After twenty years as a writer, I’ve
learned that inspiration can come at anytime and from anywhere. And I do mean anywhere…
It was just after
lunchtime when I pulled into the driveway at the lake house. My stomach growled unhappily as a reminder. The drive from Phoenix had only taken a
little over an hour, but after a three-and-a-half hour flight from Tampa, it
had been almost torturous. I’ve never really
enjoyed travel, though it’s a necessary part of my job.
I turned off the ignition
but couldn’t bring myself to open the door and get out. This had all been my agent’s idea, and I
really wasn’t thrilled about being stiff-armed into a time of rest and
relaxation. Something had been lacking
in my writing lately, but I couldn’t see how spending a month at this lake
house was going to solve my problems.
I looked around. The landscaping on either side of the drive
screamed Southwestern motif, with rocks and cactus scattered everywhere. Not exactly inviting to a man used to sand
and palm trees. With a sigh I opened the
door and made a mental note not to let my agent choose my next vacation spot.
As I approached the
house, I noticed a man standing on the porch watching me. He was dressed casually in blue jeans and a
flannel shirt. A crop of gray hair stuck
out from underneath a purple baseball cap.
I couldn’t tell which team’s logo was on the cap, but I guessed from its
colors that he was a Diamondbacks fan.
He stood at the top of the porch stairs with his hands in his pockets as
if he had all the time in the world. His
expression was difficult to read, so I decided not to try.
“You Mr. Porter?”
he asked as I came near.
“I sure am,” I
replied. I climbed the stairs and extended my hand to him. “You can call me Robert.”
“Will do.” He squeezed my hand with a firm grip that
made me wince slightly. “I’m
Donald. Come on in and I’ll show you the
place.”
I followed him
inside. The whole cabin was a strange
mix of Southwestern and rustic elements. Indian patterned rugs covered the walls of the
entry hallway while the great room was decorated from one corner to the other with
stuffed animal heads. I’ve never seen the appeal of decorating a
house with animal carcasses, but it definitely fit the décor here.
“The bedrooms are
upstairs,” Donald informed me as we crossed the room. “You can pick whichever one you want.” He pointed to his right. “Bathroom’s there…garage, back door,
kitchen…”
We entered the
kitchen and Donald crossed to the refrigerator.
“We’ve got it all stocked up for you,” he told me, opening the door and
revealing the contents. “If there’s
anything in particular you decide you want, though, you’ll need to head back
into town to get it.”
I nodded a few
times and looked around the room. I had
no desire to drive thirty minutes back into town. I would make do with what was in the fridge.
“I’m sure it’ll be
great,” I assured him.
He opened one of
the cabinets and pointed to a pegboard attached to the inside of the door. There were at least a dozen keys hanging from
hooks.
“They’re all
labeled,” he told me. “So, if you need to go somewhere you can lock everything
up. It’s a pretty safe neighborhood, but
I’d rather you didn’t take any chances.”
I nodded again
because I had no idea what else to say.
“Well,” he said
after a few seconds of awkward silence, “if there isn’t anything else you need,
I guess I’ll be on my way so you can get settled in.”
“Thank you so
much,” I said as I followed him back to the front door. “Is there a number where I can reach you if
there are any problems?”
He told me the
number was next to the phone in the kitchen, then left without looking back
again.
I closed the door
behind him. For several seconds I simply
stood in the center of the living room, uncertain what to do next. My stomach grumbled again. I still hadn’t eaten lunch, so I returned to
the kitchen. I needed to get to work on
my novel, but my laptop was still in the rental car and I just didn’t feel like
going back out to get it.
After
I finished my sandwich, I could no longer avoid the inevitable. After retrieving my laptop and suitcase from
the rental car, I set everything up in the master bedroom upstairs. The room was furnished with an elegant
six-drawer dresser, but I only needed two of the drawers. I had packed light since most of my time
would be spent here in the cabin.
Crossing the room
to the closet, I hoped that Donald and his wife had left behind some
hangers. I turned the knob on the closet
door only to find that it was locked. It
caught me a little off guard since this door was the only possible option for a
closet in the room. I checked in the
bathroom to see if I had missed something in there, but no.
Remembering the
keys Donald had pointed out before he left, I went to the kitchen to see if
there was one for the closet door. I
chuckled as I looked over the pegboard. There were keys for the garage door,
the door leading from the house to the garage, the front door, the side door,
the storage shed, the laundry room, and several other doors that I hadn’t even
realized needed keys, but nothing for the closet in the master bedroom.
Not a big deal, I told myself. I would just iron the shirt and pants if a
situation arose where I actually needed to wear them. I went back upstairs and sat down in front of
my laptop to get to work.
