I’m running a little late this week. That’s been the story of my life lately while I work to bring my post apocalyptic series to an end. Without further adieu let’s get into this.
One of the most common questions a writer hears is, “Where do you get your ideas?”
Being the typical smart ass that I am, I sometimes reply they come from the idea tree.
But the real answer, when authors are willing to admit it, is simple, yet elusive. Ideas emerge from some of the most unexpected places. Maybe a fleeting moment, a snippet of conversation, or even a dream. For some, inspiration is rooted in personal experience or observation. Mark Twain famously based Huckleberry Finn on a childhood friend, proving that real life often provides the richest material for fiction.
Other writers find their muse in the world around them. News stories, historical events, or even graffiti can spark that “what if?” moment that leads to a compelling narrative. Many authors, like Stephen King and Neil Gaiman, describe their ideas as arriving unbidden. Sometimes half-remembered, sometimes fully formed, yet always demanding attention.
In his book On Writing, Stephen King spoke of ideas using the cup and the handle metaphor. How some ideas do not arrive fully formed and ready to go. But they get catalogued anyway until the idea that represents the handle or the cup arrives to complete the set.
But the secret isn’t just in having ideas. It’s in recognizing their potential. Writers train themselves to notice the unusual, the poignant, or the extraordinary in everyday life. They jot down stray thoughts, nurture them, and let them grow into stories. Sometimes, inspiration comes from other art forms, travel, or even the simple act of people-watching.
For me personally I watch strangers. I work part time at Wally World, and I’ve wasted a few moments building narratives in my mind for the lives of the shoppers around me. Simple little tales that at times uncover a deeper narrative that refuses to be set aside. Like a hidden treasure trove of ideas that emerge from a simple act.
Every writer’s process is unique. The magic comes with being open to inspiration while being brave enough to follow these ideas to where they ultimately lead. Turning ordinary moments into extraordinary tales.
I’m still working on figuring out how to do these interviews with my characters so please bear with me. I’ve renamed the post, after all when I interview a character, I’m having a conversation with myself. This week I talk to Susan, the lead character in my novel Cursed.
Susan is a middle-aged woman in her late thirties who takes care of herself and has a positive outlook on life. Slender with straight brown hair kept at an average length. There is warmth in her smile, and her eyes. She seems open and caring to those around her. Yet she carries an aura of sadness, as if there were a weight we cannot see bearing down on her.
RS: What brought you to Porter Mines?
S: My husband died in Iraq.
RS: I’m so sorry for your loss.
S: Thank you. I wanted our daughter, Christine, to be close to his parents who live in Oakland. The farmhouse in Porter Mines was nearby and was listed at a pretty good price. But had I known what I know now, I would never have moved there.
RS: Why is that?
S: Every small town has its secrets. Most are harmless little tales designed to scare kids. Or secrets everyone knows about. Like infidelity among the members of the council. Or certain people looking the other way when members of the council get drunk. Things of that nature. But Porter Mines was different, its secret is dangerous, even more so for my daughter.
Here Susan becomes visibly upset and struggles to control herself. After a few moments she gets herself under control and wipes away her tears. Christine enters the room, crosses to her mommy and climbs into her lap. She’s a cute little thing carrying a stuffed bunny nearly as large as she is.
S: I mean I didn’t know my maiden name was associated with the founders of the town who lived under this old curse.
RS: What curse was that?
S: According to the stories an old woman in the late seventeen hundreds got sick. The area was mostly virgin forest and there were Indians nearby. The people at the outpost believed she was a witch. They got together and dragged her from her home to burn her at the stake. It was said that with her dying breath she cursed every generation that would stain this land.
C: That’s the witch, but it’s okay, daddy will take care of us.
Susan glances at Christine with an expression of sorrow.
RS: The witch?”
C: She’s real, I saw her, but nobody believes me.
RS: How will your daddy protect you?
Here Christine breaks into a wide smile as she pulls the bunny tight against her chest.
C: He’s here, in my bunny. If you listen real close you can hear his heartbeat. He told me that as long as I had the bunny with me, he would always be with me.
RS: Did you dad buy the bunny for you?”
C: No, he won it. It had to be earned.
