Inspiration is a funny thing. It can come to us like a lightning bolt, through the lyrics of a song, or in the fog of a dream. Ask any writer where their stories come from and you’ll get a myriad of answers, and in that vein I created the WHAT (What the Hell Are you Thinking?) interview. Always including in the WHAT is one random question to really dig down into the interviewees mind, and probably supply some illumination into my own as well.
Today’s guest for the WHAT is Claudia Reiss, a Vassar graduate, who has worked in the editorial departments of The New Yorker and Holt, Rinehart, and Winston and has edited several art history monographs.
Ideas for our books can come from just about anywhere, and sometimes even we can’t pinpoint exactly how or why. Did you have a specific origin point for your book?
While I was looking to jump-start the third book in my art mystery series—researching artists with interesting back-stories—I came across a quote by painter and chess enthusiast, Marcel Duchamp: “Not all artists are chess players, but all chess players are artists.” I thought about conjuring up a brain-teaser centered on one of his chess-board paintings, but decided instead to look for a contemporaneous chess player to see if I could find or invent a connection between them to get the ball rolling. I didn’t have to go far to find an apt quote from World Chess Champion, Alexander Alekhine: “Chess for me is not a game, but an art.” Sheer serendipity to discover that he and Duchamp had played on team France in the 1933 Chess Olympiad and furthermore, that his death in 1946 remains a cold case to this day. The confluence of these events was the starting point for another mystery prompted, but not dominated by history.
Once the original concept existed, how did you build a plot around it?
Alekhine’s death was the springboard. I had to come up with something related to that event that would emerge present-day—like unearthing a letter of Alekhine’s that could rock the art world. The letter would be addressed to a person of international repute and would offer information on art looted during Germany’s occupation of Paris. The young man in possession of the letter would be brutally murdered and his mentor, Harrison Wheatley, art history professor and Harrison’s amateur sleuthing partner, art magazine editor Erika Shawn, would hurl themselves into the dual mission of tracking down both the killer and the looted art.
Have you ever had the plot firmly in place, only to find it changing as the story moved from your mind to paper?
Often. I start out with 5x7 cards, each describing a scene intended to advance the plot. I then arrange the cards in consecutive order. Once I begin typing all bets are off. Scenes are omitted, others added. The driving force of characters that come alive as they interact and move through space is far more compelling than jottings on 5x7 cards. They may come up with a new plan of action when they’re in a tight spot—or over a cup of coffee. Sometimes how they perform in a situation demands an explanation, calling for a scene to be added earlier in the story.
Do story ideas come to you often, or is fresh material hard to come by?
It’s easier for me to come up with premises that intrigue me—a uniquely conflicted relationship, a global issue with an unusual twist—than following up with proper stories, with subplots and arcs and resolutions. Kind of like digging into a particularly rich dessert and feeling you’ve had enough of it after only a few bites. But how much more gratifying it is, after these false start-ups, when an idea piques my interest and then sustains it.
How do you choose which story to write next, if you’ve got more than one percolating?
Right now I’m choosing among my art mystery ideas, since I’ve just signed a contract to come up with three more books in the series. I may choose the idea that’s most timely, or the one that I think will challenge the protagonists most, or the one that’s been gestating the longest. Most probably though, I’ll start doing some research on the historical events and the painters associated with these raw ideas, and a storyline centering on one of them will suddenly emerge and monopolize my attention.
I have 5 cats and a Dalmatian (seriously, check my Instagram feed) and I usually have at least one or two snuggling with me when I write. Do you have a writing buddy, or do you find it distracting?
I’ve always had pets—cats and dogs—to keep me company, but now that I’m living in a small apartment in Manhattan, I only have my fictional dog, Jake, a loveable chocolate Lab, to vicariously snuggle up to. He’s my protagonists’ (Erika and Harrison’s) old pup and come to think of it, when I’m writing a scene in which Jake plays even an incidental role, my pace slows down as I engage, with the characters, in a stroke of affection, a tender word. I suspect that Jake has the same effect on my blood pressure that a real dog would.