As I waited for the
computer to boot up, I sat at the desk and looked out the window at the amazing
view of the woods. There was a glimpse
of the lake peeking out invitingly from between the trees. It only took me a few seconds to realize that
I wasn’t going to get any work done, so I decided to go do a little exploring in
the hopes that it would get my creative juices flowing.
An
hour and a half later, I returned from my walk.
The exposure to nature had done wonders for my outlook. I even felt energized with a few ideas for
the plot of my novel, which had stalled considerably in the last few
months. I sat down at the computer and
wrote for the next hour.
The novel I was working
on was a period piece set in the Old West.
Since I had always been fascinated with cowboys and John Wayne movies, it
seemed only logical that one day I would write a western of my own. The story wasn’t flowing as smoothly as I
would have liked, though. Even with this
most recent bit of inspiration, the novel just wasn’t coming together.
I stopped and
re-read what I had just written. It was acceptable,
but not earth-shattering. I sat and
stared at the screen. A few minutes
passed, but the brief bout of inspiration was gone. I read the scene a second time, but had no
idea where to go next.
My thoughts began
to wonder, and eventually I found myself looking at the closet door again. Why was the stupid thing locked? What could possibly be in there? What kind of person would even put a lock on a closet door anyway?
I crossed the room
to the door and jiggled the knob again.
It was just a stall tactic to avoid facing my novel, but I didn’t
care. Pressing my ear up against the
door, I held my breath and waited. I’m
not sure what I expected to hear, but it seemed like a logical thing to do at
the time. After a few seconds, I got
down on my hands and knees, flattening my left ear against the carpet in an
attempt to see under the door. Not
surprisingly, the closet was completely dark, so I set out to find a
flashlight.
After several
minutes of rummaging through drawers and looking in various cabinets, I finally
found what I was looking for in the garage.
I brought it back upstairs and resumed my position on all fours in front
of the door. I felt hopeful as I
squinted into the darkness behind the door, but the flashlight’s beam didn’t
reveal anything.
With a sigh I
decided to call Donald and ask him about it in the morning. I had already wasted close to an hour on this. It was time to get back to work.
********************
The next morning I
awoke with the sun pouring through the large bay window. I didn’t feel rested at all since I had spent
most of the night thinking about the closet.
It was intriguing, and I decided it would make a good idea for a novel some
other time. In the present, though, I
just wanted to know what was behind the door.
I got a banana
from the kitchen downstairs and then sat down at the desk to get to work. The words wouldn’t come. Several times throughout the course of the
morning I realized I was staring at the closet door again. I hadn’t written more than a hundred words even
though I had been at the computer for at least two hours.
I carried my
laptop across the room and settled in on the floor, sitting with my back
against the closet door. Maybe I wouldn’t
be as distracted if I couldn’t see it. A draft blew against my backside from underneath
the door, making it impossible to think about anything else. Rather than working on my novel, I found
myself brainstorming ideas of what could be in the closet. More Southwestern-rustic décor? A safe? A
dead body? The possibilities were
staggering.
Eventually it
became clear that I wasn’t going to get any work done if I didn’t solve this
mystery. The solution was simple - I
would have to break into the closet. I
could apologize to Donald later. Surely I
could come up with a plausible excuse by the end of my stay and, of course, I
would be willing to pay for any repairs.
All that mattered now was getting into that room.
The garage
provided an assortment of tools that could be useful for the job. I selected a sledgehammer, but made a mental
note of a large ax propped against the wall just in case this attempt didn’t
succeed.
When I returned to
the master bedroom, I stood in front of the closet and debated with myself for
several minutes. This sort of behavior
bordered on manic and I knew it. But I
also knew that I wouldn’t make any progress on my novel until I found out what
was so important that it needed to be kept in a locked closet. I took a deep breath and swung the
sledgehammer down at the doorknob with every ounce of strength I could muster.
The wood around the
knob began to splinter with a loud cracking sound. I felt exhilarated. My second swing brought the sledgehammer
against the knob with absolutely no hesitation on my part. I was surprised by how flimsy the door had
turned out to be. Maybe the room’s contents
weren’t as valuable as I had imagined.
It didn’t matter now. The knob
was already lying mangled on the floor and the door was pretty well demolished
too. There was no going back.
I pulled the door
open carefully and peered inside. The
light from the room behind me did little to illuminate the space. Reaching my hand in, I felt along the wall
for a light switch. There wasn’t one. So,
I grabbed the flashlight from the desk where I had left it and clicked it on.
Cautiously, I
stepped through the doorway. The beam of
light didn’t appear to make much difference in the darkness before me, so I
took another tentative step into the room.
