By Ken Oder
In 1986, a prison guard ushered me into a
maximum-security visitation room divided by a pane of glass with desks on each
side and telephones bolted to cinderblock walls. I sat down and waited. The
barred door on the other side rolled open. A death row defendant, his hands and
legs manacled, stepped into the room. He sat down, stared at me with fierce
black eyes, and put the telephone receiver to his ear. Twenty-five years later,
those sixty seconds of my life were still seared into my mind. However, when I started
to write about them, the images that came to me were of a different prisoner
and lawyer in a different place and time. The story that took shape evolved
into my first published novel, The Closing.
My stories always begin this way, born out of a
vision of a brief scene. Sometimes they’re drawn from memory, as in The Closing. Other times, they’re imagined. Old Wounds to the Heart began
with an image that came out of the ether of random thought. I saw an old man
lying in bed before dawn contemplating suicide when he hears the sounds of an
intruder opening a downstairs window.
Henry James described these bits of inspiration
as germs or seeds. He said The Spoils of Poynton was inspired
by “wind-blown floating particles in the stream of talk,” ten words spoken at a
dinner table. Dorothy Bryant, in her book Writing a Novel, noted
that inspiration can come from news reports. Dreiser’s American Tragedy came
from a high-profile murder trial and Madame Bovary was
inspired by a real-life suicide. But it more often comes from everyday,
seemingly inconsequential experiences: a dream, the mere glimpse of a person or
scene, or a casual conversation. Bryant calls these seeds “weak clicks of the
mind,” and she warned that you could miss them if you’re not listening.
In my case, the seed is usually a memory or an
imagined scene. When it comes to me, I feel a slight jolt, faintly
electrifying. Ideas spring to mind almost immediately; characters soon come to
life; and a story starts to flow. I can’t write without one of these
inspirations, but even with one, success doesn’t often follow. Like seeds, many
of my ideas fall on rocks, dry up, and blow away, or worse yet, they grow into
weeds I wish I’d never planted. Only a precious few blossom into a good story.
So I watch and wait, and not too long ago, I
felt the faint jolt again. In my mind’s eye, I saw a frenzy of moths slapping
against a naked light bulb that hung over the front stoop of a country church.
Under its pale glow, a small group of people crowded around a preacher, their
voices hoarse and desperate. A story of lost faith and hoped-for redemption is
straining to break through and take shape.
Excitement is building; the drudgery
of countless revisions of my last novel is falling away; and writing is fun
again.
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Ken Oder was born in Virginia in the coastal tidewater
area near the York and James Rivers, where military installations during World
Wars I and II fueled the growth of urban centers like Norfolk, Hampton, and
Newport News. His father worked for the Navy Mine Depot in Yorktown and later
as a Hudson dealer until he heard his calling and became the minister at Mount
Moriah Methodist Church in 1960. The family moved to White Hall, Virginia, a
farm town of about fifty people at the foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The
mountains and the rural culture were a jarring contrast to the busy coastal
plains, but once the shock wore off, Ken came to love it there. He found the
mountains and hollows spectacularly beautiful and the people thoughtful,
friendly, and quietly courageous. White Hall became Ken's home, and his
affection and respect for the area and its people have never left him. Ken and
his wife moved to Los Angeles in 1975, where he practiced law and served as an
executive until he retired. They still live near their children and
grandchildren in California, but a piece of Ken's heart never left White Hall.
That place and time come out in his stories. Website: www.kenoder.com Goodreads
Author page: https://www.goodreads.com/ken_oder Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/kenoder/
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