The Character Interview Blog Hop -- Heroes

Welcome to week 6 of the Character Interview Blog Hop. For those of you who don't know what this means, I'm participating in a chain of blogs, where several authors are introducing heroes and heroines from their stories. When I was invited to join, I knew immediately which hero character of mine I wanted in the hot seat. I had to make some concessions, but eventually I got an encouraging “Sure. I got nothin’ goin’ on Tuesday,” from him. How could I resist that kind of enthusiasm?

Last week, Stephanie Kepke introduced sweet new dad Zach Gold, the hero from her women’s fiction short, A NEW LIFE. You can find her touching interview on her blog. I hope you’ll check it out, and from her blog you can link to our previous blog hop interviews of heroes with their authors. You’ll meet some interesting men!

I'm going to be speaking with Walter Sherman from Frannie Buckets, which is not only what he calls his niece Francesca, but also the title of their first adventure. In it, Walter and his friends take over her peaceful life to help a reluctant Fran solve a cold case murder. Things go very awry. There’s knife throwing, bologna flinging, impersonation of medical personnel, and a gun-toting florist. Through it all, like Rambo without the muscles, stalks a determined Walter.

            He’s agreed to meet today in an after-school hours classroom. Fran’s driven him since his old Dodge recently bit the dust. They’ve come in bickering softly, and I sense he’s not thrilled to be here. He scratches at military-short grey hair with a look at Fran, who’s remained near the door after giving him a do this or else glare. Walter sighs, settles into the metal folding chair in front of me, and briefly stretches forward to shake my hand.

            “No desks?” he asks, looking around. “This is the best you could do?”

            “It was difficult even arranging this,” I say. “You picked the location.”

            “I was always comfortable in classrooms. Worked in the school system for thirty years, you know.”

            I do know, but this is what the school was willing to offer. I explain that none of the teachers wanted us in their rooms, so I was lent this one, which is more of a storage space.  

            “Not exactly cheery. There’s not even maps or projects or posters on the walls,” he complains, and Fran catches his eye. Some unspoken communication passes between them and he turns back to me. “Fran says you’ve got some questions.”

            “I do,” I tell him. “I’d like to give readers some insight into your character, intrigue them into reading your story.”

            “Intrigue them into…” He stares at me blankly for a moment, then says decisively, “What’s in it for me?” Behind him, Fran groans. He shifts and says, “What.”

            “Here we go again,” Fran mutters.

            “It’s a fair request.”

            “It is not a fair request. She has plenty else on her mind. You are not Fabio. You are not even Tom Selleck.”

            “I’m told I’m still pretty hot for my age,” he argues.

“Who told you that?”

“People. People have told me that.”

“Nobody has told you that,” Fran retorts.

“You are not around for every conversation I have. Trust me, there are people, multiple persons, who have approached me in public and told me I’m a stud.” He turns to me. “You don’t have your cover yet, right? I want to be on the cover.”

            “Ummm,” is about all I can manage. 

            Fran speaks up once more. “Walter. I’m not even seeking to be on the cover. I thought we could go with something more conceptual.”

            “Conceptual my eye,” he argues, gives me a look. “What do you say?”

            All right, I’m not proud of this, but I do want to get on with things. “I haven’t made up my mind but I’ll seriously consider it. Fair enough?”

            Walter nods. “It’ll do. Ask away.”

            I glance at my notes. “All right,” I say. “What is your greatest fear?”

Walter tilts his head thoughtfully. “Really, I got no fears.” He looks around. “Are there going to be snacks? Fran said there might be a nice cheese plate but I don’t see so much as a Triscuit in here.”

I grimace apologetically and forge on. “Have you told this to anyone?”

He shrugs. “I just don’t have any. What’s to tell?” He pauses in what appears to be deep thought. “Okay, maybe I don’t like tunnels. Or cellars. Or looking inside top-loading washing machines. That right there gives me the willies.”

            “Why?”

Walter starts. “What the hell do you mean, why? Have you ever been in one of those things? It’s generally dark and damp and smells a little. Well, I mean, before the wash is done. After it’s not so bad, if you use a nice mountain air-scented detergent. Even then, you can’t be a real big guy and fit in one comfortably anyway. So personally I feel it’s a moot point. No problemo.”

            From the list on my notepad I read, “Is there anyone you would never tell this to?” and Walter scowls.

“I do not understand why my not liking basements or one – okay, maybe two – major appliances, is worth a conversation with anyone. Who likes basements? Is there going to be a club formed? Is that what we’re thinking of here, a bunch of people who like to hang out below street level together?”

            “Why?” I know this doesn’t necessarily work with his answer, but I do have a list to follow. Plus he’s freaking me out a little.

Walter throws up his hands. “Why what? Why should we form a club? We should not. Next question.” He turns and gives Fran a smug I told you this would be dumb look.

“Uh,” I say, determined to move forward. “Tell me about one person who made a positive difference in your life.”

After some consideration, Walter strokes what I can see is freshly shaved cheek. “Hmmm. Well, usually I am the most positive person in the room; no lie. I like to look on the bright side of everything. However, if I have to pick someone else who made a positive influence on me, …I would have to say there was this cute little… shall we say ‘companion’ in Saigon named Mai. A long time ago. She made some very nice things happen for me.”

