What It's Like to Hire a PI

 By Catherine Dilts

This summer, I hired a Private Investigator. The experience had little in common with what I’ve seen in movies or read in novels. This being a rather mundane missing person’s case, there were no late night stake-outs and absolutely no gun play.

Me, being the customer, didn’t fit the classic mold of a glamorous redhead puffing on an opera-length cigarette holder with gloved fingers. I was wearing baggy sweats when I contacted the PI via email, and my mousey hair was pulled back into a messy bun with a cheap plastic clip.

Nope, no glamour. Just my family needing to locate a person none of us had heard from in years. My father passed away in March. His second wife preceded him in death by several years. In his will, Dad left a bequest to his estranged step-son. Before my brother, the executor of the estate, could finish the legal paperwork, we needed to find our step-brother. Let’s call him “James.”

Step One: DIY investigation. We began with my brother requesting a paralegal in his law office attempt to track down James. That quickly reached a dead end. My brother decided since I write mysteries, I could find our step-brother. So I tried. I started by contacting James’ aunt. She hadn’t heard from him in a couple years.

I was very concerned about throwing out a “you’ve inherited money” message to potential strangers. Aren’t we warned constantly to beware the dangers of the internet and social media? In fact, this may be why my brother’s and my efforts failed. Would you open an email or respond to a social media message promising you an unexpected, if modest, reward? What if the wrong person answered? Would I end up with creepy stalkers demanding money from me?

Step Two: Hiring a PI. I told my brother I was uncomfortable with the idea of contacting sketchy potential strangers, and my efforts to connect with who I thought was the real James went unanswered. But I did know a Private Investigator from my mystery writing group. Anxious to close the estate, my brother gave me the go-ahead.

Enter Steve Pease, aka author Michael Chandos, our own Type M for Murder contributor, and an honest-to-goodness licensed PI. He quoted me a retainer price my brother approved. We hoped the case wouldn’t become too lengthy or complicated. 

My first lesson in hiring a PI was that the more info you already have, the less time it will take to track down the missing person. Less time = less money. I did mention the bequest was modest? My family didn’t want to spend our entire inheritance trying to find James. “Oh great, we found you. But we spent what all of us would have inherited on locating you. Oops. Our bad.”

Thankfully, we had some info. His last known couple of addresses and phone numbers. His mother’s sisters’ contact info. What we didn’t have was James’s social security number or employer. We were reasonably certain he was in Colorado. If he was still alive. Or maybe (sorry James) in prison.

The hunt began.

The End

 by Catherine Dilts

The first killing freeze is late to arrive this year. My garden, lacking access to weather apps, has already slowed way down.

The tomatoes have quit producing, not realizing they could have gone on another couple weeks. The cucumber vines shriveled, the leaves turning dry despite regular watering. Instead of one sudden death in the form of a hard frost or early snow, things are winding down. The garden stumbles gradually toward The End.

In writing, two projects reached The End recently. That moment is glorious. Finally completed! Time to sell the books to an eager publisher, make a fortune, and move on to write the next bestseller!

Not exactly. Both novels were brutalized by beta readers. Am I being too sensitive? Maybe just a little. Like the garden, I'm not ready to give up yet. I received the most incredibly helpful comments on the big novel-of-my-heart from my critique partner. I’m getting a grasp on how to do revisions that will convince the rest of the world what a magnificent story I’ve created.

The second project is an ambitious YA co-authored with my daughter. After beta readers didn’t seem to grasp our brilliance, she became depressed. Almost ready to give up. Almost. Then something snapped. She’s coming up with amazing ideas that are giving life to characters, and placing them in ridiculously perilous situations. All the plotlines are weaving together with the strength of a bridge cable.

There’s hope these books will make it into the marketplace eventually. Soon? This rewriting and polishing is a hard task. The goal is in sight. Hope is reborn.

New life when you’ve just about given up. Like my two potted miniature cherry tomato plants. They are the only tomatoes still pushing out blossoms. They might create one last crop for me.

