It's a funny thing, one's subconscious. We writers conjure up all
manners of past experiences, conversations, people, places and faces.
And yet, details show up we have no recollection of having experienced
ourselves, in any sense of the word. So when someone asks me where my
ideas stem from, I just smile and murmur an answer about knowing how to
look for, and listen for, a good story. You see, my training in
listening for stories began when I was three, and has sculpted me
throughout my life to become what I am now, a historical fiction writer.
My training? I was essentially born into the world of living history. I suppose not many of us can boast experiencing life's day-to-day adventures of the 18th Century, but my fondest memories still bring me back to my youth...when kids still plugged into their own imaginations.
My training? I was essentially born into the world of living history. I suppose not many of us can boast experiencing life's day-to-day adventures of the 18th Century, but my fondest memories still bring me back to my youth...when kids still plugged into their own imaginations.
My
favorite smells in the world are woodsmoke, leather and horse sweat.
Combine the three and I'm a little girl again, running through meadows
in moccasins and a little deerskin dress, dodging teepees while catching
grasshoppers in tin lanterns and picking ox-eye daisies to decorate my
braids. By 1986, (I was seven) I knew how to row a canoe, drive a team
of mules, and con absolutely any man with a horse to give me a boost,
saddle not necessary. When no horses were available, a bale of hay
holding someone's saddle sufficed, and I imagined I was on my trusty
steed, gallivanting off into the sunset. Ladder-back chairs made for the
perfect train, and when enough of us kids got together around the
woodpile, teams were chosen and a very serious game of "Patriots and
Lobsterbacks" always followed. We were always the Patriots, and being
that I was often the only girl, I was always the one tied up, time and
again, waiting for my Patriots to break through enemy lines. Sometimes,
the boys fighting over me got a little bit too real. Wielding
fire-pokers, they dueled, and I wound up with the tip of a hand-forged
fire-poker embedded in my shoulder. I still bear the scar, and it brings
me nothing but bittersweet joy for the memories I've gained. I miss
those times, terribly. Years have a way of changing things, and I do not
often adjust well to change. Lifelong friends have been made and lost
over the years. We still reenact, and I still sit around campfires at
night, passing the jug, and quietly listen to my friends reminisce over
the good old days.
In
the old days, my solitude during the campfires was two-fold. If I was
quiet enough, maybe my parents would forget I was there and I wouldn't
have to retreat to the tent for the night. I wanted to stay up, because I
wanted to hear the adults tell their stories. One can pick up on grand
stories, if one knows how to listen. Over the years I learned to listen
intently. To this day I am often labeled as quiet and shy, but usually
I'm just listening for a juicy tidbit...a damn good story.
Sometimes, those damn good stories turn into scenes which, no matter how much you love them, you wonder if they are meant for the story. A decision must be reached...do I scrap the scene, or keep it?
One day I came up with the idea for a small, insignificant scene involving a small wooden cross. I could see the cross clearly in my mind. It was handcarved out of a wood with tiny mottled holes, and handwrapped with black sinew. I began jotting down the framework for the idea revolving around this cross to be gifted to my main character, a young woman from Philadelphia. (You’ll hear more of her later). The original scene didn’t seem to blend too well with what was going on in the story at the time, so I had decided, pretty much, to scrap it. Two days later, my uncle had an appointment in town and so he came for a short visit and a crash on our couch. The appointment also took him out of our place long before my husband and I rolled out of bed the next morning. I was going through my morning routine when I heard my husband ask “What’s that on the floor?” and I saw him bend down to pick something up. He carried the unknown object over to me and I held out my hand. He dropped the item in the palm of my hand; I looked down at it and the breath hitched in my throat. I started to quiver and I can only imagine the look on my face. There it was, the very same little wooden cross wrapped in black sinew… the very same mental cross I had written, and thought of scrapping, only days before.
Sometimes, those damn good stories turn into scenes which, no matter how much you love them, you wonder if they are meant for the story. A decision must be reached...do I scrap the scene, or keep it?
One day I came up with the idea for a small, insignificant scene involving a small wooden cross. I could see the cross clearly in my mind. It was handcarved out of a wood with tiny mottled holes, and handwrapped with black sinew. I began jotting down the framework for the idea revolving around this cross to be gifted to my main character, a young woman from Philadelphia. (You’ll hear more of her later). The original scene didn’t seem to blend too well with what was going on in the story at the time, so I had decided, pretty much, to scrap it. Two days later, my uncle had an appointment in town and so he came for a short visit and a crash on our couch. The appointment also took him out of our place long before my husband and I rolled out of bed the next morning. I was going through my morning routine when I heard my husband ask “What’s that on the floor?” and I saw him bend down to pick something up. He carried the unknown object over to me and I held out my hand. He dropped the item in the palm of my hand; I looked down at it and the breath hitched in my throat. I started to quiver and I can only imagine the look on my face. There it was, the very same little wooden cross wrapped in black sinew… the very same mental cross I had written, and thought of scrapping, only days before.
You
see, when my uncle found out about his illness, his brother carved that
little cross for him, and he has worn it under his shirt ever since.
This is why I have never seen it before. I gave the cross back to my
uncle, shivering as I told him the story. And in case you are wondering?
No, I did not scrap the scene. It will be there, bold as print, in my WIP
novel. I took a picture of my uncle's cross, the cross I envisioned my
character wearing days before it fell into my reality...just to remind
myself that the stories we write belong to our characters, it's their
story as much as ours. Sometimes it pays just to stop, listen, and let
them tell it.
Tell me, where do you gather your greatest inspiration for your own stories?
~Shayna Matthews
Tell me, where do you gather your greatest inspiration for your own stories?
~Shayna Matthews