RS: Earned?
C: That’s what the man at the carnival said. Daddy said it would be cheaper to just buy one. But the man at the carnival said it had to be earned.
RS: What had to be earned?
Christine shrugged as she twisted around in her seat to look up at her mom.
S: He won the bunny at a roadside carnival the day before he shipped out. I got so mad at him because he spent so much money to win it. But looking back I was wrong. The bunny helped us get through the worst of everything after he died. It was a constant reminder of his love for us.
C: Yeah, that’s what I said.
RS: What about your parents Susan?
S: My father died when I was young, and my mother passed several years ago.
RS: I sense you were not close with her?
S: Not at all, she’s the reason my brother killed himself. She started listening to a TV preacher and made me and my brother’s life miserable.
RS: I’m so sorry to hear that. It looks like you’ve adapted.
S: You can’t live in the past.
RS: So true. Is there anything you’d like to share with our readers before we go?
S: If you have children, listen to them when they tell you things that seem made up. They see things we can’t, they believe things we’ve turned our back on, and because of that the night holds a danger we cannot see.
Cursed
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After the loss of her husband, Susan sought a safe place to rebuild a life for herself and her six-year-old daughter, Christine. Quaint and picturesque, Porter Mines seemed ideal, but Susan soon learns appearances can be deceiving.
Like many small towns, the history of Porter Mines was woven in a tapestry of dark secrets. One centered on a witch, who vowed with her dying breath to claim vengeance against those who wronged her. A ghost story rooted in grisly truth.
Can Susan protect Christine from a wrath even death couldn’t tame?
Or will her only child fall prey to the curse of Porter Mines?
Even if he could, he realized with a cold chill, if he revealed who he really was, he’d simply vanish, dead at the bottom of an unmarked grave, if they even went to that extent. Disposing of a dead body on a working farm was a simple matter. Farms were a deadly place to the uninitiated, and even lifelong farm hands had been known to lose fingers to thrashing steel.
He was on his own. He couldn’t rely on those around him. He had to escape, but how? How did a naked man flee from a corporate farm in the middle of nowhere? With no clothes, no tools, nothing, or no one to help.
Gus, the name popped into his mind, and he turned it over in his thoughts as if he were rolling it around on his tongue to ensure it fit.
Is that my name?
As he tested the name, he noticed one of the farmhands watching him intently. Beneath the straw hat he saw the familiar outline of a large jaw outlining the bloodless line of a narrow strip of lips.
Brodie, he knew him, and a memory blossomed in his mind. Brodie used to come into the co-op all the time. He’d buy a couple of bags of shelled corn and go on his way with nary a word. But there were some subtle differences between this Brodie and the one he remembered. The most obvious being the difference between in are. This Brodie appeared much younger than the one he recalled. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he’s a relative of the Brodie I knew.
Their eyes locked, recognition sparking between them. Brodie was the first to look away and Gus suddenly realized just how precarious his predicament had become. They knew him. They knew he was here. Which meant he’d never leave this place alive.
“Move em along boys, let’s get em fed and dressed before we bed em down for the night.”
They were moved to an adjoining room, forced into single file with short whips their handlers took joy in using. Here they were each given a burlap poncho and instructed in how to put it on. Standing a few inches taller than the rest, his hair much darker than the sandy color of those around him, it wasn’t long before he drew unwanted attention.
“What do we have here? A mutant? The man who was in charge said as he approached Gus. He was several inches shorter, his flesh the color of tanned leather, compliments of a lifetime spent farming. He looked up at Gus with hard eyes that sparkled in the shadow cast by the brim of his hat.
“You’re not going to give me a hard time? Are you boy?”
Gus shook his head trying his best to mimic the slack expression of the others around him. He must have succeeded as the boss held his gaze for a moment before nodding and stepping back.
After receiving their poncho that served to cover their naked flesh, but not much else, they were herded into the next room where tables waited. Here they were fed a watery gray gruel with a gritty texture. There was little taste and as Gus gazed down at his bowl, he saw his neighbor try to take it. He placed his hand on his neighbor’s arm, stopping him.
