When Stories Don’t Cooperate

So last year I started a new project. My romantic YA thriller series was winding down, and it was time for something new. I had several ideas I’d been toying with for a few years, but then out of nowhere, an entirely new concept came to me. Just one little sentence, but I loved it. My editor loved it. There was so much potential….

Off I went. Awesome new characters, my first ensemble cast. An utterly fantastic settling. A super cool premise…

I wrote, and wrote, and wrote.

And deleted, and deleted, and deleted.

My editor said, “Hurry!”

I wrote some more.

Deleted some more.

And my frustration grew. I had all the ingredients at my fingertips, and they were perfect. But no matter how I tried to put them together, the result was not what I wanted. I tried different combinations. I tweaked. I experimented with various openings. Deleted some scenes. Tossed out a few characters, whipped up a few new ones. Still…meh. It was like having a counter full of sugar and flour and eggs and butter, baking soda and pecans and chocolate chips and vanilla...and knowing they would make an amazing cookie…but having no idea how to make it happen. I wanted to pull my hair out.

Finally, I had to submit something. I made it the best I could, and hit send. It was okay, I guess. It didn’t suck. My agent gave it a thumb’s up. My editor loved it. The publisher green-lighted the project. An offer came….

…but I felt no sense of excitement, not like when I sold my Midnight Dragonfly series, when I was breathless with the thought of bringing the story of my teenage psychic to life. This time I felt…dread. It all just felt so…wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

When I first started in this business, I never imagined turning down an offer from a publisher, much less my dream publisher (and my dream editor), but in the end, that’s what I had to do. Because…something was wrong, and I knew it. (Admittedly, the offer wasn’t over-the-top-great or anything, but still…it was a publishing contract!)

Flash forward a year, and suddenly I find myself practically bursting out of my skin to write that story, the one that nearly killed me last year…the one that just wasn’t working. I’ve had a lot of time to think about it…or not. While days and weeks and months have gone by, the story has swirled around in the back of my mind, and my subconscious has done that amazing, wonderful thing that subconsciouses do. The story has changed. A lot. A little here, a little there. Some big Ah-ha’s!, and some little ones. Same characters, same setting, same premise, but with time, the ingredients have settled into place, and I finally know how they need to be arranged.

And here’s what I’ve come to realize: writing is a whole lot like cooking.

Have you ever made a soup, or maybe a lasagna, or a chili or a gumbo? And you add all the ingredients just so and serve it up, take that first bite, and…meh, it’s just kinda bland? But then the next day, after sitting over night, and all those flavors having a chance to mix and mingle and settle, you heat it up and try again and….voila! Yes. THAT is how it’s suppose to taste.

Writing is the same way. Sometimes a story needs time to simmer for awhile, to sit on the back burner so all the ingredients can settle together in just the right way. If everything doesn’t come together at first, you can’t give up, you just have to realize that stories, like the best of foods or drink, can’t be rushed. Remember Orson Wells's famous commercial for Paul Masson wine? 

"We will sell no wine before its time."

In today's fast-paced publishing environment, there's such a rush to market, but sometimes you just have to slow down and let the story finish cooking. 

50 (or so) Shades of New

By Ellie James

The day after Christmas, I sat down with pencil and paper and all these words started pouring out of me. Quickly I realized I had the guts of a blog, including an awesome title: New Year's Confession. I still like that title--a LOT. Just think what a great novel that could be...!

But then I saw a segment on The Today Show about, instead of setting traditional New Year's goals, (such as the standards lose weight, exercise more, read more, stop saying Amazing!, etc.,) choosing a word instead. One word. That was the challenge. Choose one word you'd like to define the coming year...that you'd like to define you. And commit to that word.

Immediately I was intrigued. I started brainstorming words and came up with some terrific ones (patience, explore, create, present), but every time I tried to latch onto one of those really wonderful and inspiring words, another word whispered through me.

And that's where my New Year's Confession comes in, all those words that poured out of me the day after Christmas. I love writing and I always have, way back as long as I can remember. But, professionally, this past year has been hard.  I started 2013 feeling down and I spent the majority of the year in that same place. Being a professional writer is a dream come true, but there's so much more involved than simply giving voice to the stories living in your heart. There's the business side--the dollars and the cents, the contracts and competition, the marketing and promotion--and this past year, that's what knocked me down. Knocked me down hard. And since then, the shadow of disappointment has followed me everywhere.

