The dream that inspired my novel, Find a Penny.
Biggie's "It was all a dream" comes to mind every time I think about what inspired me to write,
Find a Penny. It was a dream. Nothing scary. Nothing prolific. Just a scene real enough to leave an impression on my mind and have me thinking about scenarios hours after waking.
So...you know how we always tell people about our crazy dreams...we start with, "So, I had this dream..." Anyway...so, I had this dream where I was in a dark alley outside of a night club and there was a lot of loose change on the ground. I started picking it up...and it was grimy and sticky...but every time I picked up another quarter, another dime, my eye caught a glimpse of more change on the ground. I followed the trail of change and picked it all up until my purse was bulging from it. The trail took me to the front door of the night club where a broken purse was on the ground. Other things, like a driver's license and lipstick, were scattered around it. In the dream, I had the mind to pick up the purse, license, etc. and bang on the door to the club. I handed the purse to the bouncer and explained I found it on the ground. Then I left.
That was it. That was the dream.
Well, when I woke up, the first thing that came to my mind was, "My fingerprints are all over that purse! What if something happened to that lady? The police would think I did it!"
And that's how
Find a Penny was born! I'd been thinking about writing a spicy, urban fiction piece with a sexy lead character trapped between two sexy men. I didn't know what anyone would be doing in the book other than having sex or sexual tension, but then I had the dream. Everything came to me in waves. The only thing left was to write.
So, I did, in notebooks, in stolen moments. I'd drive to work while scenes played out in my head. If I had a few minutes before I had to clock in, I scribbled things down in whatever notebook I was on. (This novel, originally written by hand, spanned three and a half notebooks.) I wrote through breaks and lunches. When I waited for my kids to get out of school, or get done with scout meetings and sports/dance practice, I was in my car, scribbling in a notebook. Crimson, Isaac, Detective Richardson, and Chantal, waited in my notebooks for a few years before my friend, Author D. Monroe, told me about an anthology Charles Burgess was doing. By then, I'd written "
Trigger" and wondered what to do with it.
I'm so glad I had the opportunity to free them from all that lined paper (you know how Crimson feels about stripes). And I'm glad I was able to get the rights to re-publish it as an e-book so my characters remain available to anybody who wants to give them life, time and time again. Just a sidenote: I have some print copies. Email me if you'd like to buy one. Cottoncarpenter@gmail.com.
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An excerpt
“Oh girl, this alley stinks.” Chantal said. It did. The stench from the dumpster coalesced with the piss and vomit on the ground. The alley had a motion-sensor flood light that basked the damp and dirt in a blue haze. Just enough light to see the shine on a brand new quarter on the ground.
“Money!” I yelled. I bent over to pick it up and noticed there were also two dimes and a penny as well. “Find a penny, pick it up and all day long, you’ll have good luck.”
“Was the penny on heads?” Chantal asked, looking down around her. “They say it’s only lucky if it’s on heads.”
“I don’t remember,” I said as I popped open my Prada and dropped the change in.
“You just picked it up, how could you forget already? You could have put a bad penny in your purse.”
I rolled my eyes, “Chantal! Damn. It’s dark and funky out here. I could barely see the penny. Besides, I also found a quarter and two dimes. That’s like finding 45 pennies. That’s a lot of good luck.”
“One can only hope.”
We headed out of the alley. I saw more change on the ground and picked it all up, coin by grimy coin. I must’ve had two dollars in loose change floating around my purse.
“I hope you wash your hands. Who knows what kind of piss and herpes that money could have fallen in?”
“I didn’t need to hear that.” I thought about wiping my hands on my dress but that was out. It was already a shame to have sweated in it like I did. Isaac. Nobody has had me worked up like that for quite some time. Maybe it was because I haven’t had any for over two months. I’m starting to re-think this whole, “career first, love later” idea.
My arrangement with DeVaughn, who Chantal referred to as my “cock-on-call,” kept me focused for a year and a half. Then I found out he was engaged. He wanted to continue with what we had; me calling him when I needed a little, or a lot in his case, and him coming over to give me a hand, or some head, whatever. In fact, as he left my apartment after blowing my back out, he handed me the newspaper from my doormat and that’s where I saw the announcement in the society pages. Trifling. I wasn’t about to be a homewrecker. Too much drama. Bad karma. I had to take that brothah off of speed dial with the quickness.
We turned out of the alley towards the front of the club. Between the doors closing at midnight and the general sweep from the police enforcing the No Loitering law, the street was desolate and would be for at least an hour when people would start to exit in larger numbers.
“Look, more change!” I rushed to the sidewalk, my black Prada pumps clicking on the pavement. I squatted down, very unlady-like, and grabbed a handful of change and some ones and five dollar bills as I saw them. Somebody’s purse must have exploded out there but her loss was my gain.
Chantal watched me, shaking her head. “Girl, you wouldn’t be so hard up for cash if you didn’t spend all your money on Prada, Manolo, etc.”
I took offense, “I got these on eBay! Only two hundred dollars!”
“Two hundred you could be paying me back from when I helped you with your rent.”
“You said I could make you an outfit…that outfit…and we’d be straight.” Chantal had on the black satin blouse I made for her with claw-like cut-outs slanting down her chest and the red satin capris specifically cut to accentuate her ass. Nobody else’s ass. That was tailor made for her behind.
Chantal screwed up her face. “Just get up.”
I dumped the money in my purse until it bulged. There was also a lipstick container (by Mac, nice!) on the ground near broken sunglasses (D & G, somebody had some taste) and a Kate Spade wallet with the credit card sleeve hanging out. “What the hell happened here?” I said, putting the wallet back together. “Somebody dropped her purse and was too drunk to see all the stuff that fell out. Should I bang on the door and turn the wallet in?”
“Just toss it, let’s go.”
“I’d rather someone turn my wallet in.” And I probably would hope all my money, change, and tasteful fashion accessories too, but we’ll just keep that to ourselves for now. I stood up and banged on the Panacea’s door. A bouncer cracked it open.
“We’re not taking any more in, get here earlier next time.”
“No, I’m leaving. I found this wallet over there on the ground and thought I should turn it in.”
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