It must be lovely to write a book

If I had a pound, or even a dollar, for every time someone has said this to me I would have enough money not to have to write books.  They always say it with such a wistful expression that I can't bear to say that actually, when you're sitting facing a blank screen, devoid of inspiration and with a deadline fast approaching, it isn't lovely at all. I usually mutter something feeble about it having its moments, and leave it at that, in case their next question is 'Then why do you do it?'

George Orwell put it this way. 'All writers are vain, selfish and lazy and at the very bottom of their motives there lies a mystery. Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some demon which one can neither resist nor understand.'

I certainly have that inner demon. Indeed, I have a little personal fantasy that when I was born my parents had a christening party to which, in the best traditions, they invited the Good Fairy. In she came, in pink tulle with spangles, tiptoed over to my crib and peered in. 'Oh, what a dear little thing,' she cooed. 'I must give her a wonderful gift.'

But while she was thinking what that should be the door burst open and in stormed the Bad Fairy wearing black rags and DMs whom my parents had, also in the best traditions, forgotten to invite. She stomped across to the crib and said, 'Yuck! What a disgusting little brat! I must put on a horrible curse.'

And then, in unison, they said, 'She shall be a writer.'

When I was younger I used to say that one day I would retire, relax and do all the other fun things you can't do when you have a book to write. A couple of friends, successful authors, have said to me that if their next project doesn't work out, they'll do just that.

I realise now that I couldn't. I wouldn't enjoy it. I'm miserable without the imaginary world I've lived in since a childhood peopled with imaginary friends, who were so much rewarding in their obedience to my wishes than the real ones were.

For better or worse, for as long as I can string together coherent sentences, there I will be at my keyboard telling stories. I have no alternative. The fairies' gifts didn't come with a 'Use By' date.

Extra! Extra! Charles Benoit returns to Type M for Murder!

Way back in the mists of time (or was it in midst of thyme?), three friends got together and one (I believe it was Vicki Delany) said, “I have some web space. We should put on a blog!” Another of them said, “Yes! And we could invite some of our friends to join in and help!” (That was probably me, lazy bugger that I am.) The third person thought for a moment then said, “And we can write and write and write, then invite everyone to read our stuff. We’ll become rich and famous and I’ll retire early and take up the tenor saxophone!”

That third person, my friends, was the amiable Charles Benoit. At that time, he was writing incredibly entertaining thrillers cum travelogues cum I-don’t-know-what for adults to read. I believe he penned three of them, one of which was nominated for an Edgar and a Barry. It must have been his first one, Relative Danger, since it was nominated in the Best First Novel category. But Charles is a tricky devil, so you never know…

More recently, he’s been a leading light in the YA genre world, where he’s doing very well, thank you. His forthcoming (or should I say fourth-coming – since it’s his 4th) YA novel is Snow Job. (Living in Rochester, New York, as he does, Mssr. Benoit is an expert on the subject of neige.)

So here once again is one of the grand old persons of Type M for Murder, the one, the only, Charles Augustus Benoit!

  ___________

 The Elements of (personal) Style

by Charles Benoit

Any day now, the ARC (advance reading copy) of my next novel, SNOW JOB, will arrive in the mail. It’s my second young adult novel with Clarion Books. I did two other YAs with HarperCollins, and, before I crossed over to the dark side, I published three mysteries with the great folks at Poisoned Pen Press. That’s seven books with three different publishers and two different editors. I’ve been nominated for a bunch of awards, won a few of them, and, generally speaking, earned a fair amount of praise from critics and fans alike. Kinda makes a guy think. And what I’m thinking is this: What makes a Charles Benoit book a Charles Benoit book? So with copies of all my books within easy reach, it’s time to step back and survey the damage. 

Flipping through and reading random pages, I noticed a lot of similarities among my books. You could call it my literary style, but that sounds a bit too literary for me. It’s just the way I write. And those last three sentences are an example—two sentences (each with a comma stuck in there) followed by a shorter sentence that sums it up. It’s a pattern I get locked into more than I should admit, adding lots of fun hours to the revision process.

Something else I tend to do—and this goes for public speaking and general conversations, as well—is to use rambling, meandering, serendipitous sentences that head off waving in one direction, then veer drunkenly into the weeds, swinging back across the highway before careening downhill to the gutter, eventually crawling—exhausted and confused—into one of those storm drain culverts escaped prisoners always hide in, their original missions lost in a maze of misused em dashes and mixed-up metaphors.

I also like one-line paragraphs. 

In my books, lines are said. Sometimes they’re whispered or shouted or mumbled, but never laughed or giggled. Or ejaculated. I don’t even want to know what that would sound like.

My characters stare a lot. At each other, out windows, at guns, at their own reflections. And when they’re not staring, they’re busy gazing or eyeing or looking or glaring. I bet if you added them all up, I’d have a solid day’s worth of staring-like action in my books. 

My books written with adult readers in mind have light, upbeat endings, where my YA novels are way over in the dark, noir part of the room. Whatever the reason, I’m sure it has nothing whatsoever to do with getting picked last for dodgeball in my freshman year. Jerks.

There’s another thing you’ll find in all of my books, and I wrote about it many years ago on this very site. But nobody’s memory is that good, so I’ll tell you again. It’s Odenbach beer, a fictitious concoction I created to avoid a cease-and-desist order from a real, never-to-be-mentioned brewery. Now just how do I brilliantly weave that not-real-product placement into the story? That’s the part you have to find out for yourself.

Oh, and I like phrases with hyphens.

  ___________

Besides hanging around Rochester street corners playing requests for $5 each on his tenor sax, you can usually find Charles at charlesbenoit.com where he takes no song requests.

Being a full-time writer (for two months a year)

School's out. Summer's here. And my May 1 deadline for the third Peyton Cote novel (Destiny's Pawn) has come and gone. This is an equation with only one solution: constant writing. I'm banging the keyboard morning, noon, and night. And I'm loving it. I've pounded out 18,000 words this week (not counting these) so far.

The summer is when I go back to being "a writer." That's not so say I don't write all year long. In fact, I try to write every single day, even if I only get a paragraph written or even just revise a few pages. But the summer is when I really make a push – finish a book, set up a tour, bang out a new story. I work at being a writer.

This month has been (and will continue to be) crazy. I was in Maine last week for the Maine Literary Awards. Bitter Crossing didn't win, but sitting through the whole and the finalists for the best crime book are... was pretty neat. And, of course, I got to meet some new writers. Paul Doiron was also a finalist, and he blurbed Bitter Crossing, so I was able to thank him face to face and to tell him how much I enjoy his series.

