Oh the People We Meet

My friend, Lani Woodland, author of Intrinsical, is planning a release party for her newest book, Indelible. During the preparation, she somehow found out about a very special group who is planning to attend.

The book club / knitting group, the Naked Knitters, are part of a nearby nudist colony, and have clearly taken an interest in Lani’s series. This is a good thing, as all readers are important to our careers as authors. Luckily, they have promised to come clothed to the event.

*sighs in relief for Lani*

It’s times like this I wonder what is this dangerous, fantabulous, amazingthing career I’ve gotten into that my friends and I are so privileged to meet such interesting people?

Have you ever encountered wonderfully unusual people at a signing or other bookish event? I’d love to hear your story.

Because People are Interesting

You know, whenever I’m in a public place where I hear authors answer questions from the public (aka fans), it becomes inevitable that someone will ask where that author gets his or her story ideas.

Unfortunately, that’s a loaded question. But also a simple one. Because most of our ideas come from real life. Things we see, things we hear about, people we meet.

Just the other day, a friend (and fellow writer) and I had a discussion about how fascinated we are by people’s life stories. Just as no two authors have the same success story, no two people have the same life story.

I think this is probably in large part why I write. I’m fascinated by the journeys of individual people, and this fascination, the “what if,” is what creates stories in my head. Full blown characters with full experiences that cause them to grow and learn.

It doesn’t help that I’m a people watcher. Everywhere I go, I find myself soaking people in—researching possible characters for future stories. I wonder why this person is this way, or why that person makes one choice rather than another. I wonder who they love, and who loves them, and what feels like home to them. I wonder who they are inside, and how they became that person.

Is this unusual? Does everyone do this or is it a trait unique to the creative community? I don’t know. But just in case you were wondering, my ideas all come from watching and experiencing life in all its many glorious forms.

So, you know. Keep on living, keep on dreaming, and if by chance you notice a writerly-type person observing you, consider it a compliment. It’s because you’re interesting.

And Speaking of Flying...

A few weeks ago, I happened to be on a flight from Baltimore to Salt Lake City, during which I had the opportunity to sit next to a four-year-old boy named Finn.

It’s been a while since I flew with a child that age, but I have to admit, considering the length of the flight (almost 5 hours) this kid was amazingly patient, and extremely well behaved, but full of personality. We became fast friends, he and I.

Still, it was a long flight. And eventually, Finn got restless. His mother was prepared with things to keep him busy, but after a while, he grew tired of playing with those things and needed something more, something different.

Luckily, the writer sitting next to Finn happened to have a rainbow of colored critiquing pens in her bag, which he then used to draw beautiful art in her notebook. (Sadly, my recently acquired picture book was in my suitcase in the overhead bin.)

Finn’s gracious mother thanked me over and over for helping and for being patient with she and her children throughout the flight.

Here’s what she didn’t know.

I was very sad when I got on that plane, because of who I’d left behind. Not only that, but I was miserably sick (but not contagious) and missing my own family. That sweet little boy was a needed distraction, a sweet relief from my misery, and about the most interesting person I’ve met on any flight, ever.

We helped each other, Finn and me.

Most likely, I’ll never see that family again. But I wonder about them. How their trip went, what they did, how long they stayed. Also, I wonder what that boy’s life will be like in ten years, or twelve, when he’s old enough to read. Will he someday pick up one of my books and find himself inside it? (Or, you know, a character similar to him.)

Maybe he will. Maybe that four-year-old whose smile brightened a dreary day will someday become a storybook hero. Or at least a fan. Only time will tell.

And maybe someday, if I'm lucky, I'll have the opportunity to meet Finn again. If I do, I hope I can show him the artwork in my notebook that will always remind me of the little boy who once sat next to me on a plane.