Characters make the story

I am always asked where I get my ideas for a novel. For me it is simple: characters.  For instance, in my short story Play Beethoven, the character Mac is confronted at an early age with discrimination. Something I saw on television triggered a memory I had of my grandmother and her prejudices. Although her name wasn't Sarah, a young Jewish girl lived down the street from my grandmother and one weekend I did visit her home. It hurt when I remember how my grandmother reacted to me playing with this young Jewish girl.

I had an idea, but I had no story. What I did have was two characters.

I kept mulling this idea over in my mind, but I still didn't know where I was going with it until a friend called me. The minute I heard her squawky voice over the phone I cringed. She is a nice person, but the voice can be irritating. By the time I'd hung up the phone, the opening scene where Sarah approaches Mac as he puts on his roller skates was rolling around in my head. I immediately started writing. Did I have a story? No, but I knew that the characters would help me develop the story. They would tell me what was going to happen—and they did.

Every time I get an idea for a story it falters and eventually dies. I can't write and let the plot carry the story. I have to rely on my characters. You can read Playing Beethoven on my web site. 

Pure Evil

Tony Grace is pure evil in my book The Possessor. There is no right or wrong in Tony's world. He is anti-social, angry, and very lonely. He is an outcast in a world he can't comprehend.  I came up with the idea for Tony from two individuals that crossed my path earlier in my life.

I met the first boy when I was in grade school. He lived in a shack in the middle of a vacant lot. I'm sure that they didn't own the property, but were "homesteading" until someone kicked them off. The outside was nothing but discarded lumber. The inside was flattened tin cans nailed to the walls to keep out the cold. The yard around the shack was bare dirt littered with trash. This boy knew he and his family were different, and that dichotomy was evident in the classroom by his dress, social skills, and intelligence. He truly was a product of his environment. He was very angry and struck out at the other children. If you neared his home, he would attack you with homemade spears. This boy was truly a wild child.

The other boy lived in the Northeast part of Kansas City and came from a large family. The family harassed their neighbors, was always involved in petty crimes, and lived outside the boundaries of society. The children were truant most of the time. Although the children were taken out of the home from time to time, no foster home could handle them. If they did come to school, they struck out at the other children. I remember one incident where the boy went to court and the charges were dismissed on a technicality. Thinking she was alone, the mother grabbed him by the shoulders, violently shook him, and said next time he was not to get caught.

These two individuals have always been in the back of my mind because they had no control over who they were or what they would become in life. At times you pitied them, but most of the time you were petrified of them. One died early and the other is serving a life term in prison for murder. Combining these two individuals into Tony Grace produced a very evil individual.

Mother's Day is fast approaching. it is time to remember mom. As it draws near, I think about how strong my mother was, and how her skills and courage kept our family together. I remember my dad reminiscing about my mother and all the hard times they went through together. He readily admitted that he couldn't have done it without her. I realized that my father had a real admiration for my mother as a person who had personal traits and skills that complimented his own. They were a team. I didn't think of the word admiration specifically when I thought of my mom.  I thought of things she did like bake bread, iron my clothes, fix our meals, and to be there when I was hurt. Admiration is the genuine approval and respect for another person. Now it started to make sense. My dad told me once that you can't have real love without respect for the other person. I admired my mom as I got older, but nothing like my father. Late in life, they wanted to borrow money to fix up the house where my father was born, but they didn't want a house payment. Dad told me that they sat around the kitchen table pouring over figures. Finally, he said, mom figured out how they could do it. She sent him to the bank the next morning with all the numbers in a Manila folder. He tried to get her to go, but she wouldn't hear of it. The bank approved the loan and they spent their last days in his boyhood home. Dad would tell anyone that it was mom that figured how they could restore their home, and when he did, she'd get a little sparkle in her eyes. I think she had a great admiration for my dad.

Happy Mother's Day, mom. I miss you.