Every writer has a special place where they rendezvous
with their muse. Some find inspiration by writing at their favorite coffee
bistro. Some may seek it under a shady tree in the park, surrounded by nature’s
glory. Others might opt for the comfort of their bed, where they can sit
cross-legged with their keyboards and pound out sultry tales while nibbling on
bon-bons and sipping wine.
My own creative space is a small bedroom that I
converted into a home office. When people visit, they often mistake it for Fred
Sanford’s junk yard, but everything in there has a purpose. At least, that’s
what I keep telling myself. I have an old desk that’s been in my family for
years, with stacks of papers and Post-it notes that I’m sure were important
once upon a time. There are also the requisite kitschy items I picked up here
and there, like souvenir ashtrays and pen holders. The walls around it are
adorned with posters from some of my favorite movies, along with awards I’ve
won and obscure artwork that I found interesting. Another wall is decorated by
some of my book covers in frames.
There’s a bookcase filled with old paperbacks I’ve collected
but just can’t part with. They include the complete works of Mickey Spillane,
Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, and Ian Fleming. I have reference books, such
as The KISS Guide to the Kama Sutra, an English-to-Spanish dictionary,
Roget’s Thesaurus, The People’s Almanac, and Romance Writing for Dummies.
I didn’t say I had all the answers. There’s also a dog-eared copy of The
Godfather that I’ve read so many times, the pages are falling out.
Research is important when you write atmospheric
thrillers set in exotic locations, and I strive for accuracy. I have a credenza
with things I’ve brought back from my travels, like photo albums, maps, tourist
brochures, and copies of local newspapers. I often refer to these things when
I’m trying to set a mood or accurately describe a location. If I’m writing
about a sunset over the Florida Bay, it helps to look at some of the pics I
took for inspiration. The maps and brochures are invaluable when I want to feature
a landmark, but can’t remember exactly what it looks like.
Earlier, I mentioned my collection of paperbacks. A
few years ago, I found some at a yard sale that were written in the early
1960’s. These were the ones you’d find on a rack in the drug store that sold
for 25 or 50 cents. Can you imagine the royalties on a book that goes for half
a buck? No wonder the writers were called starving artists! I read some of
these steamy potboilers to get a sense of what people were into back then, when
censorship was being challenged. The titles alone were enough to push boundaries.
They include such classics as Station Wagon Wives, Nude in the Mirror, Nude
in the Sand (probably a sequel), Suburban Sin, Strip the Town Naked,
Country Club Hussies, and The Lady is a Lush. That last one
sounds like a Sinatra tune.
And the tag lines they used to entice readers! Get a
load of these:
“The shocking portrait of a pretty wife who fell
victim to the soft and corrupt passions of another woman.”
“She showed men the way—the wrong way!”
“A novel of women who trade husbands, of men who
borrow wives!”
“The full, terrifying story of a woman trapped by the
desperate demands of her body.”
“A man, a woman, and a bottle. John and Mary sought
escape through alcohol and sexual excesses.”
“Sex and savagery in the advertising jungle.”
“They knew each other’s bodies—but not each other’s
names!”
These books would be politically incorrect
today, and I’m not advocating for a return to this type of storytelling. If
there was a woman’s point of view in any of them, I missed it. These were
clearly written for the suburban Martini crowd, and the folks who populated Doris
Day/Rock Hudson movies, or episodes of Mad Men. I doubt that Harriet
Nelson read any of these, but Ozzie probably enjoyed a chapter or two while she
was at the PTA meetings.
As a bonus, here’s a pic of me visiting one of Ernest
Hemingway’s writing spots, on board his fishing boat, the Pilar. I thought I
might get a bolt of inspiration from sitting at his desk with his typewriter,
but no such luck.
So…what’s in your playpen?
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