David Bell's Blog - Posts Tagged "david-bell"
SOMEBODY I USED TO KNOW: Behind the Scenes Part I
Whenever I give a reading or a talk, I inevitably get asked the question all writers get asked: Where do you get the ideas for your novels? Now, I could be a smartass about the whole thing and answer, “I subscribe to an idea service!” or “From the Idea Tree in my back yard!” But since I’m never sarcastic (that’s sarcasm) I thought I’d share some of the ways the story came together from the initial impulse to the revising and editing process.
So…where do I get those ideas?
The short answer is: Anywhere and everywhere. I’ve gotten ideas from stories on the news or even things I overhear in restaurants. Sometimes I just make everything up right out of my head. But I’ve also been known to “borrow” ideas from the lives of my friends. Let’s face it, if you’re friends with a writer and you tell that writer something really interesting, it’s pretty likely to end up in a book or story at some point. Maybe not exactly as it happened to you, but it will be there in some form. That’s what got me started down the road to writing SOMEBODY I USED TO KNOW…
You see I have this friend named Carl Janssen. Carl has had a good life. Good job, happy marriage, good kids. The worst thing that ever happened to Carl is something he can’t remember. When Carl was two years old, his father, Paul, died of cancer. Basically, Carl has no memories of his father, not a single one.
Even though Carl was raised by his mother and a loving stepfather, there can be no doubt who his biological father really is. I’ve seen the pictures. If you look at Carl’s high school graduation photo and then a photo of Carl’s father at the same age…it’s eerie. They’re identical. Hair color, eyebrows, face shape, lips. Identical.
But don’t take my word for it. Once when Carl was about twenty, he and his then girlfriend went shopping in a grocery store. A man Carl had never seen before—a man about the same age Carl’s father would be if he had lived—approached and said, “You have to be Paul Janssen’s son.” The man had never met Carl, but was once very good friends with his father and remembered him well. He picked Carl out from across the store and saw a resemblance that stretched across the years.
Carl isn’t an emotional guy. He’s not a particularly open guy. In all the years I’ve known him, and I’ve known him a long time, Carl has never really talked about his father or his father’s death. I always figured that since it happened when he was so young and since he never talked about it, he didn’t have strong emotions about the loss. I’m sure he thought about it, but I didn’t ever think the wound was raw.
But that’s a foolish thought. That day, Carl walked out of the grocery store and broke down crying in the parking lot. It was the first time he’d ever cried for his father, and it happened because someone—a complete stranger—saw that resemblance and commented on it.
SOMEBODY I USED TO KNOW begins with a similar encounter in a grocery store. Not exactly what happened to Carl, but when you read the book you’ll be able to see how that incident inspired the opening scene. Things that emotional and dramatic happen to all of us at one time or another. And how powerful would it be to see a face from your past, one you thought you’d never see again?
SOMEBODY I USED TO KNOW is available for pre-order here: http://tinyurl.com/l7fg928
So…where do I get those ideas?
The short answer is: Anywhere and everywhere. I’ve gotten ideas from stories on the news or even things I overhear in restaurants. Sometimes I just make everything up right out of my head. But I’ve also been known to “borrow” ideas from the lives of my friends. Let’s face it, if you’re friends with a writer and you tell that writer something really interesting, it’s pretty likely to end up in a book or story at some point. Maybe not exactly as it happened to you, but it will be there in some form. That’s what got me started down the road to writing SOMEBODY I USED TO KNOW…
You see I have this friend named Carl Janssen. Carl has had a good life. Good job, happy marriage, good kids. The worst thing that ever happened to Carl is something he can’t remember. When Carl was two years old, his father, Paul, died of cancer. Basically, Carl has no memories of his father, not a single one.
Even though Carl was raised by his mother and a loving stepfather, there can be no doubt who his biological father really is. I’ve seen the pictures. If you look at Carl’s high school graduation photo and then a photo of Carl’s father at the same age…it’s eerie. They’re identical. Hair color, eyebrows, face shape, lips. Identical.