The End in gardening involves harvesting the produce, and doing something with it. Drying, canning, or freezing. (Canning jars ready for pickle relish.) Cleaning up the beds and containers before they're covered with the eventual blanket of snow.

The End in writing frequently results in realizing you’re not finished. There remains more editing, polishing, and review by trusted critique partners or beta readers. The absolute final step is doing something with it: sending it out into the world.

Each phase of gardening and writing is its own special season. Each requires a different kind of energy. And the courage to keep watering that bed if it promises to produce one last crop.

The Fun Begins

 by Catherine Dilts

Don’t we always want to skip the boring parts and get right to the fun? When I have a new idea for a story, I’m tempted to dive straight into the writing. But leaping from the dream phase to the manuscript rarely works out well for me. The same goes for my garden.

Gardening and writing fiction follow similar paths. Phase one is imagining the project. Dreaming. Phase two is preparing for the project. Planning, mapping, outlining. Phase three is where the actual fun begins. In gardening, this is planting. In writing, well, it’s the writing. Telling the story.

If you’re planting a garden, Phase Three is the fun part. You buy plants from the garden shop, order seeds online, or sort through your existing seed packets and saved seeds.

Starting my seedlings indoors is an exciting time, as I set up shelves and grow lights that will take up space in the dining room for the next several months. I prepare the soil for in-ground planting, and refresh the soil in my containers and flower pots. After the last spring freeze, I tuck future flowers and crops into their beds. Water, weed, and wait.

In writing, Phase Three assumes you now have an outline, if you’re a Plotter. Even a Pantser has an idea of where the story is going. You’re ready to start the story’s journey. Maybe you have some little rituals before you type the first word of a new story. You might have to set up a blank manuscript with the proper margins, font, and line spacing before you begin. Or you dive right in, knowing you’ll put it all in the proper format later.

Using the story outline as my map, I begin the journey to a rough draft. I usually have peripheral documents going at the same time. I keep digital research notes close at hand to verify facts as I write. A character list and a series guide are necessities. For my Rose Creek series, I have to keep track of a growing puppy, one character’s pregnancy, the dates and seasons, and names, names, names. Write, rewrite, edit, polish.

When the fun work begins, the garden will eventually bear fruit, and the manuscript will result in a completed short story or novel.

A Different Kind of Energy

I am delighted to join the Type M for Murder crew with my second post! I’m finding a wealth of insights into the fiction writing process and the writer’s life in other authors’ blog articles. I hope I can contribute new ideas based on my own journey.

This spring and summer, I have been exploring parallels between my gardening efforts and my fiction writing. Writing and gardening share phases of development. Each phase has a different kind of energy. You don’t need to love each phase, but you do need to strive for competency in all the phases if you hope for overall success.

Let’s dig in to the starting point. If you’ve never gardened, this may surprise you.

Gardening doesn’t begin with plants, or even seeds. It doesn’t even begin with the soil. A garden begins with a dream.

During the depths of winter, gardening catalogs begin to arrive in the mailbox. From general commercial seed catalogs, to mom-and-pop gardening supply businesses, to specialty heirloom tomato seed companies, they all tempt with beautiful illustrations of possibilities. Experienced gardeners also have a stash of seed packets or saved seeds from past seasons.

In writing, this is the idea phase. Another sort of dreaming. An image pops into your imagination. A snippet of a scene. A character. A setting. Snatches of dialogue. Most writers struggle with the quantity of story ideas. Which ones will blossom into short stories or novels?

In the garden and in creative writing, you can’t do everything. My garden space is limited. I want to grow ten different varieties of pole beans, but I only have room for three or four. I’d like to grow pumpkins, but they take an enormous amount of unfettered space.

I have ideas for three new series and a stand-alone novel. I don’t have the energy or physical capacity to bring all of them to life. Not all at once.

You begin with the dream of the garden, or the story. Seeing what you want in your imagination. Lush. Potent. Compelling. The dream begins to take form. Let this phase take you to impossible places.

The dreaming phase is a different kind of energy. Done right, it can lead to amazing results. Ignore the dream, and nothing will bear fruit.

Next time, I’ll talk about phase two in gardening and writing.

