Weekend Guest S.G. Wong

I'm delighted to welcome S.G. Wong to Type M for Murder.  S.G. is a Canadian author, speaker, and community organizer. An Arthur Ellis Awards finalist and WIBA nominee, she's also Past President of Sisters in Crime--Canada West. Known for the Lola Starke novels and Crescent City short stories of alternate history, hard-boiled detective tales, she is currently finishing a new stand-alone contemporary mystery set in the Canadian Rockies.

Just a Little Off-Centre

By S.G. Wong

This is a selected list of things I’ve held in my hands, while I pondered their utility as weapons:

·         soup ladle

·         frying pan (various diameters)

·         soup pot (various sizes)

·         The Compact Oxford English Dictionary

·         kettle bells

·         kettle (stovetop)

·         kettle (electric)

·         toaster

 I remember with particular clarity the moments with the soup ladle, so unexpected, a revelation of sorts, really. Stainless steel bowl, flattened steel shaft, black plastic handle. I hefted that thing for a while, wondering if it had the right weight to do some real damage, or if it would just temporarily distract. It had a great, balanced feel, really perfect for swinging.

In case I’m not being clear: I often spend time considering everyday, common objects for their effectiveness as weapons.

I especially gravitate to kitchen items, for some reason. Probably because I spend a lot of time there. I like to cook and bake and generally futz about with ingredients and non-recipes. It’s the closest thing to alchemy. What’s not to like?

I mean, okay, I spend a lot of time at my writing desk, too, but I can’t suspend my disbelief long enough to imagine throwing my laptop or my monitor at someone in order to hurt them. Also, if someone corners me in my office, I’m a goner anyway: there’s only one way in or out.

On second thought, maybe I would use my laptop…

I remember a Sue Grafton novel, where a character dies an excruciatingly painful, messy death after being poisoned with amanitas, time bombs masquerading as mushrooms on the man’s pizza. Gruesome. And yet…intriguing.

I thought for a while that the huge fungi popping up among my spruce trees were amanitas. I was pretty disappointed to discover they’re actually just some sort of boletes. I mean some of these are toxic, too, but they just don’t have the same cachet as amanitas.

 Human beings are so ingenious. Yes, we can create obvious weapons: knives, guns, saws, ice picks, hammers, etc. etc. ad nauseum. But honestly, deadly things are all around us. And really, there’s something sneaky and weirdly satisfying (for me, at least) in skewing my perspective just enough so that I see a weapon where someone else (fine, most people) would see a beautiful maple cutting board or a hand-painted step stool.

I know it’s strange and morbid and possibly, not very healthy for my psyche—but. Hear me out.

Writing crime means studying crime. It means tipping one’s head just so, until an entirely new scenario comes into focus. It means observing the everyday and looking for its edges, where it unravels and where it’s patched up, where the familiar becomes a weapon and the known disappears.

It’s a mean, dark, dirty job—but somebody’s gotta do it.

PS. Have you seen the latest John Wick film? The one in which, before all the guns blaze and the knives come out, he does someone in with a book?

Yep. Gruesome. And…intriguing.

Wasting Time or Clearing Space?

Frankie here. I feel the need to establish that because I'm trying to focus with multiple things going on today -- including a visit from the cable guy in a few hours. That means I need to stay home for the appointment instead of going into my office at school. It turns out today is also bringing a problem with my internet connection to my school email account. Can't tell if that is related to my internet at home, but I was able to check on my phone. Whatever it is, technology is messing with my head today. But I am able to get to this website.

Anyway, on to what I want to write about -- actually it does have to do with staying focused. I have three different writing projects going on this summer and a couple on the back burner. I was hoping to get a lot done over the 4th of July. No plans for barbecues, picnics, trips to the beach or other travel. I was going to stay glued to my computer and work.

But then a funny thing happened. For months, I been putting everything I didn't have a place for or wanted to get rid of in a small room off my living room that I refer to as my "sunroom". The description is much too grand for the space. But the room is at the front of the house and gets sunlight all day when the living room and dining room only receive strong morning and midday sunlight. It also doubles as my guest room on the rare occasions when someone is staying over. For months, it's been a space to stage the stuff I needed to sort through and get rid of.

On July 4th, I walked by the room, looked inside, and suddenly had the overwhelming urge to wade into the boxes and books and old bills that needed shredding and gift boxes and whatever. It had gotten to the point that only Harry, my cat, could find a way in. He was using the room as if it were a forest and lurking among the chaos.

I started stacking and suddenly I wanted to tackle my chaos. I wanted to get the job done. I even stopped and called to make an appointment for a junk pick-up. An appointment on Monday. Wonderful! Have some junk, including an armchair that I've had for years and really need to get rid of. (Harry had been using it to sharpen his claws).

