All In What You Call It

Recently I discovered that what I had for years thought of as a curse can be put to good and enjoyable use. I am what would generally be described as a “worrier”. When faced with any situation, from getting out of bed in the morning to planning for a trip, I consider what could, might, and quite possibly will go wrong. Fortunately, this does not stop me from getting out of the bed or from going on trips, but until recently it did make me wish that I could just stop “worrying” so much and approach life with the same optimism and joy in the adventure that some people seem to feel. I have met such people. I even have friends and relatives who display these traits. But I have always worried – and wanted not to worry.

I have tried those “simple strategies” found in magazine articles. For example, set aside ten minutes a day and get all your worrying done in one session. Or write down everything you’re worrying about, read the list, then rip it up and walk away. Such strategies never worked for me – not even those described in the book or two I picked up about how not to worry.

And then, I had an epiphany. I realized that I was using the wrong word to describe what I do. With that realization, I now approach what I formerly thought of as “worrying” with great enthusiasm and even delight. What I have thought of as “worrying” should really be described as “forecasting” or “engaging in risk assessment” or “scenario-building.” What I have described as “worrying” when done well, and with use of all available data and unrestrained imagination, can really be viewed as a rational response to an uncertain world.

The fact that this has only recently occurred to me can be put down to the fact that I was never a Girl Scout. However, I always wanted to be – a Girl Scout, that is. I have always wanted to be capable, competent, and ready to deal with any situation. But feeling ill-prepared, I instead worried. And I worried about worrying. No more. Now I know that the activity that I engage in has a much better and more praiseworthy name when done systematically. Did I forget to mention that I joined the World Future Society while researching my near-future police procedural? That was when I began to understand the error of how I described and understood what I do.

Having had my epiphany, I can now face the future with confidence. When presented with a question about what should or might be done, I can now without hesitation launch into my analysis of the situation and the possible outcomes of various choices. If my colleagues, friends, and relatives should grow irritated when forced to listen to my in-depth analysis, no matter. I will continue silently.

Now I know I am not a neurotic, wimpy person who “worries” but instead a much more interesting creature – a woman who “considers all the angles". This should certainly help my writing. Actually, that particular phrase reminds me that I want to try my hand at writing noir.

In fact, I have a character named Becca, who is the wayward mother of my series protagonist. I’m fascinated by Becca, but she has appeared in only one book. Maybe it’s time to see what else Becca has to say. She’s a woman who has spent her life considering all the angles. A bluesy, noir femme fatale. Ordinarily, I would worry about letting Becca out on her own, but no more. I no longer worry. Now I assess the situation.

The Conflict of Nostalgia

A friend recently told me he signed a two-book contract to write stand-alones that will be published only electronically.

I was silent for a moment before asking a question that probably makes me either totally naive about current publishing trends, more nostalgic than Willie Loman in Death of a Salesman, or just terribly simple.

“But you’ll never do a signing. Doesn’t that bother you?”

It was my honest response.

I have read Internet blog posts by and articles about authors, who are far from household names, earning upward of $4,000 a month selling e-books. And I know electronic publishing is trending in a direction that indicates 50 percent of all revenues will come from electronic sales in only five years.

Yet as an author, I long for the days when the first copy of my book arrives. When I open it, examine at the cover (and hopefully enjoy the sight, although not always, and that’s a whole other post), smell the paper pages, and proudly display my year’s accomplishment on my coffee table.

All this from a guy who buys most of his books in Kindle format. Conflicted? Admittedly. After all, I’d happily join the club making $4,000 a month selling e-books; I have three college tuition bills coming due soon. However, I also love face-to-face book signings, love owning both paperbacks and hardcovers. So as statistical evidence mounts indicating e-sales will soon leave print books in the abyss, I realize some version of an online author-reader event will eventually swallow up experiences like signings.

And that will be a sad day, indeed.

Plot Droop

I’ve been making good progress with this current draft, romping along at a cracking pace up until last night when I suddenly ran out of steam. I’ve used up all my plot points, character conflicts and even run out of red herrings and dead bodies.

It's official. I think I’m suffering from a severe case of plot droop.

So … what’s the solution? Luckily, I keep a box of tricks and tips for moments just like this. 