A Love Affair With Writing

 A lot has been happening in my daily life, as usual, and it's been hard to find adequate time to write. Especially considering the fact that I'm trying to write two novels at once. 

When my first mystery novel, The Old Buzzard Had It Coming, was published by Poisoned Pen Press in 2005, I was hardly a neophyte author. I had been writing professionally for untold years, and though I had never had any fiction published before, I expected that being a novelist was not going to hold any surprises for me.

My twelfth novel, Valentino Will Die, came out last year, and after twelve books I’m here to tell you that I was wrong. Oh, I held no illusions about the romance of the authorly life. I knew it was going to be hard, and it is. I knew there would be days when you sit and stare at the screen, unable to type a single word that isn’t crap and you know that you’ll never be able to write again.

I knew that it was going to be wonderful, that there would be days that deathless prose flows so effortlessly that it makes you believe in God and divine inspiration. 

I knew you had to have a hide like a rhinoceros and never take your reviews to heart, good or bad. I was perfectly aware that you have to know your craft. You have to practice, practice, practice, like a concert violinist, because it doesn’t matter if you have the skill of your art like Leonardo DaVinci and the genius in your field of Albert Einstein, if you don’t actually sit yourself down and put words to paper with ruthless determination, you ain’t a writer.

I was well aware that, unless the planets aligned and the gods conspired, I was not going to be able to support myself on royalty payments. Thus far, the planets have not aligned nor have the gods conspired.

I knew that you must never give up, even when you wonder why on earth you’re putting yourself through this for so little reward. I even knew how brave you have to be, to persevere, to trust the process, to write what you know you should write without wondering if it’s going to sell. (And believe me, that takes more courage than I sometimes have.)

I even knew that it was going to take over my life.

What I didn’t fully realize is how much writing is like being in love. You do things for it that you never thought you’d do. You long for it when something keeps you from it, and yet you resent how it takes over your life. You break your heart for it. You can’t give it up.

But when it loves you back, there’s nothing like it.

Missing old friends

 I recently submitted my latest Amanda Doucette novel, WRECK BAY, to my publisher, Dundurn Press, and now await the verdict from my editor. I'm delighted that the editor assigned is a long-time friend who has edited the majority of my books and I look forward to his notes and suggestions. WRECK BAY comes out in early 2023, and I have no further books contracted with the publisher at this point. So if I choose, WRECK BAY may be the last in the Amanda Doucette series that began on the east coast island of Newfoundland and currently ends on the west coast island of Vancouver Island. Last October, my eleventh Inspector Green novel, THE DEVIL TO PAY, was published, with no clean plan for a sequel either.

It's liberating to have no deadline hanging over my head, but it's also discombobulating. It's been twenty years since I got my first contract, and I've been operating under the deadlines and pressures of writing demands ever since. Suddenly, my day no longer has the structure of writing, whether I felt like it or not, and my head is empty of the voices and struggles of characters. There is no staring down the barrel of three hundred pages, wondering how to get to the end.

Original cover

Updated cover

I figured I'd take a vacation from writing for awhile and then perhaps try my hand at something completely different. After twenty crime novels, maybe a children's book. Or a memoir, although not mine. Meanwhile there have been plenty of other things to distract me - Omicron, the so-called "freedom convoy" that occupied Ottawa, the loss of my beloved dog, and now, worst of all, the tragedy in Ukraine. But a strange thing has happened. In trying to escape this constant barrage of bad news, my mind has turned not to children's books or memoirs, but to the comfort of old fictional friends.  Mike Green and his entourage have been my constant companions for decades and it's been eight years since Amanda walked into my life. Or I should say "burst" into my life. Life with both was never dull, whether I was emptying the dishwasher, walking the dog, or trying to get to sleep. It feels strange and empty to have them suddenly both gone from my life. 

I have begun to wonder whether I should invite one of them back for another book. But which one? Either series could easily be continued. Amanda could go north to Nunavut or the Northwest Territories. Mike Green, now with the added spark of his daughter Hannah, could always find another murder.

