Monday, April 2, 2012

WHERE DO YOU GET YOUR IDEAS?

I smile when people ask me where I get my ideas. When I tell them, they take a step back and their eyes dart around the room as if looking for the nearest exit. I know I can be a tad different, but aren’t we all? Usually the men come to me and tell me what to write. I shared the following post on another blog and thought I’d share it with you, too. I’ve never double-dipped with a post before, so forgive me. Calvin suffered a bad fall resulting in broken ribs and disc damage and I've been busy playing nurse. He's able to go the bathroom alone now, which is a wonderful thing, believe me. Thus the repeated blogpost.

I might be coasting into sixty-four, but I have more men in and out of my bedroom than women half my age. I’m also lucky my husband Calvin doesn’t seem to mind. No, we aren’t into ménage a trios, but we’re both writers and understand how characters from our stories come to visit us at night.


Take the tall, wide-shouldered Texan who sauntered into our bedroom, wearing nothing but a cowboy hat and a pair of boots. Calvin barely noticed, but I was certainly paying attention--and drooling, too, if I remember correctly. He became my hero in my debut book, Storm’s Interlude.



When an ex-Marine roared into our bedroom on a Harley, I merely groaned and rolled over. I was too tired to be bothered. Not to be ignored, he drove into our bedroom again, took off his helmet and struggled to adjust his stance to accommodate his prosthesis. Now, he had my attention. How had he lost part of his leg? What or who put that haunting look into his eyes? His name was Win, he told me, and would I write his and Evie’s story? Those Violet Eyes will be out June 27th.



I was writing my first romantic suspense, set in Paris involving a band of terrorists, an older American woman and a younger French government agent. I'd just finished chapter eight, when somewhere around three in the morning, someone slammed our bedroom door. I sat straight up. What the heck? Bleary-eyed, I glanced around; everything was fine. I must be dreaming. I lay back down and snuggled next to Calvin.

Once more, the bedroom door slammed and Niko charged in, mad as hell. What is his problem? He stood there glaring at me. I was dead tired, so I glared right back. At least until I fell asleep on him. Determined to get my attention, he charged into my bedroom again and slammed the door.

“What is it?” I growled.


“Watch,” he commanded.


He shared a vision of his walking down a hall, his fists clenched. Then he opened the door to an interrogation room, stepped in and slammed the door. My heroine was blindfolded and tied to a wooden chair. Her head swung in the direction of the noise. That quickly the vision was gone.

“That’s it? You woke me for that piddlin’ little bit? Why are you angry? Why is she tied to a chair? If you want me to write about that scene, I’m going to need more info.” I realized I was talking to air; air punctuated by my husband’s snoring. It took me four chapters to set up that door slamming scene in Mona Lisa’s Room. I was not a happy camper, believe me.


                          


Tumbleweeds blew into our bedroom one night, chased by a widowed cowboy and his three-year-old son.  The little boy, Eli, had a tactile personality and loved touching and rubbing materials with textures. He crawled onto our bed and rubbed our fleece blanket against his cheek. Last week I signed the contract for Tumbleweed Letters, a novella set in Deadwood, Dakota Territory in 1879. It's part of the Love Letters series at The Wild Rose Press.


I was struggling with the beginning of Rain is a Love Song, the second book in my romantic suspense series after Mona Lisa’s Room. One night I dreamed of Calvin and me sitting at a sidewalk café in Paris, across the street from the Pompidou Museum. A man coasted by on his motorcycle, his angel wings trailing on the pavement. It was a comfortable dream since we’d seen that very thing while in Paris. Then the man got off the bike—all muscles and attitude. He strolled over to me and got down on his hunkers. “I’m here for you, Vonnie. Your hero for your next book.” Now, we’re talkin’!!!! I'm to hear from my editor in a month regarding this book.

Book three of the series has a saxophone player wailing out some soulful jazz notes, the kind that make you want to sigh and cry. One night after playing a song at the foot of my bed, he told me he was also a German counterterrorism agent workinig undercover in Paris. Really? Oh, the possibilities. I’m on chapter six of Jazzbeat of Surrender right now.


Unfortunately, that book is sharing my writing time with a pair of eyes that glowed fiery golden in our bedroom one night. I nearly wet the bed when I first saw them—especially when I realized they were set in the head of a huge bear. Then the bear morphed into a Scottish man in a kilt. I shook my head. “Sorry, you’re in the wrong bedroom. I don’t write paranormal stuff.”