Here are a few suggestions: 

• The appearance of a story changing character to take the plot in a different direction. 
• Introduce a “ceremony” or an event where all the characters are in one place—plenty of opportunities for new conflicts.
• Toss in a few gold coins i.e. don’t use up all your clues in the first half. Spread them out a little. 
• Re-examine the core of your story. If it’s not strong enough, this is where it could collapse. 
• Study your villain—what’s his or her Achilles heel?
• Introduce an unexpected alliance between characters that had previously feuded.
• Take a deeper look at the minor characters—can any of them play a bigger role?

Oddly enough, just writing this post has perked me up. Next I must tackle a very soggy middle.  Any ideas?

Running late!

Hi there, Type M’sters. I was hoping to be able to post something good today but I’ve been working to deadline on a job and the time has just gotten away from me. So my deep and intellectually startling post will have to wait until next week, I’m afraid, since daylight is already fading here in the not-so-frozen north.

But I have a rather apropos cartoon. Even though it has to do with music, one could easily change the words and image a bit to make this an editor talking to a writer, rather than a producer talking to a band.

Hope you enjoy it – and see you next week with something a little more substantial.

Movies ... And Life

It's that time of year again, when the Golden Globes are handed out and the Oscar nominations are announced. Each year about this time, I make an honest attempt not to get too excited. But, really, I jest. I lost almost all interest in the who-will-win-what media circus decades ago. With one caveat: I reserve the right to get mildly annoyed when a film or actor that I especially liked does not get get due notice from the PTB crew - for which non-acronym, read Powers That Be. Having written that, I don't know who the PTB crew might be. Members of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, I think. I don't know who the individuals  are, and don't much care. None has ever invited me to lunch, or for a late-afternoon drink. Or sought my opinion on anything.

But enough already with the silliness. This blog post is not really about movies. But there is one film I am really interested in. That one is The Iron Lady. But it is less the film than the subject matter that interests me. For anyone who hasn't been paying attention, TIL (almost an acronym) is a biopic about Margaret Thatcher, Prime Minister of Great Britain (not just England) from 1979 to 1990. The film did not get uniformly good reviews. It was not nominated for Best Film, although Meryl Streep is nominated for Best Actress. I hope she wins. It's her best performance in years. While watching her, I had to keep reminding myself that I was watching an actress play a role. Streep, who too frequently overuses technical gestures and tics in her roles, vanishes into this one.

The major criticism of the film is that it focuses too much on Thatcher in decline, sliding into dementia, speaking and arguing with her dead husband, Denis. (And here, yet another brilliant performance by the inimitable Jim Broadbent.) I thought the film-makers took the perfrect approach to the subject. They humanised Thatcher instead of lionising her. But there are scenes enough of Thatcher at her peak to supply the full quotient of lionisation for any and all of her fans. You don't have to like or admire Thatcher to enjoy the film.

One of the main points the film makes was well-described and expressed a few days ago in a column in The Ottawa Citizen  by Janice Kennedy:

http://www.ottawacitizen.com/entertainment/movie-guide/movie+that+shows+ever+irrelevant/6065272/story.html

The Iron Lady deserves both recognition and audiences. It is a powerful human portrait which, perhaps surprisingly, is also profoundly moving. And it speaks to all of us - no matter what our age, nationality or political impulse - even when we don't want to hear the message.

The conceit of the film is retrospective, an aged Thatcher revisiting life moments both grand and mundane through eyes that have dimmed. The elderly Thatcher, in the early grips of dementia, is vague and distracted, though still capable of grace and rising to an occasion. Streep is so convincing in this she makes you want to weep.

It is in that contrast that the enduring impact of the film lies. No matter who you are, it says, aging is a process of destruction. This thematic thread that winds its way through the movie serves as both momento mori and call for compassion. Critics who have faulted the film for its portrayal of political history are missing the point. This is a film about humanity.

Who was it said that "Old age is a shipwreck"? A quick Google search tells me that it was Charles de Gaulle, who lived  almost to age 80; Margaret Thatcher is (today) 86. While we are on the subject, I will celebrate - the verb is carefully chosen - my 73rd birthday in August. I am becoming more and more aware of what may lie ahead.

Yesterday, my partner and I spent a few hours at the National Gallery here in Ottawa. One of the permanent displays there is the Rideau Street Convent Chapel, an actual chapel reconstructed in the Gallery. Even for a non-believer - meaning me - a visit to the chapel can be moving. When I entered - Suzanne had gone on ahead - an elderly lady and someone I took to be her daughter were just leaving. I smiled at them both and the older lady caught my eye. Her face lit up, she said hello, and she took my hand. I asked her how she was, we smiled at each other, exchanged a few more words, and then she went on her way, leaning on the arm of her companion. She obviously thought I was someone she knew, or had known once. But I didn't know her; I had never seen her before. The incident, which lasted only seconds, took me back to the film.

