Real Life to Cover by Charlene Ann Baumbich
[caption id="attachment_10188" align="aligncenter" width="580" caption="Exactly the old fry pan in the novel. Imagine!"]
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I was happy when my editor asked me if I had any ideas for cover art for Finding Our Way Home. Being asked doesn't mean an author's idea(s) will be utilized, but it's fun to weigh in, especially when inspiration is within view. Literally.
"You know the old fry pan with the half melted handle that plays such a strong role in the book?" Of course the editor knew exactly what I was talking about.
The pan, set out on the porch rail as a birdbath, is a repeating visual in the novel. It serves as a distraction for Sasha, the incapacitated dancer. The incident leading to the melted handle also unfolds within the story, unleashing a torrent of emotions in a pivotal scene between Sasha and Evelyn, her live-in assistant.
"Well, a pan just like that," I said, "sits out on my porch rail at the farm where I go 'hide' to write. It's visible over the top of my computer monitor." In order to help her see what I was talking about—a well studied pan in the real-life town of Winona that, via the magic of creativity, made its way into the fictional town of Wanonishaw--I sifted through dozens of digital photos I'd shot throughout the past several years. All types of birds frolic in that old fry pan. I was, and still am, forever reaching for my camera.
As another point of reference, I again sifted through shots of the exterior of the old farm house. Although the fictional home of my imagination didn't look exactly like my real abode, it did sport the same type of porch and rail.
I send off an email with a selection of my favorites.
Imagine my surprise and elation when I opened the pdf file of the first draft of the cover! With genius and her own creative touches (the bicycle in the story, toe shoes, a brightened sky ...), the designer had put together the most wonderful and perfect compilation. The front porch of the real house became the back porch in the story. Immediately I pictured not me but Sasha sitting on the other side of that porch window, rocking in her rocking chair, hand crafted shawl around her shoulders, the snowglobe with the dancer inside on the table next to her.
Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
[/caption]I was happy when my editor asked me if I had any ideas for cover art for Finding Our Way Home. Being asked doesn't mean an author's idea(s) will be utilized, but it's fun to weigh in, especially when inspiration is within view. Literally.
"You know the old fry pan with the half melted handle that plays such a strong role in the book?" Of course the editor knew exactly what I was talking about.
The pan, set out on the porch rail as a birdbath, is a repeating visual in the novel. It serves as a distraction for Sasha, the incapacitated dancer. The incident leading to the melted handle also unfolds within the story, unleashing a torrent of emotions in a pivotal scene between Sasha and Evelyn, her live-in assistant.
"Well, a pan just like that," I said, "sits out on my porch rail at the farm where I go 'hide' to write. It's visible over the top of my computer monitor." In order to help her see what I was talking about—a well studied pan in the real-life town of Winona that, via the magic of creativity, made its way into the fictional town of Wanonishaw--I sifted through dozens of digital photos I'd shot throughout the past several years. All types of birds frolic in that old fry pan. I was, and still am, forever reaching for my camera.
As another point of reference, I again sifted through shots of the exterior of the old farm house. Although the fictional home of my imagination didn't look exactly like my real abode, it did sport the same type of porch and rail.I send off an email with a selection of my favorites.
Imagine my surprise and elation when I opened the pdf file of the first draft of the cover! With genius and her own creative touches (the bicycle in the story, toe shoes, a brightened sky ...), the designer had put together the most wonderful and perfect compilation. The front porch of the real house became the back porch in the story. Immediately I pictured not me but Sasha sitting on the other side of that porch window, rocking in her rocking chair, hand crafted shawl around her shoulders, the snowglobe with the dancer inside on the table next to her.
Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
