Freeing The Cells

In her post of December 3, Donis Casey makes it clear that finding a suitable title for a novel can be a challenge. The same holds true for finding a title for a blog post. So, how does one go about it? Or, for that matter, how does one go about writing anything. In long-ago days before I made a really serious attempt at a novel, I liked to swap clever opinions with a colleague at the Library of Parliament here in Ottawa. Someone, I forget who, once opined that writing is easy: “You sit at the keyboard and concentrate until blood starts to seep from your forehead.” And sometimes it does seem like that. Writing can be very difficult; for me at least. For others not so hard. My friend and fellow Ottawa writer, Mary Jane Maffini, once said something along the lines that her output was only limited by the number of hours in the day that she could spend at the keyboard. Or sentiments to that effect. Much to be admired, even envied.

But to hearken back to the title of this post, I discovered an easier – if less productive – way to assuage the demands of the creative beast. FreeCell! How many games of FreeCell does it require to get from the opening sentence of one’s hoped-for novel to that much-desired Finis moment? In the case of my first book, Undertow, it was somewhere north of 10,000 games. It took me almost four years to write that book. Perhaps if I had halved the number of FreeCell games to a mere 5,000, I could have done it much more quickly. But I doubt that. The moderately challenging – if inherently silly – game did calm the fevered mind. And the book did get written.

The message being, I suppose, that writers will do odd things to get the job done.

Later on, I adopted a more complicated stratagem. Spider Solitaire. But that one really was, in the end, counter-productive. Spider Solitaire is much more complicated than FreeCell, and really does challenge; to the point that it’s often hard to think of anything other than getting the game done, and then going on to yet another game, and another, and another. And there being three levels of difficulty, that game is even more deadly in terms of time demands.

And where am I now in my effort to finish my fourth Inspector Stride novel? Back to FreeCell as it happens; 4,631 games played to date. Which could mean that I have only about 5,400 games to go before the novel’s done. Clearly I should play more, and play more often. Seriously, though, games like FreeCell are sometimes a hindrance, but at other times they are relaxing and they reduce stress.

Computers, as we all know, are a mixed blessing. We have instant access to a world of information via the internet – which in itself is another mixed blessing – but too often there is too much temptation to wander off into non-productive pursuits. Writing is like life generally. I have a self-imposed end-of-January deadline for the new Stride, and it’s a tossup whether I will actually make it. An old story; but hopefully not with a surprise ending.

To finish up this post, I will essay a piece that I will presumptuously call A Tale of Two Novels.

A month ago I dipped into my first Jack Reacher novel. It was only about five years ago, at the Left Coast Crime gathering in Bristol, UK, that I discovered there was such a creation as Jack Reacher. Lee Child was one of the keynote authors at the gathering, and he made a short speech, in which he talked about his protagonist. Like Reacher, himself, Lee Child is very tall, if not nearly as bulky. (I think Reacher tops out at about 250 pounds.) Child explained to the audience that he came up with the character’s name because, being very tall, he was often asked during visits to supermarkets, usually by older, tiny persons of the female persuasion, if he could please reach them down an item from one of the upper shelves. He then began to think of himself as a “reacher”, and thus the character’s name came to him.

I liked his story a lot, and I still do. And I wish I could say that I liked the Reacher novel that I am reading – The Affair – as much. Sadly, I do not. I am fairly certain that the book is another bestseller for Mr. Child, and good for him. But for me, despite some interesting writing and a lot of information about the United States Army, particularly the Military Police part, I am finding that my attention wanders often. It’s not a long book, and a month after starting it, it’s still not finished. Worse, I don’t really have much interest in finding out “whodunit”, who did slash the throats of all those radiantly beautiful women near an American Army base in the deep south. My main quibble with the book is the “soldier-as-superman” gambit. At one point in the narrative, Reacher goes one on four – or is it one on six? – with a collection of large and ugly local redneck inbreds, and quickly demolishes the lot of them, sending them limping back to their caves, or holes in the ground, or wherever. In another scene he casually shoots another brute in the forehead and sends his two equally odious companions scampering back to their hovels in mortal fear and dread. None of it – for me – rings true. It’s seems to me a superficial construct.