This past Monday was the official release date of Fallen Sparrow, the sequel to Bitter Crossing, so on June 15 I'll drive eight hours north to Aroostook County, Maine, where the novels are set and where I lived for 10 years. It's a place very close to my heart. I'll catch up with friends and do three library talks and signings in three days. I'll turn around and sign at Books-a-Million in Portland, Maine, on the way home. If you're interested, you can follow the tour on Twitter. (My 17-year-old, Delaney, has agreed to break from studying for the ACT and playing summer lacrosse to tour with her dad. It's not her favorite band, but hey...)

Being a full-time writer a couple months a year is the best gig in the world!

You Know You're a Mystery Writer When...

I spent last weekend at the California Crime Writers Conference in Culver City, CA. Workshops included presentations on the forensics of creepy crawlers (bugs, of course), secrets of the Secret Service, the art of pitching, marketing through libraries, historical novels, Going Hollywood: novels to television (this is southern California after all) and many, many others including the one I was on, Putting Your Blog to Work. The wonderful keynote speakers were Anne Perry and Charlaine Harris. The night before the conference there was also a Noir v. Cozy “fight” at the bar at the hotel. (Elaine Ash has a short recap and pictures at https://ashedit.wordpress.com/2015/06/07/noir-the-bar-ccwc-2015/) Rumor has it the cozy writers won in a TKO, but the noir scribes may beg to differ. It was a wonderful conference, well worth attending. Held every other year, the next one will be in 2017.

Being among all those writers of stories filled with murder and mayhem reminded me how unique we are. Here are some indications you might be a mystery writer.

You know you’re a mystery writer when...

• You see a body fat scale in a catalog and wonder if it could be modified to be used as a murder weapon.
• You start writing a romance and you kill off the love interest within the first two chapters.
• You like to pick out the mistakes on a television crime drama.
• The first thing you do when you enter a hotel room is look behind the shower curtain to make sure there’s no body.
• You think twice about throwing out old underwear because someone could get your DNA off it.
• You see someone in a hardhat working on a traffic light and wonder if they’re really fixing the light or doing a bit of surveillance.
• Someone annoys you and you immediately start planning their fictional death. (My personal favorite.)
• Dinner conversation includes whipping out a set of lock picks and talking about trying them out on your hotel room door.
• You drool over the latest book on forensics.
• Your browser bookmarks include sites on poisons, how burglar alarms work and other things you wonder if the government and local law enforcement authorities will feel the need to interrogate you about.

When characters start calling you

by Rick Blechta

It’s been enjoyable reading my blog-mates’ varied thoughts on the subject of characters. Let’s face it, characters are the most important aspect of writing fiction in most writers’ opinion. You can be telling the greatest tale in the world, but without a good character or two to inhabit it, your magnum opus will fall flat on its butt.

On the subject of characters, I’ve been having the most curious experience the past few weeks.

I’m finishing up a novella. My two characters, Pratt and Ellis, are developing nicely in this, their third appearance. I have a very clear idea of who they are, and this time out, I’m focusing on revealing their personalities more (within the framework of the “Rapid Reads Novella Mandate”).

The strange thing is my new series’ characters (one in particular) keep trying to talk to me. I’d tell her to bug off and wait her turn, but I’m worried she’ll be insulted (she can be a bit on the touchy side), stomp off and refuse to talk to me when I get back to work on the story in which she’s appearing. These intrusions have happened repeatedly, too.

For instance, last night I was working on a very critical chapter in the novella when she butted in, dragged in the other main character in her story too, and they started to tell me about her critical chapter which occurs near the beginning of the narrative. It was great stuff, too, so I dragged out my journal (where I keep notes) and started copying their words as quickly as I could.

Howls of protest went up about the intrusion from my novella’s protagonists, as well as a character who was in severe jeopardy at the time. I mean, how can you just up and leave when someone might very well lose his life?

Such is the schizoid existence of a fiction writer.

And now back to the chattering classes before I piss off someone else…

Suspension of Disbelief

By Vicki Delany

I loved Aline’s discussion last week of how much we readers are prepared to suspend our disbelief when reading fiction

It’s a fascinating subject as there is a definite line between a reader pretending not to notice that the head of the entire police division for half a county is actively investigating a single murder case, and then stepping into un-believability territory when the reader decides they've had enough and puts down the book in disgust.

Sometimes it’s the small things that test the reader. Get that street name in New York City wrong, and you’ll hear about it.  Have the forensic results back the next day, and the reader will pretend to go along with it.

I have written about how in some ways I am finding it easier to write cozies than police procedurals because I don’t have to worry about stuff like forensics or criminal or police records. And readers enjoy that along with me.

But I don’t  know a heck of a lot of librarians who solve murders when the police are unable to do so.

Now some readers will scoff at cozies on the grounds that they’re sooooo unbelievable (see point about re librarian), but then they are perfectly ready to accept the brilliant bad guy who challenges their detective (equally brilliant) in a game of wits.

I always remember a police friend of mine saying, “If they weren’t morons we wouldn’t catch half of them.”

I think perhaps the biggest thing the writer can do to maintain suspension of disbelief is consistency. I mean, come on, do you think people wrote to J.K. Rowling to say “That would never happen.”? No, because she created a world and kept it constant to itself.  I can pretty much guarantee that if Hermonie’s wand had changed colour mid-book, Joanne would have heard about it.

We can fudge some of the facts, but ultimately we have to stay true to our characters and to the world they live in, and to human nature as it is. Or disbelief will come crashing down.

On Saturday I joined Type M's Barbara and some of Eastern Ontario's best crime writers for the hugely successful inaugural Prose in the Park in Ottawa. This pic shows the beautiful venue.  Thanks to Brenda Chapman for the picture. 

Thomas Turner, Guest Blogger

Please welcome our weekend guest author, Thomas Turner. A native New Englander, Tom ran a bar in Vermont after college, then moved to New York and spent time as an award-winning copywriter at several Manhattan advertising agencies. A few years later he ended up in Palm Beach, buying, renovating and selling houses. On the side, he wrote Palm Beach Nasty (one of my favorite titles of all time), its sequel, Palm Beach Poison, and a screenplay, Underwater. He currently lives in Charleston, South Carolina, and recently completed his third novel, Killing Time in Charleston. Take it away, Tom.

