Bits, Bobs, Bumps

The Morphs


Who, What, and Why?

The Morphs are unique in my character collection. I thought you’d enjoy learning how they arrived in Zo White’s world.

I knew from the get-go that Snow White / Zo White would be a Cirque-du-Soleil performer. My riff on the Seven Dwarfs was the challenge. I needed a word that rhymed with dwarfs but could mean something. I walked around mumbling to myself for two days. I rhymed and re-rhymed trying to find the perfect word.

Finally, “Morphs”came flying into my mind like Harry Potter’s white owl. My best off-beat ideas usually swoop in on feathered, fantasy wings. Morphs sounded like the perfect word. But was there already such a thing? How could it possibly be? I thought I’d just made it up.

I entered “Morphs”in Google search.

I was giddy with excitement when I discovered Morphs existed! And better yet, they would fit nicely into Zo White’s circus world. I had my seven heroes!

When I finally stopped happy dancing, I contacted the owners of Morphsuits to share my book-in-the-works. Morphsuits is located in Edinburg, Scotland.

Gregor Lawson, one of the founding partners of Morphsuits got right back with me. He was intrigued with Zo White and the Seven Morphs. Gregor made the Morphsuit artwork available to my awesome graphic designer, Katerina Vamvasaki. I am thrilled with both the ebook and paperback covers.

Now the hard work began… how to balance seven semi-heroes in a plot? Seven colors, each with a slightly different personality. Yikes!

The action scenes were the real challenge. It was like coordinating a spilled box of crayons. What color went where? And what shade should beat up what thug?

Taking a beloved fairy tale and bringing it into current day is tough enough. Everyone knows the villain and the original plot line. Everyone accepts there will be a happily ever after. But how to blend that with modern technology? I loved doing it in Wendy and the Lost Boys. Now I had to invent a magic mirror.

I hope you enjoy Zo as much as Alice, Wendy, and the rest of my collection. If you’re so inclined reviews mean an awful lot to an author. Especially one who’s been playing with Legos for six months.

Love you guys!

BTW: Morphsuits has over One Million Likes on Facebook!

Stephen King - Bump!

For those of you who haven’t been following my Author Bumping antics please check out my earlier posts. Bumping into authors is one of my many peculiar talents.

I began with my tale of bumping into the belly of Robert B. Parker as I made a mad dash to escape a cockney ladies’ loo lurker in London. I followed up with Bumping into Zombie Authors – The Walking Dead premiere. In that post I shared a creepy childhood story told to me by writer, director, producer – Frank Darabont.

In the beginning: I was at my first writers’ conference. Excited to finally be pursuing my dream of writing, I had signed up without paying close attention to the names on the speakers/attendees list. I’m a leap and then look person. The energy of a group of writers, particularly horror writers, can be like downing a six-pack of Red Bull on an empty stomach. My head was spinning with long submerged plots and characters. The encouragement I received from established writers made my knees weak and my fingers ache to be typing. I learned quickly that the energy cast off from gathered writers can be like the heat from the sun. It burns.

Needing a break from the heady vibes that cut like dragon flies from writer to writer, I sought quiet in the “Movie Room.” One room had been designated as a time-out zone. The movie that played continuously was Blade Runner.

I fumbled in the darkness and took a seat in the small auditorium. It was about ten minutes into the film. A tall someone sat next to me. He apologized and settled in. As Harrison Ford wandered the screen with a perpetually puzzled puss, the chap next to me struck up a conversation. The words weren’t important. It was the idea that someone would talk during a film. Movies are religious experiences to me. I enter them and disappear.

The tall stranger didn’t say much, but he did break the Harrison Ford moment. I’m not a shusher, I’m a glarer. But in the dark it was hard to throw a “quiet, please” look and have it recognized. He spoke with an accent. Boston? No. Maine. The lights went on and it was Stephen King. He was sweet and chatty and exhausted. He’d stepped into the darkness to collect himself, just as I had.

Later we shared beers in the bar. He was wearing a black t-shirt with fake seagull poop dripping down both shoulders. Childlike, he was tickled at the t-shirt joke. He suggested I sign up for the London Workshop which was set for that summer. From there it was a short distance to my sliding into Bob Parker’s belly. My career in Author Bumping had begun.

Robert B. Parker Author Bumping

Author Bumping.  It’s a talent I come by naturally. I have literally fallen into a full body bump with some pretty big name writers. These unplanned slams usually occur with hilarious results.

Robert B. Parker, was a lovely man. He was the Dean of American Crime Fiction and the creator of the wise-cracking, street smart Boston private eye, Spenser.  The New York Times said of the Spenser novels “ We are witness to one of the great series in the history of the American Detective Story.”

My first meeting with Robert B. Parker was not the auspicious event I would have preferred.  I slammed into him as if he were home base. All one hundred and twenty pounds of me hitting his chubby frame with an “umph!”  But let me back up and get a running start into this story.