But don’t take my word for it. Once when Carl was about twenty, he and his then girlfriend went shopping in a grocery store. A man Carl had never seen before—a man about the same age Carl’s father would be if he had lived—approached and said, “You have to be Paul Janssen’s son.” The man had never met Carl, but was once very good friends with his father and remembered him well. He picked Carl out from across the store and saw a resemblance that stretched across the years.
Carl isn’t an emotional guy. He’s not a particularly open guy. In all the years I’ve known him, and I’ve known him a long time, Carl has never really talked about his father or his father’s death. I always figured that since it happened when he was so young and since he never talked about it, he didn’t have strong emotions about the loss. I’m sure he thought about it, but I didn’t ever think the wound was raw.
But that’s a foolish thought. That day, Carl walked out of the grocery store and broke down crying in the parking lot. It was the first time he’d ever cried for his father, and it happened because someone—a complete stranger—saw that resemblance and commented on it.
SOMEBODY I USED TO KNOW begins with a similar encounter in a grocery store. Not exactly what happened to Carl, but when you read the book you’ll be able to see how that incident inspired the opening scene. Things that emotional and dramatic happen to all of us at one time or another. And how powerful would it be to see a face from your past, one you thought you’d never see again?
SOMEBODY I USED TO KNOW is available for pre-order here: http://tinyurl.com/l7fg928
Father's Day Tribute to Dad
This is a blog post I originally wrote in 2011, shortly after CEMETERY GIRL was released:
If you asked me to summon a mental picture of my dad it would be this: I’d see him the living room of the house I grew up in on Ferncroft Drive in Cincinnati, Ohio. He’d be sitting there on the couch with a cigar in his mouth, and he’d be reading a book. That’s how he spent most of his evenings during my childhood.
My dad died in January, and CEMETERY GIRL is dedicated to him not just because he’s my dad but also because I probably wouldn’t be a writer if it weren’t for him. As I’ve gone around and spoken to readers and given interviews about CEMETERY GIRL, I’ve been asked a lot about how and why I became a writer. And I can trace all the answers back to my dad.
I think all writers begin as readers. We love books and stories, and at some point, we decide to make the transition from reader to writer. We ask the question, What would it be like if I tried to tell a story of my own? I grew up in a house filled with the printed word. Like I said, my dad read all the time. Lots and lots of fiction, the kind of stuff probably thought of at one time as “men’s fiction.” He read Louis L’Amour constantly. He would read the same L’Amour novel over and over again and possessed multiple copies of some of his books. Dad also read Jack Higgins and Alistair Maclean. I remember he had a Jack Higgins book sitting around once when I was little. It was called THE KEYS OF HELL. Good Catholic boy that I was I wanted to know why it was okay for my dad to have a book with a bad word in the title. My dad told me that it didn’t count as a bad word when used in the title of a book.
Like most little boys, I wanted to be like Dad. One day, I decided I wanted to read one of his books. I’m not sure why I picked the one I picked, but I chose RED RUNS THE RIVER by Lewis B. Patten. This was a western published in the early 70s. Maybe I liked the alliterative title. Or maybe, even at that age, I was drawn to the striking image of a river running red with blood. Whatever the case, I read that book cover to cover. It might be the first grown-up book I ever read. To be honest, I don’t remember much about it except that a man’s family is killed, and most people think Indians committed the crime, but the protagonist finds out someone else is responsible. (As an aside, I have read more books by Lewis B. Patten as an adult, and his work holds up well. If you like noirish and fairly bleak westerns, he’s the guy. And great titles too like NO GOD IN SAGUARO or RIFLES OF REVENGE or RED SABBATH. Who can resist?) But not only did I read that book because I wanted to be like Dad. I think I read it because on some level I thought: If Dad spends so much time reading these books, they must be good. Reading these books must be a hell of a lot of fun. See, he chose to read. He wasn’t in school. He wasn’t being quizzed. My dad just loved to read. And so did I.
