Today I’m pleased to welcome Deborah LeBlanc. I discovered Deborah’s writing a few years ago and instantly fell in love with the the dark, southern feel to it.
Here’s a bit of info about Deborah, taken from her web site:
Deborah LeBlanc is an award-winning author and business owner from Lafayette, Louisiana. She’s also a licensed death scene investigator and an active member of two national paranormal investigation teams. Deborah’s unique experiences, enthusiasm, and high-energy level make her a much sought after speaker at writers’ conferences across the nation. She also takes her passion for literacy and a powerful ability to motivate to high schools around the country.
She is the president of the Horror Writers Association, president of the Writers’ Guild of Acadiana, president of Mystery Writers of America’s Southwest Chapter, and an active member of Sisters in Crime, the National Association of Women’s Writers, and International Thriller Writers Inc. In 2004, she created the LeBlanc Literacy Challenge, an annual national campaign designed to encourage more people to read and founded Literacy Inc. a non-profit organization dedicated to fighting illiteracy in America’s teens. Her most recent novel is Water Witch.
Today Deborah writes about just how far she goes as an author to make her novels “real.”
When Is Enough Too Much?
As a writer, one is given a certain amount of creative license when penning a story, and although I appreciate that freedom, I find myself getting rather anal when it comes to details.
For example, one of the settings for my first novel was an old mental institution. Now I could have easily conjured up a description of an eerie building from my imagination that would have passed mustard with a reader, but I couldn’t help but wonder—what does it feel like in a building like that—the energy that’s exerted by the patients who live there—the families who visit them? I quickly became obsessed with finding the answer to that
question, and before I knew it, I was visiting mental institutions in multiple states. Some new, some very old but functional—some abandoned. As difficult as it was to confront the reality of the pain suffered by the victims of mental disease and their families, I left each institution with a ‘truth’ to share with my readers that might help them see beyond society’s stereotypical mold of the mentally ill.
That research adventure brought such life to my writing that I soon turned into a research junkie. And, as with most things I become obsessed with, I found myself pushing limits I would have never even considered before.
Take the coffin incident for example…I was writing a scene for my second book, Grave Intent, where a secondary character finds himself locked in a casket. Not having experienced such a tragedy, I began winging it on imagination alone. But the scene simply wouldn’t jell. When I finally finished the first draft and read it, it felt two-dimensional, so I wrote it again. It still stank. By the third draft my frustration level had peaked to an all time high, and I shoved my chair away from the computer, knowing there was only one solution to the problem. I had to experience it. Now you would think a logical person would take into consideration that the number of readers who’d actually been trapped in a casket was minimal enough to make the whole issue moot. Then again, we’re talking about a rational person…I’ll tell
you, I’ve pulled some crazy stunts before, all in the name of research, but this one ranks right up there with stupid.
Here’s what happened . . .
Having access to a casket was easy because many of my friends are funeral directors. Choosing one of them to lock me inside a casket, however, was the challenge. Although I trusted my friends, did I trust all of them with my life? Uh, nope. And just how many of them would think I had completely flipped off my rocker? Damn near every one of them….except ‘Jay’, a twenty year veteran in the business and an avid adventurer. So I asked him, and, as I suspected, he gave me a crooked grin, eyed me for a long moment, then said, “Aw, what the hell. Okay, I’ll do it.”
Early the next evening, after Jay’s staff had left for the day, we went into the casket selection room, and I chose a bronze sealer with off-white satin interior. The high-end, airtight model made Jay nervous.
“Ten minutes and you’re out of air,” he said, his expression pensive. “You sure you want this one?”
“Yeah, why? You are going to unlock it, right?”
“Well, yeah I’m going to unlock it, but what if it gets stuck? Suppose something goes wrong with the lock? I mean, it’s not like we go around testing these caskets. Once they’re locked, they usually go in the ground.”
“Let’s test it before I get in then,” I said, getting a bit nervous myself.
So we did test it—three times—and the casket reopened each time without fail.
With Jay hovering like a mother hen, I slipped off my shoes and climbed into the casket. My body sank into the plush mattress, and I let out a little sigh. This was more comfortable than the mattress on my own bed at home.
“When you’re ready to come out, just knock on the inside of the lid or the sides, and I’ll unlock it right away,” Jay said.
“Okay, but let’s practice to make sure you can hear me.” I signaled for him to close the casket lids.
The moment that tiny space grew dark my heart rate tripled. I beat on the side of the casket with an elbow, then quickly pushed open the lid above my head. This was going to be tougher than I thought. “Did you hear me?”
“Loud and clear.”
I took a deep breath, drumming up as much courage as possible. “Okay, then let’s get this shit over with.”
As soon as the lid closed, I heard the echo of the lock slipping into place….
I have never known darkness so complete. Not one molecule of light existed in this confined space. That alone caused my breathing to grow rapid. Tight spaces don’t usually bother me, but tight spaces this dark are another story. I was able to move my arms, but the range was limited. I brought my right hand to my face, touched my nose, still not believing the depth of the darkness. Only three fingers fit between my head and the lid above me. Leg movement was nearly impossible. A few inches straight up was about all
the room I had before hitting the bottom lid. The sides of the casket pressed against my shoulders. A sardine in a can had more room than I did.
With each passing moment, every scent seemed to grow more concentrated—the new mattress—layers of satin—metal. The smells quickly became overwhelming, and my nose burned each time I inhaled.
Sounds, even those created by me, were muffled. The rustle of my clothes against the lining of the casket, my breathing. I coughed to test the effect, and the sound fell flat, like a rock dropped into a shallow pond. A thumping sound came from outside the casket, and I held my breath, listening. More thumping. Jay was walking around the casket. Walking away from the casket? I had to mentally push, shove, squash, stomp that thought out of my head before I completely came unglued.
I closed my eyes, which made no difference in my surroundings, and focused on my character and the scene I’d written for him. What would he be doing right about now? In my mind’s eye, I saw him thrashing, so frantic to be free. I knew his confinement, knew the darkness, understood his helplessness. That vision grew so vivid, I found myself beginning to hyperventilate. Wait . . . I tried drawing in a deep breath, but only managed to fill a third of my lungs. I wasn’t hyperventilating . . . I was running out of oxygen!
My eyes flew open, and I slammed an elbow into the side of the casket.
Rapid thumping outside now. Quick, muted footsteps. The clank of metal against metal—Jay sliding the L-key into the lock? A click—then nothing.
I felt my eyes grow as wide as doubloons. Ramming my elbow harder against the casket, I yelled, “Let me out!” My voice sounded muffled by a thousand pillows. “Let-me-out!”
More clicking sounds. Again nothing.
“Jay!” I started thrashing, beating my fists against the lids and sides of the coffin. Harder to breathe—white sparkles, like illuminated dust bunnies, showered across my line of sight. “Get—get me the—the f-f*** out of here!”
The clicking sounds seemed to go on forever before—light! The top lid flew open, and I bolted upright, gulping air.
When I finally collected myself, I looked over at Jay. “What the hell took you so long?”
He held up the L-key and grinned sheepishly. “I got nervous, and it kept slipping out of the hole.”
Now that would have made an interesting news broadcast—Author Suffocates in Casket Due to Nervous Funeral Director—more news at 10.
No doubt I’d just proven to myself that, occasionally, enough research can indeed be too much!
Deborah LeBlanc
www.deborahleblanc.com
Thank you, Deborah!
