Confession time
Earlier today I got an email from my editor asking for a Dear Reader letter to put in the front of the book, focusing on what inspired me to write that particular book. Y’know, the personal angle.
Somehow I don’t think I needed to come up with a third book to round out the contract and these were the only characters left whose story I hadn’t told? is gonna cut it. Pity.
Not that I don’t eventually fall in love with my characters and all (although rarely before wanting to strangle them), but (and here’s where the confession thing comes in), I can’t think of a single one of my books I felt driven to write. Or that was even inspired to any real degree by, well, anything short of needing a new contract so I could continue eating and pay college tuition.
Contrary to popular belief, I do not have a mental warehouse of I-will-die-if-I-don’t-tell-this story ideas. And of the story ideas I do have floating around, few of them are inspired by much more than the vague, half-formed thought that it might be interesting to put this character next to that one, throw them in this situation and see what happens. Then, because usually editors want more than that before they give me money (go figure), I add in some other stuff. Kinda like cooking without a recipe, basically. Sometimes it works, sometimes I have to throw the whole thing out and start over. But basically, I fabricate it all out of thin air. Which, between the five kids and the hormone shenanigans, is about all that’s left in my brain these days.
Oh, sure, my first book was about a wedding planner since I’d worked in a couple of bridal salons. And along the way I’ve had heroines who did crafts or were ballerinas or wrote books because I’ve done all of those things so I might as well get some mileage out of them. But my background didn’t inspire me as much as it saved my butt. And now that thatwell’s dry, I’m really scrounging these days, since basically I haven’t led what you’d call an exciting life. A fulfilling one, yes, but what can I say, keeping five kids alive was about as adventurous as I ever wanted to get. You can’t even get me to go skiiing, for godssake.
Of course, I suppose there’s other types of inspiration, such as a writing about a topic that’s always interested me, or something on the news that’s struck a chord. For some reason, though, I’ve always gone in the back door with that, as well. Writing about hearing-impaired or developmentally challenged characters, for instance, has since made me more aware of those issues, but I didn’t write the characters because of my personal experiences.
Which leads me to wonder how on earth I’ve managed to come up with the twenty-plus stories I already have. I suppose it’s a lot like the cook who, when faced with a sudden dinner party for six, simply relies on whatever she has on hand.
In other words, the tuna and pasta approach to story development.
Whatever.
