How My Story Invaded Real Life And Blew My Mind

From childhood love to art crime: the hidden inspirations behind a novelist’s heroine

The Real-Life Obsession Behind the Story 

I should have known sooner. Or at least suspected. After all, I’ve been a psychologist for most of my adult life. We’re supposed to know what dark, mysterious forces might be operating behind the scenes.

But I’ve spent five years researching and writing about the oddball subject of art forgery, woefully unaware of what was driving me with such all-consuming passion.

Why didn’t I recognize that my blind obsession was a clear sign of a writer in hot yet fearful pursuit of hidden motives? Psychologist, know thyself.

Now, published at long last, my novel—Artist, Lover, Forger, Thief—stares at me from its new home on Amazon, wanting to know how it got there. Surface reasons come easily to mind. Since I have an MFA background in painting and film criticism from UCSD and a love for art and writing, I’d wanted to combine my interests and create a fascinating book series about art crime. That idea seemed to be doing well, until I hit a brick wall in the middle of working out the story.

If you’ve ever tried to write something important and hit a similar brick wall, then you’re aware of this dreaded event. Euphemistically called writer’s block, it should be called writer’s plague. Doubts assail you, your gut cramps, your hands sweat. The blank page glares at you. Why are you bothering to write this morass of a story? Where is it going?

There’s something wrong with the main characters. Is Kate, the heroine, even likable, let alone admirable? How can this lost soul possibly rescue herself and the damaged hero, let alone me, her floundering author? How did I get here?

A long look into my real-life past slowly began to uncover the answers, but the most significant one lurked out of sight for a long time.

Childhood Roots of Creativity and Loss

The roots of the story go back to my early childhood when I fell in love with making art at the same time I fell in love with Dom, the talented Italian boy who lived next door. At age six, Dom was two years older than me and already an exceptional artist. Now, snatches of blissful days spent drawing and painting together came back to me.

He taught me how to make people, trees, and clouds look more real. We also spent a lot of time copying pictures from books. Dom had a natural gift for imitating any artist’s style.

Revisiting this part of the past, I realized that I’d given Nick, my fictional art forger, the same imitative gift. This was the first inkling that my artist-lover hero was based on Dom, and that an important force driving my novel came from bringing my first two loves and that pure, dreamlike state of happiness back to life.

But that happiness didn’t last. I lost Dom when my parents moved us away from the crime-ridden streets of Chicago when I was in the first grade. Beyond devastated, I never fully recovered from losing my soul mate (even though we hooked up briefly later in life). I coped by continuing to paint for both of us with Dom’s greater confidence and talent tucked deep inside me. Was the book meant to make up for that devastation?

Some years later, I began writing illustrated stories about an adventurous boy and girl who solved Nancy Drew-like mysteries together. Now I see these characters as older versions of Dom and me. At age 11, I spent a whole summer writing a novella about this pair of sleuths with the captivating title, Into the Slimy Depths.

This pre-teen’s first exciting thriller was a precursor to my first adult psychological thriller—Locked in a Box, which is soon to be published as a prequel to the forgery novel. Apparently, I kept my crucial connection with Dom alive in my artwork and stories for more than six decades. Why? Sounds to me like this obsessive repetition was a means of overcoming trauma, as Freud described in his definition of a repetition compulsion.

After art graduate school, when it was time for me to take my place in the art world, I appeared to have most of the ingredients for success—sky-high motivation, brilliant mentors, advanced art degrees, and art teaching experience. But sadly, as it turned out, I apparently lacked the most important quality—a show-stopping talent like Dom's.

Consequently, I got no applause from the fickle art world, nor was I booed. Being utterly ignored was far worse. I cried myself stupid about that until I realized that I’d been clinging to a child’s magical thinking since my earliest years. I’d “magically” believed that by becoming an artist, I could keep Dom and his talent inside of me and somehow make a happy ending for the two of us.

From a rational, adult perspective, my failure was hardly a surprise; it’s the fate of most artists, and I stoically sucked up the disappointment. Beginning to take in the dark side of the art world, the reality of art forgery raised its seductive head. Many failed painters became forgers to survive and to exact revenge on the rejecting art world. Being a good girl in those days, I didn’t go that route then, though I have considerable sympathy for those who did.