With a shriek his neighbor jumped to his feet, slapping him around his head and shoulders. All Gus could do was cover up as the blows fell and several of the farm hands made their way through the crowd to intercede. After his attacker had been pulled away a rough hand yanked on the collar of his poncho, pulling it tight against his throat and forcing him to lean back in his seat.
In fiction, inanimate objects are more than props. Many become vessels of meaning, or catalysts for change, and sometimes, characters in their own right. From ancient myths to contemporary novels and films, these objects shape stories and reveal truths about humanity.
Classic works like The Lord of the Rings, use the Ring as a symbol of power and corruption, while The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe transforms a wardrobe into a portal for adventure. But modern fiction continues this tradition with fresh creativity.
Contemporary fantasy abounds with powerful objects. In A Darker Shade of Magic by Victoria E. Schwab, magical artifacts called “bones” allows characters to travel between versions of the city of London. Each with its own rules and dangers. Iron Flameby Rebecca Yarros features relics that shape destinies and test loyalties. Brandon Sanderson’sAlcatraz Versus the Evil Librarians introduces a magical bag of sand with a mind of its own, while The Black Prism by Brent Weeks centers on a sentient knife that manipulates its wielder.
Modern stories often give objects a life of their own. In The Neverending Story, a magical book writes itself as the protagonist reads, blurring the line between reader and character. In House of Flame and Shadow by Sarah J. Maas, enchanted objects drive the plot and deepen the world-building. These items are not just tools. They’re companions, antagonists, and mirrors for the characters’ inner lives.
Cinema also harnesses the power of objects. In Toy Story, toys come alive, exploring themes of friendship and identity. Cast Away turns a volleyball named Wilson into a symbol of hope and loss. In Pulp Fiction, a gold watch becomes a motif for legacy and sacrifice, driving the protagonist’s choices.
Some authors are known to use inanimate objects they own or have seen to inspire them to write the stories they create. André Breton, the surrealist founder was inspired by a “slipper spoon” found at a flea market, seeing it as a “dream object” holding subconscious power.
In his dedication for Sourcery, Terry Pratchett wrote: Many years ago I saw, in Bath, a very large American lady towing a huge tartan suitcase very fast on little rattly wheels which caught in the pavement cracks and generally gave it a life of its own. At that moment the Luggage was born…
For me personally two objects have inspired the books I’ve written. The first was a stuffed teddy bear I found at goodwill. It was scruffy, with one stubby arm in a sling, and well-worn which to me meant it had been loved. Abandoned by an owner who outgrew the comfort it once provided, or maybe it served as a reminder of something far more sobering and wound up at goodwill as a result. That’s the way my mind works.
When I saw it, I immediately flashed on an image of an abandoned teddy bear sitting forgotten amidst the rubble of world that has moved on. This served as the inspiration for a short story that grew to become a book that insisted it should be a series. Thus, This Lawless Land was born. I’m currently 50,000 words into book six, the final installment. Lair of the Broken Queen. If everything pans out as I hope it will, the complete series will become available towards the end of this year.
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This is an image the bear as I was setting up the photos for the cover of Legion of the Damned. Since then I’ve learned to let other, more capable people create my covers.
The bunny I used in Cursed, released in 2020 was inspired by the stuffed bunnies Wal-Mart was selling for Easter one year. This bunny serves as a vessel for the love of Christine’s father who died in Iraq. Earned at a roadside carnival several days before he shipped out. If you want to know the full story, you’ll have to read the book.
Another character in the story, Sheriff Paul Odenton, will return in a loose sequel due out later this year. I don’t have the final title yet but will let you know when I do. I will also be interviewing Sheriff Odenton this Friday, so check back then, and don’t forget this Wednesday I’ll be updating my current ongoing story I AM.
In my newsletter, this month I shared a chapter from my work in progress, Bitter Hollow, my first foray into a first-person narrative. Next month I will be sending out the short story Covenant, based on promises made, and promises remembered.
If you haven’t signed up yet, please do, you’ll get a free book only available to my subscribers. Follow the link below.
As I’ve found it difficult to find participants for my weekly Fridays 5, I’ve decided to interview the characters from the books I’ve written. This is my first time trying this so bear with me.
