I Talk About Werewolves and Angry Bostonians

My publisher asked me to talk about WOLF AT THE DOOR for an upcoming newsletter, and ignoring her sensible suggestion of a page, I wrote six. So I'm posting the thing in its entirety below, whether you like it or not. How 'bout THAT (Um, seriously, thanks in advance for your attention.)

The characters in WATD have been trapped in my head for years, poor bums. When I wrote my first single-title werewolf novel, Derik’s Bane, I had no idea readers would be so intrigued by the idea of werewolves living on Cape Cod, and would want to read more about them.

I was intrigued, sure, but that was because I was putting my husband through Harvard with a series of wretched temp jobs, and for the first time in my life was living 1500 miles away from my family. (Irony: as an Air Force brat, I swore when I hit 18 I’d never, ever move again. Then I met someone who lived 1500 miles away. Thanks for nothing, irony, you jerk.)

Massachusetts was an eye-opener for a former Midwestern trailer-park inhabitant. Noisy, fast, fuming, and noisy. For some reason, nearly everyone I talked to out there seemed to be furious with me. I found this puzzling, since usually people needed to be with me for at least half an hour before the Hulk rage overwhelmed them.

I can hear it now, so shush: “That’s a stereotype! I live in Boston and I’m super-nice, ya vapid dumbass!” I’m sure you are super nice. I’m sure you’re super delightful. And I did meet many people from Boston and the Cape who I adored and are friends with to this day. But I also met a lot of people who seemed to be enraged by my very presence.

So there I was, trying to learn the subway system, getting trampled at Filene’s Basement sales (“Please...I—I just want to see if that shirt’s a twelve...please get off my neck...ow...”), and adjusting to a society that had little use for cars.

Of all of them, the car thing was the most amazing. When my then-fiancé told me I could sell my car before we moved to Massachusetts, I flat-out didn’t believe him. It sounded impossible and dangerous. You’d die in Minnesota or North Dakota if you tried walking to work without a car. You could die checking the mail. If the elements didn’t get you, the wolves would.

But he’d been right, and I sold my car. After some nervousness (“Is this the train to Harvard Square? Also, please don’t rape or kill me.” “Kiddo, I’m 82, and you’re not my type.”), I learned to appreciate the T...it was nice being able to let someone else drive while I read or snacked, or snacked. The trains were (relatively) clean, and I was never bothered. At worst, some poor idiot would assume I knew what I was doing (“Is this the train for the Aquarium?” “Kiddo, I gotta get ready for my 83^rd birthday pahty, whyncha leave me alone?”), and ask for directions. I went through tons of books during my commute, and listened to tons of Ace of Base on an ancient tool once called a Walkman by my people.

I was homesick for the Midwest, sure, but Boston and Cape Cod quickly grew on me. I found myself grazing at Faneuil Hall, spending hours browsing the Barnes and Noble on Park Street and the Wordsworth at Harvard Square, and being morbidly aware that the letter R was usually nowhere to be found in the mouths of the people around me.

“Anothah stereotype, ya useless hack! I’ve lived in Bawstahn my whole life, I been to Fenway Pahk, I grew up in Chahsten an’ if you do that thing, that ‘pahk the cah in Havahd yahd’ thing I’m gonna smack ya upside ya big fat head! All that’s nothin’ but hate-mongerin’, jerk!”

Like I said: surrounded by awesome food, gorgeous beaches, and people I didn’t know who were super-pissed at me. I started wondering why: something in the water? (This was before we all started carrying our own clear fluids in Aquafina bottles.) Something in the subway? Something in their...nature? Their genetics? (I actually heard the light bulb blink to life over my head: ding!). Thus, I got the idea that werewolves lurked among us, werewolves who were always fighting their natures and trying to hide in plain sight. Werewolves who would lash out when the stress got to them. And a ton of them lived on the Cape.

So Derik’s Bane was born, and it was such fun. I really liked the Cape Cod characters, because I was a born tourist and once I got over my apprehension, loved the museums, loved the parks, loved the beaches, loved the peanuts and lemon ice you could buy on the street. I loved how I could shatter the kneecap of the woman lunging for the same jeans I was at the annual Filenes sale. Best of all, I loved the sense of history. I had to walk past Benjamin Franklin’s grave every day on my way to work. I lived within walking distance of the Mount Auburn Cemetery. I sat in the Old North Church and tried to imagine “one if by hand, two here by me”, or whatever Paul Revere was supposed to have figured out.

By the time I sat down to write Chapter One, I’d come to love the Cape’s beauty, the friendly and straightforward people, the truly awful driving that gave me a new appreciation for life every time I returned safely from the grocery store...and don’t start with the stereotypes again. That one’s true and you all know it. Boston drivers are more dangerous than a baker’s dozen of serial killers.

True to my frivolous and contrary nature, I cried when it was time to move to Boston, and I cried when it was time to move back to Minnesota. In five years, I’d embraced and admired a part of the country that was wholly different from anything I’d experienced the first twenty years of my life. They could have seafood as fast food out there! They thought nothing of dropping everything and heading to a beach, sometimes without sandwiches! They fearlessly crossed the street during rush hour and lived to tell the tale!

All this to say, I was homesick and confused when I wrote Derik’s Bane, and writing that book helped me get over myself and appreciate where I was.

Fast forward a few years, I asked my editor if I could write another single-title about the Wyndham werewolves, since readers had been asking for that book for years. She agreed at once, and I got to work. By then I’d been back in Minnesota for a few years and was writing full-time. And though most of Wolf at the Door takes place in Minnesota, the few bits in Boston reminded me how afraid I’d been to move there, and what I dumbass I’d been to be afraid, and how much I wanted to see the area again.

So I finished the book, talked to my hubby/writing partner (we co-write the Jennifer Scales series), and as it turned out, this year we’ll be having Thanksgiving on the Cape. What can I say? It’s gorgeous out there, and the people are great. Anyone who says different is an idiot. A blonde, six-foot tall idiot.

Ah! One more thing, a timeline issue. The events in Wolf at the Door take place after Undead and Unstable, which will be out in June 2012. So, yes, this book comes out with information that won’t be explained for eight months. This is on purpose. Please bear with me. I really do have a plan, and it’s no fueled by booze smoothies, so I think it’ll work. Don’t be scared. It’s not like I’m asking you to leave your friends and family and move across the country. That’d be insane.

So that’s the scoop, and I thank you kindly for your attention. But I’m closing the laptop now...gotta go pahk my cah. Did you know you can actually get your point across more quickly if you omit needless consonants?