Janice Kennedy again:

Most of us will grow old, and some of us, through no fault of our own, will be altered beyond recognition. The miraculous thing is, that doesn't change our value or who we have been. As the film intimates, real failure occurs when others lose sight of the person, the whole person, behind the dimmed eyes.

It's a good thought to hold on to. And worth revisiting from time to time.

Lone Elm and Old Buzzards

I span three centuries. Odd, but true. My father, born in the 19^th century, was 51 years old when I was born. He was 70 when I married and my husband’s father was 74. I’ve welcomed grandchildren into the 21^st century and loved the life I lived in my own 20^th century, and am continuing to live now. Having a foot in three centuries gives one a peculiar insight into different eras. My parents had opinions on about any subject. It’s a great tool for a writer to be able to understand how paralyzed people once were by class, status, and culture.



Once, in a women’s studies class, the teacher was puzzled by a newly married couple mentioned in the course work who did not have intercourse for several months. The instructor wondered why. I knew! An aunt of mine wouldn’t let my uncle touch her for three months for fear a premature baby might result. A seven months baby would imply that she had been unchaste before the wedding. It was all about protecting one’s reputation. Thank heaven, my mother severely disapproved of such nonsense. But my three-century background provided a dynamic framework for the women’s studies class. I felt like a living encyclopedia.

No one from my parents’ generation is alive, but when they were, it was even more difficult to explain my children and grandchildren to old folks, than to make their codes of behavior seem reasonable to the youngsters. Why it was simply not done for ladies to wear white shoes before Memorial Day or after Labor Day?

Last week I read Donis Casey’s wonderful first mystery, The Old Buzzard Had It Coming, and was immediately reminded of my childhood hometown, Lone Elm, Kansas. Donis did a pitch perfect job of evoking the prohibition era in Oklahoma. Her seamless, lively plot somehow conveyed historical details with never a hint of sleep-inducing research.

Donis included some old recipes at the end. I checked them for accuracy and found them all to be flawless except the buttermilk biscuit recipe which needed  ¼ tsp. of baking soda. (Yes it does, Donis. Do NOT sass me) And it’s been a long, long time since I’ve thought about a hot water pie crust.

Since the Lottie Albright series is both contemporary and historical, one of my hardest tasks is integrating plots and intersecting motivation.

When I was half-way through Old Buzzard, my friend, and native Kansan, Max Yoho, sent pictures of his and wife, Carol’s, recent trip through Lone Elm. There were 90 people living there when I was a girl. My sister kept a list and crossed souls off when they went to their reward. I’m inserting a sad image of what remains of this once thriving community which eventually died out after horseless carriages came into their own and someone finally did something about the county roads.

I was born after the Great Depression, so escaped the profound fear of poverty that dogs so many of that era. My generation has other ghosts. Anyone remember how to build a bomb shelter?

Immortal Dollars…Um, I mean, Characters

The crime fiction community has, of course, always been obsessed with death. It is after all part of what we do—in our stories, the greater the risk, the better we can view humanity. However, death in the publishing industry seems to be a different matter.

When Robert B. Parker, one of my favorite writers, passed away a couple years back, I was selfishly saddened, realizing I could no longer look forward the annual spring arrival of the latest Spenser novel.

Until now, that is. Walking through the mystery section of my local Barnes and Noble recently, I was astonished to see that Spenser lives on. Jeez, I always knew Spenser never aged, that he was tougher than a bag full of hammers; but this shocked even me—one of his most loyal fans: the character managed to inexplicably escape death when his creator had not. That’s beyond tough. It’s immortal.

A wonderful aspect of being a published writer is that one’s books outlive their author, allowing one to leave a written legacy. I’ve often thought about my grandchildren’s grandchildren perhaps reading my dribble. But that was naïve. I mean, not only can the books live on, but the character can, too—if they’re worth enough money.

And, truth be told, I don’t much like that.

“I don’t want someone else writing my character when I’m dead,” said award-winning crime novelist Reed Farrel Coleman last week from the confines of my couch. “It’s about money for the estate,” he said.

Money? Not characters?

Silly me.