Authors: Terry Odell
Finding Fire (7 page)
Her heart swelled, and any lingering doubts
that Randy regretted not being her first love vanished. "Tucker
Detweiler. Quite a handle for a little one." She smiled. "But if
he's anything like his dad, he'll grow into it." She leaned over
and kissed him. "Have I told you how much I love you?"
"Tell me later. Right now we need to get you
to the hospital."
*****
"I hate you, Randy Detweiler." Sarah gasped.
"I hate you. And if you ever come near me again, I'll …kill … oh,
God, here we go again."
"Atta girl, Sarah," Dr. Zellner said. "One
more push. Lend a hand, Dad, she won't really kill you. This is it.
Good girl."
The seemingly endless contraction passed.
Seconds later, a newborn's cry filled the room. With Randy behind
her, lifting her shoulders, Sarah strained to look. "Is everything
all right?"
"Perfect," Dr. Zellner said. "You've got a
boy. A nice, healthy baby boy."
Sarah lay back in euphoric exhaustion and
beamed at Randy, who wiped his eyes.
The nurse laid the squawking bundle on her
belly. "Here. He's perfect, but I'm sure you'll want to count
fingers and toes while the doctor finishes down there."
Sarah marveled at the tiny piece of
perfection in her arms. She drew Randy's huge hand down to the
infant's tiny one. "Good morning, Tuck. Say hi to your daddy."
* * * * *
And, just for fun, one more—this time, it's
the characters who have taken over.
Or
Who Says Characters Aren't
Real?
Copyright © 2010 by Terry Odell
Acknowledgements
Thanks to the original gang at the iVillage
Short Story Board for those fun OTE exercises, and for all the
positive reinforcement a new author needed. To Suzanne Brockmann
for showing me how real the author-character relationship can be.
And, of course, to Randy and Sarah. It's been a fun ride!
As a writer, one of the most frequent
questions I'm asked is, "Where do you get your ideas?" And running
a very close second is, "How do you come up with your characters?"
My answer to the first is usually, "Everywhere." For the second,
the reply is obvious. I advertise. How else would I find them?
Of course, handling the
job interviews as the applicants come in—well, that's another
story. This is what happened when I interviewed an applicant for
the heroine's role in
Finding
Sarah
.
* * * * *
THE OTHER SIDE OF THE
PAGE
"Thanks," I say, my face aching from the
polite smiles I've been forcing all day. "I'll be in touch." I
escort the interviewee to the door, take a deep breath and go back
to my desk. I pick up the last yellow file folder and scan the
first page of the resume within. Sarah Tucker. Thirty-one. A little
old for what I have in mind. I wonder how long ago her picture was
taken. I lean across my desk and push the intercom button. "All
right, Jess," I say to my assistant. "Send in the next
applicant."
The door opens and a
perfect girl-next-door stands there. Wearing a navy-blue suit with
a blouse buttoned
above
her collarbone. A refreshing change from all the
silicone enhancements I've been staring at all day. She even has
freckles across her nose and cheeks. No problem casting her in her
twenties.
"Come in," I say, my smile a little less
forced. "Have a seat."
She steps into the room. Pumps. She's
wearing pumps. A little worn in the heels, but polished. It's as if
she's read my synopsis—which is impossible because I haven't
written it yet.
She sits in the seat across from my desk,
clutching her purse—which matches her shoes, for God's sake—on her
lap. "Thanks. I'm Sarah Tucker. I'm here for the job interview. For
the romance novel heroine."
"Yes, I have your resume. I'm Terry Odell,
and I'm the author. Let's get started. Tell me why you want a job
in a romance novel."
I brace myself, waiting
for the canned,
I want to bring happiness
into the lives of poor, bored housewives
speech. But she doesn't say anything for a minute. She fusses
with the hem of her skirt. (Mental note: Good nervous
gesture.)