Sleuthfest is one of the great writers conferences. Held in Deerfield Beach, Florida, I have been to it four times, three as writer wannabe and this past Spring as published author, panelist and moderator. Back in 2008 Lee Child was the what I call the 'headliner,' but maybe that's a little too Vegas-y, so let's just call him, Special Guest of Honor. Lee is not only tremendously articulate and funny, but a very nice, down-to-earth guy. The last night of the conference, there was an auction for naming rights for a character in one of Lee's upcoming novels. The bidding was fast and furious and, in the end, I was the one left with my paddle raised. And now seven years later, Major Susan Turner is a cohort of Jack Reacher, living on in immortality in three of Lee's novels.

With that Sleuthfest history, I drove down to Deerfield Beach, filled with anticipation and eagerness, not to mention a little stage fright--having never been either a moderator or a panelist before. Well, turned out the Sleuthfest organizers had a special job picked out just for me, the rookie moderator. I was moderator of a panel called The Art of Embalming. With words like lividity, rigor mortis, cadaver and formaldehyde dancing in my head, I met the presenter, George Rafaidus, and a few minutes later introduced him. Turned out to be one of the most fascinating forty five minute presentations I've ever attended. The audience was totally into it and George was informative, well-prepared and, believe it or not, really funny. I walked away with a souvenir, too, a bottle of embalming fluid. I still haven't figured out what to do with it.

The next day, I went to my panel, which was entitled Laughing at Death. It was about humor in the face of death and destruction in the respective panelists' novels. I was the last to speak and I was awestruck at how smooth and silver-tongued my fellow panelists were. The moderator lobbed me what he thought, no doubt, to be a soft-ball question: "So, Tom, tell us about a funny scene in your novel, Palm Beach Nasty. I read it and thought it was jam-packed with good ones." I totally froze. If you asked me where my novel took place I wouldn't have known (clue: it's in the title.) I wanted to say, "Okay, Mr. Moderator, bail me out here…  give me a clue about one of those scenes you thought was so damn funny…" I guess I muddled through  it okay, 'cause at the end the moderator came up to me, shook my hand and said, "great job, Tom."

"You're kidding," I thought.

After a nice lunch that day, I eagerly approached the next event: signing books for my adoring readers. The drill was there were long tables which eight or ten authors sat behind looking out. Readers then came up with books they'd just purchased at the adjacent book store which authors signed. I was seated next to the son in a well-known mother-son writing team. He never deigned to turn to me and acknowledge my presence, maybe because he was so busy signing books.  I got exhausted watching him inscribe book after book. Ka-ching, ka-ching, I remember thinking as I sat there twiddling my thumbs. After about twenty five minutes and no adoring fans, I was about to flee. Find a bridge and jump. But then, finally, a timid woman approached. "Hi, I really liked Palm Beach Nasty, would you--"

Would I? Are you kidding? I almost kissed her.
_____________
Check out Tom's website at tomturnerwrites.com

And Then It Clicked

Summer brings out my inner Adrian Monk – not the obsessive compulsive Monk. The Monk who worries about "the jungle out there". I worry about ticks when I walk across my lawn. I would never take off my shoes and walk in the grass – who knows what kind of bacteria I might pick up. I've been doing research on the public health movement and the effort to eradicate diseases. So, of course, I'm worrying more this year about those potentially malaria-carrying mosquitoes that torture me even when I wearing bug spray. I worry about the snake that might be stretched out on the path if I go for a hike in the woods. I did once encounter a large black snake when I was a teenager in Virginia walking along a country road. And then there are the things lurking in the ocean that I love. Blame that one on Jaws (this year celebrating its 40th anniversary and being screened two days in June in theaters).

The photo below is of Assateague Island, the island in Virginia where the wild horses live. I've been there twice. Once in autumn (when this photo of the beach facing onto the Atlantic was taken). But the first time I went to the Eastern Shore of Virginia, it was summer. I had a wonderful time. But summer is not my happy season.

Did I mention the early morning light? But this morning when I woke up at dawn, I had a possibly life-changing thought. It could have been prompted by those Little Debbie commercials that I've been seeing on television for the past few weeks. The one where the child version of the adult appears and reminds the adult how much he or she loved Little Debbie snacks when he or she was a child. That could be what reminded me of my forgotten child.

I don't remember liking summer even when I was a child. The only good part about summer was three months of no school when I could read and dream and do what I wanted. But I do remember liking ice cream cones and corn on the cob and hamburgers on the grill (well, I have always liked food, whatever the season). And I remember going to movie matinees. I remember going to my bookcase and finding books that I loved and reading them again during long summer days. I remember laying on a blanket on the grass (after checking for ant hills) and looking up at cloud shapes. So this summer – which isn't officially here yet – I am going to make my list. That list will include planting tomatoes and cucumbers (my father who "truck farmed" in summer in addition to his day job, used to let me have my own garden patch). I am going on nature walks. In fact, I'm going to get back into my walking program that fell by the wayside when I moved from the suburbs to the city. (There is some irony there because I was sure I would walk more when I had ready access to sidewalks). And, I am going to begin the mornings with breakfast on my little enclosed sun porch.

This morning, however, I began the day with a moan when I realized how early it was. I tried to fall asleep again. Instead, I fell into that twilight stage between sleep and wakefulness. And that was when I solved several problems. First, I had a half-dream about taking my laptop computer – that is now over five years old and that no longer has sufficient space to do regular backups -- to my computer guy. My laptop crashed last night and after trying to fix its own problem finally informed me that some systems could not be recovered. I had to unplug it to turn it off. So, this time -- I realized in my half-dream about my conversation with my computer guy – I must admit defeat. I must hand him my old computer and tell him I'm ready to buy a new one.

Problem number one solved – and then something else clicked into place. I was awake again and thinking how much I hated never being able to get a good night's sleep when the weather begins to warm up. And then I must have drifted off because suddenly I was seeing a man who was standing at the edge of a field. He had dirt cupped in his hands and he seemed to be taking great pleasure in the smell and the feel of the soil. I woke up and realized the man in my dream – who had looked like Kevin Spacey – was the villain in my 1939 historical thriller.

If you read my last post, you may remember that I was struggling to connect with my villain and make him a three-dimensional character. Somewhere in my dream, he came to life. My villain owns a large farm – a plantation – in 1939 Georgia. He is a successful businessman, but he has a strong sense of heritage. He would feel a love of his land. He would love the summer and the heat. He would go for walks in the woods with his hound dogs. To get into in his skin, I need to try to "do summer" – and maybe that's what I had realized before I fell asleep again and dreamed about him. Or maybe deciding to embrace (well, at least, try to occasionally enjoy) summer allowed me to find the link that was missing between my character and me.