Original cover

Updated cover

As it turns out, Dundurn has decided to reissue the whole Inspector Green series and has been redesigning and modernizing both the format and the covers, some of which could definitely use some improvement. This is an interesting turn of events and makes me feel this series is being given new life. Perhaps because stubborn, impetuous Hannah and her new friend Detective Kanner have been added to the cast. Their addition gives the series a whole different twist that promises to keep me entertained as well.

I've included some examples of a few updated cover ideas, contrasted with the old. Whaat do you think? And if you had a choice, which character would you like to visit with next?

So You Want To Be A Novelist.

You think that it would be a pleasant life to be a published novelist, do you? Allow me to let you in on a thing or two about the act of writing a novel that no one may have told you.

It isn’t pleasant to spend weeks of your life writing scenes and sentences and paragraphs that are actually wonderful, and then have to take them out because you realize – or your editor or your writers' group points out quite correctly – that they don’t fit the story. It’s horrible! I loved that character. That was a brilliant line. But the vicious truth is that a well constructed novel does not include anything that does not advance the plot or reveal something about a character. You want that story published? If your publisher/editor says to change or delete that scene you love, you suck it up, wipe your eyes, and take it out.

If you have signed a contract, and you have agreed to deliver an acceptable manuscript by a certain date, you will undergo a period of hair-raising terror and desperation as the deadline approaches, mark my words. You will offer your first born to the muses if you can just get the requisite number of words on the page by the deadline. You will pray that your manuscript is at least good enough that your editor won’t throw it back in your face and tell you that you’ll never write in this town again. Once the MS has been read and approved, and even praised, you will be relieved beyond measure while at the same time swearing that you’ll never put yourself through this again. Until another damn good idea pops into your head. I promise you that Toni Morrison, Steven King, and William Shakespeare have all had this experience.

You will undergo actual physical pain. I’ve just spent the past week in a writing frenzy. This frenzy includes long interludes of staring at a computer screen, waiting for just the right word to occur to me. Aside from doing what is necessary to keep myself alive and fit for human society, I’ve spent day after day, hour after hour, in this chair, typing away. When I cannot take it any more, I wrench myself up into a standing position. I’m bleary-eyed, and have a headache. My back hurts. My butt is numb. My wrist hurts. Where did I put that wrist brace? My husband asks why I’m walking like Quasimoto. Take a stretch. Get a drink. Get a pillow for the chair. I go to the bathroom, splash some water on my face, and examine my face in the mirror. Oh, my God. No more writing today. I have to have something to eat. I sit down with Don and have a bowl of soup and some crusty bread. He asks me how it’s going.

"Well, my dear, I wrote a scene in which Bianca discovers a clue in the bedroom. I worked on it all day, but I’m not happy with what I’ve got. Perhaps if I approached it from another angle. Perhaps it would be more effective if it weren’t in the bedroom, but the kitchen instead. I’ll have to rework that whole scene. Maybe I don’t even need it. Four hours of writing, shot."

In the morning, you plant yourself in front of the computer and go at it again. This is one thing they don’t tell you about the author’s life. It is relentless.

The extraordinary journey of the peony bud

Rick's Tuesday post made me smile. Distraction is the mood of the day. Are we all in the same boat? After a long winter of record-breaking cold and snow and a spring that sputtered and stalled, summer has suddenly burst upon us. At least in the past week, for those of us in Central Canada. I shouldn't cheer too loudly, lest summer decide to retreat back under its rock. But joy has overwhelmed us. People are flocking to patios, picnicking in the parks, painting their toe nails and hauling their flouncy summer frocks out of storage. It's hard to concentrate on anything serious.

Quite literally, after shivering in the endless, damp cold and struggling to poke their heads up, the flowers in my garden have exploded into colour.  It turns out all that rain was good for them, even as the grey days deadened our spirits. There are certain flowers in my garden that I wait for every year. I watch the buds of the peonies grow fatter and juicier for weeks, all for a few fleeting moments of glory. I watch the lilacs and the Siberian iris. I fuss over the early rose buds. Sometimes flowers surprise me. Plants I thought were dead, or at least unable to thrive, suddenly materialize where I least expect them.

