If you don’t count a brief obsession
when I was in fourth grade or the scifi novel I started when I was a hippie, my
writing career began in 1994 when my husband went to work in Japan, leaving me
alone in Portland, Oregon.
We were having new
carpeting installed in the bedroom, so the bed had been moved into his office,
directly across from his computer. Not used to being on my own, I often
couldn’t sleep and would stare at that blank, black monitor screen. I loved
reading mysteries and had a few thoughts of writing one; now here was my
chance!
I
considered for several nights more, then during one post-midnight awake
session, I got up and began. I didn’t know anything about computers, having
only used one on rare occasions, but I found a writing program (WordPerfect 0.00001
or some such), inserted a floppy disk so I wouldn’t use up space on the hard
drive, and began to type.
Then,
as now, I came up with the title first: The
Oldest House. It was a story of a thirty-something antiques and collectible
dealer who finds a framed print with a picture of an old house hidden behind
it. Off she goes on adventures; there is a murder; she meets a man who is either
the murderer or the prince of her dreams; she gets herself into danger and is
almost killed… It was a basic plot, but I loved it and I loved writing it.
Before I knew it, I had a full forty-five pages! There was no turning back.
The
page count grew into 450, and I began the process of querying agents and
publishers. I got one personal response that I took to heart: the murder should happen in the first ten
pages. I rewrote the beginning, sent it back, and received a rejection slip,
but I didn’t care. By that time I had started my second book.
The
second mystery, Broken Roses, was a tough one with a complex plot that spanned
several decades. I found myself incorporating details from my own life, including
the basis for the book, a letter by a young jilted girl that we
found in the walls of our house. In my story, the woman goes a little crazy.
There is a rape scene, which I wrote with tears streaming down my face as I
recalled my own abuse. It was cathartic though, and I didn’t
regret the scene.
This
book was not picked up by publishers or agents either.
Next,
I tried something lighter, first of a would-be series called Catts and the Seven of Swords. L.E.
(Elly) Catts is a West Coast photographer, who along with her assistant Ryan
and his cat Medusa, finds the usual, and some unusual, trouble concerning the
witches, the Tarot, and a body on a slab. This was the first time I’d
incorporated the cat.
Again,
no one wanted the book, and I bought an accordion folder to house my mounting
collection of rejection slips. I knew I wasn’t working hard enough on the interminable
chore of query letters and synopses, but I only had so much time, and I’d
rather spend it writing stories.
I moved on to
something completely different, the series that turned out to be what I
consider my masterpiece. The idea for the Cat Seasons tetralogy began with my
old cat Dirty Harry sleeping under a hosta plant in the heat of summer.
Twitching in his sleep, dreaming his cat dreams, the scifi-fantasy Cat Summer was born, followed by Cat
Winter, Cat Autumn, and Cat Spring.
The idea was basic— cats saving the world— but the premise was fascinating, and
soon I’d woven a rich tapestry of time travel, alternate universes, and a devil
without a soul. Now, many edits later, I’m proud to announce the first of the tetralogy,
Cat Summer, will be published
sometime this year by Fire Star!
I
still think of that backlog of first books, The
Oldest House, Broken Roses, and the
L.E. Catts series. Sometimes they call to me, and every once in a while, I
listen.
Check out more blogs by Mollie Hunt, Cat Writer at:
Happy reading!
