One of my favorite cities to visit is New Orleans. And whenever we go there, I always have to stop into the voodoo shops. The whole concept of magic fascinates me. It’s so neat to look through the various spells and potions: a candle to burn for money and prosperity, a charm to wear to find love, even bath salts that will wash away bad luck.
I’m not quite sure I believe in it, but it completely captures my imagination. I love the colorful displays and the incense and the idea that voodoo mambos really can solve our problems, or at least bring us a little luck.
Usually at around shop three or four, my husband will start to say things like, “But we never buy anything.” Or “Let’s just skip this one.” My answer has always been the same, “I need this for book research.”
For years, he would remind me that I write about biker witches and demon slayers, not voodoo mambos. Until… my editor called and asked if I’d like to write a short story about a voodoo mambo. I was so happy. How often do you get to sell a story and put one over on the hubby at the same time?
We both got a kick out of it as I wrote Gentlemen Prefer Voodoo. It’s about a New Orleans voodoo shop owner who has it all – except for love. So she decides to cast a spell to draw the perfect man for her. Only she should have been more specific, because her ideal man died in 1811 and was buried in St. Louis Cemetery Number One. Her spell calls up a sexy, hot (totally whole) zombie love. He’s fighting for one last chance at love while she’s basically trying to put him back in the ground.
It was so much fun to write. A lot of that came from the pure joy of imagining a world where voodoo is real. And who knows? Maybe it is. I think I need to visit a few more voodoo shops to find out. In the mean time, I’d like to give away a copy of the anthology, My Zombie Valentine, that includes Gentlemen Prefer Voodoo. Just post and tell me if you believe. ;)