Cullen (that's his name) would stand outside during a thunderstorm enjoying the lightning display and the rain soaking him to the skin. Ain't going that far! But I'm beginning to understand the pleasure that he takes in nature and his senses.

And that leaves me with my sweet, gentle protagonist. My hero, who is still as much of a mystery to me as my villain (sorry, make that my anti-hero, or hero to himself) was. But if I've find the core of one of them, I'm sure the other will come. I just hope my hero isn't a winter guy. I can't wait until January.

Okay… I was typing that when I realized maybe he is. He grew up in the South, too, but maybe he wasn't a boy who took to nature. Picked cotton and hated getting sweaty and sticky. But never liked jumping into the creek, looked first. Used to be teased about being a "sissy" by his friends. But a good-natured boy who took the teasing in stride. Read books and went to small Southern college. Now, a Pullman porter, who takes pride in his appearance in his uniform. Saving his money to go to law school, imagines himself in a courtroom. Never thought of himself as particularly strong or adventurous…

This could work. Maybe I should try writing the whole book when I'm sleep deprived and have stumbled to the computer. Or maybe I write better on my desk top than the laptop. Shucks! Does I need to replace my old desk top, too. It still works (I'm writing on it now) but it may not be up to a book.

All right, have breakfast out on my sun porch and think about this. And remember summer dreams can be good for my writing process…

The Dream

I (Donis) would like to talk about dreams today, Dear Reader. Have you ever had The Dream? You know the one. You wake up in the morning and realize that something extraordinary has happened.

A couple of days ago I conducted a journaling and memoir workshop. I pulled out some of my own old journals beforehand and went through them in hopes of finding a couple of creative examples of entries I could share with the class. Here is what I discovered: It’s horrifying to go back in time and see what was on my mind twenty or thirty years ago. Mainly because I really haven’t changed much. I was hoping I’d have learned a thing or two.

The journal that interested me most was one that I kept about a dozen years ago. At the time I was going through a period of recording my dreams.

   Mar. 5, 2004 — I dreamed that Lois and Beckie and I were sitting around smoking weed…

I have always been a big dreamer. When I was very young, up through my twenties, my dreams were incredibly vivid and sometimes prescient. As the years passed, my dreams became more mundane. Now that I am no longer young, I mostly dream about something I read or ate or just saw on television.

   October 12, 2004 - last night I dreamed I was driving John Kerry to a political rally but I got hopelessly lost. He was very patient. I kept acting like I knew what I was doing.

Like everyone else, I have the occasional weird, archetypal dream of the sort that you can find in any dream interpretation book.

   June 11, 2004 - I dreamed I went to a deli for a sandwich. I realize I’m naked, so I wrap myself in my newspaper, which turns into a gauzy blue scarf and looks very pretty. Finally I order a roast beef sandwich but realize that I can’t sit and read my paper without getting naked again…

I actually believe that many of the dreams of my youth were out-of-body experiences—floating around the house, or over the house, or visiting people in my sleep. Oh, yes, I do believe that dreams can be a portal to something. The other side, the past, the future, the answer to the question that had no answer. Early on in our relationship, my husband and I had a long discussion about The Dream that sometimes happens when someone you love dies. This is a dream that is different from all others, and I don’t care how many logical people try to explain it away for you, you know you’ve been a party to something extraordinary.

Don said three of his five siblings reported that before they knew their mother had passed, she had come to them in a dream so real that they all swore they were awake. In fact, she woke his brother by squeezing his toe. Maybe they were awake. Who am I do say otherwise?

My own mother told me that a few months after my father's unexpected death, he visited her in a vivid dream and assured her that he was all right.

Many, many years later, the January that my mother died, I told Don that I had never had The Dream, even though for decades I had really wanted some contact with my father, and now I longed to know that my mother was okay. Wanting does not make it so. But that didn’t keep me from wishing.

   Sept. 20, 2005 - I dreamed that my father was leading me through a forest. We found the nest of a tiny hummingbird, with a tiny blue egg in it. I said I wished I had a little egg like that, and my father produced one and told me to hold it in my mouth. I put it between my lips and a little bird flew up and took from my lips with its bill, and I realized the egg would eventually hatch into a blue butterfly. I knew I was being given a gift of magic words.

Awards and the elusive reader

Barbara here. Am I in the mood to rant or crow today? Well, a little of both, actually. Last Thursday night, Crime Writers of Canada held its annual awards dinner at the Arts and Letters Club in Toronto, at which the winners of the 2015 Arthur Ellis Awards were announced and feted. The Arthurs are juried awards administered by Crime Writers of Canada and given to the best in Canadian crime writing in seven categories. You can look up the winners here.

My latest Inspector Green novel, NONE SO BLIND, was a finalist in the Best Novel category, and although I didn't win, I was thrilled to be shortlisted from among 74 submitted books, and felt like a winner already. The Inspector Green series has been shortlisted four times out of ten books, and has won the award twice, which is none too shabby. Not too many series can boast that record, especially if they're written by a woman, but that's a rant for another day.

Being a finalist or winner of a prestigious award accords the writer a level of gravitas and respect that is hard to quantify. It makes them more likely to be reviewed, considered by libraries, invited to festivals and events, and so on. But does it add to their book sales? In the case of highly publicized literary awards like the Giller, very likely. In the case of the Arthur Ellis, probably not. And that is largely because the awards get almost no media attention. Since the winners were announced five days ago, I have tried to track down all the media coverage, and it is dismal. CBC had an announcement on their book page of their website, but only the truly persistent would likely ever track it down. Quill & Quire had an announcement (thank you, Quill & Quire, for your continued support of all things literary and Canadian!), which means the list will at least be read by book industry people although not likely the reading public.

But from the large daily newspapers such as the National Post, the Globe and Mail – which only a few days ago wrote that opinion piece on starving artists that Rick Blechta referred to– the Toronto Star, Ottawa Citizen, Edmonton Journal, and the major dailies in Vancouver, Winnipeg, Halifax, or Calgary... not a peep. I hasten to add that this is not for want of trying. For years, Crime Writers of Canada has conscientiously sent out press releases to a long list of media, not only of the short lists but of the winners, but rarely do the major media pick them up. As with many things these days, it is left to online bloggers, specialty online magazines, and mystery book sites to carry the flag.

When I do book signings in malls, I meet committed mystery readers who are hard pressed to name a single Canadian mystery writer. There were 74 books submitted in the Arthur Ellis Best Novel category this year alone, and there are at least 200 active mystery writers in Canada, but the public can be forgiven for thinking there is no indigenous writing community, for who ever hears about it?

