Welcome author Patrick Dilloway!

Hi Patrick, and welcome to my blog. I always love meeting authors, and finding out more about them. Tell us a bit about yourself. When did you decide to become a writer?

First off, it’s a real pleasure to be on your blog.  I think in a lot of ways writing a bio was the hardest part of putting out a book.  I’ve always liked talking about people who don’t exist rather than myself.  It’s probably also because I’m not that interesting.  I grew up in the middle of the mitten in Michigan, got an accounting degree to pay the bills, and moved to the Detroit area to work.  The way things are going, I might not be there much longer.  See, that’s why in my bio I talk about all the things I’m not.

 

As for when I decided to become a writer, I don’t think it was a conscious decision.  Though I think it was helped along quite a bit when I played Little League baseball and realized I had no talent at the national pastime.  Before that I wanted to be shortstop for the Detroit Tigers like Alan Trammell.  Sadly those dreams were crushed, but in third grade we were tasked with keeping a journal and I filled mine with stories of my brother’s and my toys.  From there I’d write little stories and make my own little comic books too.  So it really just snowballed from there as I got older.

 

What’s your writing schedule like? Do you get up at 5am or are you more of a midnight type of person?

 

When I wrote “Where You Belong” I followed a pretty grueling schedule.  For about three hours on Monday-Thursday I’d go to the library after work and write.  I was pretty much living on ham sandwiches throughout that time, which in this economy was probably a good thing.  On Saturday I’d write most of the day from 10am-11pm at the library and then the local Starbucks or similar place.  I did usually let myself have Friday off to watch a movie and Sunday to watch sports and catch up on my domestic chores; that helped keep me from burning out.

 

Overall I think my brain functions better later in the day.  I’ve never been much of a morning person and it usually isn’t until after lunch that my brain really kicks into gear.  In college there were times when I’d stay up until 2am or later to work on something.

 

I know writng a book is really only the beginning of the journey. Actually getting it published is often a more grueling process. How long did it take you to find a publisher for your book? Was it a difficult journey?

 

Unless you’re a celebrity or something like that it’s a pretty difficult journey for just about everyone.  There’s nothing more bruising to the ego than getting that form E-mail rejection from an agent, let alone twenty of them in the same afternoon!  You’d think it would get easier the more years you’re at it, but I still find myself dwelling on every rejection for days afterwards.

 

How did you feel when you were offered a contract?

 

When I actually saw the book for sale on Amazon I couldn’t help smiling that Cheshire Cat grin for hours and hours. There’s nothing more wonderful for a writer than to see the book out there, except for seeing someone reading it!

 

I can’t write without at least one pet within reach. Do you have any quirks that help you when you are writing?

I’m not sure how quirky it is, but I always have my headphones on to pump out some music while I write.  It doesn’t matter what music really; I just find that it helps me focus and to tune out the rest of the world if I have something playing.  Though for the most part my music tends to be mellower, not heavy metal or gangsta rap or something like that.  Other than that I don’t have a lot lucky sock or pair of underwear or anything that helps me out.  I’ve written in all sorts of places from coffeehouses, libraries, my home, all the way to secluded campgrounds.  I like to joke that I could probably write in a hurricane—so long as I had my headphones and juice in my MP3 player.

 

Now for a frivolous question. Do you have a favorite flavor of ice cream?

Anything chocolate.  Plain, with almonds, brownies, fudge, or whatever as long as it has chocolate in it!

 

Did something in particular inspire this book, or is it just a matter of an idea that grew?

This book has been at least seven years in coming.  It was about then I first read “The Cider House Rules” by John Irving.  I was one of my first real exposures to what you might call “serious literature” outside a school setting and I was blown away.  I loved the book so much that I told myself I had to do something that good someday.  I tried a couple of times but couldn’t seem to find the right story.

 

Then with all this publicity about gay marriage because of Prop 8 in California and similar amendments in other states I started to hear a lot on the subject.  What I heard from the opposing side always sounded ridiculous to me, most of it along the lines of, “If we let gay people marry, next they’ll let a man marry his dog!”  It was so silly that I finally found something I wanted to say.  Looking back at “The Cider House Rules” and also “The World According to Garp” they gave me the solution to how I could make a statement while still telling a good story.  So it let me achieve two important goals at once.

