When I was a kid, about third grade, I used to have to ride the bus home from Church School every Wednesday night. I hated it. It was an old style bus ride that literally stopped at everyone’s house rather than in a central location from which we could all walk home. For some reason, my house, which was pretty much in the middle of town, was one of the last stops. The students on the bus were kindergartners through 8th graders. Everyone knows jr. high kids are the worst. They shouldn’t even have allowed them in Church School because they pretty much are the devil incarnate.
Every time the bus pulled up to the church, I tried to guess the safest place to sit. That place was, of course, the farthest from the jr. high kids. Usually I did okay, but every once in a while, my young impressionable mind was horrified by the talking points of these older individuals and their need to push all of the limits of decency post church-ing for an hour and fifteen minutes.
Ironically, it was these semi-human beast people that made me want to write.
One fateful evening, I was stuck in the seat directly behind one of the male and female creatures. They were deeply caught up in an early teen awkward discussion about school and good vs. bad teachers. Eventually they got to their writing teacher. They hated her because she was already like 30 years old and “totally didn’t get it.” She had the nerve of asking her students to write a story about their dream Christmas gift. It could be one they wanted to give or receive.
Without actually planning on writing anything of the sort, these two big kids started talking about what they wished they could write.
“I want a giant flying bed pan so I can drop all my waste on her house!”
“I want a giant plunger so when I poop I can plunge it so hard it will shoot out of her toilet!”
“I want to give her the gift of being beaten by the ugly stick so her boyfriend leaves her for the math teacher!”
They went on and on, mostly to dirty for me to rewrite to mixed readership. For some reason, that conversation clicked in my young mind. I could and can write whatever I want. I don’t have to write about a specific GI Joe guy I want for Christmas. I can write that I want to be GI Joe for Christmas and finally just take Cobra’s hood off and find out what the heck is actually under there.
From that point on, I loved to write. I would literally close my eyes and try to come up with the most crazy mixed up idea I could. It was easy to reign it in if needed, but a blast to start out in a whole different dimension. I still didn’t get great grades, because I never really bothered to edit, but my teachers loved reading my stories.
That’s how I came up with the characters for my book series Sugarbeet Falls. In the story, a young boy named Xander learns that through an ancient family gift, he has the power to conjure up superheroes to help him through his days. He learns of this power when he finds himself in the restroom with no toilet paper. He wishes for a blinded hero who can deftly change a toilet paper roll while offering the victim their favorite magazine. Poof! The Bathroom Manager (BM) is born.
Xander fights evil in his town with a whole bunch of wonderful characters and heroes that can only really be found if he clears his mind and thinks for the stars!
Check it out if you have the chance. Its on Amazon, or www.sugarbeetfalls.com.
This post is contributed as Guest post by Ryan Acra.