About five years ago, I met Charles Martin at an event for Thomas Nelson writers. Since then we have developed a sweet friendship. I got him addicted to “crackberry” and then he ended up getting an iPhone before me. IT is our running joke. His story of becoming a writer is one of the greatest journeys of faith I know. And his faith and faithfulness have both paid off.
His latest book, published by Broadway, Where the River Ends, has done wonderfully. Just like his talent deserve. On my list of favorite authors he is at the stop. His attention to detail, and his ability to capture a readers heart are rare and wonderful. I asked him if he would hang out with us for a couple weeks. He said he would. Even though right now he is on a much needed vacation with his beautiful wife Christy and their three boys.
But we’ll enjoy him here.
Charles, thanks for being willing to talk with me this week. I know my friends will love hearing what you have to say, because so many of them are fans of your work as well. Authors get the question often, “Where do your stories come from?” Would love to know that. How do your ideas for books come to you?
Not always sure. Sometimes it’s just an image I follow. Something I see
sort of off one one side of my peripheral. A girl with a limp. Guy with a scar. Kid with a cigarette burn on his face. Or, maybe a conversation I hear in my head between two people. “You tell her yet?” I want to know who told who what and why, and why the other person cared. The book I just turned in (which my editor has since told me she likes–which is good) started with an image I saw that looked something like–I was staring through the eyes of a guy who was lying in the snow, strapped into a seat, and it felt like someone was standing on his chest. He was looking up through what used to be the fuselage of a plane staring through shattered plexiglass, at a dash that was once a buffet of blue and green lights, now dark and dusted in white. A cold hand held his. The snow stung his eyes and made it hard to see. A dog shivered under his arm and a woman lie unconscious next to him. Not his wife. The wind was picking up and tree limbs were slapping the sides. I knew he was cold, couple of broken ribs, and that he was in the middle of nowhere. And that help wasn’t coming. There would be no rescue. For reasons I didn’t quite understand at the time, he pulled out a recorder, pressed record and begins talking to his wife. Somewhere in there a story came together.
sort of off one one side of my peripheral. A girl with a limp. Guy with a scar. Kid with a cigarette burn on his face. Or, maybe a conversation I hear in my head between two people. “You tell her yet?” I want to know who told who what and why, and why the other person cared. The book I just turned in (which my editor has since told me she likes–which is good) started with an image I saw that looked something like–I was staring through the eyes of a guy who was lying in the snow, strapped into a seat, and it felt like someone was standing on his chest. He was looking up through what used to be the fuselage of a plane staring through shattered plexiglass, at a dash that was once a buffet of blue and green lights, now dark and dusted in white. A cold hand held his. The snow stung his eyes and made it hard to see. A dog shivered under his arm and a woman lie unconscious next to him. Not his wife. The wind was picking up and tree limbs were slapping the sides. I knew he was cold, couple of broken ribs, and that he was in the middle of nowhere. And that help wasn’t coming. There would be no rescue. For reasons I didn’t quite understand at the time, he pulled out a recorder, pressed record and begins talking to his wife. Somewhere in there a story came together. Your recent book, Where the River Ends is a beautiful story of love and the lengths it will go for the object of its affection. This story goes into such detail. How do you do your research for your books?
River takes place on the St. Mary’s River. Along with Charleston, South Carolina. So, I spent time in both places. Christy and I spent a few weekends up there, walking the streets, shopping, eating, whatever. And then the river…it’s 131 miles long, running from South Georgia to the Atlantic, so I paddled the whole thing. I don’t really look at all that as ‘research.’ ‘Research’ to me sounds too much like something I don’t want to do, but paddling the river or hanging out with Christy in Charleston, or flying to Utah and spending a week in the mountains at 11,000 feet sounds like something I’d just really like to do. Right now, I’m thinking about a trip to the Everglades and the Keys. Tinkering with a story idea. I want to ride an airboat across the Everglades, look for alligators and then maybe do some flats fishing with a fly rod in the keys. While there, I’ll be thinking about story and placing a story and sketching a story but it’s not ‘work.’ Not ‘research.’ It’s something else. I suppose this gets at ‘why I write.’ And for some reason ‘place’ has a lot to do with that. I hold some rather idealistic and romantic notions about life–many of which I got from watching John Wayne movies as a kid. And probably Star Wars. Funny how that works. For some reason, finding a ‘place’ I want to place a book allows those notions to bubble to the surface. I realize that may be difficult to grasp, but you ought to try riding around inside my head a few days. Not much easier.