There's a metaphor for life in there somewhere, and it is particularly apt for the writer's life. Perhaps we have to struggle through the darkness, not sure where we're going or whether the journey is worthwhile. Not sure we'll ever see the light at the end of the tunnel or the resolution at the end of our story. Not sure there IS an end. Nonetheless, possibly because we have a deadline and an expectant publisher, or simply because we're writers and we have to, we push on, trusting that the journey we're on will lead somewhere. After facing this angst through sixteen books, I know that despite all my misgivings this time, some sort of book will emerge at the end.

Rarely does the book suddenly explode in colour, sadly. Hey, the metaphor isn't perfect. But bit by bit, the bud opens. The story unfolds and its core is revealed – the high point towards which everything has been building. At that point, however flawed or muddled that high point is, I always feel a flood of relief. I have a book! The flower has opened. Light shines in, lifting my spirits and helping me to tackle all the flaws and messy bits. The rest is rewrites. I can prune and dead-head and fertilize until I've made it the best it can be.

This is a whimsical post, reflecting my mood as I sit in my garden enjoying all the colours. Savouring them to remember the next time the darkness settles in.

From zero to sixty and back again

AKA the ebb and flow of a writer's life. There is a schedule in the lives of writers. For me, it is this. I have about a year to fifteen months between book deadlines, and find it usually takes me a year to write a book. More if there is a substantial amount of research. I usually start almost as soon as the previous book is handed in to the publisher, and the early weeks consist largely of thinking. And chewing my nails. What should I write about? What should I explore next? What do I want to say? And what kind of trouble can I put my characters through this time?

During this time, ideas slowly begins to form and I push them around, looking at them from various angles, fleshing out the barest bones to see if there is enough meat. Kicking the tires, so to speak. After I settle on a promising, bare bones theme, I start to research. I visit the library, I search Amazon and order obscure books from ABE, I scour the Internet. I read and read, taking lots of notes while the bare bones take on more meat in my head. And because my head has only so much room, I start to jot ideas down in a file called "plot and research notes". I like Aardvark better, so may steal that for my next book.

Eventually the starting point for the book emerges out of the mists, and once I have that toehold, I start to write. Still researching, still groping forward, and with only the vaguest idea where I'm going. The plot and the ideas evolve as I write. I try to write every day, usually for the morning, and always try to finish a scene. The book and I lurch along in this haphazard, step-by-step fashion for several months, by which time I am about halfway through the books and six months from D Day. Deadline Day, or Dreaded Day, or whatever it feels like at the moment.

At that point I start thinking backwards from that D Day. I need to give my Beta readers at least a month, preferably six weeks, to critique my manuscript and I need at least two weeks to incorporate their critiques and do final polishing. Before I give it to the readers, I need at least a month to fix up the rough first draft and make it the best I can. There is no point in wasting readers' time with a book I know is still full of plot holes and crappy characters. Which means if I want to meet deadline, I need to finish my first draft three to four months before D Day.

Which gives me two to three months to write the second half of the book, when I have only the foggiest idea where it's going!

Yikes.

These past three months I have been in that boat, madly rushing to complete the first draft and fix it up to send to my beta readers. Which I finally did – yesterday. It's a very odd feeling. I've been desperately yearning for this day. Dust balls and dog fur balls have accumulated in my house, weeds have taken over my garden, the fridge is empty, and most of my friends think I've died or moved to Australia. I've had my pedal to the floor for several months, with the storyline and the characters in my head all day and feeling guilty whenever I couldn't give them the time they needed.

And now, suddenly, the foot is off the accelerator and I am coasting to a dead halt. The book is in "rest" mode for four to six weeks while I wait for the verdicts of my trusted readers. Now I have time to look around at the dog fur and the weeds, the full laundry basket and the empty fridge, and I don't even know where to begin. The morning stretches ahead, unstructured and without demands (except those listed above).

I know I will revel in the slower pace and the empty brain, and I will start to do all the things I have been neglecting. But for a week or so at least, the absence of "being a writer" is discombobulating. And I feel vaguely itchy.

As if I should be writing something. This blog, for example.