Where I get my inspiration

Okay, this is a common question authors get. What inspired your story? To be honest, life. It could be something as simple a an event I witnessed while people watching, or something more serious in the news.

In this case--Who's on first? Have you ever heard of the famous comedic skit with Abbott and Costello, where they're discussing a baseball game?

Yeah, that.

Here we go, a excerpt from my novel, a work in progress and unedited, Intergalactic Bounty Hunters Inc.

My father was a sentimental man. He had one style of clothing, a dozen of the same tops and bottoms in his closet, all one color. Blue. He ate the same thing for breakfast every morning, loved one woman all his life and had one ship, even after she was nothing more than a pile of scrap.

She was destroyed in an accident. Okay, yeah it was me, but I swear I didn’t see that barge when I dropped to dock. In my defense, I’d just gotten my learner’s permit and had never vertically parked. The Siren’s main supports crushed like foil. Not a pretty sight, bent frame, hopeless to repair. Boy he’d been angry. It was a good week before he spoke to me. By then, I’d been forgiven and he swore he’d turn me into the best rocket jockey in the galaxy. For my own protection.

He bought a fixer-upper and a real beauty, an out-of-service stock hauler named The Lucinda. We never were quite able to get the smell of animal dung out of the main bay, no matter how much we scrubbed, and trust me I scrubbed every bare inch of metal on that ship. It took me three weeks to clean the bay alone. To this day, add a little humidity and you get instant fragrance.

With a few upgrades, she wasn’t a bad ship. Still he refused to acknowledge her as his baby, referring to her only as Ship. “Get the equipment off the Ship. Did you clean the Ship’s deck? You flying this Ship, or am I?”

I think it was his way of hanging onto the past and his one true love, The Siren. So after a while, the name stuck. Everyone called her Ship and every time we made an approach, it never failed to raise a few hackles. Which I guess was okay, dad would have liked it that way.

As I glanced out the glass at the prison station, I knew it would be no exception. Here we go again.

"Approaching ship, please identify yourself by designated name or registration number."

"Ship on approach."

"Understood. Please identify yourself approaching vessel."

"This is Ship."

"What ship?"

"My ship."

"Identify yourself immediately."

Nicco gritted his teeth and gave me a frustrated look. “Could we just name this stupid barge?”

“Approaching ship, you are entering restricted space. Identify.”

“This is Ship."

"What is the name of your vessel?"

"It's just 'Ship'."

"Thank you, Itzjuship. Please follow the vector we are relaying to your Nav Comp now and dock in bay twelve."

Nicco hit the com and spun in his chair. “Either you name this thing, or I am.”

“She’s got a name. Ship.”

Relearning the way I write.