Today I am delighted to be part of the Blog Tour for The Disciple by Stephen Lloyd Jones with a guest post about the inspiration. I loved reading The Disciple (see my review) and I recommend it to those who love fantasy and horror.
Don’t forget to visit other blog stops along the tour for other great content.
The Inspiration for The Disciple
In The Disciple, published by Headline this month, Edward Schwinn, a barely-functioning recluse, is returning home one winter evening when he happens across a five-vehicle pile-up. Investigating the wreckage, he discovers the sole survivor: a woman, heavily pregnant, blindfolded and bound.
It’s over a year since I wrote that opening scene, but I remember the experience very clearly. One moment I was walking near my home, and the next I was sitting beside Edward in his Land Rover as he navigated the mountain road on which he travelled. I could smell the wet odour of his dog in the back, and could just about see around the corner to the carnage that awaited him.
At this point, I had no idea where the scene would take Edward, or the identity of the woman he rescued. I knew he was a damaged man, and that a darkness in his past had all but destroyed him. I knew, also, that the woman would lead him into dangers he could never have possibly foreseen, and at the same time offer him a startling opportunity for redemption.
I began to write, and as the scene and those that followed took shape, I glimpsed more of the story: more of Edward’s character, and more of the journey on which he’d embarked. It was a fascinating process, one that sustained me through many hundreds of pages of writing.
Looking back, I have no idea why The Disciple’s opening scene popped into my head the way it did, but the same thing happened with my debut novel, The String Diaries. One moment I was without a story, the next I was watching its first scene unfold. Receiving inspiration that way is electrifying – exciting and terrifying in equal measure. I know that the only way I’ll find out what happens is to write the story out, but until I do I won’t know if I have something worth reading, or something utterly worthless.
With The Disciple, that journey of discovery consumed a year and a half of my life. The more I wrote, the more immersed I became. As I reached the end, I could think of little else. And, once it was done, and the journey was at an end, I felt a very real sense of loss.
Fortunately, of course, it wasn’t long before I found myself inside another opening scene, simultaneously excited and terrified to see how it would play out. This month, I’ll probably complete that book. As I write this, I feel it calling me.
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