By Tank Hoover

Some of you may wonder how I come up with my story ideas. I gotta admit, most of the time they just pop in my over-active imaginative head. However, sometimes the well does run dry, and Roy’s at the end of his rope, and ready to wrap said rope around my neck, and I need to get inspired. Jack London came up with a favorite quote of mine. “You can’t wait for inspiration, you need to go after it with a club.” I confess, sometimes my subject matter may seem like I got clubbed, but Jack was right. You must chase inspiration to find some new subject matter.

When I need to get in that mode, it’s time for “Big Green” (BG), my 1998 Chevy Tahoe. We took delivery of BG the week before I went on my annual WVA deer hunt in the fall 1997, the first hunt after my favorite uncle died in the same mountains the previous year. I was in this vehicle when my wife told me we were pregnant while I was hunting in WVA. My uncles faded prayer card still resides in the driver’s visor strap, to be opened and read when the mood strikes me. Years old notes, complete with hand drawn pictures from my daughter, wishing me luck on “catching” a deer on past hunts also reside next to Jerry’s prayer card.

When I look in the rear view mirror, I still see my infant daughter in her child safety seat, grinning that gummy, toothless smile, a picture of pure innocence. I see crops of black hair everywhere from my faithful lab, Ruger, who is now 12 ½ years old, and permanently rides shotgun with me on account of his arthritic hips. The rear seatbelt shoulder straps are almost chewed through by my spastic rescue border collie/golden retriever mix named Cooper. It’s from him going berserk when he sees another dog outside the confines of BG and he feels the need of some serious herding of the wayward dog innocently out for a walk, as he plays tug-o-war with the retractable seatbelt.

My cargo area, despite a large rubber mat, has numerous bloodstains from successful hunts over the years. The deer’s lifeblood has permanently splotched the carpet — and my memory — of those hunts.

Hell, just buckling up in BG and getting ready to chase inspiration gets my cylinders firing, before I even turn the key, as I take stock of all the memories flashing before my eyes. Past stories and memories start flooding the gates. This is good, as memories and stories past are the main catalyst of inspiration.

Just the simple act of driving BG out in the country starts jolting my memory. I never know what is up around the bend, or over the next hill to conjure up my next story idea. But conjure up it does, as I grasp the latest ideas floating around my psyche, waiting to be captured on paper and shared with you good people.

A New Boss

BG has been busy of late. Not only inspiring me, but now my daughter as well, as BG is her vehicle to drive since she got her license. She made no bones about it! BG was hers! I smile inward, as she is like her daddy. She would rather have a beat up old truck than a new, benign, memory-free vehicle. Sure, we have other vehicles, but none as colorful, or full of character, as BG.

BG is gonna get a new paint job to cover up some sun faded spots worn down to bare metal on him. He’ll get a good interior cleaning and shampooing too. A day spa of sorts is in store for BG, to erase some of my memories and create a clean slate for my daughter to make memories of her own, as she drives down her path of independence.

Just because something’s old doesn’t make it useless, as I tell my wife, referring to me. There’s something comforting and secure in things holding memories with us.

As I drive, my eyes take in everything around me. A favorite way for me to get inspired is to look for critters in the roadside woods. Deer, hawks, turkeys, an occasional coyote, rabbits, groundhogs, you name it, a perpetual game of “I Spy,” so to speak, a game my daughter also relishes, and one she may have even surpassed the master — with her sharper kid vision.

Before you know it, all these visions, thoughts and memories, mixed with a little imagination and wackiness, and then shaken with a little courage, get written down. I then turn it in to Ol’ Roy Boy, the consummate critic, editor, publisher, writer, and “sayer of all that goes on” having to do with we writer-fellas. Then I wait for a response. Usually there’s a bit of grumpiness, some harrumphing, big sighs, then something like, “Well, it’ll do Tank, if that’s the best it’s gonna’ get” over the phone. But sometimes at least, I think he’s smiling, just a tiny bit, when he says it all.

So there it is, Ol’ Tankster’s tips for writing stories. Hope it didn’t seem like I had to club you to read this. If it did, I’ll take BG out for a another spin and try for something better. Ya never know what you might stumble over when you’re out chasing inspiration. Sometimes the only thing you trip over is your own big feet, eh?

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