Appointment made, I spent the next two days sorting and packing in bags and boxes. I spent the day after that going through the notes and books I'd found. I had tried to reschedule the appointment on Day 2, put it off until later that Monday afternoon. But nothing else was open. So I kept working. And then I moved into the dining room and cleared off all the papers and books I had piled on the bench by my table where I had been working on my computer. My bench cushion had arrived by FedEx while I was sorting.

On Monday afternoon, the junk trunk arrived. The efficient team swooped in and departed with armchair and old porch chairs and all my other stuff. Then I turned on HGTV for inspiration and started moving furniture and organizing.

Meanwhile, I was not at my computer writing. I was not doing research. I was apparently getting nothing at all done. I felt guilty and completely undisciplined. How could I waste all that time. Who cared about the pillow or the vase of silk flowers that I'd moved for the fifth time. But I was obsessed and I kept at it until Tuesday and drifted over into Wednesday when I finally got dressed and went to the office. 

Wasted time? It seems it wasn't. I found notes to myself and books I had forgotten in the clutter. As I was doing the physical tidying and shifting, I seem to have done the same in my brain. Some books have found their way back to the dining room table. But every time I look over at the bench, I have a sense of satisfaction. The area rugs went out with the junk, and suddenly the rooms seem larger.

After I got rid of the physical clutter, I had an email from someone who was doing research on Albany with a question. As I was thinking about that, I suddenly realized that Saratoga in 1939 would be a wonderful place to send a couple of my characters. I had already established that the woman loves horses, but it had never even occurred to me until that moment . . . I also hadn't thought about using mobility (a theme that I was dealing with in the book I'm writing about gangster movies) as the unifying focus for a chapter I was working on in the dress and crime book.

I'm back at my computer today. Maybe I'm making excuses by saying that clearing my clutter helped me to focus. I could be done by now with what I had planned to work on during those four days. But I have this theory that when I have an overwhelming urge to do something else, it's probably because I need time for my ideas to incubate. Like that robin who is holding up my efforts to have my front steps and door repainted because she has returned to lay more eggs and is sitting on her nest under the awning, I need to follow my instincts.

Of course, it would be nice if I could explain that to the editor who is waiting for the chapters from the gangster book. But I'm getting there. I intend to keep writing while the cable guy is here.

Get It Down

I didn’t sleep very well last night. I couldn’t go deep. This is a problem I’ve been having off and on for years, one with which I’m sure everyone who has ever been a writer/mother/caretaker/jobholder is familiar. I’ve become hyper-vigilant. I’m always right on the surface, aware even in sleep of everything that is going on in the house. My mind won’t shut off. It’s exhausting.

As I lay awake, thinking about the concept of ‘going deep’ did cause me to spend some time pondering the mysteries of the universe. Physicists believe they have found the basic building block of reality, the smallest thing there is. The elementary particle. The Higgs boson. But for years I have had an intimation that creation is not just imponderably huge, without limit, out there, it is also imponderably ‘in there’, deep without limit. Just as there is no top, there is no bottom.

A while back, I read Jonah Lehrer's book called Imagine. In it Lehrer propounds that daydreaming and otherwise allowing the mind to wander aimlessly is the most effective way to tap your true creativity.

I dearly hope that is so, because I would then be the most effectively creative creature alive.

I've been working on the ARC corrections for my upcoming first book in a new series, The Wrong Girl, and at the same time, working on the first draft of the second book in the series. Some days I can slog along quite handily, but there are days that I open a vein and nothing comes out. When that happens, it causes me great agony and despair that I can’t whip up the wherewithal to do what needs to be done. On such days I sit at my desk for an hour staring at a pad of paper, or at the computer with my fingers poised over the keyboard, and … nothing. It’s not even that I can’t think of anything to write. I am always writing in my head, and have done for as far back as I can remember.

So I just put down something. Anything. I figure I can always fix it later. Then I use myself up on the meal preparation, laundry, chores, errands, doctor appointments. Or clean something, or garden or dust or cook. Brawny tasks which take only muscle and no opening of veins.

I have author friends who have full time jobs and small children and broken arms and still manage to pound out two, three, four books a year. And one of the main tenets of writing that I propound when I teach a class is that it doesn’t matter whether you feel like it or not, you just do it. If what you write is drivel, keep going, and you will eventually attract the attention of the muses.

Anybody can have a good idea for a novel. It’s having the guts/strength/discipline to get it on paper whether you feel like it or not that makes a writer.

Cedric is back!

As I write this, I am sitting in the airport in Montreal, waiting for my flight. Because I’m travelling to the US, I had to rush to get to the airport two hours ahead of time, then breezed through security and customs in no time, and now have WAY too much time on my hands.

It is the season of summer travel as people head off for vacations or family visits, and nowadays air travellers spend a lot of time sitting around. Looking around, I see many people thumbing mindlessly through their phones and others like me on their laptops and tablets. But for those in the know, nothing beats a good mystery book to help time fly. In fact you have to be careful not to become so absorbed that you miss your flight!

