The Karaoke Bride

I began writing a guest blog post last week. The question I have to answer is where I write. Fairly simple question, I thought as I began to put my post in order. All of my writing is done in my study. It's a lovely room, and I have a very strict order in which my stories get written.

The better question is where am I when I get my ideas for my stories. Take Friday night, for example. I had written a contemporary about a man who was an ex-bull rider. He had a vintage Indian Chief motorcycle with a suicide clutch stashed in his barn. The person who gave me all the information about the motorcycle is a man who I became friends with forty years after we first met. He still lives in the small town where we grew up and went to school. And I have only one way to get hold of him because every Friday night is karaoke night in one of the local bars in this town. The same people show up every Friday, sit in the same seats, and sing the same songs. I've been dragged to karaoke night a couple times now, and fetched my notepad out from my purse when this man showed me the picture of his motorcycle. I wanted to know everything about it.

The book has now been released. The Road To Comfort features Cyclone Kelley, a man who made his fortune as a bull rider, but at great cost to himself. I have a book signing coming up next month, and thought if I could get a photo of this man's vintage motorcycle, it would make a great postcard to promote the book. My problem was the only way I could get in touch with him was at karaoke night.

So, I twisted the arm of my sister, and voluntarily drove 1-1/2 hours to get to the bar where people sing to canned music every Friday. It was the first time I really wanted to enter karaoke night. The only problem? The bar decided a week ago that karaoke wasn't paying the bills and pulled the plug--literally. There was now no way to get hold of this man.

My sister and I drove around town for another half hour or so, hitting every bar we came to, trying to find where the crowd had now moved on to. I told her it reminded me of when we were in high school and would cruise around town searching for the action. But it was always one step ahead of us, as it was this night. We finally drove home, empty-handed.

Except for a title of a story. The Karaoke Bride. The problem is, it sounds like a paranormal, and that's one genre I don't write. So, if anyone wants to claim my brainstorm of the evening, help yourself. I'll look forward to reading The Karaoke Bride. Oh, and if anyone knows how to get in touch with this man with his vintage Indian Chief, please let me know.