Jeanie Franz Ransom

You know that one question people seem to always ask writers? Not the one about how much money you make. I’m talking about the OTHER question: “Where do you get your ideas?”

It always amazes me that people think that writers have the inside track to story ideas. Like we have some source from which we score the best plots, the most carefully crafted sentences, the most interesting characters. We do, I guess. It’s called our imagination. But everyone has one (at least in theory), and as Spongebob Squarepants says, they just need to use it.

Every day, there are people we meet, places we go (even in our dreams – especially in our dreams), and opportunities galore to create some amazing stories, whether to share with others in person or on paper.

I work two part-time jobs, and in each, I encounter people and situations that make me laugh, shake my head, or humble me. My Starbucks job has proven to be the most fertile ground for character development. But you don’t have to be a barista to get the same results. Talking to people, listening to others (without being a total creeper), being open to what you hear, what you see, and most of all, what you feel, are all ways to mine your everyday life for the kind of characters and conflicts found in successful stories.

There’s a reason why authors like Jodi Picoult sell millions of books. Their plots ring true, because they’re usually taken from real life – bits and pieces of news stories, childhood memories, personal experiences, or someone else’s experiences, woven together to create a compelling narrative.

Of course, I wouldn’t recommend using your sister’s ugly divorce or your neighbor’s dirty laundry aired over the back fence as the basis for your book. And you shouldn’t need to. There are so many other opportunities for ideas, without compromising your relationships. (Unless you want to write a memoir, in which case, you’re on your own!)

Which brings me to Grandma’s story, perfect for this time of year. One Christmas Eve years ago, my family (Mom, Dad, my two sisters and me, plus my grandmother) came out of church to find that the weather had taken a turn for the worse. Snow covered the cars and the wind made it hard to keep our eyes open as we skated across the parking lot to where my dad had already started my grandma’s big new Buick and was valiantly trying to chisel through several layers of ice on the windshield. I saw my dad duck his head inside the car for a moment, just before my mom opened the passenger-side door. There was a strange woman sitting in the front seat. I thought maybe we were giving her a ride home from church. How nice, I thought. After all, it was Christmas Eve. Just as we were about to get into the car, my dad yelled at us. “Get away from the car!” The stranger shut the door, and several seconds later, took off with my grandmother’s new car.

Thankfully, someone else – not a stranger – gave us a ride home, where presents took a back seat to the police questioning and my grandmother’s panic. Apparently, the strange woman in the church parking lot had climbed into the car while my dad was scraping the windshield. When he saw her, the woman said she had a gun and that my dad was going to drive her where she wanted to go. My dad told her she could drive herself, and yelled at my mom and me to get away from the car.

Eventually, we learned that the woman had started a fire in the trashcan at a nearby hospital where she was a patient in the psychiatric unit. She drove my grandmother’s car, complete with iced-over windshield, through one of the worst snowstorms ever, from St. Louis to Oklahoma City.

You can’t make this stuff up. Well, you could. But when real life offers you so many ideas – both in your waking life and in your dream life – why not start there, and see where you end up?

It was late summer when I first noticed it.  I was walking my dogs in a part of our subdivision I don’t visit often.  As I rounded a corner, I saw what looked like a miniature cornfield growing in someone’s front yard. Why in the world would anyone plant corn in our suburban middle-class subdivision? The homes aren’t small, but the yards aren’t huge.

As I got closer, I saw that yes, indeed, it was definitely corn. Three gangly green stalks, in fact, planted in a little bare patch of dirt in the middle of an otherwise green yard. What was this homeowner thinking, I wondered?

I’ll admit; I was intrigued. I took to swinging by my neighbor’s yard now and again, watching the corn grow taller and wondering what the heck was going to happen. I showed my husband. I showed our kids.

“Maybe it’s going to be the world’s smallest corn maze,” my middle son said one night at dinner. That led to some talk about sneaking into the yard after dark to place a small sign that read, of course, “World’s Smallest Corn Maze.”

We never did, but as fall dried the corn stalks and the husks turned papery-thin, we thought the setting begged for a pumpkin or two.

But Halloween came and went, and suddenly, the corn was gone, replaced by some unidentifiable green shrub/bush/plant.  My family and I were left hanging, still wondering what the whole corn thing was all about. We may never know. And strange as it may sound, it bothers me.

It bothers me like a book that hooks me with some intriguing, unexpected something, then drags me through chapter after chapter without ever letting me in on what the author was trying to do. It’s like waiting for the punch line that never comes.