This is why airport bookstores feature a big selection of bestselling thrillers. But often these are hardcover, weighing in at several pounds and difficult to stuff into the corner of your purse or backpack. Ereaders are an alternative, but for many, nothing beats a physical book. Which brings me to the real subject of this blog post – the Rapid Reads books from Orca Book Publishers. These are small paperbacks easily tucked into a purse or jacket pocket, and although short and designed for people with reading challenges, short attention spans or little time on their hands, they pack a compelling, fully developed story into their 100-150 pages. The majority of the Rapid Reads books are mystery novels written by veterans like myself, Gail Bowen, Vicki Delany, and Melodie Campbell.

My Rapid Reads series features shy country handyman and reluctant sleuth Cedric O’Toole, who longs for a simple life on his farm with his dog, his organic garden and his inventions. The country is full of secrets, however, and trouble always seems to find him. There are currently three Cedric novellas available through regular bookstores and online, but the fourth one, entitled Blood Ties, is due out in August and is available to pre-order now.

In Blood Ties, Cedric’s simple life is turned upside down when a stranger from Calgary named Steve turns up on his doorstep claiming to be his brother. Cedric’s mother was a single mother who took the secret of his father’s identity to her grave. So Steve’s attempt to trace his father becomes a journey into Cedric’s past and the mystery of his family’s rejection of him.

I’m very excited about this new book, which delves more deeply into Cedric’s personal struggles than the previous ones. Rapid Reads make great vacation and cottage reads too, perfect for savouring few hours on the dock or in a hammock, in the doctor’s office or even on the bus. So check them out at Orca Books. Happy reading!

English is soooo confusing!

by Rick Blechta

Sorry about missing last week’s Tuesday post. I was on holiday and completely forgot it was Tuesday until it was Wednesday. My sincerest apologies to everyone!

On to this week’s topic…

Actually it’s from a post I did here nearly twelve years ago. Recently, my wife and I were discussing the vagaries of the English language. (Yes, we actually do stuff like that.)

Honestly, I don’t know how anyone learns to speak English. It is just such a confusing language with variations, unexpected pronunciations, rules that make no sense, rules that are completely ignored, and of course, odd anachronisms. It’s all confusing enough for a native speaker. My hat is off to the millions who have accomplished the feat of learning English as a second language.

First, here’s my August 2007 post (if you care to read it): And Sometimes Y

Sorry to say the two URL links I gave no longer work. I guess the episodes they referenced were taken down because they were too old. Too bad. They were darned interesting. If I can find what CBC did with the episodes of this great show, I’ll let you know.

So anyway, my darling wife and I were discussing “thorn”, “the letter that bombed out of the English language”. In case you want to know, it looked like this:

An explanation: thorn started off looking a “p” grafter on to an “I”. As time went on, writing it sort of got “sloppy” (my guess) and it mutated into what now looks sort of like a “y”. Spoken, thorn sounded like what we are familiar with as the diphthong “th”.

Eventually, someone decided that it might be better to drop thorn from the alphabet and actually write the sound as “th”. However, use of thorn carries on to this day — mistakenly. When one sees “Ye Olde Pie Shoppe”, for example, what you’re seeing is a thorn. That “ye” is actually the original spelling of “the” and should be pronounced that way.

Then my wife’s and my discussion got on to what the meaning behind “Hear Ye!” —that familiar cry of, well, town criers — might actually be. My wife posited that maybe they were actually saying “Hear Thee!” and that the “y” was actually a thorn while the second “e” of thee got dropped somewhere along the way. It made sense to me, but in this era of scientific doubt, innuendo, and fake news, I had to find out for sure.

My wife’s theory came crashing down after a bit of research. Here’s the link to an article on what the meaning of hear ye is: https://www.quora.com/What-was-meant-by-the-town-criers-hear-ye-hear-ye

Okay, got that cleared that up, but the history of the English language threw us yet another unexpected curve, to whit: “you” plural was actually originally “ye”?

My head is swimming. I have to go take a nap…

Category Error.

At around fifteen months, children start wanting to sort things: the blue bricks here, the red bricks over there. Putting a red brick in with the blue collection will provoke either a reproving look while the naughty brick is put back where it should be, or a screaming tantrum. You just have to ask yourself, 'Do I feel lucky?' before you risk doing it.

It's not only children. There was an orangutan called Alexander in Edinburgh Zoo many years ago; he was such a character that a statue of him still stands in the grounds. He liked watching TV — westerns preferred — and he had no hesitation in giving the finger to any visitor to whom he took a dislike. At feeding time he would be given a whole heap of bread, greens and fruit and every day before he started to eat, he would sort them.