"I have to be honest. My business—I have a
small gift shop—hasn't been doing well and I need a little extra
cash. My neighbor—Maggie, she's the mother-hen type—well, she saw
your ad and talked me into coming in for an interview."
"Any experience?"
"Experience with what? I've never been in a
novel before, if that's what you mean. But I've read quite a
few."
"More with the romance part. Your resume
says you're single."
"Actually, I'm a widow. My husband died in a
car accident about a year ago. I guess I'm lonely too, which is
probably why I let Maggie talk me into trying out. You know, to
ease back into the world again but with kind of a safety net. I
mean, it's fiction right? I'd be pretending to fall in love, but it
wouldn't be like I was betraying the memory of my husband." She
looks around, as if she's afraid someone else might be watching.
Lowers her voice as if she's afraid to be overheard. "David and
I—well, we had a…um…healthy relationship. It's been a long
time."
"Very good." No problems trying to justify a
twenty-eight-year-old innocent heroine. I check my notes. "How do
you feel about tall men?"
"Not a problem."
"Cops?"
Her eyebrows lift a fraction. "Never really
thought about it. Are you telling me the hero is a tall cop?"
"I haven't cast him yet, but that's the
plan."
"I'm fine with that. Nothing like a man with
a badge. Or a big gun." Her cheeks turn pink. "It is fiction, after
all."
Excellent. I think for a
moment, jot another note. What if she's more experienced than my
hero? Might make a nice twist. But subtle. No way would a
thirty-something-year-old cop be
that
inexperienced. But it could be
a fun first-encounter scene.
I consult my list again. "Your hair—would
you cut it?"
She looks at me as if I'm nuts. Maybe I am,
but I like to see my characters when I'm writing and if we're going
to be working together, she's got to be willing to look the
part.
She runs her fingers through her
shoulder-length hair. "Um…sure. Why not? It'll grow back."
"What about cats?"
"I'm allergic."
"Hmm." I think about the three cats and
their pivotal roles in the plot.
Her expression shifts and
I can tell she's into the fantasy now. She
wants
the job. "Oh, but I can handle
it. I can take pills or get shots or whatever," she
says.
Her eyes brighten to a shade of blue that
matches the sodalite stone in the pendant one of my critique
partners gave me. It's supposed to enhance creativity. I've been
wearing it day and night for the last three months.
Her excitement is contagious. "I don't think
that will be necessary. I can minimize your scenes with the
cats."
"You'd change the book for me?" She sounds
incredulous.
"Let me explain. I'm what the industry calls
a "pantser."
She cocks her head. "I…um…I can't say I've
ever heard the term."
"I write by the seat of my pants, so to
speak. I don't always know where the plot will take me and I rely
on character input. How do you feel about that? You won't just come
in and recite the words on the page. I might ask for your
suggestions."
"That sounds like fun. I studied art, not
writing, but there's a basis of creativity in both areas, don't you
think?"
"Definitely. One more question. Writing is
all about rewriting. How would you feel if you spent three chapters
covering a series of plot points, and then I changed my mind, threw
them out and we started over?"
"I think it sounds exciting. So this would
be a collaborative effort?"
"Very much so. Can you handle it?"
She leans forward, her eyes widening. "Does
this mean you're offering me the job?"
I look at the file folders in my "Reject"
stack and at the empty "To Be Interviewed" basket. "Well, we have a
few things to iron out. Liability insurance, for one thing.
Romantic suspense can get dangerous." I wait for her to change her
mind, the way the only other candidate to reach this point had.
Instead, she smiles.
"But I'm not going
to
die
or
anything? You're not allowed to kill the heroine in a romance
novel, right? It's fiction. It's not like this stuff is happening
to me for real, is it? Just to my character. Nothing
really
bad will happen,
will it?"
I don't tell her about the
climax of the book. And she's right. Kind of. Bad stuff happens,
but I guess it boils down to everyone's individual definition
of
really
bad. I
smile and drop my gaze to her resume. Her every thought is
telegraphed on her face and I have doubts about how well I'm hiding
mine.
