RebeccaYork's blog

Recently, someone asked me where my weird ideas come from. I guess she meant, why are you so into paranormal? Why do you write about werewolves and demons and monsters from another time continuum?

When I was in elementary school, the D.C. Public Library sent a “book basket” to every classroom every month. In fifth grade, when the teacher put RED PLANET, by Robert Heinlein, up on the eraser ledge, the cover illustration made me want to read the book. So I rushed up to get it before anyone else could.
 
Thus began a lifelong interest in science fiction and fantasy. They were a big part of my recreational reading for years, with adventure and mystery thrown in.
 

Over the years, I’ve made a point of seeking out danger.  Partly so I can write about the emotions of my Intrigue heroes and heroines when they’re in a tight spot.  And partly to try out perils that may end up in my books.

About four years ago I ended up in the passenger seat of a two-person glider, being towed into the air by a small, single-engine plane.  FYI, the passenger seat is in the front. The guy who’s steering the glider is in the back.  These babies are smaller than a World War II fighter, and there’s no engine.  The little plane took us four thousand feet into the air.  Then the pilot asks me to turn the lever that cuts us loose.  I did, and we glided free in the sky above Santa Ynez, California, then over the former Reagan ranch.  The worst part was being dragged along behind that little plane.  Every time it tipped to the left or right, we also tipped, and I held onto the sides of the cockpit with white knuckles.  But once we were on our own, it was like floating on a cloud. Or it would have been, if there had been any clouds in that perfectly blue sky. 

At the other research extreme, about twelve years ago, I went down to the edge of the Atlantic shelf in a submarine, off the coast of Grand Cayman Island.  It was a small sub, but unlike on the tiny glider, there were 29 other passengers lined up at seats along the hull, each with a viewing window.  Before we dove, each of us was handed a kind of mask.  The pilot told us that it was a “rebreather.”  He went on to say, “If we get stuck for any reason, you can breathe through this thing for up to four hours.”  Oh great, I thought.  If I get stuck in this tin can with 29 other passengers, I’ll go stark raving mad and forget how to breathe at all.

Captivity. Again. But where and when?

Disjointed thoughts swirl through my head, and I can capture none of them. I hear a woman crying. Who is she? Does she weep for me? I try to grab a memory. Then it slips away, and I want to scream in frustration. But I cannot speak. Cannot move. Cannot even open my eyes. And my body is on fire.

I fight the agonizing pain in every cell of my body, praying for death. But death has been denied me many times. Again, I try to remember how I got here. Do the Franciscans have me in the cellars below the abbey, confined because they think I’m in league with the devil? No, that can’t be true. I escaped from the monks long ago.

Has the Doge of Venice arrested me for shipping treasures out of his city-state? But didn’t I bribe my way out of his prison? Then who holds me captive? Am I in the clutches of the Nazis–because they think I’m spying for the Allied forces? No, I remember escaping from their transport van in a hail of bullets. They left me for dead by the side of the road.

So where am I now?

When I saw the cover of MORE THAN A MAN, my August Intrigue, I did a double take.  The great-looking guy on the cover is the spitting image of my son.  Did the art department find a picture of him?  Or is it just an accident?  The skin tone’s off.  My son’s got more olive coloration.  And his hair is shorter.  But that’s HIM.  And if he ever sees this post, he’ll probably come afte