In my hand is a flat, palm-size Casio Exlim digital camera and video recorder. April Berry-Sanford is a writer. Naturally, I don’t expect to catch much photo action-probably just the usual head shot. Who wants to train a camera on someone tap, tap, tapping on a keyboard? However, for camera purposes, the real show stopper is her Suzuki Burgman 650, a.k.a. Sirocco Speedy. I’m hoping my attire is a subtle hint. I wonder if she’ll get it. I left my pathetic Focus wagon, which flashes a pseudo-suburban neon sign of mom on the other side of the building. As I edge my bum toward the sleek black seat, I play naïve by asking her about the motorcycle—the one I’d researched months ago before this interview was even a sure thing.
“So, um....” Pause. I stroke the console with the tip of my pointer finger, wondering if I’ll even be able to concentrate on her responses. Good thing I can record this. Written notes would be a totally useless distraction. “Tell me about your motorcycle.” Dang, did I purr that last line?
April taps the front tire with the tip of her booted foot. She took the bait. Yessss. While she tells all, I get to ogle the machine’s details.
“Well,” she said, “I drive an 06 Suzuki Burgman 650. Originally, I tried to get a Yamaha TMax imported from Norway, but the dealer told me the Burgmans were coming to the states, so I waited, twiddling my thumbs, until the day came that I could run as fast as I could to PowerSports to pick out my baby. His name is Sirocco Speedy, and no kidding, I even sent these announcements out to all my friends.”
She hands me a trimmed flat card, which I considered using to fan my face and dry the small droplets pooling on my skin. Too bad I’d have to command my eyes to change focus from the engaging instrument panel. I glance at the printed words. The green italic writing jumps of the sun streaked page.
Announcing the
Delivery of
Sirocco Speedy
Today on
7, 26, 06
To the Berry-Sanford household
Length: 89.0 in.
Height: 56.5 in.
Weight: 524 lbs.
The new baby can be seen during daylight hours
(when he is not napping under his blanky)
Gifts welcome
The new arrival is
Registered at PowerSportsPro
Cute. Real cute. Okay, I probably-or at least might have-done the same thing. I swing my leg over and straddle the seat, resisting the urge to grab the handles and make some sort of vroom vroom sound.
April moves to the front end, crosses her arms over her chest, and smiles at me. “I know. At first glance a lot of people go, ‘Oh really, you ride that? Isn’t it a scooter?’ The answer is, Yes, yes it is. It is the biggest most ballsy scooter on the planet, and don’t let its looks fool you. Due to its torque ratio, it can smoke any sport bike with the same CCS. I still get funny looks on the road. Harley drivers usually won’t wave at me. The Goldwings want to play with it, and the crotch rockets wanna race. But let me tell you, the dealers can’t keep them in and every time I go in for service they make an offer for it.”
She places a possessive palm on the bug screen thingy, and I’m reminded this is supposed to be about writer stuff—umm, I mean an author interview. I release my grip, position my camera and smile up at her. “Tell me about how your motorcycle contributes to you being the best writer you can be.”
“Truthfully, it helps me escape,” she said. “I find that when I’m on the bike my imagination really gets away with me, literally, and then I usually end up too far from home with a sore butt, and nothing to write with.”
Maybe I should have her check into one of those high tech helmets with the built-in microphone. Although it might be hard to talk and ride at the same time—like cell phones—accidents waiting to happen. She’s edging toward a shaded part of lawn. I expel that disappointed breath, swing my leg back over and wonder how those bikers in the leather gear manage to keep the leather from bunching in the wrong place when they dismount. I tug at the edge of my shorts, plop down beside her and reach into my bra—no cleavage here—to remove the rolled up sheet of paper with pertinent questions. The ink is bit runny from sweat, but I can read well enough to rattle off a series of questions.
I hit the on button of my little Casio. “For the month of July 2009, what types of writing hours did you keep?”
April smoothed down a burnished colored braid. “Very erratic ones. Unfortunately at my real job, there was a lot of prep to keep me jumping, so I could go on vacation this week."
I nod in agreement. Guess we all have those conflicts. “Describe your ideal writing environment.”
“Minimal furnishings, cool temperature, not a lot of light, a lot of air movement, tabletop fountain, and quiet techno music in the background. Usually the same song on repeat.” She sighs, releasing a gentle hum. “The music in my space can’t have lyrics, because then I get caught in the music, instead. It would also have to have an area with a place to pace or walk on the treadmill when I get too wound up in what I’m doing and feel like I have to move. No windows or I’ll end up outside, either in my car or on the bike running around.”