Fran audibly groans. He turns to her.

            “What. That’s not what she means?” Looking back at me, he says, “Did you intend for Fran to be over here kibitzing in my ear? Apparently I am expected to be more appropriate.  She was my companion. She made me happy. That’s positive. Then I got shot at a few times, which wasn’t so positive, but here I am today.” He concludes his explanation by folding his arms resolutely over his chest, making the pens in his shirt pocket slant with the motion. Again there’s feedback from near the doorway.

            “What, Fran.”

            “You can’t do better than that?” she asks in a chiding tone.

            “Well no – I would probably have a better answer but I’m distracted by the growling in my stomach because I’m hungry. Not even a nice piece of sharp cheddar, can you believe it? This is creating some major suckage in my vibe, as the kids say these days.”

            “The kids do not say that,” comes the rejoinder.

            “They do so say that. Next question.”

            Maybe I should try to think of a tactful way to ask Francesca to step out for a few minutes, and I ask my next question, only half listening at first while I ponder how to separate them. “Where do you go when you need time to yourself?”

“Well,” Walter replies, “I used to like to retreat for a nice bubbly soak, but somebody really put a damper on that for me one night when she had to pee so bad she disregarded the mostly locked door. There’s nothing like sinking into a hot bath to get your thoughts in order. It’s where I used to do my best thinking. Although now I’m practically paralyzed after being intruded upon and shrieked at. I got PTSD from tub intrusion. Some mornings I can barely work up the courage to get in the shower.”

“I did not shriek.”

            “You did. Ruined a perfectly good meditation. Now I’m probably going to be reincarnated as a slug or a … a emu or something because I’ve lost touch with my inner growth.” Fran abruptly rises and turns for the door in a huff. “Fran, wait. Don’t be like that; wait a minute.” But it is no use: my dilemma has been solved. Walter turns to me.

            “She did shriek.”  

            A second later, he shouts, “Fran! Fran, if you’re going to stalk off, could you maybe pick up something to nosh on for when you come back? A nice egg and cheese sandwich, maybe, with mayo? Or a pack of Yodels – Yodels would be excellent!” With a confidential look, he tells me, “She heard me; I could tell.”

            Question number four. “Do you have a secret? If so, why do you feel the need to keep it secret?”

Here my hero smiles. “I do, actually. A good one, but if I told you, I’d have to kill you.” Maybe I go a little pale at that; after all I do know Walter’s history. “You okay? You look a little shook up. I’m just kidding.  I wouldn’t kill you.” He reaches forward and pats my hand reassuringly.

            “All right, here’s the secret. I know how to moonwalk. Seriously. One night me and Sollie were at this party, working security. No it’s true. We’re practically invisible since we’re old. Good strategy, right? Nobody pays attention to old people. And Justin Timberlake and Michael Jackson were at the party and there’s Michael Jackson, doing his moonwalk thing, so I said, ‘Hey, Mike, how’s about teaching me that?’”

“Did he?”

“No. No Mr. Prince of Pop did not, as a matter of fact. Justin Timberlake did. He felt bad for me, since the real reason Michael Jackson turned me down is that I might have inadvertently made a semi-derogatory remark about his chimpanzee’s resemblance to this woman named Barbara I met once on a blind date that went terribly wrong.”

            Before I can even ask, Walter continues. “How did it go terribly wrong? Let’s just say you do not put a banana, some hot sauce and a half dozen bad-tempered Russian women in a room and yell fire. It was like that.”

            He doesn’t even seem to notice I am speechless. “So Justin Timberlake took me aside and taught me how to moonwalk, all private like. He said he felt the same way about the monkey, although I never asked him if he’d met Barbara too. I heard later she really got around, if you know what I mean.

“That’s why I think we should keep that a secret. If you don’t mind. I don’t think Justin’s image should be compromised in the event that he had a bad experience with … well, I mean I really wouldn’t want to talk out of school about who he might or might not have ‘dated.’ That’s between him and Barbara.”

            It takes all I have to ask the final question. “If you could ask for one thing, what would it be?” 

           Walter doesn’t even hesitate.  “I’m pretty sure I made it clear at the outset that some cheese and crackers would’ve been a nice gesture. I’m just saying.”

 Frannie Buckets is currently out on submission, hoping to be picked up for publication, but meanwhile I’ve already started working on their next story, Frannie Buckets and Grampy Pendergast’s Jewels, which sets Francesca and Walter on a search for treasure after Amelia Pendergast, Fran’s insufferable, ancient neighbor, dies and leaves behind a set of diaries that brings her greedy heirs to Frannie’s door.

 Thank you for coming by to meet Walter. Next week you’ll meet loner cowboy Blue Lyons, from Linda Ford ’s Historical Inspirational Romance, A DADDY FOR CHRISTMAS.

             Linda Ford has written 46 published books for the Christian romance genre. Most of them are historical. She does not admit to the number of books she’s written that will never be published. She lives in Alberta, Canada where she can enjoy the Rocky Mountains on a daily basis. She considers herself fortunate to have Debora Dale as her brainstorming buddy.

            Right now, though, it looks like Fran’s not coming back, so I’d better go. Guess who’s driving Walter home…and stopping for snacks.