Did you ever say hello to a groundhog? I did once and the result was unbelievable.
You see, a groundhog lived under the garage at my house. I tried everything I could think of to make her realize she needed to find a new place to live. I mean, who wants tunnels and holes under the garage? She was a funny looking rodent, hair was silver-streaked and she wore a tiny pair of reading glasses.
I cornered her in the yard one day. “Look,” I said, “the whole world is before you, acres and acres of uninhabited wilderness out by the river, down by the creek, or up on the hill. Why did you choose to live in my yard, under my garage, making holes all over the place?”
She folded her short, stubby arms across her portly tummy and sniffed. “I like it here.”
I shook my head. “But, you are unwanted. I am really an unfriendly woman, a mystery writer. I write about murders and mean, dastardly people. Why do you like it here? Can’t you feel the evil vibes?”
She laughed. I mean, really, have you ever heard a groundhog laugh? It isn’t pretty.
“I write mysteries too,” she said, “under an assumed name, of course.”
“And, do your books sell?” I asked.
“Do bees like clover?” she asked. “I could give you some pointers.”
I raised my head and looked at a robin building a nest in a nearby oak. Birds sang, the sun shone in a blue sky; everything looked normal and yet, here I was, talking to a groundhog. Not just any groundhog, but one with an attitude.
“OK. What pointers?”
She crept closer, nibbled a few tender grass blades, chewed, swallowed, and mumbled, “You have to have memorable characters, an interesting plot, and make that perpetrator of crimes really, really mean.”
I objected to that mean part. “But, my mysteries are cozies. You know, the kind a person can read while sitting by the fire, drinking coffee and feeling…well, cozy.”
She stamped her short, pudgy foot. “That makes no nevermind. Who wants to read about a milque toast, namby pamby bad guy? And, your protagonist…is she sweet and kind?”
Taken aback, I whispered, “Well, yes, I guess she is.”
She waddled closer, reared her head back and squinted at me. “Mean! The heroine has to have spunk and not be afraid and timid. Make your characters have some backbone.”
To make a long story short I met that groundhog every day for a month. Together, she and I plotted, developed strong, memorable, sometimes mean characters, and wrote an amazing story. I typed it, sent it to a publisher, and held my breath. He bought it and begged for more.
Now, I bring my groundhog gifts of lettuce and carrots. We conspire over each chilling mystery. I type it and send it off. This arrangement works well. Only thing is, she’s getting bossy. Groundhogs are prone to be that way. She wants equal billing and she’s complaining about her cramped living area. But now, I have gotten some backbone as well as my characters. Being mean is fun. If I wrote a story about a groundhog’s demise, I wonder if she would take the hint?
Speak Your Mind