As writers, it’s easy to fall in love with a particular phrase or technique – and to hang onto it like a tenacious terrier. But if it doesn’t make sense in the whole scheme of the book, it sticks out like, well, corn growing in the middle of someone’s lawn.

Maybe we should have put that  “World’s Smallest Corn Maze” sign in my neighbor’s yard.

A little more than ten years ago, I sold my first children’s book with the help of an agent who worked on a project basis. The agent told me that since this was my first book sale, I should pretty much just sign the contract offered – she referred to it as a “boilerplate contract,” meaning that the terms are accepted as is.

Three months later, I sold my second children’s book with no agent.  I wasn’t savvy or confident enough to do anything more than sign the contract – yes, the “boilerplate” again.

The next sale came a couple of years later. I didn’t have an agent – the agent that had worked on a project basis was long gone from the business. (Fortunately, she relinquished her commission.) I’d learned enough to know that with two book sales under my belt, I should have a bit of wiggle room when I negotiated the contract. Being someone who was taught to “not make waves” however, my proposed contract changes were barely enough to cause a small ripple.

So then came book number four. It just so happened that book number four was being acquired by the same publisher as book number two. Aha! Some legitimate leverage, right? But when you’re going back and forth with proposed contract changes with the editor you’ve forged a great relationship with – and hope to continue to sell to – how much is too much to ask for?  I needed a buffer.

With no agent waiting in the wings, I remembered someone telling me that The Authors Guild offered free contract advice for members.  I paid $90 for a year’s membership, and in return, got a comprehensive contract review, plus the option to contact the Guild for guidance if needed during negotiations. They also sent me The Authors Guild Model Trade Book Contract and Guide, which I still refer to.

Armed with this information, I felt more confident negotiating the contract. I decided to flex my muscles a bit and ask for a few of the items The Authors Guild had suggested.  I was a bit scared of my editor’s reaction – was I being outrageous with my demands? Did she think I was a greedy pup? – but the excitement of asking for what I wanted, and getting some of it, far outweighed the fear.

When I sold my fifth book, I felt like I knew the areas where I could push, and which places I’d just let ride. I pushed and got more free authors’ copies, a larger advance, and royalties that escalated as book sales increased.  As for those foreign rights? The thought that my book could be acquired by a publisher overseas was, well, foreign! Let it ride. Electronic rights? At the time I signed the contract, electronic rights, at least for the children’s book market, were largely limited to books-on-tape.  I’d written a 32-page picture book, not a novel. I thought the chances that anyone would want to record my book on tape was pretty slim. Let it ride, too. And as for film and TV rights? Not a snowflake’s chance in hell. Or so I thought…

Fast forward to 2010. Three of my books have been acquired by foreign publishers and translated into Korean and Japanese. Who knew? Electronic rights? Forget books on tape. Now it’s digital downloads. But who would want to have an e-book version of a picture book? Plenty of people, it turns out – especially teachers.  The digital rights to my newest book, WHAT REALLY HAPPENED TO HUMPTY?, have been acquired by at least three different online publishers thus far. But those film and TV rights? Not a chance, right? Or so I thought, until three weeks ago when I received an email from someone inquiring about the film/TV rights for WHAT REALLY HAPPENED TO HUMPTY? I had to refer this person to my publisher, since they own those rights.

I’m enough of a realist to know that the chances of having my book become a Saturday morning cartoon are pretty darn small. But  I’ve learned from my experience with contracts over the past ten years that stranger things have happened.

As I get closer to getting a contract for my sixth book, you can bet I’ll think twice about those rights I so freely gave up in my previous negotiations, thinking that they wouldn’t really matter.  I may not ever be the best contract negotiator, but hopefully I’ll be a lot smarter.

Last year, when my middle son, Brian, was a junior in high school, he was wrestling with the decision that may be familiar to many of you – where to go to college.

Not just that, but which college would best serve his career goal of working (and writing) for a magazine. Should he attend the number three journalism school in the country, the University of Missouri, which just so happens to be less than a two-hour drive from our home just outside of St. Louis? It was the obvious choice – too obvious, thought my Brian. His college search echoed my own thirty-six years ago, when, as a high-school junior who’d already published with a major magazine (“Seventeen”), I also thought Mizzou was the too-obvious choice for a career writer.

But here is where our paths differ, at least for now. I ended up attending Cornell College, a small liberal-arts institution in Mt. Vernon, Iowa, and pursuing a degree in elementary education, a decision I reversed when I decided that a), my education professor was senile, and b), I didn’t think I’d be good with kids. There wasn’t any type of degree that remotely resembled a path that would lead to a career in writing, so I ended up with a B.A. in American Studies.

