Storytellers are not writers...well, not just writers. Deborah Cota is a storyteller to her bones. She takes you into her novels like that gentle neighbor who invites you to sit beside her on the porch swing and sip some Lipton. Then once there, listening to that slender chain creak, you begin to see the tempting slips in reality telling you that you are somewhere you do not recognize. It's too late at this point, of course. Instinct tells you to find some place safe, but the other part -- that part Deborah finds so easily -- says "Okay. In a minute. But let's just see what happens next."
I am honored and thrilled that my friend and paranormal novelist Deborah Cota is guest blogging here today. And she's saved some of her best quirky off-the-wallness just for us.
You can find Deborah's first novel The Kindred on Amazon. Book two of The Dante Chronicles, The Brotherhood, will be available January 30, 2012
She also writes her own blog The Dante Chronicles.
-- Sam
The Muses: Clio, Euterpe, Thalia, Melpomeni, Terpsichore, Erato, Polymnia, Ourania and Calliope, were Greek deities said to have been sent to inspire man. What most history books don’t know is Zeus fathered a tenth Muse named Sandy; an incorrigible little imp with an attitude as high and wide as Mt. Olympus itself.
Sandy had been with me as a child, encouraging me to explore things and touch objects that invariably would raise my mother’s blood pressure and send her voice into the stratosphere. Sandy would whisper in my ear, “Go ahead and touch the expensive, ceramic statue. Play with the matchbook...its okay. Trust me!”
This would have been all well and good with most children, but being me and the klutz that I am, the statue ended up in pieces, the matches nearly singed my eyebrows off, and Sandy was not allowed to hang around anymore.
Thirteen years ago, when I toyed with the idea which is now The Dante Chronicles, I caught up with Sandy. I was sitting at an outdoor table in front of Starbucks, and she was sitting at a table next to me; mumbling to herself and shifting papers in front of her, looking and sounding a lot like Marisa Tomei in “My Cousin Vinny.”
“Hey! Remember me?” I asked.
Sandy looked me up and down. Wrinkling her forehead, she squinted, “Cat statue that shattered, and the big match plate that went poof, right?”
“Umm...yeah....”
“Yeah, I remember you? How’s your mom?”
“Good. She hasn’t forgotten you.”
“Most mom’s don’t.”
“What are you doing here?” I asked looking over at her table-top covered with pictures of paintings.
“Hell if I know...this guy...? He’s a bass player who wants so bad to be a painter like his girlfriend, but...I just don’t think I can get anything better out of him. Look at this mess! He’s worse than her! My Peekapoo could paint better with her tail.”
“You have a Peekapoo?”
“Yeah, her name is Trixie! Wanna see?” Sandy grabbed her over-stuffed wallet from a giant, bright-red purse and rolled out a photo strip of color portraits; every one was of Sandy and Trixie in matching outfits, posed like something out of an old Montgomery Wards catalog.
“Cute,” I said, smiling approvingly and doing my best Meryl Streep.
“Oh! That’s right! Acting classes with Dakin Matthews. Uh-huh. Very good. Oscar worthy, even.” Sandy turns her back to me, goes back to scrutinizing her photos, and sighs. Taking out my notebook, I start scribbling some notes on Eli and the cloaking spell and then stop to read what I’ve written.
“What’s the book about?” Sandy asks over her shoulder.
“What book?”
“The one you’re writing, Silly?”
Covering up my notebook, “Oh, I’m not writing a book, I...”
“Uh-huh...sure. What’s it about?”
“Really, it’s just some stuff I’ve goofed around with...”
Sandy gets up, turns her chair around and sits at my table, “Spill!”
“Well...I was thinking about a paranormal story...about a family that is split up and forced to fight demons to survive.”
“That’s it?”
“Well, like I said…I was just….”
“Got a villain?”
“Not yet.”
