I often get asked why I write rock fiction. (If you need a primer, you can read about rock fiction here.)
Music has always been something that has made me feel alive. The earliest memories I have are filled with music: my grandmother singing to me, listening to my parent’s vinyl, and (gasps loudly) even playing an eight-track or two.
Music—either playing or listening to it—has gotten me through some of the darkest parts of my life. From developing a chronic illness when I was nineteen to the passing of friends and family, music has been there for me. So, when I picked up the pen again, it was only natural that I started writing about musicians.
My characters have a creation story that is sadly typical; they introduced themselves in a dream many years ago, and have grown and evolved with me as the years have passed.
I also want to dispel the myth that touring musicians have a great life. Sure, there is the high of playing for your fans, but the reality is much different. I look at it this way. Get four or five of your closest friends. Get a small enclosed space to travel in (bus, RV) and do that for upwards of six months while running marathons daily, and give up pretty much any pretense of privacy. If you’re still talking to each other afterward, I really am going to question your sanity.
Right now, I’m working on the second draft of my first novel, the first novel that I ever wrote, and the first novel to feature at least two of the main characters that I write about. I have a rough outline of the whole arc that I’d love to see them take. Only time will tell if I’m going to be able to get that out of my head or if I’ll be taking them with me.
Teaser snippet from A Desert Song
It had been one of those dark nights that seemed so still, I just knew something wasn’t right, even if the sky resembled blue velvet and the stars glittered like flawless diamonds.
I was heading home, returning from visiting my daughter and my newborn granddaughter. I ‘d been traveling for almost a week, taking the back roads to get to California. Seeing my granddaughter reminded me of how old I really was. And today had been another long day of paying too much for too little at half-arsed gas stations for fuel, and junk food to keep me going.
I was exhausted; the drone of the tires on the asphalt lulled me into one of those dangerously mindless states. I needed to pull off the highway sometime soon, but the vast expanse of the desert stretched before me with no signs of civilization. I dreaded the thought of spending a night in my car in the desert. I could try to find somewhere that at least had the pretense of looking remotely like civilization, if not actually being civilization. Hopefully with at least a small fleabag hotel, I could stay overnight and then get myself back on the road.
Sometimes I wanted to kick myself in the arse for having the penchant for heading off the beaten path, and this was one of those times. Usually the worst that happened was I’d have to spend a bit more in fuel to get home, and maybe take an extra day or so to get where I was going. Right now, it seemed most likely that I’d be sleeping in the cramped, cold confines of my car, and paying for it for a week. One more reminder that the bloom was definitely off the rose. No longer was I a handsome young man of twenty and change, but a distinguished elder. Once-strawberry-blond hair that had curled about my shoulders was now cropped close, and blue eyes that had seen too much in their time were showing my age. I knew I should be happy I was still somewhat able to work on something I loved, but even there, the years of blazing across a fretboard were having a physical toll.
Amy M. Young is a Canadian writer who lives in the National Capital Region. She primarily writes rock fiction and her work can be currently found on her Website. You can also follow Amy on Facebook and Twitter.