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.”
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?