The bread and greens were pushed aside in separate heaps. Then he would sort the chopped fruit — bananas, grapes, oranges, apples — and eat them in that order, only working round to the greens when they were all gone and lastly the bread, eaten with an air of resignation.

The day we were there, watching with some fascination as he did this, a rogue piece of orange had managed to conceal itself among the bread. He looked at it in dismay and then, yes, had a toddler tantrum.

So sorting like with like seems to be an atavistic impulse and perhaps it's not surprising that books are subject to categorizing. It starts with genre fiction/ literary fiction. Then genre divides into chick lit/ romance/ crime. Then crime offers up a multitude of choices.

Crime writing has always been a famously a broad church which suits me, but it seems that now there is a determination to divide it into an ever-increasing number of neat little subsets. A spot of research came up with the following:

Cozy. Mystery. Hard-boiled. Private Eye. Legal thriller. Police Procedural. Medical thriller. Forensic thriller. Historical. Suspense. Military thriller. Whodunit. Spy thriller. Caper — often involving animal detective. Howcatchum ( a new one on me, this). Noir — Scandi or Tartan. Fantasy. Dystopian, even!

You may well be able to come up with more. But even with all this to chose from, I find it hard to work out where I would place my own books. There are some categories I can definitely rule out — private eye, caper, historical, medical. Oh, and dystopian. Definitely not dystopian.

Certainly they're police procedural, but does the fact that I don't use the more dramatic obscenities and feature DI Fleming's family background tip me into cozy, even though some of the forensics are quite explicit? And I got an email from a reader just today saying he'd been kept awake all night to finish my latest book, so that makes me suspense, I suppose. It's all very confusing.

Publishers and booksellers like to be able to pop us into neat little pigeonholes on the assumption that this is what the public wants, that this makes it easier for the books to be sold on the 'if you loved that, you'll love this one.' I'm not convinced myself. Usually when I'm offered recommendations on this basis I'm merely puzzled because they seem not to have understood at all what drew me to the first book, perhaps the setting or the subject. I certainly don't read by category, however refined it may be, or write by category either. Do you?

Guest Blogger: SJ Rozan

(Hi! This is Rick here, deputized by John Corrigan to introduce his guest.) We are honored to welcome our guest blogger this weekend, the inimitable SJ Rozan. She’s a native New Yorker who is the author of 16 novels and 70+ short stories. SJ has won Edgar, Shamus, Anthony, Nero, and Macavity Awards, as well as the Japanese Maltese Falcon. Paper Son is her latest book, just out. So grab a copy now! We guarantee you will not be disappointed.

What I Learned Writing Paper Son

I learned you can’t set foot in Mississippi without gaining five pounds.

While that may not be the most important lesson, it’s absolutely true. Cheese grits, pulled pork, blackened redfish with rice — damn, these people can eat. And drink: bourbon, beer, and moonshine. And sweet tea. Which is where I draw the line.

Southern hospitality is a real thing. The Deep South’s disastrous history of race relations — in many ways the actual subject of Paper Son — means that local folks aren't always welcome in one another’s homes. But a stranger, once introduced and vouched for, gets the red carpet rolled out, in many and varied communities. All of whom, I repeat, eat like crazy.

As anywhere, local manners and customs are unseen by the locals but must be carefully observed and parsed by outsiders. An example: In the South, when you pass people on the street, you meet their eyes and ask, “How’re you doing?” People you know, total strangers, doesn't matter. A reply's not expected if you don’t know one another — you just ask and get asked and walk on — but it’s considered rude not to ask. If you do know one another, you’re expected to actually answer, to stop and exchange a few words. We don’t do that up north. Here, looking a stranger in the eye as you pass is, while not quite a challenge, is odd enough to provoke a “Do I know you?” or What’s she looking at? Do I have scrambled eggs on my chin again?

And this is the point, the challenge, and the joy of setting a book in a place I don’t know well. It’s true up north, too — the local manners and customs of New York City are different from those of Boston (and Staten Island’s from those of Greenwich Village) but the differences in the US are broadest, I think, from south to north. Just as they're broad from New York to Hong Kong, as I found researching Reflecting the Sky, and from present to past with The Shanghai Moon. (The past is, after all, a different country.)

The joy is in getting out of my comfort zone, where I pretty much know what to expect in terms of people's attitudes, behaviors, and speech patterns, to a place where I have to consciously study those things to make my characters real. A lot of this kind of research involves just plain talking to people, or listening while they talk to each other. It’s watching them walk down the street (French women have a particular walk) or discuss something (Italians sound, half the time, as though they’re having a fight). It’s taking note of what time they eat dinner, go to bed, open their stores in the morning. This, along with the smells and quality of light, the kinds of birds that chirp at dawn in the different kinds of trees, the kinds of cars people drive and where they park them, are the small, critical details that, for me, make a place and the people in it come to life. Which is what I love about writing.