I shined the flashlight on the floor and the walls to my left and right,
but saw nothing. There wasn’t a wall
anywhere in front of me either. The
closet was apparently deeper than I had anticipated. I reached my hand out as far as I could but
felt only open space. Quickly reviewing
what I remembered of the house’s dimensions, there was no way that this room
could be any longer than a couple of feet.
Since the floor in front of me was clear, I took a few more steps into
the darkness.
The beam of the
flashlight still failed to reveal the back wall. I looked over my shoulder and calculated that
I had already crossed about five feet of floor space with at least that much
illuminated in front of me by the flashlight.
Based on the house’s floor plans, I knew that was impossible.
I briefly
considered the possibilities. There was
a good chance I was going crazy and this was all in my imagination. I didn’t believe that, though. I felt completely lucid. Of course, I’ve always heard that crazy
people don’t realize they’re crazy, so that wasn’t much of a consolation.
Maybe the house was
haunted or in some other way enchanted.
Since I’ve never believed in such things, I didn’t spend much time
contemplating that option, either. All
the same, my author’s imagination wouldn’t allow me to completely dismiss the
idea as I stepped farther into the room.
Perhaps the
house’s builder had discovered some way to stretch the rules of architectural
design. That option seemed like the most
plausible one, and it also filled me with a sense of excitement and curiosity. How could I pass up the chance to see where
this passage might lead? I simply had no
choice but to continue into the darkness until I reached the end.
After several
minutes of feeling my way along the wall to my left I glanced back over my
shoulder. The doorway and the bedroom
beyond appeared to be about fifty feet away.
My pulse quickened at the prospect.
I continued through the darkness for a few more minutes before I noticed
a glowing rectangle several feet ahead of me.
As I approached, it became clear that it was another door with some sort
of light shining in around the edges.
I heard sounds
from the other side but couldn’t determine the source. Placing my ear against the door didn’t help
distinguish any of the sounds. I reached
for the knob and took a deep breath. I
had come this far. It would be
ridiculous to turn back now.
To my surprise,
the knob turned easily in my hand.
I pushed the door
open, but my eyes needed several seconds to adjust to the light all around
me. As they did, I was convinced that I
actually had gone crazy and I had to resist the urge to run back up the corridor
to the lake house. Something made me
stay.
The scene around
me was entirely in black and white, as if I had stepped onto the screen of an
old western. I was standing in the back
of an old saloon. To my left was a piano
player plinking out tinny-sounding music and to my right was a bartender wiping
down the counter of a long, wooden bar.
The tables around the room were surrounded by men in cowboy attire
playing cards. Several dancing girls were
sitting on their laps or standing behind them.
No one seemed to
notice me. As I looked down at my
clothes, I realized there was no reason why they should. My clothes were
relatively nondescript for the time period – a pair of slacks and a button-up
shirt with a cowboy hat to top off the look.
Plus, I was just as monochromatic as the scene around me.
I looked at the
door behind me, where only a few seconds before I had been walking through a
dark corridor. The words “Men’s Lavatory” were stenciled in red paint. I wasn’t certain how many saloons in the Old
West actually had men’s rooms, but that research would have to wait until
later.
As fascinated as I
was by the scene around me, I also wanted to do a little more exploring. I slowly crossed the room toward the swinging
double doors, being careful not to attract any attention. I had nothing to worry about, though, since
no one gave me a second look. I pushed
the doors apart and stepped out onto the sidewalk.
It was a warm day
and the sun was shining brightly, though everything was still in black and
white. The street was busy with
horse-drawn carriages and carts making their way through town, while an
assortment of men, women, and children went about their business on the
sidewalks. Everything – the buildings,
the clothing, the dirt-covered street – looked exactly as I had imagined they
would. The research I had conducted over
the last several months had paid off.
I relaxed a little
as I made my way down the sidewalk. Strangely,
I no longer felt a need to figure out what was happening to me. I nodded and tipped my hat to a group of
ladies walking in my direction. They
smiled politely in reply and passed by.
As I approached a
building with a large red sign reading “Wells Fargo”, I heard something in the
street to my right that stopped me in my tracks and caused my heart to skip
several beats.
“How can you leave
me like this, Nathan?”
I turned and
spotted a young couple hurrying past a carriage a few feet away from me. The man was tall and neatly dressed, and the
shiny metal star pinned to his vest caught the sunlight occasionally as he
walked quickly past where I stood frozen to the sidewalk.
“I don’t want to
talk about this anymore, Rebecca,” the man said without slowing his pace.
The young woman
was on his heels, taking three or four steps to each of his strides in an
attempt to keep up. She wore a flowered,
polonaise dress that accented her graceful figure and drew appreciative looks
from every man she passed, though she didn’t seem to notice. Her long, dark hair, which was styled in
flowing curls underneath a regency style bonnet, bounced as she hurried after
the man.