Apart from a few big stars and award winners, Canadian writers are becoming increasingly invisible. The Writers' Union of Canada recently conducted a survey of its members' earnings, and determined that writers' incomes are dropping; similar studies have documented comparable drops in the UK and US. The average Writers' Union member earns about $12,000 a year. I remember thinking that's higher than I expected, until I realized it was income reported by members of the union. The union costs nearly $200 a year, so many marginal or beginning authors wouldn't even join.

Okay, so that's the rant; now the crow. Readers are learning about new authors through online blogs, Goodreads, and other internet social media avenues all the time, but another way for authors to connect with readers is through festivals, conferences, and other grassroots book events such as Word on the Street, which is held in several big cities across the country. Ottawa, to its shame, has not held a Word on the Street in over ten years, but finally, thanks to the vision and hard work of a local group, Ottawa has a new full-day outdoor festival of the written word. The first annual Prose in the Park is being held this Saturday June 6, at Parkdale Park beside Parkdale Farmers' Market from 11 a.m. to 6 p.m.

Here are some of the highlights.  As of this writing, 150 Canadian authors will be there selling their books and talking to the public, 20% of them Francophone. Fifteen author panels and numerous special events and readings will be held, by everyone from poets to crime writers. I myself am on a mystery panel at 3:30 called With Criminal Intent, along with fellow crime writers Brenda Chapman, Vicki Delany, Dave Whellams, Robin Harlick, and Erika Chase. Our books will all be for sale in the Capital Crime Writers Tent.

It's a great new initiative, and a wonderful chance for those who love the written word to learn about the talent in their own country. In some cases, right on their own doorstep. Pray for good weather, and come browse, chat, and meet the artistic creators who reflect on and chronicle your own life and country. That's the best part about the day. The second best part is that it's free!

If the artists starve, we’ll all go hungry

A few weeks ago I was trolling the internet (meaning searching, not writing snotty responses to postings!) and came across the linked opinion piece on The Globe and Mail website. After my posting of last week, I think it’s entirely appropriate to follow up with this view. It certainly hits the nail squarely on the head. Why don’t you read it? Click HERE. I’ll wait for you…

As you know if you’ve hung around Type M for any amount of time, I wear two hats, artistically speaking. Not only do I write, I also play music. I have many friends who are creators of art in many fields. I think we could all say the same thing: it’s nearly impossible these days to make a go of it.

To be honest, it always has been. In times past, artists used to have sponsors and supporters, people who felt that their art was important and valuable – and were willing to put their money where their mouth was to support starving artists. Sometimes these people commissioned works. Sometimes they just gave money. The important point was, the chosen artists had the financial means to devote their life to the creation of their art.

Such sponsors still exist, but they’re  few and far between. Philanthropists tend now to bestow their largesse on institutions. That’s worthy, too, but it doesn’t necessarily create new art.

When I first came to Toronto, I was playing in a band, a very good band called Devotion. We could actually make reasonable money playing in bars on weekdays and doing one-nighters on weekends. This allowed us to work days on original material, rehearsing it, refining it in front of audiences, all with an eye to getting that chance at the big time with a recording contract. It didn’t happen, of course, but that wasn’t the fault of anything but our own stupidity and inability to rise above our egos.

The point was, though, we could survive doing music full-time.

Now? Good luck. Very few clubs have live music and almost zero hire bands for a week. You’re lucky if you can get one night per week in a particular club. The money also hasn’t kept pace with inflation at all. In fact, it’s less than what we made in 1974! It’s said with gallows humour in music circles that a musician is a person who piles $50,000 worth of instruments into a $5000 van to drive 500 miles to play a $50 gig. The sad thing is, it’s actually true.

As noted in last week’s post, it’s pretty much the same thing for mid-list authors.

Even combining what I make in both my artistic endeavors, I wouldn’t be able to even make the dividing line between poverty and “doing okay”. Hence the graphic design job I also do.

Does anyone owe me a living? No. I do what I do because I’ve chosen to. I probably could have been an excellent lawyer or doctor. I chose music as my career (the writing came later and more slowly) because I couldn’t imagine doing anything else with my life. I spent a hell of a lot of time and quite absurd amounts of money to learn my craft, and I’m good at it.

It sure would be nice to be able to pay all the bills and have a little disposable money left over at the end of the month, though…

How Real is Real?

I wrote a previous blog just before I went to CrimeFest, the big Bristol crime convention. I always enjoy these events: interesting panels, nice parties, kind readers and old friends – what's not to like? But afterwards when I think back it's often one of the topics I've been asked to discuss that stays with me long after the parties are only a fond and distant memory.

On one of the panels I was on, the question of realism came up. Realism – often described as 'gritty' – is all important now; the flippant fiction of Golden Age detectives who wonder round explaining to the police where they are failing is long gone and TV crime dramas parade their consultants with on-the-ground experience to prove they have got things right.

But one of the panel members was Elizabeth Haynes, who had actually been a police intelligence analyst working to make sure that police effort is, given the available evidence, directed to the areas of investigation most likely to produce results. It sounds exactly the sort of background you might choose for a protagonist – a little off the beaten track, not just quite another copper – yet she admitted that in reality her job was actually sitting in front of a screen, trawling through reports.

I think we all know, though we may not often say it directly to our readers, that any book that accurately depicted the life of a detective would be so boring that the reader would be asleep before the end of the second chapter. If our protagonist was a humble DC, his life would be spent knocking on doors. More than likely the breakthrough would come when someone turned up at the police station to tell them what happened, possibly even in exchange for money.

The crime scene job is so specialised now that a DI would never be at a crime scene; he'd see the photos or read the reports on screen. By the time he or she reached the dizzy heights of senior rank, their working life would be administration and meetings.

What we write is fiction and the good thing about fiction is that you can make your own rules. On the other hand, there was a highly successful TV drama in Britain called Broadchurch that had everyone on the edge of their seats. It was brought back for a second series but this one involved a court case which was so ludicrous in its inaccuracies that it lost thousands and thousands of viewers, despite a very compelling story. (I stopped watching till the court part was over but I confess I dropped back in for the denouement.) They stepped over the line and forfeited what Keats called 'the willing suspension of  disbelief',' the tacit agreement we all hope to have with our reader.

So does 'realism' actually have any proper relationship with reality, or is it no more than the painted flats at the back of a stage that pretend to be a landscape?    

Guest Blog: Aly Monroe

Aline here. This time it's my pleasure to introduce you to the sharply intelligent and impressively thoughtful Aly Monroe.