O for Organization

When I attended the Western Writer's of American convention last month, I had an opportunity to visit with David Morrell after a panel. David is the author of First Blood, a literary book which is nothing at all like the movie. There is some resemblance between Rambo in the book and Rambo in the movie, but not much. As to the actual story--no resemblance whatsoever.

David has a PhD in literature and left a tenured position at the University of Iowa to write full time. After our visit, I downloaded his non-fiction book, The Successful Novelist. I've read so many "how to write" books, that I wasn't expecting anything new. To my amazement, this was one of the best books on the art and craft of writing a novel I've ever read. I shouldn't have been surprised. This man certainly has the credentials, including a plethora of awards. 

When a book is this good I also want a physical copy. It will be here soon. 

Since I taught myself to write by reading books about writing, then optimistically attempting to do as the lessons instructed, I can say with some authority that older "how to write" books used be a lot more useful than contemporary books which are basically an overview of the industry. His book is the exception. It's wildly superior to books in print about developing craftsmanship.

The Successful Novelist is loaded with nuts and bolts advice. His chapters on plot, characterization, and structure are outstanding. 

Oddly enough, the chapter that threw me into a fit of anxiety was that of Frequently Asked Questions. The student wanted to know "Is it okay to throw drafts out after the book has been published?"

Morrell gives detail instructions for collecting and preserving various drafts. Forever. You start with a big box that includes all the drafts, correspondence with agents and editors, research, reviews and publicity materials. Everything. His advice is to save everything. At the end of each year, he sends copies of these materials to the Special Collections Department at the University of Iowa's library. 

Whew!

His advice threw me into high gear because I need to start organizing all of my stuff. After reading about his system, I found myself cherry-picking his methods. Yes to this. No to that. Absolutely yes to a file box with material regarding a specific novel. No to all the drafts. Wouldn't a memory stick work just as well? I don't have that much room. For that matter, why not scan all the information?

Thinking about it, won't get it done. I've tried that. 

Painting without a brush

Happy Fourth of July!

I've always been interested in looking at how things are created. This happens in the kitchen. If you cook a good meal for me, I'm going to ask how you made it. If you've got me on the edge of my seat as I read your book, I'm going to look at how you wrote it. This is just how I'm wired.

So, by nature, I'm very interested in how I write. I'm also very interested in being as efficient as I can be. This speaks to a theme that has probably emerged in several posts I’ve written recently. I’ve discussed outlining as a more expedient method, and considering I'm a guy that writes 400 pages to get a 300-page manuscript, this makes sense.

In my life as an educator, for the past several years, I have experimented with speech-to-text Google apps. I have discovered that these tools help me to give my students more detailed feedback faster. I like to leave long –– sometimes page-long –– comments on students’ papers. This led me to experiment with voice comments at first. Then I realized speech-to-text apps offer the best of both worlds –– I can speak my comments and students could receive a print version which they would (hopefully) refer to when they wrote subsequent drafts.

It's probably a logical progression but one I had not thought of until very recently: use speech to text in my fiction writing. I’m an edit-as-you-go-writer. I talk myself into believing that a chapter is “finished” before I move on to the next. I'm using Speech Recognition SoundWriter to write this post. It allows me to put the clay on the wheel quickly. My goal this summer is to write a chapter a day, ala Robert B. Parker, who is said to have written five pages a day. I begin the next day by editing the previous day's work. This has been working well. After writing about 35 pages in a month, I’ve written close to 70 in the last two-and-a-half weeks. The prose seems more sparse, which I'm pleased with.

Of course, speed does not matter if the book is not a good one. I'm well aware of that. So once it is done I will send the manuscript to the usual cast of advanced readers, not tell them of the change in process, and see what they say.

When I began writing fiction, I would save manuscripts to floppy disks, back them up on floppy disks and leave a copy in the trunk of my car, one in my office, and one at my friend's house. (You only had to lose or erase one story to never make that mistake again.) The days of Google were somewhere far in the distance. When I worked as a newspaper reporter, I used pen and paper and tiny recorders. Now, my students use phone apps that not only capture what is said but preloads the quotes into a Google document for them.

I know some people believe writing longhand produces better prose than typing. But, in contrast to typing, speaking my story aloud and hearing it as a means of “writing” seems to be working well. I've always been an auditory learner. I'm dyslexic. Maybe this has something to do with it. However, as technology improves, I think it's good (at the very least interesting) to look at how we create.

I’d love to hear what others think about all of this.

Love Locks and Locksporting

One of the things I love about writing is that I have an excuse to learn about new things. “I’m looking into it for a book,” I say. “I’m not wasting time, I’m researching!”

In my reading journey over the last year or so, I read about love locks and the sport of lockpicking called locksporting. Ever since I read about it, I’ve wanted to put both of these things into a book. And now, I think I’ve found the story for them.