At the end of my dad’s life, he suffered from a rare neurological disorder called Progressive Supranuclear Palsy. Eventually it affected his vision so he could no longer read. When he was bedridden in his last months, I found one of Dad’s old Louis L’Amour novels, one called THE MAN FROM THE BROKEN HILLS. I asked Dad if he wanted me to read to him, and he said yes. So I read from the gospel of Louis. And a strange thing happened. My dad stayed awake at times he would normally fall asleep. When I thought he was tired, I would ask if he wanted to hear more, and he would tell me to go on. My mom is also a big reader but despises all things related to the Western genre. She hates John Wayne and has no patience for Louis L’Amour. But she started to listen too. We all laughed at the funny parts and tried to guess where the story was going and who was the bad guy and which girl the protagonist would end up with. The reading became a shared experience. And the story provided comfort for my dad in his last days. It was the least I could do for the man who gave me the gift of books.
If you asked me to summon a mental picture of my dad it would be this: I’d see him the living room of the house I grew up in on Ferncroft Drive in Cincinnati, Ohio. He’d be sitting there on the couch with a cigar in his mouth, and he’d be reading a book. That’s how he spent most of his evenings during my childhood.
My dad died in January, and CEMETERY GIRL is dedicated to him not just because he’s my dad but also because I probably wouldn’t be a writer if it weren’t for him. As I’ve gone around and spoken to readers and given interviews about CEMETERY GIRL, I’ve been asked a lot about how and why I became a writer. And I can trace all the answers back to my dad.
I think all writers begin as readers. We love books and stories, and at some point, we decide to make the transition from reader to writer. We ask the question, What would it be like if I tried to tell a story of my own? I grew up in a house filled with the printed word. Like I said, my dad read all the time. Lots and lots of fiction, the kind of stuff probably thought of at one time as “men’s fiction.” He read Louis L’Amour constantly. He would read the same L’Amour novel over and over again and possessed multiple copies of some of his books. Dad also read Jack Higgins and Alistair Maclean. I remember he had a Jack Higgins book sitting around once when I was little. It was called THE KEYS OF HELL. Good Catholic boy that I was I wanted to know why it was okay for my dad to have a book with a bad word in the title. My dad told me that it didn’t count as a bad word when used in the title of a book.
Like most little boys, I wanted to be like Dad. One day, I decided I wanted to read one of his books. I’m not sure why I picked the one I picked, but I chose RED RUNS THE RIVER by Lewis B. Patten. This was a western published in the early 70s. Maybe I liked the alliterative title. Or maybe, even at that age, I was drawn to the striking image of a river running red with blood. Whatever the case, I read that book cover to cover. It might be the first grown-up book I ever read. To be honest, I don’t remember much about it except that a man’s family is killed, and most people think Indians committed the crime, but the protagonist finds out someone else is responsible. (As an aside, I have read more books by Lewis B. Patten as an adult, and his work holds up well. If you like noirish and fairly bleak westerns, he’s the guy. And great titles too like NO GOD IN SAGUARO or RIFLES OF REVENGE or RED SABBATH. Who can resist?) But not only did I read that book because I wanted to be like Dad. I think I read it because on some level I thought: If Dad spends so much time reading these books, they must be good. Reading these books must be a hell of a lot of fun. See, he chose to read. He wasn’t in school. He wasn’t being quizzed. My dad just loved to read. And so did I.
At the end of my dad’s life, he suffered from a rare neurological disorder called Progressive Supranuclear Palsy. Eventually it affected his vision so he could no longer read. When he was bedridden in his last months, I found one of Dad’s old Louis L’Amour novels, one called THE MAN FROM THE BROKEN HILLS. I asked Dad if he wanted me to read to him, and he said yes. So I read from the gospel of Louis. And a strange thing happened. My dad stayed awake at times he would normally fall asleep. When I thought he was tired, I would ask if he wanted to hear more, and he would tell me to go on. My mom is also a big reader but despises all things related to the Western genre. She hates John Wayne and has no patience for Louis L’Amour. But she started to listen too. We all laughed at the funny parts and tried to guess where the story was going and who was the bad guy and which girl the protagonist would end up with. The reading became a shared experience. And the story provided comfort for my dad in his last days. It was the least I could do for the man who gave me the gift of books.