Aly lives in Edinburgh though she lived in Spain for many years. Her Peter Cotton series – The Maze of Cadiz, Washington Shadow, Icelight and Black Bear – follows the fortunes of a young British intelligence agent amid the changing realities of the post-war world. She was shortlisted for the prestigious CWA Historical Dagger for Washington Shadow and won it with Icelight.

A Time to Kill

My first book, The Maze of Cadiz probably started one Christmas, many years ago, when we lived in Spain.

About a week before Christmas, in the building where we lived, I met a twelve-year-old neighbour who was accompanied by a turkey on a lead. I say lead but it was really a red ribbon. The girl, who was called Maria de los Angeles, explained to me that she was taking the Christmas Eve meal home. The Spanish start celebrating Christmas on the evening of December 24.

Throughout December, it was quite common to see gaggles of live turkeys in the street, brought into the town from the country, without having voted. People would install them on their verandas to fatten them up.

Being British, I was not accustomed to meeting meals when they are still able to walk. Since I have a son who lives in the US, I’m pretty sure Americans will know what I mean. The day before Thanksgiving I have never seen a turkey blinking at me.

I complimented Mari Angeles on her turkey – ‘Nice and plump,’ and she seemed quite excited. Then she told me it would be killed the next day.

 ‘Ah, ‘I said, ‘and who does that?’

She turned to me with a gleam in her eye. ‘I do,’ she said. ‘I do it every year.’ Her mother, she said, was ‘too squeamish’. I nodded politely. ‘I cut the throat, like this,’ she said. ‘Zas!’ Zas is Spanish comic strip speak for something like ‘Zoom’ or even ‘Kerpow!’ in English. In case I was in any doubt she added. ‘I like it.’

We had arrived at her floor. ‘ Come on,’ she said to the turkey. “Feliz Navidad,’ she said to me.

I did wonder on the remainder of my trip upwards what it would take to kill a person. Would a young man intent on assassination be a sufficient justification? I wasn’t sure but I decided to see what I could do with what became my first Peter Cotton book.

The next year my elder daughter’s Godmother sent us a turkey from their farm. Since she knew me, the turkey arrived plucked and very recently dead on the evening of December 23.

‘Ew!’ said my younger daughter. ‘Why is the meat twitching?’

No, I didn’t become a vegetarian, but I sometimes wonder what became of my little Spanish neighbour. I do hope she developed a taste for crime fiction.

www.alymonroe.com
http://alymonroe.blogspot.co.uk

Touchy Situations

There are so many things they don't tell you about when you become a writer. Recently, I've had to side-step a situation that is very uncomfortable for me. That is telling friends they absolutely cannot come along on an interview.

This is a hard and fast rule that I've developed because of my first experience. I was working away on a historical book back when I lived in Kansas. A lady I hardly knew wanted to come with me to Atchison, Kansas and show me around. I could have shown myself around. It's not hard to find places in Kansas. But it was important to her to go that day, so I foolishly said yes.

I appreciated all the things she could tell me about the town. But things fell apart when we went to a convent and I interviewed a nun who knew a great deal about her order. My companion could not have been more insulting. An interview to collect an oral history is not an antagonistic interview.

I don't conduct an interview with the stance of a lawyer or a reporter from CNN. I want to gain the person's trust and evoke memories. I am interested in their opinion. That's all. Objectivity is a myth when it comes to family stories. Your own account of an event will differ widely and wildly from your sister's brother' memories.

Sometimes it's easy to gain an interviewees trust. Sometimes not. However relationships change the moment someone new enters a room. Like throwing a rock in a pond. Ripples pulse.

My companion that day obviously hated Catholics. I mean seriously. She challenged every statement. Her attitude ruined the interview.

Writing is such a learning process. There are so many things that are not written down.

The good (little) guys and Big Macs

I read Rick's excellent and thorough post How writing is a mirror of what is happening throughout society and was struck by how accurate – and bleak – his take on the current state of publishing is.

Make no mistake, if you're a mid-lister, the publishers hold the upper hand.

But I was also struck by Rick's conclusion: "But there are a lot of good guy publishers out there, manned by people who get it. Here’s to the companies that resist temptation and are interested in everyone making money fairly. They seem to be few and far between – and are an endangered species themselves."

I've never been with a large publisher. In my twenties and agent-less, I sold my first novel, Cut Shot, to tiny Sleeping Bear Press, which was sold to a conglomerate a couple years later. Then I moved the series, in 2001, to the University Press of New England, which published the next four Jack Austin books. In 2013, Five Star/Gale published This One Day, a standalone. And I'm with Midnight Ink, an indie specializing in crime fiction, now.

Based on my experience with Midnight Ink, I'd say this house fits Rick's description of a "good-guy publisher." This opinion is based on an embarrassing trend emerging in my own writing life: for the second consecutive year, I missed my May 1 deadline, and Midnight Ink Publisher Terri Bischoff has read the work-in-progress and offered a thorough critique that I use as a write the final third of the novel. What this means for me is that I get Terri's input before I get my editor's feedback. Therefore, I'm getting two thorough reads on each novel. Lots to think about, yes, but I'm thrilled for the feedback.

This example speaks to the differences I see between working with a large publisher and an indie. When my agent was shopping my Peyton Cote US Customs and Border Protection series, she got some interest from New York. I called a trusted writer friend who has been in the game longer than me and who has been successful enough to be writing full time. I asked him about the New York house and about Midnight Ink. "Everyone I know who's with Midnight Ink is happy. Everyone I know who's with [large New York house X] isn't." The large publisher's business and promotional models that my friend described (and which, based on discussions my agent had with them, seems accurate) was simple: offer a two-book contract, publish them, and see what happens. If (when) they don't sell, walk away. Throw them at the wall, and see if they stick.

Indie houses don't use this mass-production business model; they can't afford to. That model seems better suited for Big Macs than books. It might mean the smaller advances Rick wrote about, but, as a writer, I'd rather take less advance than have my work be treated like a fast-food product.

Here's to the little good guys.

___________________

As an aside, tonight I'll be at the 2015 Maine Literary Awards given by (this is somewhat ironic, given this post) the Maine Writers and Publishers Alliance in Portland, Maine. Bitter Crossing is a finalist. It should be fun.

As Sick as a Parrot

Sybil here. I’ve been working through the comments from my editor for my next book, Paint the Town Dead. As usual, she has many useful things to say. And, as usual, some cliches have managed to slip through. To keep the flow of writing going, I don’t worry about cliches in the first draft, but I do try to excise them from the one I send to my editor.