For a while, I couldn't write. Worse, merely the thought of writing made me sick to my stomach--and my heart. Especially my heart. I'd get that awful tight chest feeling. I felt so lost and alone. And the words wouldn't come. I tried. I tried everything I could think of. But nothing worked. I told myself to stop being a baby and put my big girl panties on. I ordered myself to. But everywhere I looked were reminders of my disappointment.

Days...weeks...months. They rolled by, rolled together. There were times when things got better, when I focused on--made myself look to--the future. What came next instead of what was already done. But it seems something always crept in to throw me back to that deep, dark, cold pit of sadness.

Over the past several days, I've asked myself if I really want to share all this. If I'm seriously going to post something so personal. Generally I don't shout out my good or carry on about my bad. But you know what?  We live in such a photoshopped world. We live a life of greatest hits. Our messages are carefully crafted to be all Wonderful! and Amazing! But the truth is we all have B-sides. We all have junk. We all have stuff. And unless we can be real about the B-sides, in many ways we're doing everyone a disservice, setting up this false equation where people inadvertently find themselves comparing the raw, unvarnished truth of their own lives to Glistening Public Images of everyone else's. So I've decided to be real about this. To be authentic. To talk about a B-side, no matter how uncomfortable it is.

Now here I stand, at the threshold of a new year, and I'm committing myself to turning the corner, too, to leaving the "blue" where it belongs--in the past. I'm committing myself to 50 incredible shades of new: a new year, a new perspective, a new me, a new beginning. (Okay, that's only four, but one new leads to another, right?)  

Right here, right now, I'm committing myself to....

What word will define YOUR year?

Dreams

By Ellie James

I’ve always been a dreamer.

From the time I was a little girl, growing up in Louisiana, vivid images greeted me while I slept. There were all the standard dreams, about school and friends and monsters, flying and falling, being chased, being trapped. As I got older my dreams changed a bit, with boys entering the mix, and all sorts of exciting romantic scenarios. But I still had those scary dreams, the ones where you know you need to run, but your body betrays you, and you can’t move a single muscle, where you lay there in bed, paralyzed and terrified…

By the time I met my husband, I was a young adult living alone in my own apartment. We married, and wow was he surprised the first time I let out a blood-curdling scream in the middle of the night—and smacked him silly!

With time, my nightmares faded, but my dreams remained vivid. While my husband dreamed of playing Scottish links with life-sized bunny rabbits, I found myself wandering University with no idea where I was supposed to go, or even on occasion walking down the aisle of a grand cathedral, with no idea who I was about to marry. (Yes, I’m sure Freud would have a brilliant time with that one!) But other dreams were there, too, the kind of dreams that guide you while you’re awake, the dreams that carry you into the future.  For me I dreamed of writing books, of telling stories of suspense and danger and, always, romance.

I suppose it’s only fitting that both waking and sleeping dreams combined to create my first Young Adult novel, Shattered Dreams. Shortly after my son was born, I closed my eyes late one night (or was it early one morning?) and suddenly saw a group of teenagers sneaking into a beautiful but long-abandoned mansion in the Garden District of New Orleans. But I was more than simply watching. I was there. I was one of them. I gazed into the darkness and smelled the decay. I saw the strange piles of corn and ashes and bone, the slip of the shadows, and I jumped at the sound of branches scraping the grimy windows. There were mean girls and a guy who made my heart pound, and we all made our way up the rotting staircase for a seemingly innocent game of truth or dare.

But there was nothing innocent about it.

I woke up breathless, and more than a little surprised. Unlike dreams that fade, the images lingered. It was all so real and vivid. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I’d experienced, and from that, the questions came: What happened next? What if one of the teens was a psychic? What if she saw something…something bad?  What if what she saw actually happened? What if no one believed her, or at least, no one but the last guy she should let herself begin to fall for?

As I answered those questions, Shattered Dreams was born!

What about you, have you had dreams so real you would swear they were?

What if they are?

New Orleans Strange But True

Mardi Gras. Bourbon Street. Voodoo. Jazz. Food.  Sin. The Vampire Lestat…

Chances are, I need not say anymore, and you’re thinking New Orleans. People often ask me why I chose the Crescent City as the setting for the Midnight Dragonfly books. In truth, there wasn’t any choice involved. I dreamed the opening scene: a group of teenagers sneaking into an abandoned Garden District mansion, once the site of extravagant parties but now rotting in squalor, each with their own agenda. By the time the last runs screaming from the house, a nightmare they never imagined has begun….

