BOOKS OF THE HEART AND WHY WE WRITE THEM

Thanks so much, Debbie, for inviting authors to talk about their writing. Once I get started on the subject, I need an old-fashioned shepherd’s hook to pull me away. I thought of what I wanted to say, and finally this hit me. You know, every author has her own unique way of building a story.

The first type finds it easy, because they have a hundred stories flitting around in their mind just asking to be told. They’ll sit and chatter, telling you one story line after the other. Finally breathless, they blink and ask, “Which one should I write first?” I blurt out, “That last plot.” Then I sit on my hands to keep from strangling them.

Oh, how I envy the next one. She’s the lucky dreamer who not only awakes rested, but she’s invigorated by her dreams. My youngest daughter used to do that. While we were eating breakfast, I’d ask her how she had slept. She’d say she had the most marvelous dream and would proceed to share it with me. My mouth would drop, because she had dreamt a complete tale, along with the background, people, dialog–everything. That was before I started writing. Now that I could use some story plots, she no longer dreams epics. Drats!

Some writers need inspiration to write. That’s me in a very big way. Without it, I can’t write a word, much less 100,000 of them.

Toni Blake asked in her blog, “So... what places or settings most inspire YOU. Beaches? Mountains? A wintery landscape? And what are your favorite settings in romance novels? Inquiring authors want to know!”

Well, now, I’ll tell you what inspired my first tale and every one thereafter. After we retired, my husband and I went to Great Britain for three weeks. When we arrived, it was too early to go to the B&B, so we decided to see our first castle. Before I stepped through the outer gatehouse, I reached out and touched the wonderful old wall. The stone felt so warm, so alive. I thought of all the thousands of people throughout the centuries that had walked on that same ground, touched that same stone where my palm rested. I could almost hear them talking, chattering, yelling.

I imagined the sharp clop, clop, clop of horses hooves ringing out on the cobblestones as a black clad knight rode through the barbican on a massive destrier. He stopped and sat quietly, then pulled off his helmet. His fingers ran through his long, black hair as he stared across the bailey at a lovely woman. A riot of brown curls framed her face as she laughed up at a slender man dressed in a tunic of colors a peacock would envy even on its best romantic days. My warrior struck his fist against his thighs, determination glinted from his steely, gray eyes. This would be the last time she favored that nithing of a man she talked with. She had teased my warrior for the last time. He had waited overlong. By the time the sun slept behind the nearest mountains, she would be betrothed to him. They would be wed in a sennight, else her father would deal with him and his army camped outside the castle walls.

In those few simple moments, I fell in love. That’s right. Completely in love with crumpled ruins.

I couldn’t wait to explore every inch of that castle. It talked to me, lured me to find its secrets, its memories. We climbed the stone stairway up to the wall walk and slowly made our way around the curtain wall as far as we could. I looked out from the battlements at the countryside below, then further along stopped again to peer down over the cliff into the turgid waters. I shivered when I faced the bailey to stare across at the opposite curtain wall. Was that the shimmering visage of a man staring back at me, wanting to know why I was there?

The curtain walls that outline the castle are still there, as are the towers and parts of the keep. Some places are too crumbled to explore. One room of the keep fascinated me more than the others. My imagination ran full blast there.

Toni asked what inspires me as an author to write? These medieval settings that refused to disappear into the earth. I go to Scotland, Wales and England when I can. It isn’t often enough, but until someone gives me a great deal of money, it is all I can do. My heart speeds thinking about it. I get this hungry feeling in my chest. Sometimes, I have a terrible fear that I’ll never see them again.

This castle of my heart is actually in Wales. Chepstow Castle. I wrote the Blackthorn trilogy because of Chepstow, but I placed it in Scotland and named it Blackthorn. In my mind, it was the home of the MacKay’s (they were called Morgans then) on the Kyle of Tongue. I have no idea what their castle was named, or if it bore a name at all. Most of its ruins have long since collapsed on an area of stones that juts out at the water’s edge.

From that castle sprang Always Mine, followed by Mereck’s Bride and Risk Everything. Risk Everything was published in 2005; Always Mine came out this month, August of 2006. Mereck’s Bride will follow in October 2007. I’m delighted that both Risk Everything and Always Mine have received Five Star reviews.

My imagination also needs inspiration from music. I cut a disc with music that makes my heart pound. I included love songs and duets with Andrea Bocelli, Sarah Brightman, Jose Curá, Dulce Pontes and the wonderful sounds of Capercaillie. I play that disc and the music fills the house. Those lovely songs are being sung, not by living people, but by my heroes, my heroines.

Now, who could ask for better inspiration than sight and sound?