Boredom Breeds Fodder for Fiction

by Bill Walker

Writers nearly always find inspiration when and where they least expect it.  Whether it springs from a story on the news, an overheard conversation, or a daydream, inspiration can and will strike like the proverbial bolt from the blue.  That said, I often find inspiration will spring from somewhere inside of me, from things I’ve seen and stored away.

For instance, the first novel I ever wrote, “Camp Stalag,” was borne out of the boredom suffered during consecutive two summers spent at a sleep-away camp in New Hampshire, when I was a young boy.  There were many days, where the usual structured camp activities lost their appeal and we lay about wondering what to do.  Well, we were all fans of “Hogan’s Heroes” at the time, and thought it would be a gas to dig a tunnel between our cabin and our nearest neighbor.  We actually got quite far along before the counselors discovered what we were doing and called a halt to it.  But the seed was planted.  Later, when I was older and starting to think seriously about pursuing a career as a novelist, I thought back on those lazy summer days and wondered: “What if you had a summer camp for adults, and what if that camp were an exact replica of a World War II German POW camp?  And what if once the ‘prisoners’ were there the ‘Germans’ decided to play the game for real?”  The rest, as they say, is history.

For my first published novel, “Titanic 2012,” it was a desire to extend the feelings James Cameron’s movie instilled in me.  I was fascinated by that movie and the real history of the sinking.  And there was a lot of talk at the time, from various people, about rebuilding the ship.  I said, “What if someone DID rebuild the ship, what if a descendant of the Astor family spent his millions doing just that?”

For my latest novel, “A Note from an Old Acquaintance,” it was a desire to recapture a part of my youth.  I spent over 15 years in Boston, which encompassed my college years and thereafter.  It was a wonderful and exciting time–it’s where I met my wife, Debbie.  In many ways, the story is as much a love story about Boston, as it is one involving the characters Brian and Joanna.  To me, that city represents a second hometown for me and I wanted to tell a story, a love story, that would embrace that feeling and extend it to the human characters.  I like to think I succeeded on that note.

In any event, if you’re an aspiring writer, try looking inside yourself for the seeds of inspiration.  What is it that moves you?  Writing a novel is a process that involves all the senses and one which requires total commitment.  For me, writing brings a joy beyond words.  I hope it’s the same for you.

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About Bill Walker

Bill Walker is a graphic designer specializing in book and dust jacket design, and has worked on projects by Ray Bradbury, Richard Matheson, Dean Koontz, and Stephen King. Between his design work and his writing, he spends his spare time reading voraciously and playing very loud guitar, much to the chagrin of his lovely wife and two sons. Bill makes his home in Los Angeles and can be reached through his web site: http://www.billwalkerdesigns.com/

Monkeying Around

by Karen Cantwell

Recently I sat across from an agent, pitching my first novel, Take the Monkeys and Run.  She listened, then quietly pondered without responding.  Finally, she asked me, “Is it really believable that a house would stay vacant for thirty years?  And this business about someone finding monkeys in her yard.  It’s seems far fetched.”

Really?  Because, while my humorous mystery is fiction, it was inspired by true events.

First: my good friend in a nearby neighborhood happens to live next to a house that has, in fact, been vacant for thirty years.  Creepy place.  It is hard for me to drive by without dreaming up another fantastic story about what that house hides within its walls.  So, YES, I do think it’s believable that a house could remain vacant for thirty years.

Second: that far fetched idea of the monkeys.  Well that story hits much closer to home.  Like my own yard.  My neighbor across the street loves to tell the story about the day, soon after she moved into her new house back in 1970.  The day she found monkeys on her garage and in the trees of the lot across the street – where my house now sits.  After calling the police, Animal Control came and collected the critters, but no one ever told her where they came from.  It remains a mystery to this day.

Hmm.  House empty for thirty years.  Monkeys appear mysteriously in a nearby neighborhood . . . thirty years ago.  Now I’m SURE (or am I?) that the two stories aren’t truly connected, but my writer’s mind just had to take them and run.  And voila!  A book was born.  I’m proud to say, that in its earlier draft with a different title (Monkeys in My Trees), the novel was a Semi-Finalist in the 2009 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award Contest.  Re-vamped and re-titled, we’ll see what the future holds.

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Karen Cantwell’s work has appeared in various university and college literary journals. Most recently, her short story “Little Red Boots” won the Editors’ Choice Award at TheNovelette.com.  Another short story, “The Recollections of Rosabelle Raines,” will appear in the mystery anthology, Chesapeake Crimes: They Had it Comin’, due out March of 2010.  She provides readers with short fiction stories at http://fictionfordessert.blogspot.com.

