The Places That Shape a Story
I’ve always believed the places we choose to write about reveal something about who we are, what we remember, what we love, and what we’re still searching for. Every story I write seems to open with a main character setting the stage for the play about to begin. In doing so, each reader meets the character, feels the world he lives in, and becomes aware of the heart already beating inside.
Each book begins where its main character lives:
Dallas: where love begins unexpectedly.
Philadelphia: where mystery and heart collide.
Denver: where memory lives.
Sometimes it’s real. The Option begins with Max at the American Airlines Center in Dallas, then takes him to S4 in the heart of the gay district, both places I know well.
In Finding Tommy, King starts his story in a downtown Philadelphia nightclub. Though I changed the name, the street, U Bar, and his apartment all exist. While I’ve visited Philadelphia, I can’t claim to have stood in every spot I describe.
In A Boy From Before, Gary lives on Corona, not far from Capitol Hill and Kitty’s. I once lived within a block of his home, so writing those scenes felt like walking old streets again.
Every story begins somewhere, not just in time, but in place. Where a story unfolds shapes everything: how characters move, what they notice, and what they believe is possible. For me, a story’s geography is like its soul, part real, part remembered, and part imagined.
Some places I’ve walked myself. Others I’ve only touched through research and memory, yet somehow I know them, as if they’ve been waiting for me to return through story. Writing A Boy From Before reminded me of that. I may not live on Corona anymore, but when I wrote Gary walking those Denver streets, I could still feel the winter air, see the old houses, and hear the city breathing around him. Sometimes that’s all it takes to bring a moment back to life.
And even in those places that exist only on the page, I write them to feel just as real. I want readers to pause and wonder: Have you been there? Have you seen the other side? Is this what really happens when you die? Can love truly find its way back? If a setting can make you ask those questions, then maybe the world between worlds isn’t as far away as it seems.
And then, there’s the Prospect Tower, a place both real and imagined, and the heart of the series that bears its name. The Tower doesn’t just rise above the stories; it connects them. For Gary and Jon Paul, it became a point of return, the place where love crosses lifetimes.
After Zander found his home off the streets, yet close enough to Harvard, the Prospect Tower rose nearby. I didn’t know how much it would come to mean. Over time, it became more than a setting, a symbol of waiting, remembering, and finding your way home. Every time I return to it on the page, it feels like standing at the threshold between worlds, listening for the echoes of all who’ve passed through.
The funny thing about writing is that it can take you places you’ve never been, and then, sometimes, life catches up. As the Tower keeps calling my characters back, travel keeps calling me. I’m preparing for a trip to Spain. I don’t know what scenes or sensations will stay with me: maybe a narrow street glowing at sunset, a quiet café, or the sound of church bells echoing through a square. But I’ve learned to trust that travel leaves its own kind of marker. One day, a story will return to find it.
For me, setting isn’t just description, it’s a conversation between where I’ve been and where I’m going. Dallas, Denver, Boston, Paris… and soon, Barcelona and Seville. Each adds something new to how I see love, loss, and return. The places may change, but the heart of the stories stays the same: love finds a way to cross time, space, and sometimes even lifetimes.
I don’t always know which place will call next — but I’ve learned to listen. The world has a way of whispering, “Stay a little longer. There’s something here you’re meant to find.”
Mj