Finding Voice

Has an outside influence ever crept into your writing?

Please describe a scene from your latest novel that you’re particularly proud of. Or better yet, why not share it?

Okay, so these are really two separate questions, but I figure why not answer both choices? It's summer and I have nothing but time.

I would wager that a lifetime of reading means that outside influences have formed, influenced and crept into my writing. I believe this is a good thing. It's not that I've copied another writer's words or plots; their words and stories have simply inspired and taught me how to be a better storyteller. Even books I haven't particularly liked have taught valuable lessons when I've analyzed what wasn't working for me.

The question, however, seems to want to know if any particular passage has been directly influenced by another writer's work. The one time I can think of when this happened was early on when I was writing my first published middle grade novel Running Scared. I was rereading Catcher in the Rye, and some of Holden Caulfield's manner of speaking slipped into my main character Jennifer Bannon's speech pattern, not in a major way, just every now and then. Like Holden, Jennifer is in high school and dealing with loss and teenage angst, and she's trying to make sense of her world. I particularly loved J.D. Salinger's way of saying a lot with a little and using understatement to heighten the impact of a scene.

As for question two and a scene from my current novel When Last Seen, following on Salinger's (and Hemingway's) style of saying a little with a lot, I've picked out a passage in which I attempt to show Ginger's fear after her little boy Charlie goes missing without overdoing or getting melodramatic.  I'm also working to have the reader feel the hot July day and picture themselves in the backyard with Ginger.

The sun continued to bake the back patio, so Ginger dragged a lawn chair into the dappled shadows under the sweeping branches of the sugar maple. This was where she would have set up the wading pool for Charlie if he hadn’t gone missing. She tried to get comfortable on the recliner, and the baby kicked as she manoeuvred into position. Through her sunglasses, she watched a squirrel race across the top of the fence and tried to think about nothing. For three days, she’d been in a state of terror and knew she had to gear down for the sake of her unborn child. She’d refused to take a sedative, promising David that she’d relax on her own.

Mercifully, her mom and dad had gone grocery shopping, and David was working in his home office. The victims’ liaison officer was set up inconspicuously in a corner of the living room, monitoring phone calls, even though whoever took Charlie was staying quiet. This worried Ginger more than anything else. What if this person had taken Charlie to hurt him or worse? How would she endure never knowing where he was or if he was being cared for?

She put a hand over her heart and forced deep breaths, in and out, in and out. Then she closed her eyes and pretended Charlie was playing with his teddy bears next to her on the grass. The hot breeze caressed her face and dried the tears on her cheeks. The trees swayed overhead, but the birds were silent, sleeping through the worst of the afternoon heat. Ginger welcomed the discomfort, needing to physically feel some of the anguish going on inside of her, to hurt like her son was surely hurting without her.

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