My Writing Influences

I wish I could say that there was one amazing author, or even a handful that have influenced my writing, but the truth is there are many.  Not just authors either, but movies, shows, people, experiences, feelings and places.  

I’ve been influenced in small and large ways, good and bad.  Every single book I’ve ever read had something to teach me. 

As a teen, I loved the page-turning shock of VC Andrews, the scary thrills of John Saul and the sexy glamor of Jackie Collins.  I gravitated to over the top commercial fiction.  At the same time, I fell in love with Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet.  I was awed by the rich layers of BRAVE NEW WORLD and the emotional truths of ORDINARY PEOPLE. 

Later, I gobbled up romance novels, mysteries, legal thrillers, chick-lit and the occasional quirky literary fiction.  

All of those books influenced my writing.  But what influenced me the most was a boy. 

I met him when I was sixteen.  He had brown hair and the highest cheekbones I’d ever seen.  We were sitting around a table at a party playing quarters.  Our eyes met and held.  There was a spark of something there from the first moment.  Something I’d never felt before.  Something magic.  

I remember the first time he kissed me, in a dark room before he really knew who I was.  It was wild and secret, and it didn’t matter that I didn’t know his name.  I remember the second time he kissed me, when he knew exactly who I was.  It was wilder and it mattered more that it had any right to.  

I remember my heartache as I watched him date a series of girls who were never me.  The thrill when he flashed me a sardonic smile.  I remember deluding myself that having him as a friend was enough.

I remember the moments I almost confessed my heart.  When I was 19, we sat in his car in front of my house, talking about everything and nothing.  There was a moment of silence, and for a second, I thought maybe, but no.  I couldn’t risk sending him away forever.  

And then, finally, the moment I finally told him how I felt.  Eleven years later. 

We had grown up.  It seemed safe to joke about my teenage crush.  Only he didn’t laugh.  His face went white.  He said it was impossible because he had always thought I was the one who wasn’t interested in him.  We were alone in a room full of people.  

It was one of the best and worst moments of my life.

So many missed moments.   

But I’ve found a way to get them back.  On the pages of books.  

My own.