The Spark

The past three years have simultaneously flown by and dragged on for me and my newest novel.

When my dad, Gerry, passed away in June of 2023, writing another novel was the last thing on my mind. My heart and brain were not feeling very creative at that time.

Four months later, my mom and I drove from Northern California to my dad’s hometown of Lexington, Missouri, for a Celebration of Life ceremony organized by his family. It was amazing. I cried some more, but I also laughed more than I had in the previous months. I felt reconnected with my dad and his side of the family.

I also felt a tinge of creativity creep back into my soul. I needed to write. But what?

Driving back to California, we made our traditional stop at Little America for our seventy-five-cents, soft-serve ice cream cone (IYKYK). Meandering the store with my swirled cone, I found T-shirt with a silhouette of Bigfoot striding along with an American flag and a rocker salute. I knew then what my next book was about.

The idea grew from that little spark to a flame over the next thousand miles. By the time I was home, I not only had the outline for the book, but also a plan to make it a series. (I’ve never written a series before, and I still find it a daunting task.)

All those stories my dad told me about growing up in rural northwest Missouri came to life in a special way during his Celebration of Life weekend as my cousin Ronnie Sims drove me around to all the “old haunts.”

My dad had talked about jumping on trains to catch a ride to the next town. He calmly described leaping barefoot into a small creek and having a broken soda bottle rip apart his foot. When asked if he went to the hospital, he shook his head and said, “Nope, they packed it with some mud and stuff, and it was fine.” Amazingly, his food was indeed “fine,” but he had a gnarly scar from the arch of his foot to his ankle.

His most famous story was his encounter with the Wooly-Bully when he was a young Scout walking home alone in the dark. It was a favorite story for myself and my cousins even after we’d heard it several times.

In the story, my dad recalled being at his Scout meeting and then walking home with a pocket full of marbles. (On my visit, Ronnie drove this route and for a 10-year-old kid to walk alone in the dark, it was a long way.) After coming down a steep stretch, my dad crossed the bridge and was nearly home when something massive came out of the bushes at him.

There were never a lot of specifics other than it was huge, hairy, smelled bad, and tried to grab him. In a panic, my dad threw all his marbles at the creature and ran home.

His story never changed, and our reactions stayed the same. “Ha, so that’s where you lost your marbles!” Everyone enjoyed a laugh.

I was convinced that my dad was just a very good storyteller. I was familiar with Mark Twain and his hyperbolic tales of life in Missouri and figured it came with the territory.

The only thing that ever made me think it could be true was the story never changed. My dad was prone to exaggeration. He’d start laughing midway through a joke or story because he was so excited to get to the punch line. Every fish he caught grew five inches every time he told the story. But not Bigfoot. Whatever my dad encountered that night was so deeply burned into his memory that he couldn’t alter it.

His walk home is the opening scene to my newest novel. All the other stories he shared inspired countless other scenes. Granted there is still a lot of made-up stuff between the covers, but the heart of the story is inspired by my dad’s childhood.

Writing something so close to home about my dad and a creature not everyone believes exists is not without its own anxiety. I’ve written a story that true believers will latch on to, skeptics will debate, and those on the fence will enjoy.

Between now and the September 2 release, I’ll share more stories and even a few sneak peeks.

Thank you for joining me on this journey.