This exercise got me thinking about cliches and how to get rid of them so I consulted my trusty(?) internet and came up with a few websites that I thought you all might find interesting.

The first one that popped up was from the Oxford Dictionary, which had a procedure to help get rid of cliches in your writing. (‘Cause as a former programmer, I can relate to algorithms and procedures.) What struck me as funny about this one was the first “cliche” noted on the site: as sick as a parrot. Well, as a United Statesian*, I had never heard of this one. Had to look it up on the internet to find out it means “to be very disappointed”. I’ve never read or heard this anywhere here in the U.S. I assume, given this is an Oxford Dictionary site, this is a British thing. Is it common in Canada as well? Has anyone heard it in the U.S.?

The next site I visited was tips from Grammar Girl on avoiding cliches. This one has some interesting historical tidbits on where some cliches come from as well as suggestions on how to get rid of them. Plus there are some links at the bottom of the article that I found interesting.

One in particular was the Phrase Finder where you can type in a word like “cat” and it’ll tell you phrases that include that word. Raining cats and dogs, no room to swing a cat,... For each phrase there’s a discussion on its origins. Great fun if you want to avoid doing real work.

And the last site I found before I gave up on searching was http://writing2.richmond.edu/writing/wweb/cliche.html

I’m sure there are a lot more sites out there with tips but I must get back to my edits since they’re due in a week.

*United Statesian – see Donis Casey’s post awhile back on Thanksgiving where she mentions the phrase in a footnote: http://typem4murder.blogspot.com/2014/11/thanksgiving-already.html

How writing is a mirror of what is happening throughout society.

by Rick Blechta

It seems as if every day brings a new report of some corporation or other shuttering factories or closing down altogether. “The jobs have are all being moved to [enter third world country name here],” as if these things happen by accident. It’s almost like “Honest! We came in Monday morning and all the jobs had gone to China. We have no idea how that happened! When we locked the doors on Friday all the jobs were here. Then this morning, poof! Every single job (except mine, of course) has moved out of the country.”

Another trend is making do with less. Taxes are as high as ever but the services they pay for keep shrinking. Here in Toronto, we get far less garbage pick-up, door-to-door postal service is being phased out, we’re paying more and more for programs that used to be free, and our infrastructure is still falling about. That’s just on a local level.

Closer to home (for writers), we’re also being expected to do far more for far less. When the idea of advances against royalties was first adopted, it was put forward so that a writer could support him/herself while writing the book. It wasn’t free money by any stretch. If the book did reasonable business, the advance would be paid off and the company would begin handing out more royalties when it was. In the meantime, the writer didn’t have to try to juggle a day job and writing or risk starving to death along with their families. An advance against royalties was also a vote of confidence by the publisher that the book would do well enough. If they picked well and promoted well, they’d get their advance paid off.

In more recent times, the playing field has shifted dramatically and each shift has been away from writers. Here’s a partial list:

• The value of advances has plummeted. These days a writer is lucky to get even $5000. Quite often it can be under $1000. For most of us, that’s a few weeks of very frugal living, certainly not long enough to write a full-length book.
• Authors are expected to do the majority of their own promotion. Publicity departments even ask us to write ad copy. Ad copywriting is a very refined and arcane art. I don’t believe most authors are equipped or experienced enough to do it effectively. Why are publishers asking for this to be done when it’s in no ones’ best interest?
• Most authors have to organize their own live appearances, book signings, readings.
• We’re expected to have websites and pay the cost of them.
• We’re expected to blog (which is precisely why I and the rest of the Type M members are here).
• Need to travel for research? Pay for it yourself.
• Need to travel for an appearance? Get someone else to pay for it.

The real changes in publishing, though, have gone by with fairly a whimper.

Here’s one: Advances given out for one book, may be paid for by the royalties of another. It works like this: Book 1 gets an advance of, say, $1000. It does okay but royalties on sales made only reach $500. Book 2 also gets a royalty advance of $1000 and is far more successful, paying back its advance quickly. The royalty statement comes in. What’s this? The author should have received $400 in royalties from Book 2, but they aren’t there. They’ve been applied to what was owing on Book 1. That is not the way the system was set up. Advances become a much more win/win situation for the publisher. (And don't get me started on the dodge that royalty periods are now a year because it’s “so expensive to calculate and produce royalty statements”. It’s done by computer. You must have bought the wrong software, bunky!)

Here’s another: Due to technology changes, books no longer go out of print. Even if they don’t have stock, a publisher can do a print run as low as 1 book at any time. Voila! We’re back in print. E-books serve the same function since they only exist as a file stored on a computer. Technically, the book is always in stock. So if the author wants the rights to their work back, good luck with that.

A third one (and this is a really troubling trend): An author gets a book deal for a new series. A clause in the contract states that the publisher gets the rights not only to the novel but also its characters. Huh? That way, if the author moves on, the publisher holds the rights to the characters so no new books in that series can be written by the creator for another publisher. The goal of this is two-fold: the publisher can hire another author to continue the series, or the publisher can demand cash to sell their rights to the character. Either way, the author is left in a terrible bind. This one is on the new-ish side and not all publishers are doing it, but my guess is that it will spread.

Agents can help with all of these things, but in the end, the publisher generally holds all the cards or has at least a very strong hand. Quite often (with new authors especially) it’s presented as “take it or leave it”, and many are desperate enough to get published that they take it.

We’re all in this together. Publishers have always claimed poverty. In some cases, it’s true, in others, not so much. Either way, we’ve been so conditioned to expect less and less, who can blame corporations and businesses by trying to use the paradigm shift in general society to their own advantage?

But there are a lot of good guy publishers out there, manned by people who get it. Here’s to the companies that resist temptation and are interested in everyone making money fairly. They seem to be few and far between – and are an endangered species themselves.

The Perils of Technology

By Vicki Delany

I enjoyed Barbara’s post on the complications of crafting a plot around modern technology, cell phones in particular. In the Constable Molly Smith series, I have to always be thinking of DNA results, fingerprint analysis, cell phone records, bank warrants, and on and on, when what I really want my characters to concentrate on is what the suspect says, and how they react, what the witnesses saw, and what they only think they saw.

But now that I’m writing cozies for Obsidian and Berkley Prime Crime, I am delighting in not having to worry about most of that stuff. Because the so-called-sleuth isn’t a detective or police officer, she doesn’t have access to any forensic methods, or computer data bases. She can’t order suspects to talk to her or obtain a warrant to check bank or phone records.  