So, when I drove from Ottawa to Kingston this past weekend to visit with my daughter, I left Reacher at home on the floor beside my bed, and took with me instead a wonderful short novel by the late British author J.L. Carr – A Month In The Country. The book was released in 1980 and was shortlisted for the Booker. It was a considerable success, reprinted many times, although not likely a money-maker along the lines of Lee Child’s Reacher series. In 1987, though, it was made into a film of the same title, and starred Colin Firth, Kenneth Branagh, and a young Natasha Richardson – who would, in March 2009, tragically die from injuries sustained in a ski accident in Mont Tremblant, Quebec. The film is as brilliant as the book.

Then, in one of those bizarre incidents that drive serious film lovers mad with frustration, all prints of the 35 mm master were somehow lost, and this brilliant film appeared to have vanished from the world forever. Happily, another print was eventually found in a warehouse. But then there was another long delay while ownership of the print was sorted out. Happily it was sorted out.

The film is now available on DVD in the original 96-minute version. I commend it to anyone who enjoys films of intelligence and substance. The same recommendation, of course, is made for the book.

Blog Heaven

I’ve died and gone to blog heaven, of course. When the gracious, talented Donis Casey invited to become a regular contributor, naturally my first instinct was to mumble “who, me?” I’m deeply honored! Not only is Type M for Murder my favorite mystery blog, during the past two years I’ve met some of the wonderful persons who keep this blog going. In fact, I’m now an honorary Canadian. This was decided in the bar after the Left Coast Crime Convention in Santa Fe.

Donis Casey came to my book launch at Poisoned Pen Press, which was a heady experience that gave me delusions of grandeur. Oh, if I could freeze these moments! They compensate for the panicky “can I do write another book?” paralysis that stuns our creativity. It’s rather overwhelming to have an award winner writer of Donis’s caliber in the audience. (A real writer)

Barbara Fradkin was my roommate at Left Coast Crime. She is one classy dame! She taught me a lot about dealing with adversity. Her flight was cancelled and she was rescheduled. She breezed in at 3:00 am and got up at six to go on the Taos tour, explaining that she was not going to let the plane snafu ruin her plans. Wow! Not a word of complaint. I bought her book, Once Upon a Time, and was awed by her ability to maintain the smooth pacing of a complex plot based on events evolving from World War II and war crime issues. Marvelous characterization.

Vicki Delany is one of the friendliest, nicest writers I know. I loved In The Shadow of the Glacier and bought Negative Image at Santa Fe. We shared a room at Malice Domestic last year. She tried to tell me Deadly Descent was a finalist for the AZ Book Publishers Award, and I hooted and jeered and patiently explained to her why that could not possibly be true. I won and have been trying to compensate for questioning her truthiness ever since. In short, I buy her drinks.

Now it’s true confession time. I have a weird half-life as a historian and do some academic work. Sort of like some drugs that keep working after you stop taking them. I’m an accidental academic without sterling credentials. Nevertheless, I'm a highly opinionated and relentless researcher and that counts for a lot. In fact, my first novel was not a mystery, but a historical novel, Come Spring, and it was published by Simon and Schuster.

In the meantime, I was publishing mystery short stories and loving every minute of it—so I added mystery novels to my writing mix. How is that working for me? Not very well. Too many editors and not enough time. Mysteries soon possessed my mind and soul. I love writing them. Who knew? So I’m polishing off my editors, one by one, and soon Poisoned Pen Press and my Lottie Albright series will be the last man standing.

For my next gig, I’ll tell more about the Lottie Albright series. Greek tragedies are alive and well, they’ve just switched their venue to the High Plains. I’m a native Kansan, with a flaming state loyalty, so it’s only natural that my historical novels, my academic work, and my mysteries should be set in this difficult state where conniving families with tattered pasts seethe with historical and contemporary tensions.

Here I am at Type M for Murder!

Hello from Scotland on a sunny morning, when spring as last has sprung after a long, dreary winter, with crocuses, daffodils and primroses in the front garden under the silver birches and even red camellias under my study window.

Vicki, many thanks for inviting me to join Type M and thanks to Rick for his friendly help and advice. I'm looking forward to getting to know you all.

I should probably start with the addict's confession: My name is Aline and I am a writer. I scribbled my first 'novel' at six, the risqué tale of Mr Wiz and Mrs Woz who went off to Paris together for the weekend – yes, perhaps I was a precocious child!

I'm still scribbling, because it's a compulsion, because I can't not. I'm happiest at my desk, trying to write fast enough to keep up with the story in my head, though as Vicki said last week, meeting other authors and gossiping over a glass in the bar is kinda fun as well..

