The Writer as Magpie

LUCY BURDETTE: Remember I was asking for help with a Friends of the Key West library talk about writing a series a few weeks ago? It all went smashingly well, and I used lots of your comments. So thank you!

One of the things I wanted to talk to them about was how writers are like magpies, picking up characters and scenes and sentences wherever we go, from whatever we hear. The example I used was something that happened to me a couple of weeks ago and I thought you’d enjoy it too.

To set the scene, I was late for my appointment at the gym. I ran downstairs to get on my bike and discovered it was raining. John had the car that day, so I dashed back upstairs, got my raincoat, slapped on my helmet, and rode like the wind up the island. Two blocks from the gym, I glanced in my little rearview mirror and noticed flashing lights. They couldn’t be for me…

But I stopped peddling and turned to watch a tall police officer emerge from the driver side, and a smaller one out of the passenger. “Are you looking for me?” (A little old lady. On a bicycle. In the rain.)

“Yes,” the tall man said without a smile. “Were you aware that you ran two stop signs? I first will ask whether there is any medical reason why you were in such a hurry?”

“I’ve got nothing. I was late for the gym,” I said.

He went on to talk about how Key West has one of the highest bicycle accident rates in the state of Florida and etc. etc. And he was absolutely right, and I’ve been more careful ever since. But all I could think about was whether I'd get arrested if I asked him to take a selfie with me. And how I had one humdinger of a scene for the next mystery…

Here’s what I’ve got so far for the opening of Key West food critic #10, Hayley Snow talking of course…

To whom does our island really belong? That’s what I found myself wondering as I sat on my scooter in the rain, late for my pricy personal trainer, attempting to cross a massive traffic jam on Eaton Street. Underneath the beads and the beer and the outdoor burgers and music on Duval Street where the tourists found their “happy place,“ there was a struggle for ownership. I’d seen this on Instagram and Facebook when I posted something especially beautiful about our little knob of coral. Outsiders craved a piece of paradise as much as the locals – the insiders—wanted them gone.

This week between Christmas and New Year’s, Key West was bursting at the seams. Even my general practitioner confessed that he wouldn’t leave his condo complex unless coming to work: he’d never seen the island this busy. People wouldn’t stop for anyone – on a bicycle, walking, on a scooter, in a car. Already since Monday there had been five accidents, including two couples airlifted to a Miami trauma center, outcomes unknown.

And that pointed to one of the drawbacks of living on a small island and getting sick, with the way to mainland being a four-hour drive to Miami. You could get by fine visiting local doctors with a garden variety cold or a few stitches or an eye exam, but detach a retina or bash your head on the pavement, and you had an expensive helicopter trip to Miami ahead of you.

Because of the congestion, I seemed to be running late for everything. I dashed through a slight break in the traffic and whizzed across Frances Street, nearly slamming into a golf cart loaded with tourists.

“Even in Key West, a stop sign is not a freaking suggestion,” I hollered. 

They waved their beer cans and hooted with laughter.

“Chill, baby,” the driver yelled back. “Anger isn’t an aphrodisiac.”

Idiots.

Several blocks later I noticed blue lights in my rearview mirror. It had to be Nathan. My new husband, a Key West police detective, who was not usually a prankster. But we’d had a little kerfuffle this morning and he’d stormed off mad. He must finally be getting over it and lightening up. I took off my helmet, fluffed my hair, blotted the skin under my eyes where my mascara had no doubt been pooling, and smiled warmly.

But it wasn’t Nathan who emerged from the cruiser, it was two police officers I did not know, one tall and lanky with a shaved head, the other shorter, with the smallest smirk on his face. He stood about ten feet away from the tall man and watched him approach my scooter.

“Did you mean for me to stop?” I asked, feeling confused and annoyed.

“Yes. Were you aware that you ran through that stop sign without even looking? Do you have a medical reason to be in a hurry?”

How should a person answer a question like that, if she isn’t nine months pregnant, and clutching her contracting belly, or staunching an obvious blood flow?

Maybe, give me the freaking ticket and let’s get on with it?

Nathan would be furious. 

Writers, can you point to a scene from your life that you used in a book? Readers, have you ever wondered whether a particular scene really happened?