RHYS BOWEN: I am, by nature, a hunter-gatherer. Put me on a beach and the first thing I do is look for shells. I have no need for shells but the chance finding of a really unusual or pretty one sends me into spasms of delight. The supreme find is whole sand-dollars and I went out every morning hunting when I was in San Diego. No perfect ones this time, I’m afraid. I think the waves were too strong where we were staying.
When I’m at a mountain stream I select bright stones, realizing, of course, that once they are dry they will never look so pretty again. Add to these unusual pieces of driftwood, polished sea-glass, moss-covered twigs. John rolls his eyes as I carry my treasures back to the car. “What are you going to do with those?” he asks. “Don’t you already have plenty of shells?”
“Of course,” I reply. “And I’m not going to do anything. I found them. I’m going to keep them.”
One of the big thrills of my life was when I was at a friend’s cabin in the mountains and we dug for crystals. Actually the crystal vein was on a sheer cliff face and I found myself standing on a narrow ledge, swinging a pickaxe and watching crystals tumble down. I was so absorbed in the task that I did not think I might be in danger of falling and hurting myself. I can well see how the miners got gold fever back in 1849. The fact that these quartz crystals weren’t worth anything and I could buy more perfect ones at a rock shop had nothing to do with it. I wasn’t going to do anything with them. It was the thrill of the hunt, the discovery of something that I found.
I could imagine my long-ago ancestors gasping with delight when they spied something pretty in the ground, or even a bird’s feather, a bright pebble. They stood and stared, realizing that these things were not good to eat. They were not useful, but they were beautiful and perfect. Perhaps that was when we became human.
I suppose this trait is common to all writers. We are hunter-gatherers of information, of emotions, of senses. Other people sit in a restaurant and dine. We writers listen in to conversations, shamelessly noting the good parts we might use some day. We notice mannerisms. At the airport, waiting to board the flight we notice who is nervous, who is excited, who has just said goodbye to a loved one.
I was once in the pool at my health club and overheard a woman in the next lane say “Of course, the gun-belt weighs you down.” Guess who swam slowly to listen in? (I never did find out the whole story or who she was!) I've also been in a restaurant, discussing the most efficient way to kill somebody and then noticed diners at other tables staring uncomfortably!
We read other writers’ books and notice a perfect turn of phrase, a clever plot twist. We gather snippets and ideas for future use. I had a friend who had a Gallo wine box into which she dropped scraps of paper with thoughts on them. When she wanted to start a new book she drew out bits of paper and found characters, plot ideas, settings.
I don’t do that, but I do scribble down future story ideas. I love notebooks. (I know Debs does too). I have many half-finished notebooks because I always want to start a new one for a new trip or a new book. So I can open one and look back at a description of a place to be used in Constable Evans. Or thoughts on a future Royal Spyness when I was staying in Cornwall one year: wouldn’t it be fun if Georgie went to Cornwall and found a house just like Manderley?
And the most satisfying thing about those is that they turned into books one day. That thought about Georgie in Cornwall became THE LAST MRS. SUMMERS. My summer in Tuscany became The Tuscan Child. A visit to a bomber command museum in Eastern England will come out next year as my next stand-alone called THE TEASHOP AT THE EDGE OF ETERNITY.
It is rare that I haven’t managed to use a good idea at some stage in some form.
SO WHO else is a gatherer? A collector? Who else listens in to conversations? And who has overheard a snippet that later became a book?
