The Groundhog Made Me Do It

Did you ever say hello to a groundhog? You might try it some time. The results could amaze you.

People are always asking me, “Blanche, where do you get your story ideas?”

I smile and say, “Oh, here and there, life, news stories, memories, wild imaginings.”

But, that’s not actually the truth. I confess here and now that my story ideas are not my own; they are the groundhog’s.

You see, it’s this way: A groundhog lives under the garage at the old home place. I tried everything I could think of to dissuade her from inhabiting the premises. I mean, who wants tunnels and holes and tiny little groundhog parasites living where people live? But, this one large, silver-streaked groundhog refused to go.  I should have been forewarned when I saw she wore a minuscule pair of glasses. At last, feeling desperate, I decided to try a little friendly persuasion.

I cornered her in the yard one day and spoke. “Look,” I said, “the whole world is before you, acres and acres of uninhabited wilderness out by the river, down by the creek, or up on the hill. Why did you choose to live in my yard, under my garage, and make holes all over the place?”

She folded her short, stubby arms across her rather portly tummy and sniffed. “I like it here.”

I shook my head. “But, you are unwanted. I am really an unfriendly woman, a mystery writer. I write about murders and mean, dastardly people. Why do you like it here? Can’t you feel the evil vibes?”

She raised her head and looked down her nose. “And, how are those books selling?”

I rubbed at a small pebble on the ground with my shoe. “Actually, authors are never really satisfied with sales. There’s always room to do better.”

Her mean little eyes glittered. “Not doing so well, huh?”

At my silence, she laughed. I mean, really, have you ever heard a groundhog laugh? It isn’t pretty.

“I write mysteries too,” she said, “under an assumed name, of course.”

“And, do your books sell?” I asked.

“Do bees like clover?” she asked. “I could give you some pointers.”

I raised my head and looked at a robin building a nest in a nearby oak. Birds sang, the sun shone in a blue sky; everything looked normal and yet, here I was, talking to a groundhog. Not just any groundhog, but one with an attitude. So, why not humor her?

“OK. What pointers?”

She crept closer, nibbled a few tender grass blades, chewed, swallowed, and mumbled, “You have to have memorable characters, an interesting plot, and make that perpetrator of crimes really, really mean.”

I objected to that mean part. “But, my mysteries are cozies. You know, the kind a person can read while sitting by the fire, drinking coffee and feeling…well, cozy.”

She stamped her short, pudgy foot. “That makes no nevermind. Who wants to read about a milque toast, namby pamby bad guy? And, your protagonist…is she sweet and kind?”

Taken aback, I whispered, “Well, yes, I guess she is.”

She waddled closer, reared her head back and squinted at me. “Mean! The heroine has to have spunk and not be afraid and timid. Make your characters have some backbone.”

To make a long story short (forgive the pun) I met that groundhog, whose name turned out to be Sesquipidalian, every day for a month. Together, she and I plotted, developed strong, memorable, sometimes mean characters, and wrote an amazing story. I typed it, sent it to a publisher, and held my breath. He bought it and begged for more.

I bring Sessie (my name for her) gifts of lettuce and carrots. We conspire over a chilling mystery, I type it and send it off. This arrangement works well. Only thing is, she’s getting bossy. Groundhogs are prone to that character flaw. She wants equal billing and she’s complaining about her cramped living area. But now, I have gotten some backbone as well as my characters. Being mean is fun. If I wrote a story about a groundhog’s demise, I wonder if she would take the hint?