“Not yet? NOT YET?” Sandy reached behind her, grabbed her purse, pulled an iPad out and whipped her fingers across.
“What’s that?”
“Something new…you won’t see it for a few years. I just turned the idea over to Steve, a new client. You’ll love it when it comes out….Okay, let’s see…one, two, three, four, five….”
“What are you counting?”
“People who have hurt you, used you, broken your heart, or been needlessly mean to
you…twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-….”
“You have a list?”
“…thirty-three…of course. You don’t?”
“No…I try to forget all that.”
“Listen, kid…if you are going to write about demons and a family forced to fight, what better place do you have to conjure up the villains? Every writer does it…come on just try. What about her? Or him…Oh, he deserves to be ripped to shreds, got any plans for….”
“You are enjoying this way too much…” I said, packing up my notebook and coffee.
“Kid, listen…I know what you are keeping inside you and I know how much talent you have. You need to do something with this. You’re good. You just need a little push.”
Sandy leaned over and whispered something in my ear that I had pushed all the way to the back of my mind. I grabbed my pen, and wrote with force until the imprint of my writing pierced the page beneath.
“Corson? What is that?”
“Not what, Sandy. Who. It’s a combination of a few different names.”
“Ahhh…I like it. This is good. What about a love interest?”
“No…I don’t want to write anything like…”
“If you are writing about a family, then there is going to be love. May as well go for it all. Action, adventure…make it the book you’ve always wanted to read, but could never find.”
“But a love interest?”
“You of all people can do this with your eyes closed. Just picture the man you’ve never found and hope to meet one day…Write about your friends, family, acquaintances….”
“But a whole book? I don’t think I can…”
“Oh, honey,” Sandy said taking her purse and stuffing the pictures inside before standing up and pushing her chair back to her table. “Pull out all those composition notebooks of yours and paste it together. You had these books written twenty-years ago.”
Later that week, as I was constructing a real outline, I decided to take a break and go do some shopping. Walking around the now defunct Tower Records, I heard a song. When I got back in my car, I heard the same song. As I walked into Safeway, I heard the same song blasting from a shiny, black Charger.
So close no matter how far
Couldn't be much more from the heart
Forever trust in who we are
And nothing else matters
Couldn't be much more from the heart
Forever trust in who we are
And nothing else matters
All through the grocery store and on the way home, I was mumbling to myself these lines over and over till my sister looked at me and sternly said, “What the hell’s the matter with you?”
Deciding to stop for lunch at Emil Villa’s I told her of my plan and my meeting with Sandy.
“Oh, God…not her again!” my sister said, holding her head in her hands.
“Yes, her again…but I’m older now and I won’t be touching anything lethal.”
“That’s great, but why were you mumbling to yourself like that? I thought you were losing your mind!”
“I think she was sending me a message…you know, like a Muse is supposed to…the song…it’s my theme. The message I want to convey.”
“Metallica? Your message is Metallica?”
“No…well, yes…but no.”
I began to run my idea across to my sister and at a key moment of my explanation her eyes twinkled. I knew I had the right plan there and then. She reached in her purse and pulled out a tiny notebook and pen.
“Here…right it down.”
“What?”
“Write the lyric down so you’ll stop walking around mumbling to yourself. You were doing it all through the produce department at Safeway, and people were staring at you while you were reciting it to the tomatoes. I don’t want anyone thinking you’re as nuts as I know you are. I’m just grateful it wasn’t that sanitarium song or ‘Enter Sandman’.”
Now I was the one with the twinkling eyes! Thanks, Sandy!
Sandy still comes by now and again; usually just when I hit a small plot snag, or at first edit. Mom is a little more receptive to her, although she still hides the good china, her shoes, and locks-up our dog in the laundry room. After she leaves, my sister does some finger exercises to get ready for me because I usually write up a few thousand words or so, every day, for the next couple of months.
Encourage and be nice to your Muse. Troublesome or not, they are pretty good to have around.