As graduation approached, I had to decide what I could do with an American Studies degree that would lead to an actual job. Teaching, of course, but I’d left that option behind freshman year.

Then one day, just before the summer between my junior and senior year of college, I was listening to the local radio station and heard that they were looking for a copywriter – someone to write the commercials, I soon learned. I decided to look into this, but in a different location, and ended up with a paid internship as a copywriter at a radio station in Omaha, Nebraska, just thirty minutes away from my college boyfriend.

One thing led to another – with the copywriting, not the boyfriend – and upon graduation from college, I landed a job as copywriter at a rock station in Columbia, Missouri, home of that famous J school.
From there, I worked as a copywriter at other radio stations, then a PR agency, then a small ad agency, then a bigger ad agency, and after the birth of my second child – Brian – a freelance copywriter.

Along the way, I continued to freelance for various magazines. Some would consider this the definition of success for a writer who wants to make money – but at the back of my mind, I wondered if my career would have taken a different – and maybe better – path if I’d followed up on an offer of a paid internship at “Seventeen” magazine. But I’d just started my job at the radio station in Columbia, and the thought of moving to New York, quite frankly, scared the shit out of me.

So the little chicken that I was stayed on the safe path, eventually turning down an opportunity to work as an associate creative director at a great ad agency in my hometown. Not only was I too scared, I lacked the confidence to take the job.
Ultimately, Brian decided on the University of Missouri, which gave him more money than his other choices. This fall, he’ll start his journey as a writer in the J school, which doesn’t usually accept freshmen.

People say to me, “You must be so proud. Brian is following right in his mother’s footsteps.” He is, and he isn’t. Like me, he wants to write for a living, he’s a bit shy and quite the homebody, and I don’t know if he has the confidence – or the courage – to make the move to a big city that a magazine editorship requires.

But unlike me, Brian is attending a college that is known for its excellent journalism department. And while I’m still a big believer in a liberal-arts education, I am curious to see where Brian’s experience in a J school will take him.

We’ve talked a lot about his career aspirations – in addition to working for a magazine, he wants to write novels, and perhaps teach writing. I remind him that he’ll need to get a teaching degree, share with him my own regrets at paths I didn’t take, and try to stress the importance of taking risks and believing in the strength of his writing skills.
And while I’m still experiencing success as a writer – I’m a published children’s author – I wonder what would have been, could have been – like many middle-agers, I suppose. While the opportunity to be a magazine editor in New York City, or an ad-agency creative director has passed me by, there’s still time – knock on wood – for me to reinvent my writing journey.

For, after all, writing is a journey, and it’s not always perfect, or in a straight line, or without wrong turns and side trips, however you get there. Since I still don’t know much about the other writers on this site – or the readers — I’d love to learn about your writing journey.

It’s been a year since I first began posting on the 10^th of every month at Storytellers Unplugged. I’m usually not too good with remembering dates, but this one was easy, because my first post for SU fell on Mother’s Day, May 10, 2009.  Being a mom, that’s a hard day to forget, especially with three boys who, thanks to my husband, have well-honed gift-giving skills.

This year, Mother’s Day was May 9^th, which meant that I didn’t have to post anything, and that I did have time to reflect on what I was going to write about for my May 10^th post. I started thinking about how I’ve changed this past year, as well as what’s changed in my life.  How have I grown, personally and professionally?  It dawned on me that I was asking the same questions of myself that I would of a main character.  And I’m not sure I really liked the answers.

Writing 101 tells us that the protagonist in a good story – a satisfying story – is one who grows over the course of the story. No growth – or very little – makes for a flat, pointless journey no reader wants to waste time on (but probably has, on occasion).  True, I did have a new book come out last year, and it’s doing well enough that the publisher is releasing a paperback version this summer.  But I don’t have another book coming out anytime soon, I haven’t submitted anything in ages, and I haven’t managed to finish any of my manuscripts.  About the only writing I’ve done this past year is the occasional blog post, a query to an agent, and updates to my website.  At the rate I’m going, I’m not exactly on the fast track to professional growth.

We all know that change is hard, which is probably why it’s often easier to read about a character wrestling with his emotional monsters than it is to face our own dragons.  That’s why I decided to use a simple plot-summary formula to take a closer look at the changes – or lack of – in my writing life this past year.  You’ve probably seen it, or something like it: “This is a story about (character’s name), who, more than anything in the world, wants (what character wants), but can’t, because (obstacles that are in the character’s way).”