I can picture her fantasy place—except for the techno music. I’m not sure what that is. Sounds like a Google search for me. “Now that we know what your fantasy world is like, tell me about your real world typical writing environment.”
“My basement.” Her mouth curves upward, rewarding me with a full-out grin.
“Which, is remarkably like what I want.” Pause. “Except for fountain and the clutter. There is a lot of clutter, but when you’re working in the only storage space for the house, there is really no getting away from that.”
I didn’t have the heart to mention we have the queen of de-clutter right in the very midst of HWG. (Hint, hint Cindy.) A trickle of sweat runs from under my ponytail down the back of my neck. A cool fifty mile an hour breeze could take care of that problem, but I’m on a roll now. I flick a gnat off my thigh and tug at the creeping leather shorts. “Who is your biggest writer advocate?”
“At this point, I would have to say my sister.”
Since I neglected to reveal this information in the opening of the interview, April writes paranormal, horror, and fantasy. Her thoughts are fascinating. “If you could be any one of your book characters when you grow up, who would that be? Why?”
April draws little concentric circles over the blades of grass. “Right now it would probably be Alacia, because she’s beautiful, powerful, tragic and completely unknown, except for the legends. She created the castle of the Warlock Rock throne and most of the black labyrinth. Then after her people were safe, she cracked the throne and vanished. She’s still around looking for her happy ending. Her character has so much potential, it almost makes me drool.”
Geesh, she just rattles off these people and places like they’re down the road a few miles. I guess that is what happens when you ride a motorcycle for inspiration. “Tell me about your favorite alien world. How do the beings evolve? Do they eat, sleep, work, play, create?”
“Wow that’s a tough one. You’ve stumped me. I need to think. I like so many. Should I pick my own Mimaress? Or my favorite fiction world?”
“Go ahead and tell me about both,” I said.
“Well, in Mimaress, which is mine, evolution is constant. Creation is always moving. The life there evolves as all others do. Conflict occurs then adaptations eventually occur so life can continue. As for eating, sleeping, playing and creation—that depends on who we’re talking about. Some sprites never work.” She looks at me, a sparkle in her eye then grins. “But it’s pretty much like here. For my favorite fiction world, I have to fall back on a childhood classic favorite that has been with me for twenty years, Labyrinth. You just can’t get away from David Bowie as the goblin king.”
I check as the fireball of light inches toward the horizon. I’d really like to flesh out that answer a bit, but the time is flying and I still have a few more questions. Maybe during a monthly critique meeting we can hear more. I pull in my lower lip, tasting the salt from perspiration. Why had I forgotten my water bottle? And why was I sitting out in ninety degree weather in leather shorts, which do not breathe—no matter what the sales clerks say—doing an interview that could be done through email? Duh, bet anyone can guess. I decide I’d better keep my questions rolling. “When creating a fantasy world, is there something you do first, second, third?”
There is a pause. April looks off into the distance.
“First of all,” she said. “And this may sound weird, but I don’t feel like I’m creating anything. I feel more like a tour guide, instead of an inventor. But the process is basically: I see the characters and who they are. They feel like real people with real problems. Their history tells me what their world is like, and the story gives me the details that haven’t already poofed in. It’s like meeting someone, then stepping through them to see what brought them to this point. It’s just a matter of perspective. Once you step into that person, all of your senses switch on and the rest is all automatic. I know what’s going on there because they know. Unless they’re in the same series or a related one, none of the worlds are the same. Their history is what makes them feel real.”
See I told you her thoughts were fascinating. I re-position my Casio so I can wipe away the sweat on my neck. “In terms of the writing craft, what one thing would you most like to learn, study, or practice over the next two months?
“Grammar.” Her lips close in a tight line.
My goodness, but that word had one determined ring to it. I’ll make sure the program coordinator, oops that would be me now, knows about her request. I take a big breath. I want her know this question will be a tough.
“Okay, here’s my final question, of your own written works, which title do you feel has the most powerful energy when spoken aloud? This would be a title you feel strongly enough about that you’d prefer it to remain with the work even if a publisher suggested a change.”
April waves her hand chasing a fly. “That’s easy. Forgetting Heaven.” She stands, dusts off the seat of her pants, and heads for her bike. As she settles and straps on her helmet, she turns and gives me that easy smile. “Want a ride?”