Why did I set the books in New Orleans? Simple. The city is as much a character in the story as Trinity, Chase, Jessica, and Dylan!

A Louisiana native, I grew up visiting New Orleans several times a year. I crept through houses believed to be haunted, skipped along streets once lined by the dead, and played in cemeteries. It was no big deal: that was just New Orleans. It wasn’t until I graduated from college and moved away that I realized how unique The Big Easy is…..

Here are just a few reasons why:

• Situated along the Mississippi River and nestled among thousands of centuries-old oaks, New Orleans is frequently called America’s Most European city. The architecture is a unique blend of Spanish and French, the French Quarter is almost three hundred years old, horse-drawn carriages still trot down cobblestone streets, the food is unbelievably fantastic, music throbs twenty-four hours a day, and art flourishes. Of course, there’s also that whole below sea level thing. Probably not the greatest idea.
•  The food. OMG, the food!
•   In New Orleans, no one blinks if you mention seeing a ghost. In fact, people are more likely to look at you funny if you state that there’s no such thing as ghosts!  That’s one of the reasons why New Orleans is called America’s Most Haunted City.  Over the years, disease, war, and natural disasters have claimed many New Orleanians before their time, leaving their souls restless and confused, trapped between two worlds.
•  That’s how Jazz Funerals got their start, mourners wandering aimlessly through the streets with a drummer or horn player in front, in order to confuse the spirit of the departed, so they are so disoriented they don’t know how to get back home.
•  It is said that in New Orleans, the dead outnumber the living 10:1 (4,000,000:400,000)
•  Some of those dead are Irish immigrants who succumbed to Yellow Fever in the 1800s while working to build the New Basin Canal. For simplicity,  most of those workers were buried where they fell. The canal served the city until the 1950s, when it was filled and turned into an expressway. Yep. People now drive over what amounts to a massive cemetery…
• Malaria is another culprit for all those poor restless souls. In 1853, for almost 2 months, up to 200 people a day died. During the summer, the bodies were placed on the sidewalks of the extremely wealthy who left the city to avoid the unbearable (and disease). Carts would make their way through the neighborhoods to collect the bodies. At least, that was the plan. Sometimes the carts never showed. Um…yeah.  
• But it wasn’t just disease. A port city, New Orleans had (and has!) its fair share of crime. No visit to the View Carre is complete without visiting the quaint Jackson Square, with its manicured lawns and graceful old oaks beneath which artists and psychics gather, the fence of wrought iron, the pigeons, and of course, the beautiful St. Louis Cathedral. Of course, few realize that this same place was one the site for public hangings…

• But while in the French Quarter, you quickly discover that anything can be purchased--ANYTHING. Especially stuff you didn’t know existed. I mean, where else can you be strolling along and stumble across Reverand Zombie’s Voodoo Shop?
•   Yep, the Disney folks behind The Princess and the Frog weren’t exaggerating or being all that creative. Voodoo is still practiced in Big Easy. Talking about spells, curses or gris gris doesn’t make anyone blink, not even the devoutly Catholic, of whom there are many.
•  With all the craziness going on, it’s not surprising that New Orleans holds the distinction of having the highest number of missing persons cases since those statistics began being tracked.
•  Museums are a tourist attraction in almost every city, but in New Orleans, many of the most popular museums are…cemeteries. Because of that whole below sea level thing, New Orleans entombs its dead in elaborate, hauntingly beautiful, above-ground crypts, referred to as Cities of the Dead.

•   Speaking of cemeteries, on All Saints Day, picnics are held for the dead—IN cemeteries, including wine, music, and dancing.
• Still speaking of cemeteries, in St. Louis #1 you’ll find the crypt of New Orleans’ most famous and celebrated voodoo queen: Marie Leveau. It is said that even from The Beyond, she still grants favors, which is why her tomb is always adorned with dried flowers and votives. Legend has it you should knock three times when asking for a favor, and once the favor has been granted, return to the crypt and either mark an X or chip the brick.

•  STILL speaking of cemeteries, a few rows over you’ll find a glowing white pyramid of concrete, ready and waiting for its future inhabitant: (the still very much alive) Nicholas Cage. Yep.

• Speaking of Nicholas Cage, he once purchased New Orleans most haunted residence, that of the former socialite Delphine LaLaurie.  Some Very Bad Things happened there: Google it and see!  