So here’s my personalized version: “This is a story about Jeanie, who, more than anything in the world, wants to write full-time from her Michigan beach house, but can’t, because a), Jeanie presently lives in land-locked Missouri, b) Jeanie has two kids in college this fall, and c) Jeanie doesn’t put in enough “butt in chair” time.”  Putting it down on paper made me realize that the lack of “butt in chair” time is the problem, but it’s also a solution. And it’s one I know works, because I just had some serious bonding time with my laptop at a writers’ retreat and ended up with enough of a rough draft for the sequel to my last book to show my editor.  She wants to see the rest of it as soon as possible.

I want to make sure my editor gets that manuscript sooner rather than later.  I am officially adopting “Michigan beach house” as my new writing mantra, and hope that by next May 10^th, I’ll have grown leaps and bounds in my writing career. Thanks for reading!

The letter from the publisher of my latest children’s book read “Congratulations! WHAT REALLY HAPPENED TO HUMPTY” has been acquired by BigUniverse.com. Of course, I went right to the Internet to check it out. Was this the whole e-book thing I’d heard so much about? Had I defended my Kindle only to have it come back to bite me in the butt?

Turns out that BigUniverse.com is a site where subscribers have access to an online library of more than 1,000 children’s picture books online, including my newest book. For as little as $8.95 a month, an individual – and up to five family members – can read unlimited books, create unlimited books (yes, you can write and illustrate your own stories on the site), share unlimited books, and publish unlimited books.

Publish unlimited books? For just $8.95 a month? It sounds crazy. But what struck me as even crazier – at least for a published author – is that subscribers can READ unlimited books from the online library. How is it possible to have access – albeit online – to so many books for so little money? And for me, the author, to make any money whatsoever from this site?

I looked again at the letter. It did start out with the word “Congratulations.” And it wasn’t a form letter from Publishers’ Clearing House. This was a real letter written by a real person at my publishing house. The same person who sends me clippings from great reviews. I like this person. I trust this person. This must be good news; something I should be happy about, right?

That’s what I kept telling myself as I continued to check out the BigUniverse.com site. I saw that a teacher could subscribe for a classroom of up to 35 students for $14.95 a month. That’s less than the cost of one hardcover copy of my book, for the opportunity to read unlimited books, create unlimited books, share unlimited books, and publish unlimited books.

There’s also a price for an entire school to subscribe to BigUniverse.com. The price depends on the size of the school, of course, but it means that everyone in the school can read unlimited books, create unlimited books, etc. etc.
I looked up my book. There it was, in full color, complete from cover to cover. Subscribers could read it over and over and over, share it with others, and add it to their virtual libraries. The only thing missing was being able to hold the book, to feel the paper at every page turn, to smell the ink (or imagine that you can).

“Think of all the exposure your book will get!,” said the person from my publisher. Think of all the people who will be able to read my book — and more than 1,000 more – for as little as $8.95 a month, I said to myself.

“Think of all the people who will have the opportunity to read your book!,” said the person from my publisher. Think of all the people who already have the opportunity to read my book, I said to myself. It’s available at just about any bookstore, or they can buy a copy online.

Then I started thinking. Authors want people to read their books. Of course, they’d like to make some money, too. But most children’s authors don’t make a lot of money from their books, especially picture-book authors like me. So if something like BigUniverse.com can allow more people to read my book, that’s a good thing. I don’t know if it’s a great thing, but in this ever-changing world of publishing, I’m willing to keep an open mind.

Every once in awhile, I come across a book about writing that gives me some new insight on how I write, why I don’t write, and sometimes both. I’ve been struggling with having a place of my own to write for months – ever since my middle child decided to move out of the room he’s shared with his younger brother for thirteen years and into the room I’d just started converting from the playroom to my office.

This is the son who is going off to college in the fall, but he’s also the middle child and never asks for much. But most important of all, Brian is my writer, so I totally understood his desire to finally have his own room – or, as he calls it, his lair.

Sure, I could write in Brian’s room while he’s at school, but it’s not the same. I want my own desk in my own space, away from the hustle and bustle of the rest of the household. I know that some people can write on the kitchen table, or wherever else they find themselves. These probably are the same people who can fall asleep anywhere – unfortunately, I’m not one of them.

I was trying to figure out how I could turn the dining room into a library/office for myself when a fellow writer loaned me the aforementioned book. It’s called “Thinking Write” by Kelly Stone, and among other things, the author stresses how having a designated writing space – and writing there regularly – trains the brain to switch into the writing mode.

