My Writing

Typically, my characters come to me as I’m scrubbing a toilet. Somewhere between sprinkling comet and swishing the toilet bowl cleaner around, my brain conjures up scenes where these imaginary people are either fighting or falling in love. Not to say that it doesn’t happen when I make beds or fold laundry, but the toilets are a sure thing. The other sure thing are my mom and Julia Carpenter. Both of them are great at figuring out why a scene isn’t working or what should happen next in a plot.

There are usually pieces of me in the main characters. In Unorthodox Love for example, Penina is terrible at cooking and loves to wear heels. My family has lots of hilarious stories of my failed cooking attempts, and one of my mother’s favorite stories is a doctor’s letter that came in the mail following an appointment for my sprained ankle. (I was only sixteen at the time, but never went anywhere without heels and red lipstick. Good times.) The first line in the letter began as, “The patient walked into the office wearing high heels…”

But unlike me, Penina has this responsibility complex, where she shoulders everyone else’s problems. (TBH, I don’t really get it because I’m the baby in my family so everyone has always had to cater to me, and that’s the way I like it.) Also, if I had been Penina, and my single, gorgeous boss confessed he had feelings for me, I’d have suggested we get a hotel room that very night, then apologize to G-d in the morning. He’s an understanding guy, right? My sister likes to say that if I hadn’t been Orthodox, I’d have probably ended up a drugged-up prostitute and found dead in a ditch somewhere. Sadly, I can’t say that she isn’t wrong.

Anyway, back to my characters— mostly, they have nothing to do with me, and by the time they make an appearance, they’re already ninety percent formed. The heroine in my second book is blonde and blue-eyed, and when Julia asked me why, I responded, “Dunno. That’s how she came to me.” I knew her mother was a convert of Scandinavian descent, and the hero of the book is of mixed race (Botswanan and English). Both had felt like outsiders growing up in their communities. He loves her marshmallow sweet potato dish, and she loves the way he can shut a person down with one dirty look. (I love the way he can fill a pair of pants, but no one asked me.)

I’ve got to go now because there are beds to be made and toilets to scrub.

Love,

Heidi