My current WIP, book 6 my Aurora Anderson series, is set in February so it seems like a great place to put in love locks. And, since my main character’s BFF, Liz, is really into lock picking, it seems like a good fit to me.

A love lock is a padlock that sweethearts affix to a bridge, monument or other public structure to symbolize their love. They usually place their initials or names and/or a date on the lock, then throw away the key (often into a nearby river or body of water) to symbolize their unbreakable love.

And, as you might guess, some cities have issues with this, particularly the keys being thrown into the water. The Pont des Arts bridge in Paris was a favorite location to affix locks. Until sections of the fencing started to crumble under the weight of all of those locks. So now, no more love locks on that bridge. But that doesn’t mean that there aren’t love locks in other places. In fact, you can consult a map to find out where there’s a location near you by going to https://www.makelovelocks.com/locations/

 The other thing I’ve been researching is locksporting, the sport of lock picking. There are several organized lock picking contests each year. Lest you think that those who participate are all criminals, there are very strict rules they adhere to: “You may only pick locks that you own, or that you’ve been given explicit permission to pick by the registered owner.”

A lock that has been effectively abandoned by its owner and placed in a public place without securing anything (like love locks) may ethically be picked by a locksporter as long as it’s returned to its original locked position and state. As it turns out, a locksporter may also permanently remove or relocate the lock when lawfully and specifically sanctioned by an appropriate authority, like a city government and/or owner of the land the locks are on.

I figured it was important to know if owning lock picks is legal in the state of California where my series takes place. It turns out just owning them isn’t a problem as long as you use them as a hobbyist. If you pick a lock in exchange for money, even if it’s a friend who asked you to do it, you have to have a locksmithing license.

After all of this research, ideas are beginning to brew in my head and I think I may have a way to add love locks and locksporting to my story.

More on Plotters versus Pantsers

I thoroughly enjoyed Warren Easley’s guest blog about outliners versus pantsers.

Full disclosure, my wife and I had dinner with Warren and his wife, Marge, in Arizona while we were at the Poisoned Pen Press/SoHo Press Mystery conference last September.  They’re delightful people and Warren is an outstanding writer.

His blog made me evaluate what kind of writer I am…a planner or someone who flies by the seat of his pants.  I think I’m a little of both.

When I start a book, I try to write a slam-bang, grab em’ by the throat first chapter.  I don’t have a clue what the book will be about or who the bad guy is.  I will work on that first chapter over and over and over.  In my newest book, Graveyard Bay, I wrote the first chapter easily fifty times until I found what I was looking for.

Graveyard Bay was my biggest challenge so far.  My second Geneva Chase mystery, Darkness Lane, ended on a bit of a cliffhanger.  Geneva’s been entrusted with a notebook that incriminates nefarious Russian mobsters.  The third book had to be a complicated chess game on how that notebook both helps her and puts her in terrifying danger.

Another disclosure, the ARCs for Graveyard Bay are out.  This is the part that makes me really nervous.  That means the book is out for review. Fingers crossed. Oh, and the book launches September 10.

Once the first chapter is done, I move on to the second chapter, and then the one after that.

At some point, however, I have to write down the characters and what I think they’re up to.  There are blind alleys, twists, turns, plot threads that will have to be accounted for.

But even at that, the book is a journey for me.  As such, some of the plot twists and character dialogue is unexpected. I like that writing a novel is as much an adventure for me as I hope it will be when someone reads it.

In his book On Writing, Stephen King argues that he can tell whether or not a book was written using an outline. He thinks such books feel somehow "staler" than books that are written the "true way," which is by the seat of your pants, never knowing what will happen next.

William Blundell in his book The Art and Craft of Feature Writing, he said, “I’m a strong opponent of outlining.  It’s deciding in advance what the story will be, and then just bolting the whole thing together like something out of a hardware store.”

Ray Bradbury said, “First, find out what your hero wants, then just follow him.”

So, as I await the September launch of Graveyard Bay and I prepare for Thrillerfest in just a couple of weeks, I’ve gotten the green light by my editor to continue working on Shadow Hill after she’s looked over the first hundred pages.

I’m twelve chapters along and, yes, I’m already taking notes of the untied threads I’ve left and blind alleys that Geneva is going to have to explore before I figure out who the heck the bad guy or gal might be.  www.thomaskiesauthor.com

Guest Blogger Warren Easley

Type M is thrilled to welcome Warren Easley this weekend. Warren is the author of the wonderful Cal Claxton Oregon Mysteries, featuring compassionate, guilt-ridden, crusading lawyer Cal Claxton and his precocious Australian shepherd, Archie.

My Kingdom for a Plot!