Stone calls this a “sacred writing space” – and while the term may sound a bit New Age-ish, it makes sense. Having a permanent place to perch, whether it’s an entire room or a desk in a quiet corner, makes it easier – for me anyway – to ignore the sirens’ call of laundry that needs to be folded, a dishwasher that should be unloaded, and any number of myriad tasks and temptations that really, seriously do not need my attention RIGHT THIS MINUTE.

I know that it could take months – or longer – to turn the dining room into an office. So in the meantime, I still need a designated writing space where everything I need is close at hand – thus reducing the chance of having to get up and go into another room to round up a pen or a pad of paper.

In her book, Stone suggests that writers who cannot carve out any space to call their own place put all the items needed for current projects in a backpack or tote bag and find a place that is conducive to their craft — whether it’s sitting on the bed (not for me, as I’ll find any excuse to take a nap), on the back porch, or even at a local coffee shop.

I’ve taken Stone’s suggestion and assembled my own writing tote bag. I’ve found that this simple idea makes It possible for me to get right down to business. I don’t really think of it as my “sacred writing space” – I don’t want to be known as “the bag lady writer” – it’s more of a temporary solution until I can find the right place to permanently park my butt in the chair. But it underscores the importance of making room in my life for the words to come out and play – even if that room is just in my head.

“Write what you know” has always been one of those nuggets of writing advice I tend to avoid. I can see the wisdom in writing what you know if you’re an expert on a popular topic. Otherwise, I think it’s much more interesting to write what you want to know.

Writers tend to be curious folks. My husband calls it “nosy,” but he’s not a writer. We want to know about all kinds of things, from factual (Why do baboons have big, red butts?) to fiction (What happens when I mix this character with that situation?). That drive to find answers, to try and make sense of things, to create a world like no other and invite readers along for the ride – can you do that if you just limit yourself to writing what you know? Maybe for one book, or a few magazine articles. But personally, I’d find it hard to make a career – or sustain my passion – if I only wrote what I knew.

Maybe I’m just weird. Okay, I am weird. But when I think about all the topics I’ve tackled over the years as first an advertising copywriter, then a magazine writer, the ones I knew least about ended up stretching me as a writer, pushing me out of my comfort zone, and, at the very least, giving me tidbits of information useful for cocktail party chatter.

That said, it’s been a long time since I’ve had an assignment or an idea that challenged me, or better yet, that scared me, either because it’s something I know nothing about, it’s something I’ve never done before, or both.

For the past ten years, I’ve been employed as a counselor, and my writing has primarily been for children. I’ve been comfortable in my niche, but lately, I’ve been thinking that there is something more. It’s like an itch, but I’m not yet sure how to scratch it. I don’t know how to get back to writing magazine articles or advertising copy, or if that’s even what I want to do, or should do. Then last week, something happened to shake things up just a little.

Our pastor suddenly became ill. He recently learned that he has cancer, stage four, and it’s inoperable. While he is undergoing five weeks of intense chemotherapy, various members of our congregation are volunteering to take over parts of the service. When I went to sign up, the only spot open was leading Communion. For me, that was the scariest spot of all. I am not particular well-versed – literally – in the Bible. I didn’t feel qualified — at all — to preside over the whole bread-breaking, wine-serving process. Especially when I learned that the pastor would be in attendance that Sunday, albeit as a member of the congregation, not the guy behind the altar.

I could have taken the easy way out and read the script and the Scripture the pastor had so helpfully provided for volunteers like me. But I didn’t want to take the easy way out. I was hungry for a challenge, and here it was, handed to me on a wafer-laden Communion plate.

Once I got past my initial anxiety, I did what I’d always done when faced with writing about an unfamiliar topic: research. I typed “how to lead Communion” into my search and got myself up to speed knowledge-wise, as well as found a tidbit of information I used when writing my Communion message.

This past Sunday, I stood in front of the congregation in a very unfamiliar place – behind the altar – nervous but excited about sharing what I’d written. As with any writer, I wondered at the reaction my words would get, especially from the pastor.

After the service, the pastor sought me out. “It was perfect,” he said. I told him how nervous I’d been writing about something I knew little about, worried that I would get it wrong. He shook his head and smiled. “It was exactly right.”

Exactly right. Exactly what I needed to hear. It’s time again to start writing what I don’t know. I just don’t know where that will lead me. It’s kind of scary. But a good kind of scary.

“If you were stranded on a desert island, what three things would you want to have with you?”

