Have I got a treat for you today. My visitor is one of the men in my writers' group here in Lynchburg, Virginia. His debut novel, Providence of Mercy, is out in eBook and available for pre-order in paperback until its release on the 15th of this month. Jim often rides his bike to our weekly writers' meetings, his prose neatly tucked beneath his jacket. We love it when he reads because he has a charming Southern drawl--just a slight one, mind you--and a dry wit that flavors both his stories and his verbal interactions.Jim is new to this whole blogging, promotional thing, so when I offered to interview him his eyes rolled back in his head as if he were hunting for a polite way to refuse being on a romance writer's blog. I snatched his helmet from his grip, tucked it under my arm and waited with one eyebrow arched in a silent challenge. "Oh, all right," he exclaimed on a huff of air. "But be gentle with me. And don't make it a 'girly interview.' I'm no romance reader, nor writer." I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing...
I absolutely do not want my son to grow up with memories of a father who was too busy on the computer to spend time with him. I usually save my writing time until after he is in bed. I wrote one chapter of a book in the waiting room at a garage while my vehicle was being worked on. Occasionally I will sneak off to a library to write; Ray Bradbury wrote the entire manuscript of “Fahrenheit 451” in the basement of the Los Angeles Public Library on coin-operated typewriters.
You talk a lot about "seculative fiction." In fact, that seems to be your bag as far as writing. Could you give us your definition?
Speculative fiction, to me, starts with a “what if” premise: What if the South won the Civil War, what if the Nazis won the Second World War, what if you lived in a society where books were banned and firemen burned books instead of putting out fires?
Which is hardest for you to write? Characters, emotions or plot?
Plot. My characters lead the way, often taking me down corridors and discovering plotlines that didn’t exist just five minutes earlier. As they discover these previously uncharted subplots, they can’t help but react to them. I don’t like to read overly plotted stories where the characters simply run around like rats in a maze, randomly hitting buttons to get more cheese.
What part of writing gives you the most pleasure? The most angst?
I love it when the magic flows from my fingertips to the keyboard and the vaguest premise evolves into a fully realized scene because the characters whisper, “Let us do this.” Unfortunately, sometimes these are the very scenes that have to be cut because they do not advance the story sufficiently to justify leaving them in. Removing a well-crafted scene can be painful.
What writers have influenced you?
Ray Bradbury, Woody Allen, Stephen King, Arthur C. Clarke, W.P. Kinsella.
Ah, and your favorite romance writer would be??? (Bats eyes innocently.)
(Jim gives a pained expression and slowly shakes his head.) I should have known better than to agree to this. (He exhales an audible sigh.) You know I don't read romance. All right, yes, my hero does tear the dress off his soon-to-be-wife in a moment of passion and there are a few hotel scenes that scorch the mattress, but that's life. Right?
Just asking, Jim. No need to get testy. Which college writing classes most improved your writing?
I think any sort of serious writing can help you improve. I learned more from on-the-job training as a newspaper reporter — under the guidance of a dedicated editor — than in seven years of undergraduate and graduate classes.
What project are you working on now?
I have a number of premises begging for attention. At this point I’m not sure which one has the legs to carry itself into a full-blown story.
Let's talk about Providence of Mercy. If you were casting your novel, who would you want to play your protagonist? Johnny Depp, simply because he has such amazing depth and the ability to disappear into any role.
Oh, I do love Johnny Depp. Can you share your back cover blurb?
Jeremiah Townsend didn't ask for the gift of healing. When he's called upon to save a dying criminal, the life he knows is forever wrenched from him and his choices are called into question by a world that seeks to exploit his talents. As his own life collapses into chaos, a new threat emerges in the form of a doomsday cult with a frighteningly lethal weapon.
Trying to come to grips with his own mistakes and betrayals, Jeremiah struggles to save his wife and unborn child. Can he heal the emptiness in his own soul in time to save a world which feeds off his pain? Will be finally be able to choose who must live and who, in the end...must die?
Trying to come to grips with his own mistakes and betrayals, Jeremiah struggles to save his wife and unborn child. Can he heal the emptiness in his own soul in time to save a world which feeds off his pain? Will be finally be able to choose who must live and who, in the end...must die?
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The ride ended at the helipad at Lynchburg General Hospital, where the rotors on an orange and white Bell owned and operated by the Virginia State Police were already beginning to turn.
“Hope your head gets better,” Devon said, as a pair of troopers pulled me into the helicopter. “There’s no room for me, so I’m driving on up.”
The pilot, a light-skinned black man who appeared to be in his early thirties, flashed me a quick grin under his headphones. “There’s going to be quite a bit of turbulence until we get above some of this, so you’d better hold on. Ever been in a helicopter before?”
I nodded—such rides were almost becoming part of the job—but I nearly lost my breakfast as we lurched into the air. The second officer, a Latino whom I later learned was the paramedic, briefed me as best he could on the situation over the drone of the rotors. The radio rasped and spat with emergency chatter, though it was hard to make anything out above the drone of the rotors.
The story of Emily Devon’s kidnapping had been in the news for weeks. There were few leads in the case until an overzealous rookie cop spotted the suspect, a former carnival worker turned drifter, trying to buy beer at a convenience store in Albemarle County, just outside Charlottesville.
“Instead of calling for backup, he tried to be a hero.” The paramedic shook his head. “He didn’t realize what a psycho this guy was. The desperate ones, they got nothin’ to lose, you know. The cop and a customer in the store wound up dead, the suspect shot full of holes and unable to tell anybody where the girl was.”
At UVA, about fifteen minutes away by air, another pair of cops grabbed me by each arm and virtually threw me into the ER where the star of the show was flatlining and the shock-paddles were smoking. I had to have one of the officers physically remove the head trauma tech so I could get to the gurney where our boy was breathing his last breath.
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