The Peregrine Falcon

In the past year, I have talked to many people about novel writing, both professionals and friends.  There are two questions that are always asked.  The first is what inspires me.  I can't tell you how many times I have been asked my inspiration.  It is a difficult question to answer and inevitably follows the other common question, "What are you writing about?"

The conversation goes something like this.  Joe Curious asks, "So you're writing a novel.  That's awesome.  What are you writing about?"

I say, "It's urban fantasy."

He cocks his head and looks at me questioningly, "Urban fantasy, eh?" 

I can tell he isn't exactly sure what that is, and sometimes even I wonder.  There isn't an urban fantasy section at most bookstores.  Books in that genre haphazardly get shoved into horror, mystery, or romance.  For some inexplicable reason, I feel the need to explain the genre when anyone looks at me the way Joe Curious is looking at me now.   It is a mixture of confusion and skepticism. 

I take a deep breath and say, "Urban fantasy books take place in modern day but with mythical or fantastical elements."  Really that is the easiest way I can explain the genre to a non-reader without confusing them more than they already are.

What do I really want to say when people ask what my book is about?  Fighting, fucking, and fireballs.  It's clean and concise, but I worry about offending people.  Most times Joe Curious is a former co-worker or acquaintance or former student.  After teaching high school AP English, people expect a certain kind of novel from you.  A former AP teacher shouldn't be writing fantasy, certainly not one that has paranormal and romantic elements.

No.

They should be writing the great American novel with all the heartbreak and misery that comes with the classics so many of us suffered through in our own high school English classes.

Don't get me wrong.  I love the classics.  I have my degree in English literature.  In high school, I read Ayn Rand's Anthem in Ms. Wallace's 9^th grade pre-IB English class and was hooked.  I tore through The Fountainhead and stumbled through Atlas Shrugged.  I discovered Faulkner, Hemingway, and Cather.  I moved on to British authors, devouring Dickens, Bronte (Emily, Charlotte, and Anne), and Joyce.  Camus' The Stranger changed my life.  I started reading all the existentialists, which led to the Russian authors.  And is there a Shakespeare play I haven't read?  No.  I've even read Troilus and Cressida.

But do I want to live in those worlds?  No.  And writing a novel means living in that world.  You can't put the book down in a few days and walk away.  You live in that world each day when you write.

I did a lot of theater in my twenties and always wanted to do a meaty drama.  It seemed I always got cast as the ingénue in comedic farces.  Finally, I had my opportunity.  I was cast in Dancing at Lughnasa.  For twelve weeks, I lived the life of Aggie.  I died every week.  I lived a pitifully sad existence.  Aggie crept into every part of my life.  I loved the show.  I relished the opportunity to play a character with such depth, but after it was over, I was done.  Give me farce any day!

It is the same with writing.  At least for me it is.  What I write creeps into my life.  I still read the classics and the modern fiction that will someday become the classics, but primarily I read fantasy, horror, and paranormal romance. I can't read normal, run of the mill novels or romances.  They bore me to tears. To quote Jennie Breeden of The Devil's Panties, "I like a little carnage with my smut." (http://thedevilspanties.com/archives/6161)

Back to Joe curious who nods at my explanation and offers, "Cool.  So, where did you get your inspiration?"

This is the far more difficult question.  The smallest, most insignificant things can provide the most inspiration.   I like drawing from the ordinary and imagining the fantastical.  I love the thought that magic surrounds us.

One day I was taking my son to school.  He is in kindergarten and he said, "What is the fastest animal in the world?"

I said, "The cheetah?"

"No, mom.  It's the peregrine falcon.  It can go like a billion miles an hour."

"Really, a billion?"

"Yep.  The Wild Kratts said so.  They know everything about animals."

"Peregrine falcons are really cool.  They are my favorite."

In that moment, a story element came to me that changed the course of my novel.  It was only an ordinary conversation with my son, but the spark was there all the same.  A kernel of light hidden in the usual morning banter.

I went home that day and wrote twenty pages.

Magic.

Inspiration comes every day in little ways.  You just have to pay attention.  Take the time to sit and watch.  Too often we rush through each day not stopping to appreciate the business of living.  When we do stop, we find magic.