“If you had a million dollars, how would you spend it?”

“If your house was on fire and you only had time to save three things and still get out safely, what would they be?”

These questions are usually used as ice breakers or conversation starters, or occasionally as pick-up lines posed by socially-awkward people. But a couple of weeks ago, I had the occasion to see one of these questions answered in real life, when a neighbor’s house caught fire.

I didn’t know this neighbor. I’d never talked to him. I might have waved to him. But I felt like I knew him. He was always outside, working on his classic cars, and it was evident, at least to me, that these cars were well-loved. The man had even built an extensive brick extension onto his existing garage to house his growing collection.

A couple of years ago, this neighbor had started another collection. He began acquiring inflatable holiday lawn decorations — Santa, a penguin, Snoopy, a giant snow globe. This year, there were more decorations than ever, which may have been the cause of what happened next.

In the middle of the afternoon, my neighbor was in his garage when the electrical box shorted out. The resulting fire was so intense, it raged for more than eight hours, consuming both garages and the back of the house. My neighbor got out, but had he had time to save anything other than his own life?

For two weeks, the garage stood boarded up, giving no clue to what may still be inside. Shortly thereafter, a swarm of workers appeared on the scene. They began stripping away the charred exterior of the garage, like meat from a barbequed rib. I tried to catch a glimpse of the interior, but even though the roof had melted and collapsed in the middle, it was still impossible to see much. Until today.

As I drove past my neighbor’s house, I saw that the interior of the garage was now completely exposed, giving me a full view of two car skeletons, one melted almost beyond recognition. I wondered about the fate of the third classic car I’d seen the man work on. And what about those cars that were destroyed? Were they valuable, one-of-a-kind cars? Family heirlooms? Were they insured? How is my neighbor dealing with all of this?

I’ll probably never know all the answer to these questions, but as writers, we tend to fill in the blanks and invent our own stories about the people we see and the things that happen. I may never get to ask my neighbor if he’d had time to think about what he could save when the fire broke out, or if he’d managed o save anything. But I can ask my main character in the middle-grade novel I’m working on what three things he would rescue if his house caught fire. I have a feeling that the answer may surprise me. Characters have a way of doing that.

So, how about you? What would you save from the fire?

“If you were stranded on a desert island, what three things would you want to have with you?”
“If you had a million dollars, how would you spend it?”
“If your house was on fire and you only had time to save three things and still get out safely, what would they be?”
These questions are usually used as ice breakers or conversation starters, or occasionally as pick-up lines posed by socially-awkward people. But a couple of weeks ago, I had the occasion to see one of these questions answered in real life, when a neighbor’s house caught fire.
I didn’t know this neighbor. I’d never talked to him. I might have waved to him. But I felt like I knew him. He was always outside, working on his classic cars, and it was evident, at least to me, that these cars were well-loved. The man had even built an extensive brick extension onto his existing garage to house his growing collection.
A couple of years ago, this neighbor had started another collection. He began acquiring inflatable holiday lawn decorations — Santa, a penguin, Snoopy, a giant snow globe. This year, there were more decorations than ever, which may have been the cause of what happened next.
In the middle of the afternoon, my neighbor was in his garage when the electrical box shorted out. The resulting fire was so intense, it raged for more than eight hours, consuming both garages and the back of the house. My neighbor got out, but had he had time to save anything other than his own life?
For two weeks, the garage stood boarded up, giving no clue to what may still be inside. Shortly thereafter, a swarm of workers appeared on the scene. They began stripping away the charred exterior of the garage, like meat from a barbequed rib. I tried to catch a glimpse of the interior, but even though the roof had melted and collapsed in the middle, it was still impossible to see much. Until today.
As I drove past my neighbor’s house, I saw that the interior of the garage was now completely exposed, giving me a full view of two car skeletons, one melted almost beyond recognition. I wondered about the fate of the third classic car I’d seen the man work on. And what about those cars that were destroyed? Were they valuable, one-of-a-kind cars? Family heirlooms? Were they insured? How is my neighbor dealing with all of this?
I’ll probably never know all the answer to these questions, but as writers, we tend to fill in the blanks and invent our own stories about the people we see and the things that happen. I may never get to ask my neighbor if he’d had time to think about what he could save when the fire broke out, or if he’d managed o save anything. But I can ask my main character in the middle-grade novel I’m working on what three things he would rescue if his house caught fire. I have a feeling that the answer may surprise me. Characters have a way of doing that.
So, how about you? What would you save from the fire?