I love, too, my tax-deductible holidays – I mean, of course, trips undertaken exclusively for necessary research, in beautiful Galloway in south-west Scotland where my DI Marjory Fleming series is set. It fascinates me: it has glorious seascapes, lochs, hills and forests but there's rural deprivation, too, and unemployment and small communities struggling to preserve their unique qualities - and it's only two hours away from Glasgow, murder capital of Europe. Urban fantasies of the idyllic country life are just that.

As my new book, Cradle to Grave, launches in paperback, the familiar cosy book world I used to know so well is changing beyond recognition: e-books, social networking, piracy, tweeting, bookshops that don't exist except on the internet, and small bookshops thjat don't exist any more. As all the old certainties disappear, it's stimulating but scary at the same time. Whatever else changes, though, they'll still need what's pompously called 'creative content' – stories, to you and me.

And there are still kids who know from the start that they're tellers of tales. If you want proof, I've attached a delightful video below of a very young French storyteller. It's as good as spring sunshine.

Cradle to Grave is the sixth in the DI Marjory Fleming series which starts with Cold in the Earth. All are available from Hodder & Stoughton.

Hair, She Wrote

Frankie, here. I'm delighted to join this terrific community of writers. First time out, I had intended to write about research. But then my hair got in the way. I know you're wondering what my hair has to do with writing, but I'm a Southerner, so you're going to have to bear with me while I tell you a tale.

It started a couple of months ago. I was invited to give the Martin Luther King, Jr., lecture as a part of the spring speakers series at a local community college. I do research on crime and popular culture, so I proposed doing a lecture titled: "What to Wear to a Revolution" about clothing, dress codes, and hair censorship during the 1960s civil rights era.

Soon after agreeing to do the lecture, I was going through a closet, trying yet again to "discard and organize." I opened a box, and there inside was my high school senior photo. My hair was in an Afro. Great! I had my "show-and-tell" for the lecture.

I took the photo to my office at school and set it on a cabinet, thinking it would inspire me. It also reminded me of happier hair days.

In mid-January, I went down to New York City for a writers' meeting. I fluffed my hair out. A friend noticed I was "letting it grow." But that was only for that weekend in Manhattan. Back in Albany – back in my professor role -- I tamed my hair again. Until the morning I looked in the mirror at my droopy curls, groaned and dug around in a drawer for an old "pick" (a steel-toothed comb). I used it to demolish the curls, then stood there grinning at my reflection in the mirror.

About a second later, I realized I didn't have time to go through the process of washing my hair again to get it to curl. I would have to wear my Afro.

As I rode up in the elevator at school, I anticipated the surprised looks.

And that was when I had my flashback. I was thirteen or fourteen, and I was walking down the hall in another school. My hair, to my delight, was rising up from my head in waves and spirals and spikes. A teacher coming toward me, stopped in her tracks. And then she rushed up and hustled me to the side, out of the flow of traffic. "What on earth happened to your hair?" she said. Taking a comb from her pocket, she dragged it through my hair and twisted my wild mane into a knot. Satisfied, I was now acceptable, she told me to go on to class.

This was before the days when combing a student's hair might have been grounds for a lawsuit. But I had been injured by that well-intentioned teacher. That part of me who -- if she hadn't been afraid of snakes -- would have thought Medusa's hair was cool, who loved Tina Turner's wild wigs and Patti La Belle's sculptured dos, had been injured.

The late 60s and early 70s liberated my hair. But before my mind could catch up, the Afro was gone. Now, it was several decades later. Marc Jacobs might be featuring Afros on his runway models. A few musicians and actors might be wearing ‘fros. But here I was again, walking down a hall, waiting for someone to tame my hair. Not with a comb, but with a grin and a joke. . .No grins, no jokes. In fact, no one said a word about my hair. Not that day or the next. Hadn't they noticed?

After a while it occurred to me that they might be wondering if I was making a “political statement”. Maybe they thought it was safer not to comment.

Whatever my friends' and colleagues were thinking, I was more surprised by what was going on in my own head. I might not be 14 again, but I feel more "me." I have reclaimed a piece of myself. And that's the point of this story. Sometimes we need to let our inner "rebel" out to play.

When we free ourselves to be more of who we are as individuals, we also free ourselves to bring that same quirkiness and creativity to our writing.

Letting my hair do its thing won't transform me into a best-selling author. But it does seem to have made me more productive. Writer's block? Sitting in front of my computer, hands buried in my hair, I remember that I have a voice.

And now, my challenge to you: "Go for it!" Do one wonderful, crazy, liberating thing that speaks to who you are inside. And let us know how it affects your life and your writing.