I
don’t just write stories. I write places. That’s one of the
signature characteristics of my writing—my tendency to set my tales
in specific locations, and to bring those settings to life. One of my
readers said once that in my books, the setting is almost another
character. I think that’s a reasonable observation.
In
most cases, I have some experience with the places I choose, either
as an inhabitant or a tourist. My first
novel was set in Thailand, my
second in Boston, my
third in Los Angeles, my
fourth in Pittsburgh—all
places I’ve lived at one time or another. I’ve also published
novels set in France,
Guatemala,
India,
San
Francisco, and Silicon
Valley, and, recently, a series of shorts called Asian
Adventures.
Very
little of my work unfolds without at least a mention of where it’s
happening. I enjoy the variety of writing new places almost as much
as I like traveling. However, I find myself returning again and again
to locations in Massachusetts, the state where I grew up and where I
lived for several decades before moving to Asia.
In
Miranda’s
Masks, the
heroine lives in the nineteenth century Boston district of Beacon
Hill, more or less
in the same apartment
I rented there for a glorious year and half. When Miranda
admires her surroundings, she’s basically echoing my own feelings:
Miranda
felt delightfully free as she strolled down Charles Street, enjoying
the afternoon. It was only May, but already the trees were in full
leaf, dappling the brick sidewalks with patterns of shadow. Girls
passed her in tank tops and shorts, legs and arms bare and already
burnished with sun. She felt warm in her long-sleeved pullover and
denim overalls.
She
loved this district, with its historic buildings and narrow lanes.
Most of the townhouses dated from the middle of the nineteenth
century. They offered a delightful jumble of architectural
detail—wrought-iron balconies, fanlight transoms, stained glass,
mullioned windows, Corinthian columns. Many of the brick-fronted
buildings were draped with ivy. Some were traversed by aged trunks as
thick as her wrist, twining around doors up to the many-chimneyed
roofs. The tall windows offered glimpses of chandeliers, Oriental
carpets, Siamese cats, and bookshelves that stretched floor to
ceiling.
In
Beacon Hill, gas lamps lined all the streets, burning day and night.
Her own apartment looked out on a private alley, flanked by ivy-hung
brick walls and lit by gas lights. Miranda appreciated the irony of
her living in an environment that dated from the same period as her
research. Perhaps, she sometimes mused, I had a previous
life as a Victorian matron.
Most
of Beacon Hill was residential, but Charles Street was lined with
shops and cafés. There were many vendors of books and antiquities.
Miranda loved to rummage through the crowded, chaotic shops, savoring
the atmosphere of the past, although she rarely made a purchase.
She
entered one of these places now, a dim, comfortable space half below
street level. She had to duck her head as she entered. A silvery bell
tinkled to announce her arrival.
The
proprietor, an energetic, fussy old man with wire spectacles, knew
her by sight.
“Hello,
hello,” he said as he emerged from a backroom. “Can I help you
find anything today?”
Miranda
smiled. “No, thank you. I’m just browsing at the moment.”
“Well,
if I can be of any assistance, just let me know.”
Miranda
wandered happily through the shop. It was much larger than it first
appeared, with several rooms stretching backward into the building.
The front room, near the street, was crowded with furniture of
obsolete categories, armoires, commodes, carved dressing tables
surmounted by triple mirrors. There were other rooms with porcelain,
jewelry, cutlery, iron fittings, tarnished brass.
There
really was a shop like that, just down the street from my front door.
I loved browsing there.
The
Witches of Gloucester
is a love letter to another of my favorite Massachusetts areas. Cape
Ann, north of Boston, is a rugged promontory
jutting out into the
frigid Atlantic. The Essex River estuary and the complicated
coastline create multiple beaches, inlets, bays and swamps. The city
of Gloucester itself has a long history as a port and trading hub. It
still has an active fishing fleet, manned by the Italian and
Portuguese inhabitants whose families have lived there for
generations.
Emmeline,
one of the witches in the title, has fled to the city after a messy
breakup with her boyfriend. The place she lives is based on a
picturesque little cottage on Inner Harbor that I noticed on one of
my trips to Gloucester.
Emmeline
perched on the rail of her tiny porch, watching the gulls wheel and
swoop among the masts crowding the sky. A man in a knit cap and tall
rubber boots balanced in a dingy, shouting to someone who looked like
his twin back on the wharf. One of the town’s many churches rang
six PM, but the sun still rode high above the inner harbor.
Honeysuckle blossoms growing across the narrow bay scented the air,
mingling with the closer odor of raw fish.
She
loved the sea, always had. Renting a cottage right on the water, a
space of her own where she could work on her dissertation in peace
and privacy – that had been her one dream after the nasty break-up
with Tim. Okay, so the place was hardly more than a shack, one room
plus a cramped bath with a cold shower, but it was painted lemon
yellow and had pansies in the box beneath its one front window. Not
to mention this back porch, the ideal place for her to hang out and
enjoy the sights, sounds and smells of the ocean. At night, little
waves lapped at the pilings that supported the rear half of the
building, lulling her to sleep. It was hard to imagine an environment
more conducive to study.
My
gay paranormal romance Necessary
Madness is
a much darker book than either of the above. Kyle, the eighteen year
old hero, has devastating prescient visions he cannot control, about
disasters he cannot prevent. His uncontrolled power is slowly driving
him insane. The story takes place in the gritty, industrial city of
Worcester, about fifty miles west of Boston, and in the hamlet of
Petersham in the Quabbin Valley, a rather haunted locale.
