Most authors have dazzling origin stories for their books—tales of inspiration sparked by an eerie dream, a peculiar stranger, an evocative discovery buried in a box in the back of a closet.
My first venture into suspense writing launched a bit differently. The idea for my book didn’t strike during a stormy night or a brush with danger. Rather, an idea formed while I was sitting in the cramped cold bleachers at one of my kid’s sporting events.
Nothing stirs up raw, unfiltered emotions quite like youth sports. The playing time politics, the questionable calls, the overzealous parent coaching from the sidelines. The battleground of sticky bleachers, tossed Gatorade bottles, the unmistakable aroma of stinky jerseys and concession stand nachos. The flying balls, shrieking whistles, and a tightly packed wall of parents gripping overpriced water bottles and tightly held grudges. The claustrophobic air is thick with sweat and passive aggressive tension. Everyone’s blood pressure is rising, and it’s not from the cardio. It’s the perfect setting for pandemonium.
Under normal circumstances, I’m a naturally happy, upbeat person. I smile at strangers, dogs, and even the driver who won’t let me merge. I’ve never sent food back at a restaurant and I quietly listen while my patients ramble on about their hemorrhoids or restless leg syndrome during their eye exams. But one memorable night during a frenzied Christmas tournament, I lost my cool.
Everyone was amped up from excessive holiday cheer and chocolate. Coaches were yelling, players were fighting, a parent next to me was waving a foam finger like it was a life or death mission. And then it happened. Like a slow-motion horror movie, I witnessed an egregious action toward my child.
At first, I was momentarily immobilized by shock. Did that really just happen? And is no one going to do anything about it?
Then, from deep within my bones, a white-hot rage boiled in my gut, soared up my neck, and scorched my face. Something unlocked inside of me that I didn’t know existed—a simmering unhinged alter ego who, for a flash, contemplated rushing the court with my stadium seat and righteous indignation. I went from namaste to I’m gonna kill somebody in under a minute.
I didn’t. Kill anyone. Because I’m a sane person. Also, my husband reminded me the typical sentence for murder is life without parole. And even though I love the color orange, I’m not really a jumpsuit gal.
But later that night, there it was: my lightbulb moment, the seed of a story. Because if a calm, cool, and collected mother like me could morph into a wild-eyed terrifying mama bear mumbling, “Mess with my kid and catch these hands,” couldn’t anyone snap? And wasn’t youth sports a deceptively innocent arena where otherwise respectable adults could break like glow sticks under pressure? And wouldn’t that be an interesting concept to write about?
And thus, a story was born.