I was attending a writer’s workshop in London. It was comprised of a small group of dedicated hopefuls who were there to hone their craft with instructors, Bob Parker, Stephen King and PD James. The event was quarterbacked by Gary Goshgarian, an amazing writer and professor of English Literature at Northeastern University.  Gary writes powerful crime thrillers under the pen name of Gary Braver.

The workshop took place at the London Polytechnic  University campus located on  Marleybone Road across from Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum and near White Chapel, home of Jack the Ripper.  It was summer and the inner city buildings were deserted. Red graffiti  decorated the walls, and swore at us in terms I’d never heard before. The buildings have since been renovated but at the time, the setting was pretty eerie.

I took a seat in the old lecture theater, laying my knapsack and duffle bag on the floor at my feet. I was pleased I had traveled light and finally got the hang of looking like a writer. I had dropped the sissy pink dresses and kitten heels after the last writers’ conference. I was determined to look like what I thought writers looked like.  Tough and ready to rock ‘n roll.

Someone spoke from the stage – can’t remember who – telling us where and how to find our room assignments in the dorms and that someone would be addressing the group, shortly. I settled back and admired the carved wood paneling and Phantom of the Opera ambience.

A professor-like woman turned to me in the dimly lit room. “Hi. My name is Shirley. I have really got to find a ladies room. Would you mind my bags for me?” 

“Sure.”  But even as I spoke I knew … I needed a loo trip, too. Now was as good a time as any. The lady on Shirley’s far side agreed to stand sentry over our bags .  My new buddy and I set out in search of a potty. The halls outside the auditorium were silent.  Slippery  polished marble floor, stone walls and dim lights but no restrooms. “Maybe they’re on the second floor.”

We walked up a level. Nothing. And the lights were dimmer.  Shirley and I agreed to take this up one more floor.  I was mentally kicking myself for not using the loo at the airport.  With the school abandoned for the summer, someone had taken to making a career out of polishing the marble floors. They were as slippery as ice.

No potty. No loo. “One more floor?” I asked. Shirley nodded, her eyes like two giant robin’s eggs behind her thick glasses.  It was awfully quiet. We made our way to the fourth floor clinging to the banister to steady ourselves.  A good tinkle was now at the top of my list of most desirable things to do in London.

On the fourth floor we finally found a ladies loo. We entered in the harsh light. The room felt like the men’s room scene in the Shining.  Jack Nicholson meets the long dead manager of the Overlook Hotel. The guy who slaughtered in family with an ax. Okay… my nerves were a bit prickly.

Shirley grabbed one stall and I hit another. I’d clicked the door shut and was in bladder emptying ecstasy when the door shook. “Open up or I’ll break the door down!” said a male voice with a cockney accent.

  Knowing it would do no good to scream, I said… “Absolutely not!”  (I’m notoriously polite.)

 “If you don’t open this bloody door I’m going to put it under the door.”  I knew what he meant by “it.” Ick!  I said the first thing that came to mind. “You do and I’ll step on it!” Eww…

“Barbara! What’s going on?”

“Dumb question, Shirley!”

Then there was silence.  Not a word. Not a footstep.  Only the sound of Shirley whimpering from her position two stalls down.  More silence. He was either waiting outside the door with a Jack the Ripper Knife or he had run away.

I made an executive decision. “Shirley… at the count of three - let’s make a run for it. One…”

“Barbara, I can’t. I can’t get my girdle up. I’m too scared!”

Girdle? Who wears a girdle?  I was trapped in a farce with a woman in a girdle, and a guy who might be very large in certain bodily areas. “Shirley… ditch your girdle. We’re running for it! 2-3”

We broke out of our stalls like two race horses out for the Triple Crown. We hit the marble floor with Flintstone feet flying. Funny thing about running on slippery surfaces … you can build up some real speed.

At the second level… Shirley went reeling. “Turn into the skid!” I yelled at her as I grabbed the railing. She squealed and then righted herself.  By the time we hit the ground floor we must have been going a hundred miles an hour.

A group of people stood at the entrance to the auditorium. Robert B. Parker was among them. I lost control and went into a slide. I bumped into his portly belly.  Slam!

Bob and the others were concerned. Security came running. Shirley blubbered – I recounted what had happened. “What did this bloke look like?” asked the guard.  “I didn’t get a look at him. But he had a cockney accent and he must have a penis as big as a horse! The words were out before the Catholic girl in me could censor them.  I’ll never forget the look on Bob’s face.  He burst into a hearty laugh.  “He was going to put it under the door.” That made Bob laugh even harder. “I told him if he did, I would step on it.” I tried to sound rational, but it was too late. The laughter echoed off the stone and marble.

Bob Parker wasn’t my first Author Bump but he was one of my more memorable.

Author Bumping to be continued…

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