on the plastic top. “Son of a…” Switching off and on once more
got no results. His toes were iced by the outside air flowing under the door.
He grabbed his jeans off the chair and stuffed them along the bottom of the
door then climbed back under the covers.
The thin blanket and sheet were no
match for the drop in temperature. After fifteen minutes of trying to think
warm, he had an idea. Out of bed, he jogged to the bathroom and turned the
shower to hot, full blast. Immediately, the air around him warmed. He let the
chill on his skin subside then headed back to bed and yanked off the sheet,
blanket, and pillow. He slipped on his shirt and underwear and carried the
bedding back to the bathroom. The floor looked kind of nasty and the sheet,
doubled over next to the shower, covered the old linoleum. Wrapping the blanket
around him, he settled on top, bumped his knees on the wall, and hunched his
shoulders to fit. Good thing he wasn’t a particularly big man. His legs were
long on his five foot ten frame and difficult to fold small enough, like a
stork squeezing into a wren’s nest. Hopefully, the running, hot water would
keep him warm enough to get a few more hours of sleep.
“Ass wipe.” The curse directed at his
shyster boss muffled into his pillow. Another curse at himself for all the
wrong decisions he’d made that landed him in this position didn’t fully form on
his lips. Instead, he recited Step Ten. Continue the personal inventory. What the hell. This might be a crummy
hotel, and he was cold and tired, but he felt
every shivering, crappy moment of it. Not that a shot of Chopin Vodka to warm
him didn’t cross his mind. He would’ve had several and a few snorts, this time
last year. And he wouldn’t have felt the cold…or the hard floor…or much of
anything else.
Thoughts of a few nights in crummy
hotels when his band, Flash Theory, struggled to make a name for themselves played
in his head. That brought him wondering about Ian, the English drummer who
shared his arrest date. “Bugger you, Ian.” The profanity he’d adopted from the
Englishman rolled over his tongue with a smile. He hadn’t contacted his
favorite band mate and best friend since sobriety. They weren’t a good
influence on each other. Maybe one of these days…
About an hour and a half later, he
woke, cold again and his legs cramping. He pulled his knees to his chest and
rolled toward the bathroom door, glancing at the ceiling. “What the…” Strips of
paint hung like confetti from a New Year’s Eve party. Had the ceiling looked
like that last night? He scrambled to his feet, tangled in the blanket, and
tripped on the sheet bunching on the floor. He caught himself on the back of
the toilet, but his hip hit the bar on the shower door. “Ow!” After turning off
the now cold shower water, he extricated his legs from the bedding and surveyed
the ceiling again. “Ah, man.” Surely he hadn’t caused that. The place was a dump.
Yeah, probably already peeling long before he turned on the shower.
The time had come to flee the motel
from hell.
After throwing the blanket and sheet
on the bed, he brushed his teeth, and smoothed his beard with a comb. He ran a brush
through his hair as he squinted into the cloudy mirror above the sink. Dark
curls fell onto his forehead in spite of his effort, and he shrugged, turning
from the poor excuse of a mirror. He stuffed his toiletries in the duffle, then
loped to the door and retrieved his jeans from the floor. His frozen jeans.
Damp air combined with below freezing
wind from under the door had rendered his pants stiff.
I'm glad my brother had such a miserable night!
RONE Awards Finalist, The Power of Love and Murder, is currently on sale for $1.99.
https://www.amazon.com/Power-Love-Murder-Book-ebook/dp/B01M3YVO4H/