To paraphrase one of Shakespeare’s kings—you know, the one they found under a parking lot in Leicester a few years back—A plot, a plot! My kingdom for a plot! I love to write, always have. Give me a scene, any scene, and I’ll flesh it out for you. Give me two people caught in a face to face encounter, and I’ll capture their dialogue. Show me a setting, and I’ll bring it alive, replete with sights, sounds, smells and touch. But put all the elements of a novel together in a coherent, believable plot? That’s a task that gives me pause.

Plotting a mystery, you might argue, is easier than plotting, say, literary fiction. After all, there are some pretty clear rules in the mystery genre. For example, unless you’re a Louise Penny or a James Lee Burke, you had better kill someone off in the first fifty pages of your book, since the patience of your readers (and publisher) is notoriously short. And you also need to build-in an event that signals the approaching climax, and ensure that, in fact, you end with a bang, not a whimper. This leaves the “slushy middle”, which must never be slushy, so all manner of clever devices should be inserted to not only drive the plot but keep the pace brisk, the tone engaging.

Easy, you say?

One school of thought says outlining is the answer. Achtung! What we have here is a need for discipline, we’re told. Put your mind to it, and the plot will seamlessly unfold in an orderly sequence. This group of writers proudly refer to themselves as Outliners. I tried outlining in my early writing without much success. The experience was a little like driving in a dense fog. I could see a small distance ahead and very little from side to side. Sure, I could get something down on paper, but after a short burst of writing, the outline would have to be rewritten. Those pesky, unruly characters of mine kept asserting themselves in ways I hadn’t anticipated.

The other school of thought says that the plot is an organic element that must be allowed to evolve as the story progresses. In other words, the plot builds outwardly, informed primarily by what has already been written. Enter the Pantsers, an equally proud group that flies by the seat of its pants, metaphorically speaking. This laissez-faire approach may sound appealing, especially to those like me who dislike planning ahead. But the other side of that coin is that the story can easily bob and weave itself into chaos, a kind of literary proof of the law of entropy. And I can tell you from experience, there is nothing more painful than backing out of a corner into which you have written yourself. It invariably involves trashing a lot of good work.

Of course, authors should adopt a strategy for plotting a novel that works best for them. I land somewhere between the extremes of rigid outlining and unfettered evolution, although I admit to being a Pantser most of the time. I didn’t plan on using a hybrid strategy. It turned out that was the only way I could get a book written and keep my sanity.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to figure out how the book I’m currently writing is going to end…

_____________________-
Warren C. Easley is the author of the Cal Claxton Oregon Mysteries published by Poisoned Pen Press. Coming in October, book 7, No Way to Die.
https://www.warreneasley.com
facebook.com/WarrenCEasley
poisonedpenpress.com/WarrenCEasley

Summer Time and Writing

Barbara's post this week captured a bit of what I'm feeling at the moment. I'm having a hard time concentrating on all the work I planned to get done during the months from end of spring semester to beginning of fall. I have deadlines to meet and writing to be done. But the blue sky and the sunshine is calling to me.

This is rather odd because my favorite season is autumn. I love the chilly mornings and evenings, and the leaves changing colors, with the hint of smoke in the air, and the taste of hot apple cider, and the sense of snuggling in for the winter. Summer, on the other hand, leaves me anxious. I don't like heat and humidity. Dawn comes too early for a night owl. And -- worst of all -- I need to pay attention to the weather report. I don't like thunder and lightning, especially being caught outside or on the road when a storm sweeps in.

But I love the colors. I love looking across our one-way street at the lavender and other plants along my neighbor's walk. I love the yellow daffodils growing beneath my front windows. I have purchased seeds for wild flowers and waited for warm weather to sprinkle them. I intend to plant them in my pocket-size backyard. If the seeds become a riot of color, I'll be able to watch the butterflies who come to drink from them.

I'm thinking of putting up a bird bath. The birds would enjoy it, and so would my cat, Harry, who would sit in the window watching them with his tail twitching. 

Not an outdoor cat, my Harry, but he sits in the window, sniffing the air on summer mornings.

In summer, I want more color around my house and on it. My vinyl siding is a pale cream. Not a color I would have chosen. This summer, I want to paint my front door. Change it from teal to pink or orange or blue gray. Paint the steps slate gray or navy blue. And when I drive up to my house, my  house will make me smile. Maybe a pale yellow door. . . and more flowers in my front yard.

I think that the colors of flowers, houses, and clothing worn by people in sandals and sneakers are the best part of summer. That and ice cream -- a bowl of butter pecan or a fancy dish of vanilla with crumbled cake and nuts from the ice cream shop in the mall with the open design that is perfect for summer strolling.

If I have ice cream in summer, then a salad is all I need for dinner. In summer, even a small meal is sufficient when it has all of the colors of the season. 

Seafood, too. I'd like to take a walk along the shore and stop for lunch.

Maybe I should find a place to sit down in a park and write there. The best part of summer is that I can decide where and when I'll write.