Instead, I followed my know-it-all mother’s advice for a change and finally shifted to Plan B, “the one for grown-ups.” Then, after years more schooling, that plan resulted in my becoming a psychologist who specialized in treating and writing about creative people. In this way, I managed to combine my major interests and help artists cope. Sounds like a brilliant solution, right?

Known in town to have an art background, I was referred respectable clients from the San Diego art world. But also a couple of shady art collectors, dubious dealers, and an unusual pair of con artists with marital problems showed up in my waiting room. Such folks don’t usually come for psychotherapy, but I got lucky.

In a partial answer to the question of why I wrote about art forgery, these cases drew me further into the world of art crime and famous forgers. Thanks to my mystery-loving father and our shared addiction to crime novels, I found forgers psychologically intriguing and often sympathetic.

I based my protagonist, Nick, on aspects of the best of them and gave him Dom’s brilliance, wit, and talent. The title, Artist, Lover, Forger, Thief, refers to Nick’s split identity of shifting personas resulting from the trauma of his family’s murder in his boyhood. (This history was inspired by a real case, which I disguised). As a notorious art forger plotting to avenge his family, he’s on the run from the FBI and those vengeful art world muckety-mucks he’s tricked with his forgeries.

Following my lifelong pattern of writing stories with both a male and a female protagonist, the second protagonist in my novel is Kate, a female psychologist, obviously derived from a version of me, the failed painter who became a therapist with a strong need to save damaged artists. Formerly Nick’s therapist, Kate is currently caught up in trying to save him, to survive financially, and to find meaning in her life.

The fact that I’m speaking of Kate as the “second” protagonist is telling. I was a long way into the story when I suddenly skidded to a full stop. I’d just heard her say in sappy therapist-speak, “How do you feel about that?” These words were so predictable and boring, I suddenly realized that Nick was by far the more interesting character. He came across as a charming rogue full of wit and vigor with a gripping history of psychological trauma and the desire to quit forging.

Breaking Free from the Victorian Mold

In comparison, Kate was emerging as a serious, self-effacing do-gooder, devoted to saving the damaged artist she loved. She was reminding me of heroines from the Victorian era, like Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre. The brooding unhappiness of Kate’s faded-flower persona invaded my dreams. She was angry, too, about the more passive, colorless role I’d given her.

What had I done? Where was this Victorian portrayal coming from? As an “older” female writer, was I stuck in the past when male authors were most often the strong, smart sleuths and the female partner/love interest was a pale damsel in distress needing rescue? I seemed to be ignoring the fact that current conceptions of women had dramatically changed from the passive, submissive 1950s model.

Strong female protagonists were what the feminist writing world wanted these days, especially in the mystery-thriller genres. I didn’t doubt I was a feminist, but sensitive Kate, my dutiful, good-girl heroine with a savior complex, would hardly be welcome in Reese Witherspoon’s book club for best-selling, sassy babes. 

As I considered ways of giving Kate more color and vitality, I seemed to be stuck along with her in a gray, angst-filled world, even though I was walking along the beach in Del Mar, California, and the sun was shining. Christ, what was wrong with this anxious author and her uptight creation? Had I put the disliked aspects of myself into Kate? Where did those stifling parts come from?

My mother was the first to come to mind, my self-righteous, killjoy mother who thought having fun was a sin. And then there was my idolization of dashing Dom, who was older, smarter, and more talented than I was in everything. But I was grown-up now.

My Real-Life Turning Point: A Forgotten Painting

It was my psychiatrist friend, Joy, who came to my rescue. Aware of my art crime research and writing, she approached me with an old oil painting. It was a charming California landscape glowing through a century of grime. She found the painting in her deceased grandparents’ storage chest. It was unsigned, and we wondered who had painted it.

Could it be valuable? I heard the thrill in my voice. The style and subject reminded me of the California Impressionists. With Joy’s permission, I took it to respected art conservator, Sondra Fleming, for evaluation and cleaning, and that inspired decision opened the way for me to free Kate from her Victorian straight-jacket, and her angst-ridden author from writer’s block.