The Other Side of the Curtain

by Meredith Ellsworth

What informs my fiction writing?  So many things:  my childhood, the places I’ve lived, my family and friends, my schools, my hats,  my jobs—oh, and my invisible friend.   I began writing stories when I was perhaps ten years old, and every story or poem contained two elements in varying combinations:  fantasy and my “take” on life.  (I am careful not to say “reality” because how I saw the world around me was, naturally, different from the way everyone else did.)

I don’t know whether other writers do this—I imagine they do—but every person I meet I study carefully and any interesting bits are filed away in a kind of mental clipart board.  I do the same with adventures.  For example, when I was 21 I lived in Egypt and used to go horseback riding on the edge of the desert in Giza.  One day my stallion and I took off and galloped past the Sphinx, racing a friend, barely evading its great paws.  I kept that scene like a snapshot in my memory, and when I write my fourth book (set in Cairo) it will be recreated.  Of course, being fiction, the friend will be my lover, or perhaps the Sphinx will awake, growl, and bat at me in feline anger.

The other element that deeply infuses my writing is that which hints at the existence of an invisible force  that plumps down in the midst of chaos and spreads its peace like a soft chenille scarf over the sturm und drang of life.   My favorite stories incorporate the belief that when you most fear your life is not under your control a hidden magic materializes—an aura, a ghost of mist, a sense that a benevolent presence is hovering near, a presence, rather less than God and more than pixies.

This quiet magic—unassuming, unadvertised—represents the other dimension, the romantic world.   It may not appear to everyone:  or rather, some may never taste it, live in it.  But it does exist—on the other side of the curtain.  And my job as a romance writer is to give that curtain a little nudge,  push it aside an inch or two, so us mortals can breathe in the scent of magic and believe in  living happily ever after.

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Excerpt Lost In His Arms

         Chloe pulled his arm closer.  “It is not just a cut.  It’s a gash.  Look at all the blood you’ve dripped on my floor!  Come here.”  She held his arm under the faucet and carefully washed the grit out of the wound.  “Now just stay there.  Press this paper towel against the cut.  I’ll go get some Neosporin and a bandage.”  She slipped up the stairs and through her bedroom to the bathroom.  As she came out with the supplies she stopped short.  He was sitting on her bed.

            “I thought I would save you a trip.” He spoke diffidently.

            “Oh…that’s…okay.”  Chloe willed herself not to touch his thigh as she sat down on the bed next to him (too close?).  She applied the ointment and bandage, trying to keep her hands from trembling.  He must have noticed anyway, because he put his larger one over hers and gently squeezed.             

“Is the blood bothering you?”           

She hesitated, breathless.  He looked into her eyes, and before she knew it his arms went around her and she was kissing him.  No, he was kissing her.  She lost all sense of time and place and clung to his mouth as though she were drowning and it was a lifeboat.  She felt herself falling, landing on his chest.  He held her tightly, squeezing the life out of her.  Or was it her soul he was drawing into his own?  How could she tell him it was not his blood that was bothering her but her own, boiling up in waves of desire?  He let her go reluctantly, but she held onto his buttons, tearing them off.  She opened his shirt and buried her face in the soft black hairs of his chest.  His hands went to her arms and gently moved her off him to the side.  Slowly he undid her blouse, unhooked the bra and brushed each breast with his lips.  She lay back, her eyes unfocussed, waiting for the touch, living for the scent of his hair.  He looked up through his bangs and blasted her heart out with a glance of those azure eyes.           

“May we?”           

She did not need elaboration.  She nodded mutely. He kissed her neck, her shoulders, her breasts, and down her stomach.  A thousand butterflies fought to escape from her belly.  He pulled down her zipper and tugged at the skirt.  She still lay quietly, lost in pleasure.  It all seemed to pass in slow motion.  Everything felt perfect.  Then he stopped.  She opened her eyes.  “What?”           

His expression had altered.  He was glaring at her, his face only inches away from hers.  “What the Hell am I doing?  This is nuts!”  He sat up, facing away from her. She saw that she had taken his shirt off and his belt and zipper were undone.  For some inexplicable reason his shoes were neatly arranged at the foot of the bed.  She put a hand on his back.  He stood up abruptly. 

A sudden flash of panic hit her. He couldn’t leave.  Not now.  

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            Although Meredith Ellsworth has traveled and lived in Chicago, Boston, Europe, South and Central America and the Middle East, the last 30 years have been spent in the Washington area as a librarian, Congressional staff assistant, speechwriter and editor.   She worked for the U.S. Senate, for the Department of the Interior, and in several library systems, both public and academic. 

Writing as M. S. Spencer, she wrote Lost in His Arms, now available from Red Rose Publishing, Bookstrand, and Amazon.  Her second novel, Lost & Found, will be released in 2010.