Cozy mysteries are often called traditional mysteries. Somewhat of a misnomer, I think, but in this one aspect the name fits. The sleuth has none of modern policing and forensics at her disposal. All she has to go on is her observation of human beings, what she knows about people, what she can detect from what’s happening immediately around her. And gossip, of course, where would the amateur sleuth be without gossip?

Usually obtained at the bakery or coffee shop over a latte and blueberry scone.

I am enjoying writing these books a lot, and part of the reason is that I can forget about all that techo stuff, and just concentrate on the people. It’s all about the people. Sometimes people lie, or they forget, or they misrepresent, and it’s up to the amateur sleuth to parse her way through lies and misdirections. Sometimes she’s not so good at it. And that’s the fun of the writing too.

However, there’s still the sticky problem of cell phones and calling for help. Even an amateur sleuth has a cell phone. In the second book in the series, Booked for Trouble, I had to tie myself into knots when someone is kidnapped and spirited away in a car and Lucy Richardson chases them in her mother’s Mercedes SLK (and was that a fun scene to write!) Why the heck, the reader might ask, does Lucy not just phone the cops and tell them what’s going on?

You’ll have to read the book to find out how I got around that one.

Up and at 'em!

Finally, after five long years, my new book is out, Rescue From Planet Pleasure. What took so long?

Well, first of all, I had to write the damn thing. But it's more complicated than that. In 2010, after my fifth book in the series was released, HarperCollins chose not to renew my contract. The reason? Sales. The situation baffled to me. Everyone told me each book was better than the previous, but as you tracked my sales numbers, they declined with every new title. So I was frustrated and bitter with publishing. Seems that no matter what I did, I felt like Charlie Brown trying to kick that football. Let me qualify that. I was and am grateful for all the success that I've had, but I can't deny my frustration at trying my best and coming up short.

I had cooked up some new stories which I submitted as partials. But no bites. So for two years I was spinning my wheels with nothing new in the pipeline. Since no one in publishing showed interest in my stories, I didn't finish them. Meanwhile, the Amazon ebook boom was taking off, and I had nothing to offer. But day by day, fan emails trickled into my mailbox. "Where's the new Felix story?" "You left so much unresolved. You owe us." So I picked myself up, dusted myself off, and got back on that horse to start writing book six. My intention was to self-publish but at Comicpalooza in Houston, TX, I ran across the WordFire Press booth in the dealer's pavilion. I was impressed by their hustle and presentation. WordFire is a regional press owned by SF writer extraordinaire Kevin J. Anderson. He and his stalwart crew have not only put together an impressive stable of writers, they also formed partnerships with other publishers to juice everyone's authors. I decided to throw my hat into their ring. I commissioned an artist friend, Eric Matelski, for the cover and he did a fantastic job. WordFire did the legwork with the editing and formatting. This weekend an advanced copy will be available at Denver Comic Con.

Am I happy? You bet. How am I celebrating? By writing Book 7, Steampunk Banditos. Coming next year.

Finding a Character's Achilles Heel

In the mythology of Archaic Greece, Thetis, a sea goddess, marries the mortal hero Peleus. To give their son, Achilles, immortality, she – in one version of the myth – dips the infant into the Styx, the river of Hades. But she holds him by his heel, and that part of his body remains vulnerable.

Although Achilles becomes a legendary warrior, he is killed by Paris with an arrow to his heel.

I have been thinking about Achilles and his heel. I've also been thinking about the "tragic flaw" that is the undoing of Shakespeare's heroes – Othello's jealousy, Macbeth's ambition, Hamlet's indecision. I've been thinking about vulnerabilities because of the two main characters in my 1939 historical thriller. I have an upright, highly moral hero who right now would be chewed up and spit out by my villain. I have a villain who is vile and despicable, who will not hesitate to do what is required to achieve his goal. My hero is a black college-educated sleeping car porter and son of a Southern Baptist minister. My villain is a white New South business man, the son of a doctor and grandson of a Civil War general. Right now, I'm finding my hero's minister father and my villain's father, the doctor, a lot more interesting than hero and villain.

Something's wrong. And I know what it is. My thriller is a big story – moving through the real life events of 1939.  But my hero isn't up to the task. Easy enough to have him discover that something is a-foot. But not at all believable right now that he would pull together his own team of men to pursue the villain and his co-conspirators. Right now, I can't imagine my sweet, idealistic hero doing battle with my villain at the end of the book. My hero must grow. I need to find what it is that would push him to do the things that he can't imagine doing – taking charge, going after the bad guys, taking them down. Idealism will only get him so far.

And then there's my villain. I need to get him out of that black cape – not that he's wearing one. In fact, he seems to be a amicable, cultured, man of integrity. But in my head, he is wearing a black cape and twirling his mustache. I don't like him. But I need to know him. I need to find the Achilles heel, the tragic flaw (from his point of view) that will make him vulnerable. What will shake my villain? What will make him hesitate or make a questionable choice? He will have all the advantages in this game, but I need him to have an Achilles heel.

I've been thinking about these characters for a while, and I had hoped to know them better by now. I've never tried to write a thriller, but I know that the kind of thriller I want to write requires characters who are both three-dimensional and bigger than life. My villain has a plot of epic proportions. He has the money and the knowledge and the access to carry it off. But the question is why would he? Making him a mad man is too easy. I need him to be a zealot, a believer in his cause, a man who thinks he is can do this and get away with it. I need him to at the same time be a son and a friend and a man who is in love. I need to use what is "good" about him to make him three-dimensional. And then I need to give him an internal conflict. He needs to be a man bent on a course, but something makes him stumble or overreach or get careless.

As for my hero – my poor, sweet, kind hero – what is going to fire him up? The book will only work if he is who he is. Right now, I can hear his voice, but it's a voice that is so alien to me that I'm resisting letting him be who he is. I think my only solution is to dig deeper in my historical research and understand him better. College-educated, working as a porter, saving money to go to law school – about to take on a task that he could never imagine. Why? Because he is who he is and can't turn to the police or the FBI with his suspicions. But he's still not up to this. He is smart enough, but not determined enough. He believes in justice. He is optimistic about the future. Now, I need to have him believe that the future he imagines for himself and his country is in jeopardy. He needs to believe as passionately as my villain does that he needs to do what has to be done.

My hero, my villain, and I have a long way to go before the final confrontation. But writing this post has helped me see what I need to do. I need to believe in this story that I want to tell. I have a plot. I have characters. One more dip into research and then I need to start writing and see what happens. Sometimes a writer needs to take a leap of faith.