Often, inspiration can hide in plain sight. Our minds take in thousands of images per day, and our ears pick up clusters of words, whole thoughts, and fragments. Amid such a mishmash, it’s difficult to determine our true influences: that which stands at the forefront of our minds or what lurks in the depths of our subconscious. For example, many years ago, upon completing my first novel, my sister wondered about its inspiration. I couldn’t proffer a reply. Months later, something stimulated a memory: I was visiting a friend in Towanda, Pennsylvania. When lying in bed at 2:00 a.m., as the cool October air poured through a window, I listened to the distant chugging of a mile-long freighter as it rode into silence. That doesn’t sound like much inspiration for a novel, but it stoked my sensibility enough to make a lasting impression.
Fast-forward a few years: I was nearing the completion of my novel, Waiting for Grandfather, when I finally understood what I had written. The novel’s protagonist, Antonio Corelli, was based on my paternal grandfather. He was a large, hulking man who looked like a bear and laughed like one might imagine a bear would laugh had nature blessed it with a sense of humor. He had a soft handshake, not because he was a weak man, but because his hands were so massive that he made a conscious effort to use them gently. He and his literary counterpart, Antonio Corelli, shared two traits: they were kind and understood how to talk to children. They may not be masculine traits, less sexy, but, along with being underrated, they are among the finest a man can claim. It was not until I wrote the words “The End” that I realized I had written an aspirational narrative, a sort of prospective autobiography. So, what would I hope people say about me? Hey, Mike, you remind us of your grandfather.
Michael's Corner 
Leave a reply to Michael DeStefano Cancel reply