(For the record, Nic no longer owns the property. No one does for long. Over the years it’s been a high school, a music conservatory , a tenement, a refuge for young delinquents, a bar, a furniture store, and a luxury apartment building!)

•  Speaking of Hollywood….there really was a street car named Desire. The line folded in 1948, giving way to a much less evocative bus line. But streetcars do still run in New Orleans including one named…Cemeteries!
• Perhaps no other city in America could have adapted so quickly following the devastation of Hurricane Katrina. In addition to over a thousand dead, the city lost 30% of its population, people who fled the storm only to realize they had nothing to go back to. Walk the streets of the French Quarter and the Garden District and little has changed since Before The Storm (that’s how locals refer to it), but venture out a little further, and even now, the post-apocalyptic feel lingers. Much of the city stands vacant and waiting, from rotting houses to vacant strip center, shopping malls, movie theaters, a huge and beautiful Art-Décor style hospital, even an amusement park.

Given all this, it’s easy to see why all the nicknames are true: The Big Easy. The Crescent City.  The City that Care Forgot. City of Mystery. Paris of the South. The Birthplace of Jazz. America’s Most European City. America’s Most Haunted City

It’s also easy to see why no other city could have played such a vital and spooky role in Trinity’s story, the story of a teenage psychic who sees horrible things before they happen...

Play Me A Song

Shortly after turning in revisions for my third YA romantic thriller, I went for a walk. It was a beautiful spring day, with a vivid blue sky and puffy white clouds, a cool breeze mingling with the warm rays of the sun. I had my headphones on with Dave Matthews blasting (Don’t Drink the Water), and with each step I took, the heaviness lifted from inside me a little more, until I actually stopped and texted my husband: OMG, no one soothes my soul like Dave Matthews, except, of course, you.

I’ve thought about that brisk walk a lot since then, how some alone time with a favorite album literally rebooted me. That’s why music is called The International Language. Music transcends language. Music speaks to our souls and fires through our blood. Music heals. With nothing more than a few notes, a melody can transport us to another place, another time. One song, and I’m back in high school, back in the arms of my first love. Another song, and I’m in the gym at a basketball game. Another, and I’m nursing my first broken heart all over again. Yet another, and I’m dancing at my wedding. Rocking my newborn daughter. Saying goodbye to a beloved grandparent. Music is that powerful.

When my son was born ten weeks premature, I stumbled across information about music therapy, a technique utilizing music to create a desired physiological effect in the patient. In my son’s case, we had to wait a few weeks so as not to over-stimulate him, but eventually set up a CD player next to his isolette with a fabulous collection of African lullabies. The soft, melodic strains soothed him when he was fussy, and helped to level out his heart rate when he brady’d (sudden drop in heart rate).  Long after we brought him home, those lullabies were our go-to miracle.

Maybe that’s why music has become such an important element of my writing regime, because of its ability to evoke emotional and physical responses. I’ve talked to many writers who prefer quiet while they work, but for me, music transports me deeper into my story world. Music makes me feel what my characters feel, whether it be love or fear or excitement. Quite literally, music fuels me, allowing me to bleed that emotion right back onto the paper. (My debut YA, Shattered Dreams, was written entirely to Arcade Fire!)

In my most recent YA (Fragile Darkness), chilling visions draw my teenage psychic, Trinity, into the underground New Orleans party scene. Now, this isn’t a scene I’m intimately familiar with, but the second I began listening to Dubstep, the words flowed. My husband cracked up to find me trance-like listening to Magical World by Bass Nectar and Cracks by Freestylers…but it worked!!  In fact, Magical World went on to become the music for my first book trailer.

When it came time to ramp up the emotion, suddenly I had the theme song to the Dead Island trailer on repeat:

Talk about music that makes you want to cry!

Then, during revisions, I stumbled across Gary Jules’s version of Mad World, and not only did I instantly realize I’d found the perfect song for my next trailer, but the haunting combination of lyrics, rhythm, and voice infused with the exact emotional tenor I’d been looking for.

So the next time you find yourself stuck with just about anything, give music a try. Close your eyes, let the rhythms flow through you, and see what happens next.

You might be surprised.

