When Good People Are Accused of Bad Things

The question I get asked most often, without fail, is 'where do you get your ideas?'  You'd think, after twenty years of writing and publishing books, I'd have the answer down.  I don't.  Because I don't know the answer. 

Except, this time, I do.  This Sunday sees the release of my newest series, "It Happened In Comfort Cove," with Book One, A Son's Tale.

This series - and this book in particular - came from life.  My life.  Two years ago I was in the basement of a downtown courthouse.  The place was many stories and imposing.  It housed offices of prosecutors and judges.  In the basement was the evidence room.  I was there because I'd been told there was evidence pertaining to me there and if I didn't collect by a certain date it would be destroyed.  I didn't know what it was, so I certainly didn't want it destroyed before I knew whether or not I wanted it!

Tim and I took my notice down to the basement, to the reception desk to which we'd been directed.  The evidence technician was very friendly, helpful, and assured me that she'd get it right away.  Right away turned into ten minutes.  Then fifteen.  I was nervous.  I had no idea what information this official building was housing on me.  I didn't want to be there, or have to stay there.  I looked around at all of the stacks of boxes and envelopes waiting for...I'm not sure what.  To be catalogued?  Shelved?  Or sent to someone who'd requested it?

After twenty minutes of waiting I was told that they couldn't find my evidence.  I went from nervous to paranoid.  And started asking questions.  Because that's what I do.  About everything.  I ask questions.  From anyone.  About anything.  I can't ever know enough.  There's always more out there.  I asked how the room worked, what they did on a daily basis.  I wasn't writing.  I was tending to my paranoia by re-focusing my thoughts.  I found out that when prosecutors were working on cases they'd go down to that room to check out evidence.

I wondered if someone had checked out my evidence.  Someone was out to get me.  I was certain of it.

My mind started to wonder.  The evidence technician returned.  She had an envelope in her hand.  It was for me.  It had a few sheets of information pertaining to a minor legal matter from the past.  That was it.  I was done.  Free to go.  But my mind was no longer in that particular basement.  I was in Comfort Cove, Massachusettes.  The envelope was a box.  And it had to do with a twenty-five year old cold case.

I rode the elevator back up to the ground floor.  Walked out into the blinding light of day.  I returned to my car.  But I wasn't alone.  I had new people in my brain, telling me their story.  So that I could tell it to you.

If you click on the book up there, you can be reading A Son's Tale by Sunday morning at the latest!

For a weekend preview, visit http://www.tarataylorquinn.com for the exclusive video!  And enter the contest to win an advanced reading copy of the second book in the series, A Daughter's Story.