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Blogs by Laura Spinella
One Author's Eye Candy 11/17/2010 6:13:07 PM
The other day I engaged in visualization therapy. Knowing me, that might mean I spent the train ride from Franklin to Boston body shopping, deciding if the guy across the aisle truly possessed Patrick Bourne’s universal appeal. He’s the gay character in my new book, and every day I fall more in love with him. He’s the man who makes women sigh, whispering to him, “Damn, are you sure?” He’s so comfortable with his identity that straight men take notes. Patrick is not the main character in the story, but he’s the one currently driving the intrigue, and I am on the lookout for any real life hints of him. After a round of covert glances, I decided that my unsuspecting muse was more metrosexual than homosexual and turned my attention to the passing scenery.
The real visualization therapy occurred later, and was slightly more reality based. As mentioned, I took the train to Boston, an excursion that was need-oriented and not particularly fun. By the time I headed home, I was thoroughly bored. With forty-five minutes to spare in South Station, my imagination took over. On occasion, I ride the train into Back Bay, which takes you to Fenway Park. But being it’s late October, and Fenway is silent, we won’t be going there—literally or otherwise. South Station is one stop farther, the last stop on the commuter rail. The bustling venue was unfamiliar to me, filled with a dozen busy kiosks and even busier people. Amtrak runs through here, so it accommodates more than Bostonians. I killed some time making assumptions about their lives, who was meeting a lover and who was making a break for the Canadian border with a suitcase full of hashish: imagination + boredom = future plot. Anyway, I soon tired of that, just wishing they’d take their cell phone conversations elsewhere. Food is a great way eat up the clock and there are plenty of places in South Station in which to indulge, everything from a North End bakery to sandwich vendors who don’t sell anything under 2000 calories. Being gluten-free, this is pretty much hell on earth for me, so I bought a bag of nuts and staked out the book carousel. I was hungry but satisfied, standing near the other published authors—like I might glow or something. I perused the genres, starting with self-help titles, quickly concluding that that none were apt to fix me, and moving onto fiction. There were books I’d read, books I have good intentions of reading, and, to my delight, my favorite author, Jodi Picoult. There was no thought of buying one; I already own everything they had on display. Interestingly, they had my personal Picoult pick, MERCY. I love this book. It wasn’t a mega blockbuster, not like MY SISTER’S KEEPER or THE PACT. MERCY came before those, and it was the book that made me say, “This is what I want to do.” It’s a tad salacious, less courtroom drama and more titillation, which I don’t believe is what her audience expects. But to each their own, and that’s the one that worked for me. I flipped through, smiling… skimming. I’ve read it three times. Eventually, I put it back and glanced over the other titles. Some I recognized and others were books about which I didn’t have a clue. Note: when you sell a book, they should warn you about the pop quiz. Almost every conversation leads to, “Have you read…” or “Do you know…” Much of the time, I don’t. So I did some Spark Notes cramming, hoping to avoid looking like an illiterate novelist. Before long, my track number was called. As I tucked the bag of nuts into my tote, I saw my ARC copy of BEAUTIFUL DISASTER. No, I don’t carry it everywhere, but I did bring it with me. I thought it might be fun to take it out on the train, kind of like the first time you take a new baby out for a stroll. I glanced between the train schedule and the track, seeing a three-minute warning sign flash with urgency. I didn’t really think, I just grabbed my book and plopped it on the shelf, next to Picoult, snapping a picture. In my defense, let me say that I harbor no fantastic scenarios of Ms. Picoult and myself rubbing elbows or even book spines. But I also can tell you that this writer had a moment, benefiting from ten solid seconds of unabashed visualization therapy.