A couple of recommendations:

Action & Adventure: the soundtrack from Gladiator 

Danger/Suspense: a few awesome suggestions from YouTube (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BC_BShb5UrA,

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n1vjTJTRn48

Creepy: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ecsrMCpviG8&feature=related

General Epic-y: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7hqGIGq5PmQ&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T15ZMU8f230

And of course, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T15ZMU8f230

Emotion: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_cqgWvFmtz0&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q0KHS-AD14w&feature=related

Romance/Love: Beyonce’s Halo and Unchained Melody by The Righteous Brothers

Sleep/Relaxation: Krishna  Das, Celtic, and Nature Sounds

Dramatic Instrumental

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q0KHS-AD14w&feature=related

Have Story, Will Write

by Ellie James

A funny thing happened last fall…

It all seemed so benign. After twenty-five years working in the corporate world, in a corporate office, my husband decided to go out on his own and build his own business. He was excited. I was excited. It was a huge change in every way imaginable.  At the time, the fact he’d now be working from home didn’t seem like any big deal. Okay, maybe kind of a big deal, since that meant both of us would be working from home, but of all the uncertainties, having him setting up shop from the upstairs of our house seemed like the least of our worries; I mean, we already had a home office set up, right?

Way back when, before our children were born, we moved into our current house and furnished one room as an office. My office. I was writing for Silhouette Intimate Moments back then, and took great relish in decorating my new writing space. It’s a lovely room upstairs, with a big east facing window. Initially, I had my workspace situated so that my back was to the door, but quickly discovered that I HATED that alignment. It just never felt comfortable, kinda like I never feel comfortable in a restaurant if I’m not sitting with my back to a wall. (Kinda thinking maybe in a former life I was a warrior who met a grim fate through a sneak-attack from behind!) Anyway, I have to have my back to the wall—and I really, really prefer a neat and tidy workspace: for me, clutter in my office= clutter in my mind.  However, with young kids…well, that’s another story for another day.

When planning my workspace, I consulted Feng Shui for paint color and ended up with a blue-green that is supposed to stimulate creativity. I also have an entire wall dedicated to inspirational sayings, such as Shoot for the Moon. Even if you miss you’ll land among the stars and Don’t believe everything you think!, as well as a display of my books.

And of course, there were all the fun knick-knacks, such as the necklace on the cover of my YA novels and a replica of the Flat Iron building in NYC, where my publisher is located!!!

  

So…we had this great office, right? It only made sense that my husband set up shop there. And that’s where the funny (actually, not funny at all) thing happened. Once he moved in, I had no choice but to move out. Oh, I tried. I tried to work with him in the room. But we listen to different music, and he’s on the phone. A lot. And when he’s on the phone, his voice is louder than it is when he’s just talking to me. Heck, he even breathes differently than I do!  And before I knew it, my muse had headed for the hills. Realizing I needed my own personal environment to write, I set out to stake claim on some other space in the house.

At first I tried the family room. I mean, there was this nice little secretary desk there, just perfect for my laptop. And while the kids were gone, the room would be nice and empty and quiet. So there I went. You see?

  

Here I embarked upon my new YA proposal. Weeks went by. A few more. Then a few more. September turned into November, and I should have had my proposal ready for my editor. But I didn’t. The words weren’t flowing. I found myself writing and rewriting, not at all happy with what I was producing. I did a lot of staring. And a lot of angsting. It took a while, but finally I realized it was the space. I couldn’t work in that space. It was the family room, for goodness sake. Where I relaxed and watched TV. For some reason (or maybe those reasons) I simply couldn’t gather myself to work there. Upon reflection, I see another problem, too. See the set up of the laptop and chair?  Yep. Had my back to the rest of the house, a position I’d already learned didn’t work for me.

So…I went in search of another space, landing in the brightest space of the house, the kitchen. There I had sunshine and a workspace in the table, and I could sit with my back to the window, giving me a full view of the house. Shoulda been perfect, right?  Well, there was another problem….

That’s Marie, and she was relentless. Sure, I could lock her in another room, and trust me, I did. But my muse still didn’t come back.(Maybe the stacks of dirty dishes were too distracting?)  Christmas came and went. It was January, and my ever-patient editor was tapping her foot. So…I set off again, still searching. A bedroom wasn’t going to work, I already knew that. And while my awesome neighbor volunteered her house, I wanted to find somewhere in my own house, you know?

Finally I found myself in a small nook off our living room, where we’ve got this big brown comfy chair and a lot of books. In the past, it’s where I would go to read, but, out of options, I decided to give it a try.

You can see it wasn’t really conducive to a laptop, so I went old-fashioned, reverting to yellow tablets and a mechanical pencil, a technique which had worked to lure my muse back before.