I knew that the
dress was called a polonaise because I had recently conducted a significant
amount of research on women’s fashions in the Old West for my novel. I knew other things, too. I knew that Rebecca had taken on the task of
raising her younger brother and sister after her parents had died in a Comanche
raid. I also knew that this couple had
only been married a few months. Nathan
had been appointed sheriff a few weeks after the wedding, and now a vicious
band of outlaws was coming to kill him.
I knew these
things because I had written them only a few days earlier.
The couple hurried
past me and I decided to follow them. Before
I could move, though, they both suddenly stopped. In fact, all motion in the street and on the
sidewalks stopped as well.
I only had a few
seconds to process this information before a booming voice from somewhere
overhead announced: “Rebecca refused to be dissuaded. She hurried after Nathan with a determination
that surprised even herself.”
I instantly
recognized the words: It was the narrative I’d written for this very
scene. The narrator’s voice was
familiar, but it took several seconds for me to recognize it as that of actor
James Earl Jones. I had never given much
thought to who would narrate my novels, but this didn’t feel like the right
choice for this story.
The scene on the
street began to move again and I hurried to catch up with Nathan and Rebecca. I was curious to see where the scene was going. It was a crucial scene that would eventually
move my characters toward the story’s climax, but I had been struggling to put
it all together. Maybe I could let the
characters tell me where they needed to go next.
When the couple reached
the sheriff’s office, Nathan climbed the first few steps and then turned to
face his wife, towering over her.
“There’s no need
to discuss it further,” he told her. There was no anger in his expression, only
concern and a hint of fear. I know,
because I had written it that way. “You’re
taking Beth and Jared and you’re getting out of town with the others before the
Dalton gang rides in. That’s final.”
Before Nathan had
finished speaking, the peaceful scene on the street suddenly shifted. People began frantically hurrying in and out
of buildings, loading already stuffed carts and carriages with boxes and
suitcases. The quiet lull of afternoon conversation I had noticed earlier was
replaced with shouts, crying babies, and frightened pleas for loved ones to
hurry.
I was surprised by
the sudden shift in the atmosphere around me and realized that my readers would
have felt the same way. I made a mental
note: establish a more frantic feeling for the scene from the beginning.
“But where will I
go?” Rebecca pleaded, tears streaming down her cheeks. “You’re my whole
world. I don’t want to go anywhere
without you.”
Again the scene stopped. I waited for the narrator’s voice, but none
came. I was disappointed. I needed guidance, and I had been hoping
these characters would provide it. Something had felt wrong about this scene when
I wrote it, but I just couldn’t put my finger on the problem.
I turned and
looked at the couple in hopes that they would offer a solution. Still I was stumped, so I moved closer.
Frozen tears glistened
in Rebecca’s eyes as if she had been sculpted out of wax. As I stared at the desperate, pleading expression
on her face, it hit me. She was the
problem! The character I had created was meant to be a fiery, independent
frontier woman. At this point in the
novel, she had already saved her family’s farm after her parents were killed, she
had begun to raise her younger brother and sister with the help of an elderly
aunt, and she had survived a serious bout of pneumonia. The words she had just uttered made no sense
coming from the lips of the woman I had developed.
No sooner had I
made this realization than the scene began to change again. This time the characters all began to retrace
their steps as if someone had hit a rewind button. When the scene began to play again, the
townspeople were frantically hurrying and packing to leave instead of strolling
leisurely through town, and Nathan and Rebecca were back on the street coming
toward me.
“How can you leave
me like this, Nathan?” Rebecca asked again. This time there was no plaintive
tone in her voice, only frustration and anger.
Her strides were slightly longer and definitely more determined than before.
The narrator’s
voice again broke in with my exposition, only this time the voice belonged to
actor Morgan Freeman. I nodded my head a
few times and looked at the scene around me.
It fit.
Nathan delivered
his lines as he had before, but this time Rebecca’s response was different.
“No, that is not final!” she declared, climbing a few
steps in front of her husband so they were close to the same height. She placed her hands on her hips, looked him
square in the eyes, and said, “I’m sending Beth and Jared with Aunt Amy, but
I’m staying here with you. I’m as good a
marksman as any man in this town and I will fight
for the people I love! No gang of outlaws is going to run me out of town!”
I felt goose bumps
tingle up my arms. This was the character I had envisioned when I created her!
There was a short pause
as Nathan considered his wife’s declaration.
I wasn’t sure exactly what he was thinking because this was uncharted
territory in my story now. I could
figure it out later. Nathan took
Rebecca’s face in both of his hands and kissed her tenderly.
As the couple
stood embracing on the steps, I turned and hurried back up the sidewalk toward
the saloon. I had some serious work to
do.
I prayed the men’s
lavatory would be unoccupied.