Sondra laid the picture on the central worktable, and we looked down on the small, 18-by-24-inch painting of a Southern California landscape: eucalyptus trees bordering a sunlit field of yellow flowers under a blue sky. The style and brushwork reminded her of the well-known California Impressionist Maurice Braun.

Studying the painting’s back, she said the aged, brownish canvas appeared to be about 100 years old, the time when Braun was living and painting in San Diego. She took a book of California Impressionists off her bookshelf and showed me a couple of Braun’s paintings that had been authenticated long ago. I looked at two landscapes, both quite like Joy’s possible Braun.

Sondra took the little painting to her easel and sat on a stool. Standing next to her, I glanced at the items on her tidy supplies cart—a glass palette, jars of solvents and fine brushes, a small paintbox that looked like an ice-cube tray filled with jewel-toned colors.

She put on a pair of magnifying goggles, leaned in close, and scrutinized the surface. She’d been trained to see the slightest anomaly. What would she find? I waited, watching, listening to the muffled street noise coming through the closed window. 

My heart fluttered in my chest. Was this a real Braun or a charming copy? Or a skillful forgery? I was hooked. If it was a real Braun, what an exciting find. How much would it be worth? If it was a fake, could it pass as the original? My heart raced. Why the hell was I thinking about forgery? 

Sondra demonstrated how she would clean the painting and introduced me to the other techniques of conservation—many of which also apply to art forgery. I watched her begin to clean the picture. She dabbed a clear solvent on the edge with a tiny brush, then rubbed the spot with a Q-Tip, the brownish gunk evaporating.

“Now, can you see Braun’s characteristic golden glow shining through?”

“Yes,” I gushed. “It’s like the sun coming out.”

I was falling in love with the charming picture and silently gave it the title 'Field of Gold.' As the seconds ticked by, I became more and more convinced it was an extraordinary little painting and must be a real Braun, even though another part of my mind whispered, “Maybe it’s a bit too pretty, a little ordinary, perhaps?”

Imagining a Female Forger

Sondra murmured something about the simple composition. Then I glanced at the Braun paintings in Sondra’s book and began to wonder how I might make the painting look more convincingly like a Braun. For starters, it needed a more interesting composition, one that didn’t divide the picture at the midway point with the sky above covering the same-sized area as the field of gold below.

If I were the forger…then it hit me like a flash of bright light. Yes, that’s the way out! That’s what I need to do for Kate, my goody-goody heroine who’s sick to death of her overworked, caretaker’s life! Since her deceased husband lost all their money on bad investments, Kate can’t pay off her debts by just doing therapy.

She’s in deep financial trouble and has a son to support. But I’d given her a way out. Like I used to be, she was an excellent amateur landscape painter.

But how could I convincingly get straight-arrow Kate to commit fraud and begin a risky, undercover career? Would her desperate need for money be sufficient motivation? Perhaps her son’s welfare could play an important part. But how could her strict conscience ever allow her to slide down the crooked forgery slope?

In my mind’s eye, I could see Kate flash me a dazzling smile, a gleam in her sea green eyes. I smiled in return, my thoughts racing. She’s making it easy for me. She’s sick of the good-girl role and working all the time. She wants to break out of her stifling cocoon! She began to flower in my mind, her pale cheeks blooming.

I imagined her becoming an expert forger of the California Impressionists, starting with Braun. Then she would gradually work up to the grand French master, Papa Monet. Then, full of confidence, she’d outshine flamboyant Nick McCoy, making sure the cocky bastard knew his “secondary role.” Now she’d take over the story!

What the Novel Reveals About the Author

Grinning, I thought about why I wrote a novel about a pair of successful art forgers. It occurred to me that it’s been a grand way to pay back the art world. Until I began this blog, I hadn’t realized how my characters represented certain disowned feelings and traits of mine, even though I could see this kind of projection in other writers.

Nick expressed my thirst for revenge against those heartless bastards who had rejected my artwork. I’d only pretended to be a good sport. He also acted out my hidden wish to be a sexy bad girl and live a wild, racy life. And by revamping the character of good girl Kate, I got both Kate and me out from under my mother’s saintly, Victorian yoke.

About time we sisters in crime grew up and had some wicked fictional fun!

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Find out more about my novel, Artist, Lover, Forger, Thief!

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