 

Your book deals with a social issue that is very much a hot topic these days, and I have to admit, the story line intrigues me. Do you consider yourself a social activist?

If you saw me, you’d realize I’m one of the least active people on this planet.  But no, I’ve never been much of a political activist.  I don’t even put bumper stickers on my car.  For me to do the kind of stuff Frankie does in the book as part of her gay rights group—throwing nasty things at dictators, storming a college campus, and parading through a small town in a Technicolored bus—would be impossible.  I’d faint dead away before even getting close.

 

Really as I mentioned earlier, I didn’t want to preach in my story too much.  I’d much rather focus on a character and a story than on the politics.  Politics are divisive, but everyone can appreciate a good story—and if it helps educate or persuade them on an issue then that’s a great side benefit.

 

What is your favorite way to relax?

When I’m stuck on a story and want to relax I’ll usually take a walk somewhere:  a park, a sidewalk, or even a mall.  A little fresh air and change of scenery can do wonders for your perspective on things, not to mention it’s healthy for you.  On those times when I really just want to shut my brain off entirely I have no problem vegging out in front of the TV watching a movie or sporting event.  Actually I think any writer needs to do that once in a while so they don’t go insane—or more so.  Think of it like this:  even God needed a day off.

 

Do you have plans for another novel? If so, can you give us any hints?

It may be morbid, but I like to joke that I’m like a shark when it comes to writing—the day I stop writing is probably my last day on Earth.  Though sometimes I like to take a little mental breather by working on something less serious.  Right now I’m working on an old-school sci-fi story about invaders from Mars.  The twist being that the “Martians” are actually human colonists coming back home.  It’s a little different than other stuff I’ve done, but bariety helps you stay fresh.

As a total sci fi geek, I’m going to make you promise to let me know when that one hits the shelves!  Or if you need a beta reader, hint….

So tell me, where can we go to find out more about you and your writing?

For more about “Where You Belong”, visit my website at http://www.whoisfrostdevereaux.com.

 

Thanks a lot for having me on and asking such great questions!

 

 

BLURB: 

Orphaned at an early age, the closest people in Frost Devereaux’s life are the free-spirited Frankie Maguire and her conniving twin brother Frank. Over the years Frost’s life takes him from the lush fields of the Mideast to the burning heat of the desert to the sparkling promise of Manhattan. His heart, though, never strays far from the two people who have meant the most to him. Ultimately, Frost must decide where—and with whom—he belongs.

EXCERPT:

I wake up again and the hand is gone, but I’m not alone. I sense a figure lurking in the shadows, hovering there like a ghost. I think at first it’s my mother; unable to speak I revert back to babyhood and whimper in what I hope is a reassuring fashion. The figure, caught, shuffles forward and I see it’s not my mother—it’s my father.

“Hey, kid,” he says. “How you feeling?”

This is a stupid question as I’m in a hospital bed, surrounded by machines with my face wrapped in bandages. He hesitates before taking the seat next to my bed. For what could be a minute or an hour he sits there, staring at me as he searches for something to say.

“It’s too bad about your mother,” he says.

Though not quite four, I understand this means something terrible has happened. I whimper again, this time mournfully. This rattles my father; he twitches uncomfortably in the chair. He doesn’t want to be there and I don’t want him there; I want Mommy. My father was only the man who lived in our barn.

His hand reaches out to touch my forehead, but his skin is sweaty and warm, not the cool, soothing presence of my other visitor’s. I try to move my head to shake it away only to find I can’t. “I’m not going to hurt you, kid,” he says. His hand moves across my forehead to the bandages. He peels these back gently and then leans close to me so that he can see what lies underneath. Whatever it is causes him to quickly pull his hand back, letting the bandages fall into place again.

“Oh shit,” he whispers into the darkness. I’m too young to know the meaning of this expression. Still, from his tone of voice I gather something’s wrong and whimper again. “It’s all right, kid,” he says, trying to sound cheerful. I know he’s lying. I know things aren’t going to be all right. Not ever again.

My father pats my left hand with his. “Hang in there, kid,” he says. He backs away until the shadows swallow him again. He pauses for a moment before making a decision. The door clicks shut. I wait a moment for him to come back, but he doesn’t. Not ever again.