"There's one last thing," I say. "The
contract is contingent upon compatibility with the hero. Once I
narrow down the choices, I'll call you back."
"I understand. But I'm sure there won't be
any problems."
"From what I've seen today, I'm inclined to
agree. Thank you for coming in."
She stands, smiles and offers her hand. I
walk her through the outer office and hold the door for her. When
she's gone, I turn to Jess.
"You got those hero lead files?"
"Right here," she says.
"Who was that tall one? With the sexy eyes
and that cute way he pushed his hair away from his face? Rugged.
Handsome, but not gorgeous—the kind of guy you'd trust."
Jess flips through a stack of applications
and extends one to me. "Randy Detweiler."
I refresh my memory. Brown hair, brown eyes.
I look more closely. Hazel flecks. And a little scar through his
eyebrow. Oh yeah. He'd be perfect. "Great. Get him on the phone.
See if he's free at four."
*****
Randy's interview went
well and shortly thereafter, work on
Finding Sarah
began in earnest. I've
tried to stay at least three scenes ahead of them, and I'm
impressed with the way both have adapted to some of the rewrites,
especially when I had to create and cast a new character—a
sister-in-law for Sarah. Diana was no problem and accepted her
brief appearance without complaint. I think she enjoyed the scene
where she got to flirt brazenly with Randy. I know he tolerated it
like a trouper.
But every now and then, a character manages
to surprise an author. I thought I had Randy pegged, until he
requested an appointment with me.
"Come in, Randy," I say. We'd been working
together for a couple of months now but I still can't get used to
how tall he is. I've written him as six-six, but I have a hunch
he's even taller. However, he's comfortable with his height and
walks with an easy grace across my office, glancing around before
settling himself on the couch.
I remember his awkwardness at our initial
interview. Like he was afraid it was a stereotypical casting couch
and he might have to "buy" his way into the job, or I was going to
make him demonstrate that he could handle the sex scenes.
"What can I do for you?" I ask.
His lips curve up in a shy smile and he
shoves a lock of hair off his forehead. "I…um…I had a suggestion.
For my character."
I give him my full attention now. He's never
demanded—heck, he's never even suggested—anything. Maybe he's
nervous. The first scene on today's schedule is the first real sex
scene with Sarah. It's not like he's naïve or anything, but I know
how characters can get self-conscious when they're actually asked
to perform on cue. At least he's not one of the cocky ones, no pun
intended, who thinks he can take over the scene.
"Well, I was looking at the pages. You know
how, afterward, we're hanging on the couch eating pizza. I'm
watching a basketball game and Sarah's just sitting there trying
not to be bored. I thought maybe you'd let me play piano for
her."
I feel my jaw drop. I search my memory for
his initial interview. "Piano? You play the piano?"
He ducks his head and nods. "Yeah. I haven't
played in awhile—long story, old memories. But after working with
Sarah on this book thing, well…she's made me a lot more comfortable
with my past and I'd like to get back into it. I thought it might
work for the plot."
"You can really play the piano?" I ask,
sounding too much like a babbling idiot instead of a writer in
control of the manuscript.
"Yes. Would you like to hear?" he asks. "I'd
be happy to play something for you—an audition, if you want."
"No, that won't be necessary. I believe you.
What's your preference?"
He shrugs. "Doesn't matter. I play it all.
Classical, rock, jazz. I worked my way through college playing in
lounges."
Okay, so now I'm scribbling notes like mad.
"You can do Simon and Garfunkel?"
He grins. "Piece of cake."
"What about something melancholy? One of
those melodies that make the world stop?"
"I think I can handle
that. Beethoven's "
Pathetique"
should work."
I stand and walk around the desk. He remains
seated, not because he's rude but because he knows our eyes will be
level. I shake his hand. "Take a couple of hours off while I
rewrite. See you at three."