Summer still reminds me of when I was a child. The endless days filled with possibilities. Not a bad feeling when there is writing to be done.

What Would You Do If It All Went Away?

I (Donis) have been preoccupied with tech issues today, so I'm writing this entry later than usual. One of our laptops is about to give up the ghost, so we took it in to the Apple repair place, thinking the tech was going to tell us that it was too far gone and we should put it out of its misery and buy a new one. But to my surprise, he thought it could still be updated and last for a couple more years. We've never updated that computer because I'm always in the middle of some piece of writing and am terrified that I haven't backed it up in enough places to be able to get it back if I lose it in the update. I'm told this is paranoid. I don't believe it.

Sometimes I long for the days of the electric typewriter. Or maybe the quill pen.

Chris, my brother/web master and computer expert, lost several sites in a crash a few years ago and nearly had a stroke. I think of that often and resolve to print off every entry on this site and all other sites I've ever written for, since I’d hate to lose all these pearls of wisdom that I’ve posted over the past dozen years. After his disaster, Chris told me he immediately did a database back up, burned it to a CD (This was a while back. There was no cloud.), locked it in a lead-lined steel box and buried it in the back yard to be defended by his vicious guard dog.

Chris Casey

This just goes to show that technology ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. I’m reminded of the old Twilight Zone episode in which every speck of human knowledge was transferred to a microdot, and then somebody lost the microdot. Imagine, if you will, what would happen if electricity went away.  What would you lose forever, and what would you no longer be able to do that you count on to live?  I’ll tell you one thing, I wouldn’t be able to live here in this giant metropolis in the middle of the Sonoran Desert without air conditioning.  I’m not nearly as tough as the native people and settlers who lived here before and endured the heat without even thinking about it, really.  Of course, I grew up without air conditioning in Oklahoma, which is no slouch when it comes to summer heat. I’ve grown considerably wimpier since I was young.

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.

This sort of sums up where my WIP is at the moment

by Rick Blechta

I’ve got a busy week on the go, getting ready to leave town. To say the least, I’ve been rather distracted. Then, in the middle of all that, my music-reading glasses broke yesterday. I wasted a couple hours trying to jury-rig them and finally had to call my endeavors a failure, so that required a trip to the optometrist and spending $500. Sigh…

I always find the first thing that suffers in situations like this is my writing. I cannot find my “happy space”, try as I will.

Since I’m now even further behind in what I must accomplish by Thursday, I leave you with the following cartoon that perfectly reflects how my writing went last night before I gave up in disgust. Perhaps if I get enough done today on my huge list of pre-trip jobs, I’ll have better luck writing in the evening!

Alibis in the Archive

Rolling lawns, borders full of lupins, peonies and foxgloves, the background of a stately Victorian building, good friends, good conversation, good wine and three days of glorious sunshine in an otherwise miserably wet summer – my weekend in Wales at Alibis in the Archive was positively idyllic.

The place: Gladstone's Library in Hawarden, (www.gladstoneslibrary.org) was built by the family of William Ewart Gladstone – four times prime minister of Great Britain – around his own collection of about 30,000 volumes to provide accommodation so that serious students could study them. The library is greatly expanded now and the accommodation offers the sort of luxury those Victorian students couldn't have dreamed of, but it still operates on the same basis, though it is the venue for many conferences and events like this one too.

It also houses the archive of the Crime Writers' Association and the Detection Club and this weekend's event, Alibis in the Archive, was set up by the indefatigable Martin Edwards (author of The Golden Age of Murder) three years ago with a programme mainly highlighting the history of crime writing with particular emphasis on the novels of the twenties and thirties It's been sold out well ahead of time each year.

The speakers included Peter Robinson, Frances Fyfield, Michael Ridpath, Alison Joseph, Janet Laurence, David Whittle, Martin Edwards and me. The topics ranged from my own, The DNA of Tartan Noir, to Frances Fyfield's memoir of her friendship with PD James, by way of items about classic crime, travelling for research, and finding the real Agatha Christie through her romances, not to mention the Carry On! theme music composed by Edmund Crispin in his other life. The audience discussions were lively and thoughtful, and the pub quiz night revealed how much more readers know about crime than the authors themselves!

And we all talked books, books, books as old friendships were renewed and new ones made. As an author, it's such a comfort to discover that even people like the wonderful Peter Robinson sometimes gets stuck too and is haunted by that awful thought, 'Am I just wasting my time on this?' When he comes in with That Look on his face, his wife Sheila says, 'Page 184, right?'

It was such a happy way to celebrate the summer solstice. I'll never forget us all lingering on chatting around the table with our glasses of wine, reluctant to leave the lingering warmth of the evening until the sun set around 11.30.

Heavenly!

Sad to say, normal service has resumed today. Flash floods and thunderstorms in the south, damp and miserable here. Sigh.