 He lifted the covers and slipped into my bed. “Aye, I am in the right bed chamber. Let me tell ye why bears are extinct in Scotland and about me family’s curse.” Did I listen? Of course! I mean, what woman would chase a man in a kilt out of her bed? So, like it or not, I'm writing my first paranormal, When Paisley Meets Plaid....my heroine is named after a certain sweet lady on our blog...**grins**



Then there’s the polite World War II pilot who occasionally sits on the edge of my bed, leans over me and whispers, “Let me tell you about my gal, Pearl. She’s really swell.” I run my fingers through his dark hair. “Not yet, Ben, you’ll have to wait your turn.”

You see, a woman can only handle so many men.

So tell me, how do you get your ideas?

16 comments:

Dawn Marie Hamilton said...

Wonderful post, Vonnie. Hope DH recovers soon!

Anonymous said...

Vonnie,
Sorry your hubby fell and hope he feels back to himself soon. But I'm glad you reposted and shared your how you get your ideas. My character like the shower. I have a pen a paper sitting on the sink.

Sia Huff

Ana Morgan said...

My ideas are not as dreamy as yours, Vonnie! My creative side likes the shower, too. And long drives. I keep a pad and pen on the seat next to me and (I know it's wrong.) scribble key words so I don't lose the flash.
Wishes for a speedy recovery to your husband. Broken ribs hurt like the dickens.

Paisley Kirkpatrick said...

BOY OH BOY do I have you fooled, Vonnie. I love it!!! I guess I am dull because all my heroes seem to saunter in from the same place...do I have to confess from where? We both have Paisley in common. :)

Gentle hugs to Calvin. I am sorry to hear he is bruised. I have just given my current hero bruised ribs. Now I know what has to be done for his care... :(

Hugs to you, too, for yet another great post.

Vonnie Davis said...

Dawn Marie, thanks for your kind wished for Calvin. He's doing a little better today.

Vonnie Davis said...

Sia, thanks for commenting. Revision ideas usually hit me in the shower. Perhaps it's that massaging of the head as I wash my hair. I'll always think of a little thing I need to insert somewhere so the scene rings more true.

Vonnie Davis said...

Ana, I'll pass along your well wishes to Calvin. I sometimes work through a scene while driving, too. Maybe we need a bumper sticker: CAUTION--Driver of car is a writer either plotting a murder or simply in another world.

Vonnie Davis said...

Paisley, with Calvin's cracked ribs it hurts for him to laugh or breath regular. His shallow breathing has him hoarse. If your hero's voice gets hoarse and your heroine has to lean in to hear him, he might press a surprise kiss to her neck. Just sayin'...

Isabella Macotte said...

A speedy recovery to hubby. Loved the post. Dreamy men and dreamy images. I have a smile on my face...

Paisley Kirkpatrick said...

You romantic, Vonnie. She'd probably be more than a bit surprised. He's just seen through her masculine disguise and still can't adjust to knowing she's a girl...

Vonnie Davis said...

Isabella with a smile on her face...how wonderful. I love making people smile and laugh and sigh, too.

Vonnie Davis said...

Paisley, I think a kiss anywhere on the neck is uber romantic. Often when I'm in the kitchen, Calvin will stop and plant a kiss on the back of my neck and whisper something to me in French. Sigh...and I melt. For all I know he could be saying, "How soon will supper be ready, woman?" but in French, it sounds so delightful.

Sheila Tenold said...

What a fun post, Vonnie! My male characters have visited me too. But nothing like your full-blown bedroom appearances!

Hugs to Calvin, and I wish him a speedy recovery.

Vonnie Davis said...

Thank you, Sheila. Calvin is doing a little better today and taking less pain medicine. I guess my visitors come to me when I am in that frail, fluttery state between wakefulness and deep sleep. Who knows how my mind works. Surely not I.

Josie said...

I get my ideas from everyday life, Vonnie. Sometimes a newspaper or magazine aritcle will inspire me.

BTW, I love the Scottish picture!

And, hope your DH is feeling better.

Vonnie Davis said...

Josie, my husband is an author, too, and loves pulling ideas from the news. I have one story that grabbed me when I read a tiny article in the paper two years ago. I've hung onto that clipping, rather fearful to start it because it'll be more women's fiction than romance. And I wonder if I can write that genre.