In two
decades of working at the newspaper, I came into contact with some interesting
characters, to put it mildly. Many of them hovered around the office for a
while until they realized we had run as many stories about them as we were
going to (sometimes none at all), then faded away.
One was a
man who claimed to have been former black-ops, and who certainly affected the
air of one who feels everyone is out to get him. He had to deal with our
advertising department for a while, and at one point a sales rep told me he had
paid cash for an ad in a most memorable
way.
He took out
a big roll of bills, she said, and explained that the serial numbers began with
a letter of the alphabet that corresponded with the city hosting the Federal
Reserve Bank where the bill was printed. “I like to keep my money in
alphabetical order,” he said, “and spend San Francisco last.”
When I
heard the story, I filed it in a compartment in my brain that holds information
or anecdotes that might come in handy later. It sat there for 15 years, and
then I used the serial-number shtick in my mystery, The McHenry Inheritance.
The Wool-Gathering Mind
In one of
the obituaries of Nora Ephron, it was reported that her parents, professional
screenwriters, used to tell her, “Everything’s copy.” I’d say material, not
copy, but I absolutely agree with the sentiment, even going so far as to say
that the propensity for collecting such daily flotsam and jetsam is one of the
distinguishing characteristics of the writer.
Decades ago
the collection of seemingly useless facts and stories was referred to as
“wool-gathering.” I’m not sure what it’s called now, but it’s a skill that
requires a certain critical judgment. You have to have a sense of when
something is interesting enough or piquant enough to be worth saving.
The gifted
wool-gatherer must also be patient. Occasionally you come across something that
can be put to immediate use, but that’s an anomaly. Usually, it’s something you
realize could potentially be of value later on, but you don’t know how. So you
file it and hold it until something else comes along and triggers a memory of
it. At that point, the knowledge of how to use the material is generally
instantaneous, and the rightness of its use obvious.
What’s In a Name?
Similarly a
good and distinctive name is something to be saved carefully for the right
character. One of my duties at the newspaper for a while was doing the
historical column, which reported happenings of 25, 50, 75 and 100 years ago.
At one
point, somewhere between 1912 and 1914, I came across an item that read, “Rex
Radio, the radium healer, is in town for a few days. Treatments at reasonable
prices at the Mansion House.” It went into the column and into my personal
mental file. Years later, when I was casting about for a name for a disgraced
radio talk-show host in my mystery, I remembered Rex and realized I had it all
along.
Use of a
name can deviate from the original plan. If I’m on the road and in a small town
on a Friday night, I sometimes go to a high school football or basketball game.
A kid playing in one of those had a great quarterback name, which I filed away
in case I needed one some day. I ended up using it in my book, but the football
player, Mike Baca, ended up being the sheriff. It fit.
Originally posted August 10, 2012
