Ever have those mornings when you wake up fine but the happy highlight of your day is your first cup of coffee and it goes downhill from there? Yesterday was one of those days. I already have a knot on the tendon at the base of my left thumb and I managed to really aggravate the poor, abused hand. It started with lunch.

I somehow managed to get pickle relish on my fingers and not having a paper towel handy, I chose to fling my hand toward the faucet and sink. I just remember turning slightly and thinking I’ll run my hand under the water and get the pickle relish off. Simple enough. Except I was half day dreaming about a scene in my wip at the time, working out the kinks (quite literally) and didn’t realize my late m-i-l’s heavy duty glass pitcher from the 40′s sat on the counter top in the direct path of my hand. Smack! Thankfully I didn’t hurt the pitcher, but my hand didn’t fare as well.

So instead of working on my kinky love scenes, (I understand writing ’til it hurts, and pushing through the pain to pour out your soul, but come on, I didn’t know they meant literally!) I sat in the living room with an ice pack on my hand, watching what passes for daytime TV these days. I knew things were bad, but when the best show on is a rerun of a 2010 episode of Kitchen Nightmares, you know daytime TV has gone to hell.

So I did what many people with a modicum of intellect do. I turned off the telly and grabbed a book. I chose to start Robert McCammon’s Speaks The Nightbird, Volume 2: Evil Unveiled. Somewhere in a steam trunk, tucked away in a closet, is volume 1 I think. But I was in no condition yesterday to dig through trunks of books to find it.*

Here’s the blurb:

Robert McCammon, author of the best-sellers Boy’s Life and Gone South, returns to the forefront of American fiction with Speaks the Nightbird.

Is there a witch in Carolina in 1699? The people of the town of Fount Royal think so. Her name is Rachel; she’s foreign, beautiful, and brave–no wonder so many people hate her.

Comes a traveling magistrate to hold a witch trial, and his clerk, Matthew. The evidence spells doom for Rachel: witch’s tools are found in her home, she will not speak the Lord’s Prayer, and witnesses swear they’ve seen her commit unspeakable acts with the Devil himself.

But Matthew hears the call of the nightbird. He wonders–is there any such thing as witchcraft? If Rachel can fly through the night on wings of evil, why hasn’t she escaped from the town gaol?

And the town itself–who murdered Rachel’s husband? How did the ratcatcher learn to hypnotize his prey? Who stands to gain if the witch is burned?

God and Satan are indeed at war in Fount Royal, and even the innocent are not safe. In the end, Matthew follows his head and his heart, and Rachel keeps an unlikely appointment with destiny.
I’ve made it to page 41 so far and can’t wait to get back to it. But until then, I need to return to writing my own story. Wish me luck. I’m typing one handed with deadlines looming.

Until next time…
~Cass

*(Nope. Found the book I was thinking of this a.m. and it’s not a volume anything. But it is an excellent McCammon book, They Thirst). So which book is considered Volume 1? If you know, please leave a comment. Thanks!)

Sometimes inspiration for a story comes from something you see or hear…all it takes are a few naughty little words… ;-)

In the case of my one work-in-progress, Naughty Little Secrets, the story developed when a friend of mine told me about how she is tired of reading romances where the guys are all billionaires or millionaires. She said those stories are nothing more than imitation Cinderellas. We agreed there need to be more blue collar heroes. So she told me about this guy she saw a couple of months back, when her car broke down and she had to call a tow truck. The guy took her to this garage he recommended since she was clueless where to take her car. Anyway, turns out that the owner of the repair shop and the tow truck guy were related, I think she said they were cousins. Anyway, the tow truck guy wasn’t bad looking, but he wasn’t great looking either, but more importantly, my friend isn’t into married men and this guy wore a band.

But the guy who owned the repair shop was hot she told me, and not wearing a ring…and she spent the next three hours fantasizing about this guy and trying to find out—subtly—if he was married or single. lol. I can just picture her there trying to ask all these guys, elbows deep in car parts and grease, if the dude she wanted was available. :P lol.

And she said, “I only wanted to know if he was fuckable.” Of course, I cracked up at this point. Oh yeah, I picture it too well.

But her encounter planted a seed in my head, and I started outlining a story with a handsome car repair guy as hero.

What do you think? Do you prefer more authentic and real down to earth guys with blue collar occupations, or maybe you like to mix it up and read both white and blue collar heroes?

Until Next time~

Cass