  

And….it happened. Finally. She came back. My muse. She settled back into place like a warm, familiar blanket, and the words once again begin to flow. Rapidly. And beautifully. And I realized I'd finally found my new workspace. I also realized just how important finding the perfect space really is (which is probably why setting up shop for a few hours in the library never worked for me.) Not just any room will do. Not just any desk. Not just any laptop.

Like the princess and the pea, it seems, my muse prefers that everything be just...right. :)

You did...WHAT?!?

By Ellie James

His bound wrists would prevent him from using his arms to swim, but with his hands holding onto the wood, at least he could keep himself afloat while he kicked. Fifty yards. He could do that.

He grabbed the branch, ran to the dock, and dove into the dark, brutal current.

            Hmmm.  Would that work? Is it possible to make your way across a swollen river wearing handcuffs? It sure seemed possible, especially for the resourceful, tough-as-nails Sandro, but I couldn’t let myself run with the scene, not until I knew. So I did what any dedicated writer would do: I brought rope to my husband and asked him to tie my wrists together. Yeah, I got a look at that, but he (quite happily I might add) obliged, and off I went to the backyard. My husband quietly followed. I found a 2x4 to play the role of the stick, then jumped into the deep end of the pool, fully clothed (couldn’t wear a swimsuit, since poor Sandro didn’t have that luxury.)  Then I swam. Kind of.  Holding the wood beneath my chest, I kept my head above water and kicked my way to safety, and voila! Presto! I had my answer: If I could do it, surely my fantasy guy Sandro could. Dilemma solved!

            Research. Sometimes there are no shortcuts.

The Internet is a writer’s best friend. While the thought of research can send you straight back to school and that term paper you didn’t want to write, the reality is getting the facts straight is critical. (Just be careful you don’t end up on the FBI watch list. That’s happened!) We all love making stuff up, but you can’t say a heroine can free herself from being duct-taped to a chair just because you want her to. You need to know if that’s possible. That’s the challenge bestselling author Virginia Kantra faced when she decided to duct-tape herself to her office chair to make sure she really could free herself. Um…she couldn’t. And it wasn’t even noon yet, DH was at work, the kids at school, the phone across the room. So there she sat, in her office, bound to her chair as minutes dragged into hours. Finally her teenage son came home, followed her voice to her office, and walked in on something he’d never imagined walking in on! I would have loved to have seen the look on his face!  Fortunately, being a writer’s son, he immediately deduced that he hadn’t walked in on a home invasion, but rather, his mom doing what all good writers do. Research.

But sometimes research means leaving the house. How else do you find out if it’s possible to escape while handcuffed to a police cruiser?  When romance author Diana Duncan found herself in line at Starbucks behind a uniformed cop, she immediately seized the opportunity to solve a key plot problem. Thrilled, Diana struck up a dialog with the cop and soon found herself out in the parking lot being handcuffed to his car, while her horrified teenage daughter looked on.

For my current YA series, the Midnight Dragonfly books, there’s not one New Orleans locale that I haven’t explored myself, including a late night sprint from Bourbon Street to the levee, to see how fast you could feasibly get from one place to the other. I’ve sat with the psychics and had my palm read, and I’ve climbed the fences and hidden behind trees and…um….sorta gone somewhere no one was supposed to go.  I can’t say where, but the second I learned about This Certain Place, abandoned since Hurricane Katrina, I knew it was perfect for a crucial dramatic sequence. And despite the abundance of YouTube videos about This Certain Place, I knew I had to make a visit myself. I needed to see the swamp encroaching upon the parking lot and the chain link fence (to make sure it could be climbed), the abandoned buildings and…well, I can’t say what else I needed to see, except whether it was true that certain objects were still there after over five years of abandonment. I needed to breathe the air and smell the decay. I needed to see the graffiti and feel the despair.

And I did.

And it was amazing.

I was scared to death, but that’s okay. Knowing that, how frightening it was to be there, how many places there were to hide, the realization that there were probably others there, hiding—watching—only enabled me to add that much more authenticity to the scenes.

And that’s what it’s all about. Authenticity.

I do have to add that not all research involves risking your life (or breaking the law). When I first started writing Shattered Dreams, I researched the most popular brands of jeans among teenage girls, and found myself in a Buckle store to see for myself. The next thing you know, I’ve been fitted for my own awesome pair of Big Stars!! 

Research definitely has its perks, the more extreme the better.

 You can follow Ellie on Facebook at: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Midnight-Dragonfly-Books-by-Ellie-James/154988421236309

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