Bibliofreakblog

Shana Mahaffey on Inspiration

I invited Shana Mahaffey, author of Sounds Like Crazy, to stop by and tell us a little bit about inspiration, mentorship, and that kick in the ass all writers need now and then…

Inspired to Write by Poppa

Being one of twenty can do one of two things to any person: make them a seeker of corners and shadows, or make them a person who likes to stand tall and declare something to the world. Growing up under the direction of a grandfather who was larger than life inspired all twenty of us to stand on tiptoes and become a person Poppa (our grandfather) would be proud of.  

Now Poppa was a tough act to follow. He was an Irish Catholic who held fast to all the traditions and beliefs. He loved his family, his fellow man, he had a long list of awards, accomplishments, high school and college academic and sports hall of famer, World War II medalist (many, including the Purple Heart), many times San Francisco Golden Gloves boxing champion, defensive lineman for the San Francisco Clippers (the team before the 49ers), John Madden’s coach…to list just some of the highlights. He wrote every day and could even be considered one of the original bloggers with a mailing list of over 200 eager readers waiting for that Underwood typed four + page letter that arrived monthly, but he never achieved his ultimate writing goal—to become a published author.  

By the time we grandchildren began to arrive, he decided if he wasn’t the one to become the published author, one of his grandchildren would suffice. He started looking for his writer by taking our letters and returning them corrected, with red pen (Poppa was also an English teacher). I was the only one who was undeterred by the red pen (even though the corrections didn’t stop until I was well into college).  

In college I pursued my writing in earnest, publishing poetry, short stories, and editorials in the college paper. I finished with a degree in English, a minor in creative writing, and a declaration that I would be a writer. Time passed, as it is wont to do, and I bounced around in life becoming very accomplished at “talking the talk.” Finally, a few years ago Poppa put on his “We’re down by a field goal with a minute to go,” coaching hat and started doing the “how badly do you want this speeches.” I smiled, nodded, said “I’m writing.” I wasn’t writing seriously, though, and he knew it.  

The pep talks continued. Then Christmas rolled around. We were having coffee and he said, “How’s the book going?” I decided to be honest. “It’s a mess,” I said. “You are following your outline?” I rolled my eyes up, over, down, turned my head side to side, “Uh.” Pause. “Outwhat?” A shriek erupted from my beloved grandfather. “Don’t you have an outline?” I hung my head in shame. He said, “Okay, when the holidays are over, you bring everything you have over and we’ll sit together and outline this book together.” I felt relieved. He would help me and with his help, I could do this. I could write a book. I could finally become an author. 

The holidays came and went and the next thing I get a call from my older sister. “Poppa is moving into hospice today.” Then she called a few hours later and said, “You better get down here, they don’t think he’ll make it through the night.” He did make it through the night and for another night and day. Children, grandchildren, great grandchildren, relatives, and countless friends filed in his room to say good bye while John McCormack sang Irish tunes in the background.  

On the third night, my cousin and I sat on either side of Poppa while others milled around the room. I held his hand and said, “Poppa it’s a rip off you’re dying before you outline my book. So, I’ll make you a deal, you help me from wherever you are and I will dedicate everything I ever write to you.” He died thirty seconds later. My cousins accused me of talking him to death. But I didn’t care because I knew something in me had shifted; and in eighteen months wrote Sounds Like Crazy, a book filled with the Irish irreverence I learned from Poppa, a book that takes a kooky approach to the lengths the human mind will go to in an effort to avoid grief and guilt. 

When I printed the completed Sounds Like Crazy manuscript for the first time, I held the warm sheets of paper against my chest and whispered. “Thank you Poppa. I know what to do now. You can go.” Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. All I know is I’m hard at work on my next book now. The first thing I did was outline it; and then  I made a plan—sort of like a training plan—that I stick to most of the time (don’t tell, but we all need to slack now and again).