Sunday, June 7, 2009


Sophie Littlefield

I stole this quote from my friend M:

Holy crap, I wrote a book! What the hell did I do that for?

I mean, it’s a good question. I don’t really know what made me write books one through eight. Boredom? Avoidance? Whatever the reason, it wasn't the right one. In retrospect I see that I was writing versions of other people's books. A story inspired by Susan Anderson. Another in the style of John Sandford. Yet another that I hoped smacked unmistakeably of Jodi Picoult. I kept missing the mark, turning out book after book that no one wanted to read.

Then a couple of years ago something sort of snapped. It wasn’t a gentle revelation. More like a hot-blooded full-on mid-life crisis. I was mad, but I couldn’t figure out quite who I was mad at, and rather than rain down my discontent on everyone in range, I decided to write it all into yet another book. But this time I wasn't going to worry about where I fit in on the pop fiction shelf.

No more hot but demure heroines – my character was carrying around thirty extra pounds, a bad dye job, and a giant chip on her shoulder.

Was the world ready for a foul-mouthed, horny, fifty-ish vigilante? I very much doubted it. I didn’t much care.

In an accident of fate as astonishing as that falling baby thing, it turns out there is one other person in this world who gets me. We teamed up and off we went. Damn if she didn’t find a home for that crazy-ass book.

(Oh…facts? You want that kind of bio? Well, okay. Tall-ish, myopic, big-boned. Skills: played cello, wrote COBOL, administered Novell networks. Can sew amazingly well. Two teenage kids: one is big-hearted but willful, and the other is adorable but mouthy. Patient husband. Minivan, house in suburbs. If you’re still curious, there’s more on the website.)

No comments: