Rainy Sunday Musing

At least it is here in St. Louis. We woke up to rolling thunder. 

I’m still hunkered down in the editing cave, working on the second Tourist Trap mystery and thinking about sunny California and my adventures a few years ago.

I was divorcing my husband of 17 years and needed some time alone to figure out where my life was taking me. Later I realized that mental exercise would take years and still isn’t complete. As I visited with my sister during the evenings over dinner, I talked about my adventures during the day.  

I drove the Santa Barbara road where James Dean crashed his car. I had lunch in a Mexican restaurant in a plaza – feeding the pigeons at my feet. I found a rose on the San Diego beach, washed up from a burial at sea. I visited missions and walked through the cool rooms, feeling the history. And I found a small tourist town with a run down dilapidated house that wouldn’t leave my memory.

As an author, I’m often asked where I get my ideas for stories. In fact, my 87 year old mother doesn’t understand how I make up that many worlds. (I would think she of all people would understand my gift for the story.)

My only answer, is the stories come to me. Mostly from places, like that old house. And a dark bar, smelling of beer. And a rodeo parade, watching the horse teams ride by. And an airport. And a big cat sanctuary.

 

And I’m glad they choose me to tell their stories.