The Ghost and Mrs. Marion? ~ My Personal Experience with the Spirit World...
In anticipation of the launch for the second book in the Haunted Bluffs Mystery Series, STORM OF SECRETS, the following is a blog post from a virtual book tour when HOUSE OF ASHES was first released:
I’m often asked about the inspiration for my books and how I come up with story ideas. As observers of the world around us, writers find inspiration everywhere and in almost every person, place or thing. I jot down observations and ideas in one of the many notebooks I keep around my house, in my purse, in the car — if I can’t find a pen and paper when I see something intriguing, it sends me into a panic.
When I first came up with the concept for the story that became HOUSE OF ASHES, a paranormal element was not in the mix. I knew I wanted to weave together a present-day story with a related historic tale, however bringing Percy and Celeste Mitchell back to their beloved Battersea Bluffs as spirits didn’t come to me until after I’d completed the outline. I had the mystery plotted out and was pleased with the characters and their backstories, but as I began to rough out a draft, it just felt like more spice was needed to bring a unique richness to the story.
I turned to my go-to resource: the notebooks. I flipped through the pages of jotted notes, some so hastily written I could barely make them out, searching for another little gem to add. I was about to give up when in the back of one of my oldest writing journals I found a section where I had documented my experiences with Oswin Dickinson.
You may be asking, who is Oswin Dickinson? And I will answer that he was my very own version of Daniel Gregg, the sea captain apparition from the old classic, The Ghost and Mrs. Muir (1947 film that inspired a television series from 1968-1970). I did not live in a seaside cottage, nor was I a widow, and the ghost who visited me was not a sea captain. Instead, he was a Civil War Union soldier.
Newly married, my husband and I had just moved into our first home together. It was a rustic farmhouse and our property abutted a 300-year-old cemetery. Shortly after we moved in, the strange happenings began. Nothing sinister, but enough to make me question how I’d become so distracted. Why did my favorite jeans end up stuffed under the fluffy bath towels in the linen closet? How did my teacup end up on the fireplace hearth when I’d just set it down on the side table with my book? Who hid all my socks? What were those noises in the attic that sounded like someone playing tackle football? I would tentatively walk up the stairs only to find everything quiet and in order. No evidence of a squirrel or bird that somehow found its way in, as my husband had originally suggested. Our dog, Bartleby the bloodhound, began to bark and growl at empty spaces. I’d often find him pacing at the top of the stairs, afraid to come down. On more than one occasion when I walked up to assist him, I passed through a cold mass — of what? — I did not know.
We eventually learned that our neighboring cemetery was listed in an old book of haunted graveyards, and that’s when I decided we were sharing our home with a mischievous old spirit. Then as Bartleby continued to stop and growl at a certain tombstone in the cemetery, I was convinced our uninvited housemate was one Oswin Dickinson. There were other signs pointing to Oswin being our unearthly lodger, such as footprints in the snow that led from our front door to Oswin’s grave, and a sighting by our niece of a man standing in our kitchen, wearing an old-fashioned blue coat.
My husband once joked that Oswin had a crush on me and that’s why he chose our house. This suggestion took me back to my tween years when my mother and I would watch episodes of The Ghost and Mrs. Muir together. The Ghost and Mrs. Marion does not have the same catchy ring to it, but it was a fun little fantasy while it lasted. I did find Oswin to be a pleasant ghost to have around. As I reveal in the acknowledgements in the back of the book – Oswin is the first mention by the way – I’ve found that I miss having him around since moving from our Connecticut home.
There are plenty more incidents documented in the back of my old writing journal, but the point is, if I hadn’t kept that journal or documented my experience with our otherworldly visitor, I may not have been inspired to include a ghostly element to the story. HOUSE OF ASHES would have been an entirely different book...or maybe not written at all. So, thank you once again, Oswin Dickinson!
Storm of Secrets
I’m often asked about the inspiration for my books and how I come up with story ideas. As observers of the world around us, writers find inspiration everywhere and in almost every person, place or thing. I jot down observations and ideas in one of the many notebooks I keep around my house, in my purse, in the car — if I can’t find a pen and paper when I see something intriguing, it sends me into a panic.
When I first came up with the concept for the story that became HOUSE OF ASHES, a paranormal element was not in the mix. I knew I wanted to weave together a present-day story with a related historic tale, however bringing Percy and Celeste Mitchell back to their beloved Battersea Bluffs as spirits didn’t come to me until after I’d completed the outline. I had the mystery plotted out and was pleased with the characters and their backstories, but as I began to rough out a draft, it just felt like more spice was needed to bring a unique richness to the story.
I turned to my go-to resource: the notebooks. I flipped through the pages of jotted notes, some so hastily written I could barely make them out, searching for another little gem to add. I was about to give up when in the back of one of my oldest writing journals I found a section where I had documented my experiences with Oswin Dickinson.
You may be asking, who is Oswin Dickinson? And I will answer that he was my very own version of Daniel Gregg, the sea captain apparition from the old classic, The Ghost and Mrs. Muir (1947 film that inspired a television series from 1968-1970). I did not live in a seaside cottage, nor was I a widow, and the ghost who visited me was not a sea captain. Instead, he was a Civil War Union soldier.
Newly married, my husband and I had just moved into our first home together. It was a rustic farmhouse and our property abutted a 300-year-old cemetery. Shortly after we moved in, the strange happenings began. Nothing sinister, but enough to make me question how I’d become so distracted. Why did my favorite jeans end up stuffed under the fluffy bath towels in the linen closet? How did my teacup end up on the fireplace hearth when I’d just set it down on the side table with my book? Who hid all my socks? What were those noises in the attic that sounded like someone playing tackle football? I would tentatively walk up the stairs only to find everything quiet and in order. No evidence of a squirrel or bird that somehow found its way in, as my husband had originally suggested. Our dog, Bartleby the bloodhound, began to bark and growl at empty spaces. I’d often find him pacing at the top of the stairs, afraid to come down. On more than one occasion when I walked up to assist him, I passed through a cold mass — of what? — I did not know.
We eventually learned that our neighboring cemetery was listed in an old book of haunted graveyards, and that’s when I decided we were sharing our home with a mischievous old spirit. Then as Bartleby continued to stop and growl at a certain tombstone in the cemetery, I was convinced our uninvited housemate was one Oswin Dickinson. There were other signs pointing to Oswin being our unearthly lodger, such as footprints in the snow that led from our front door to Oswin’s grave, and a sighting by our niece of a man standing in our kitchen, wearing an old-fashioned blue coat.
My husband once joked that Oswin had a crush on me and that’s why he chose our house. This suggestion took me back to my tween years when my mother and I would watch episodes of The Ghost and Mrs. Muir together. The Ghost and Mrs. Marion does not have the same catchy ring to it, but it was a fun little fantasy while it lasted. I did find Oswin to be a pleasant ghost to have around. As I reveal in the acknowledgements in the back of the book – Oswin is the first mention by the way – I’ve found that I miss having him around since moving from our Connecticut home.
There are plenty more incidents documented in the back of my old writing journal, but the point is, if I hadn’t kept that journal or documented my experience with our otherworldly visitor, I may not have been inspired to include a ghostly element to the story. HOUSE OF ASHES would have been an entirely different book...or maybe not written at all. So, thank you once again, Oswin Dickinson!
Storm of Secrets
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