This week I give you Jimmy, an eleven year old who helped with the survivors at the Willowbrook Apartments where he lived with his mom. If you want to learn more about Jimmy and what he went through scroll down to the bottom of the page to get a copy of Zomething Dead This Way Comes. It’s free, well all I ask for is an email address in exchange for this full length novel I’m sure you will enjoy.
Let us begin
Jimmy is eleven and carries himself with the air of someone who knows they are right. Yet he seems hesitant to accept who he is. He and his mother moved to Willowbrook Apartments several months prior to the events that unfold in Zomething Dead This Way Comes. As he enters the room he crosses to the chair and settles into his seat, glancing around with unrestrained curiosity. Outwardly he appears alert and responsive, yet slightly withdrawn.
RS: What brought you and your mother to Willowbrook?
The question immediately puts him on guard, and he wipes at his eyes to hide the tears threatening to spill down his cheeks.
J: My Dad died in a fire. (Here he falters as he lowers his head and struggles to bring himself under control. When he looks up it’s obvious he’s very proud of his dad.) He was a section chief for the Richmond Fire Department and became trapped in a warehouse, but he saved his crew before the building collapsed. So, he’s a hero. Mom couldn’t afford to keep up with all the bills, he didn’t have enough life insurance to cover the house, so she let the house in Reeds Landing go, and we moved here.
RS: Do you miss your dad?
J: Of course, but he always taught me that these things happen. That we only have a little control over our future. I believe in a way he was preparing me for what might happen.
RS: When you say control, what do you mean?
J: You know, such as the money you make, your life choices. Who you end up with and if you’re happy. That’s under your control. Like my Dad. If your choice puts you in danger, there’s a bigger chance of getting killed than if you worked in an office all day. Your chance is never zero because things happen. But working in a place where you go into burning buildings all the time, narrows that chance.
RS: What was your childhood like?
J: I’d say better than most, but not as good as some. There were rules I had to follow, chores I had to do, but I didn’t mind. I had to keep my grades up too. My dad always said if you want something you have to work for it, and if you must work, do the best you can no matter what the job is.
RS: Do you have any dreams?
J: I think we all have dreams, no matter what your life might be like, it can always be better. Right now, my dream is to find a safe place to sleep. Somewhere I can let my guard down and be a kid again, but I don’t think that’s gonna happen anytime soon.
RS: What scares you?
J: Before the awakening I was always afraid of losing my family, of becoming an orphan. I knew a kid in school whose parents were killed in a car accident. Before it happened, he was always happy, listened to the teachers and did his homework. After it happened, he became a different person.
He stopped listening and seemed to be hiding inside himself. He was only in school for a couple of weeks after they died. One day he never showed up. Later we learned he had been placed in foster care. After my dad died I was so afraid something was going to happen to my mom, and I’d have to go to foster care too.
Now you have to be careful with anyone you meet. You won’t know until the last moment if they’re friendly or willing to cut your throat to take what you have. I’m sure there are still good people out there, but you can’t assume everyone is going to be nice.
RS: What would you say is your biggest weakness?
J: What do you mean?
RS: Like what is something you find hard to do?
J: Hurt people, unless they deserve it. I trust people too much. I’d like to believe there are more nice people out there, but I know I’m wrong.
RS: If you could have anything in the world, what would you want?
J: My parents!
This concludes Jimmy’s interview, if you ‘d like to learn more about Jimmy and what happened, signup for my readers group and grab a copy of Zomething Dead This Way Comes below.
Synopsis: Jimmy and his friends have come to the roof of their apartment building to watch the passage of the comet Omega9. Little do they know the dust from the comet contains ancient organisms that are about to turn their world upside down.
They’re already dealing with tough times, but things get even crazier when Robert’s mom is attacked by his dad and turns into a zombie. This is only the first act in a chain of events that plunges the world into the zombie apocalypse. Forcing the boys to figure out how to survive in this new, terrifying reality.
Trapped between the undead, and the evil living in the building, their future becomes more perilous until Robert makes a startling discovery in the basement. In the end it’s all about survival, friendship, and facing their fears as they fight to protect each other and their home.
Richard Schiver 