Here’s
a snippet set in Worcester:
It
was still early. The sun was just peeking over the roofs of the
apartment blocks and triple deckers that lined the street. Only one
or two cars passed him as he made his way along the sidewalk. Crisp
leaves fluttered around his ankles, then scattered in a chill gust
that sliced through his jacket as though it were made of paper. He
hardly noticed. Darkness was brewing in his mind, black whirlpools
flecked with points of flame. He knew the signs. He breathed a sigh
of relief when he saw the package store up ahead, the light in its
barred window indicating that it was open despite the hour.
“A
pint of Seagram’s, please.” When he saw Kyle’s money, the
grizzled clerk didn’t bother to ask for ID. In two minutes, Kyle
was back on the sidewalk, drinking deeply from the brown-bagged
bottle. The vodka seared his throat, familiar pain that made him feel
slightly better. The monstrous shapes shifting behind his eyelids
subsided. He headed up the Belmont Street hill towards the downtown
area. Somewhere he’d find a quiet bridge or a vacant lot, where he
could hide and drink until he drowned the demons cavorting in his
brain.
By
the time he reached the I-290 overpass, he was staggering. He tripped
and slammed into a wizened black woman toting her groceries, knocking
her hat onto the sidewalk. “Ah, sorry, ma’am,” he slurred,
giggling as he tried to replace the absurd pillbox on her grey curls.
“Crazy
honky bum! Get your filthy hands off me!”
“Um,
really, I apologise…” But she was already gone. He fell against
the railing, still chuckling, and leant over to watch the cars whizz
by, blurs of bright colour. He tilted the bottle to his lips, then
realised it was already empty. “Fuck!” His drunken hilarity
evaporated. He held the useless thing over the highway and released
it. The clash of its shattering, the squeal of brakes as cars tried
to avoid the spray of broken glass, gave him an odd satisfaction.
Maybe for once I’ll cause the
disaster, instead of being a helpless spectator.
And
here’s a bit from the tiny Western Massachusetts village of Petersham, which hopefully captures a bit of the
slightly creepy feeling of the place, which is part of the real
Lovecraft country :
The
afternoon was clear but cold. There’d be frost tonight. Kyle could
tell by sniffing the air. He swung out the driveway and turned left,
heading back up Quail Hollow Lane towards the village centre.
He
strode along the gravel road, snug in his warm clothing, humming a
Christmas song. His breath hung in white clouds in front of his face.
He reached Main Street—Route 32—and considered turning around.
The shadows were getting longer by the minute, though a few rays of
sunlight still slanted through gaps in the trees. Moving felt so
good, though—his lessons with Elspeth involved long hours of
virtual immobility. He kept going, driven by restless energy, past
the Congregational and the Baptist churches, the shuttered country
store and the white-shingled houses clustered around the village
green.
His
eyes adapted to the dimness as dusk approached. He didn’t realise
how late it had become until he heard the bell in one of the churches
behind him chime five.
Damn!
Elspeth will have my hide. Kyle wheeled
around and began to retrace his steps at a faster pace.
The
two-lane road was lonely and mostly empty. A pickup truck clattered
by, laden with metal scrap, then vanished into the gloom. It was much
colder now that the sun had disappeared completely. Kyle hurried
along, his shoulders hunched and his hands in his pockets.
I
even set one story, Almost
Home,
in the rural western Massachusetts town where I lived for twenty plus
years. This MMF holiday tale takes place during one of New England’s
famous blizzards, in
a house modelled after my neighbors’ place across the street.
Suzanne
had never seen stars so bright. The night sky was a black bowl above
them, studded with blazing jewels. The snow blanketing the yard
gleamed with some faint inner radiance. At the edges of the property,
evergreens clustered in deeper shadow like silent sentinels.
She
took a deep breath of the crystalline air, so cold and sharp it hurt
her lungs. The tiny hairs inside her nose stood on end. Her earlobes
felt like icicles. From the neck down, though, she was bathed in
delicious warmth. The bizarre contrast almost made her giggle.
Smooth,
hard muscle brushed her thigh. After a moment, roving fingers
skittered across her lap and burrowed into her pubic fur. A fiery
bolt of lust struck her core.
“Gino!”
she scolded. “Behave!”
“Why
should I?” asked her lover, rubbing his body against hers under the
surface of the water. “Harry doesn’t mind. Do you?”
The
lanky blond on Gino’s other flank grinned. “Not at all. Long as
you keep up what you’re doing over here, that is.”
Harris
had untied his ponytail. His golden locks flowed over his shoulders,
darkening to sepia where wet. With his thin face and chiselled
features, he looked like some warrior ascetic, a knight on a quest
for some sacred prize. Suzanne could understand why Gino found him
attractive. She wondered whether he really was one-hundred percent
gay.
Leaning
back against the redwood wall and closing her eyes, she allowed the
peace of the night to enfold her. Her limbs were heavy. Her heart
felt as though it was about to overflow.
The
growl of motors and a rattling of metal reached her ears. Gino’s
solar-heated hot tub was at the back of the house, away from the
street. Still, the faint noise shattered the intense quiet of the
snow-smothered night.
“Ploughs,”
said Harris, cocking his head in the direction of the sound. “At
last.” He pointed to the cloudless sky. “Looks like they were
wrong about more snow, though.”
These
aren’t my only stories
set in Massachusetts. Chemistry
takes place in Cambridge. Mastering
Maya
is another Boston tale. The
Understudy
is set at a summer theatre in the Berkshires, the range of hills on
the western border of the state. Rough
Weather
takes place on the beautiful island of Martha’s Vineyard.
I’m sure if I thought a bit more deeply, I’d come up with other
examples.
Living
overseas, I don’t really miss much about the United States, but the
New England landscape is an exception. Even though I left
Massachusetts more than fifteen years ago, it still has a place in my
heart. Not to mention in my fiction.
