Bite Your Tongue

Tempted to point out someone else's errors? I've learned the hard way the best policy is to bite my tongue and shut my mouth. Why is this so hard for me to do? Especially since there is always a chance I'm the one who is wrong. 

Those of us who have adult children already know we're likely to encounter eye rolls at best when we tell them what to do. I've come to love my father's comment: "I don't hesitate to give advice to my daughters, because the chances of them hearing it, let alone taking it is so remote it can't possibly hurt them. 

That said, I'll skip the kids and stick to the wisdom or folly of pointing out errors in another person's writing and give a few pointers as to how to do it well, and when to abstain completely. Here's some examples of when I waded right in when I should have abstained or used some common sense:

     1.  Dial it down. (This was huge) My third mystery, Hidden Heritage, was riddled with errors. I was livid and mortified. I fired off a three page letter to everyone at the press, detailing every single mistake and gave ample proof that the copy I sent had been pristine. It was perfect. It turned out the overworked editor had not sent the corrected galley to the printer. I generated a lot of ill will because of my flaming indignation. I should have dialed it down. My agent was appalled at how I handled the situation. Ironically, Kirkus Reviews singled it out as one of the best mysteries, and one of the best fiction books of 2013. 

    2.   Don't assume they want help. A friend sent me a novel asking to use my name as a reference when he was scouting for an agent. I foolishly read his book and gave a lot of advice on how to improve the book. He didn't want my advice. He wanted to use my name as a reference. Period. This was a tough one. I could see at once the need for structural changes and was dying to help.

    3.  If they already know, shut up. I recently took it upon myself to tell our priest that a website link in our bulletin was wrong. That was silly. It was probably the umpteenth time someone mentioned it. No need to rub it in. 

 Only the other hand, there have been a number of times when I've managed to shut up because of intuition. A young woman with a great voice brought me a novel that I could have improved a lot. I didn't say so. She'll be fine. She had an MFA and it was the wrong time in her life to hear criticism. 

Thinking about this post, I didn't point out some copy errors to one of my favorite magazine editors. The stakes were too high. Some other reader will do this for me. In the meantime, I want to keep publishing with this house. 

Ironically, when I pointed out an error to Dr. Quintard Taylor at BlackPast, it helped my reputation as a careful academic. The Kansas African American, E.P. McCabe, usually signed papers with these initials. An article on the website referred to him as Edwin. I proved his name was Edward. How? I found his signature on the form granting him authority to be a Justice of the Peace. Victory! But historians are another breed of cat.

There's an error on a plaque at the prestigious, stunning Charles Russell Museum. Should I tell them? Probably. On the plague beside the Fire Boat picture there's a reference to "sing language." I'll bet it should read "sign language." 

The problem with errors is that we can't see our own mistakes. 

There are errors in this post. I've gone over it several times. I can't see any. Go right ahead and have at it loyal readers. That's what our comments section is for. 

The thrill of seeing a book for the first time

 I've done it.

Typed THE END.

I think I speak for all in this room when I say, "Phew!"

The last time you and I were together, dear reader, I talked of climbing the mountain of words to reach the summit. That was simply to finish the first complete draft. To be clear, I had already revised much of it but hadn't written the final confrontation between my protagonist, Jonas Flynt, and the bad guy. That is now done, I have revised the entire thing, on screen and on paper, a step I find is vital because I spot more on the printed page than I do on a screen. Curious, I know, but a fact nonetheless.

And I have added those two simple words above. 

I can now lie down in a darkened room and decompress to soothing music. John Barry is my composer of choice for such moments. In fact, he is playing right now, the CD 'Endless Echoes' if you're interested.

I can do that, right?

Eh, no.

I can listen to the mellifluous music of Mr Barry but the lying down bit will have to wait.

I have a busy year. I've already completed two books but I must have another written by the end of December. 

Add to that household chores, pulling together my income and expenditure for the benefit of what is now His Majesty's Revenue and Customs (our Internal Revenue), plus festival appearances, interviews to conduct, research, a comedy play to revise and, let me see, oh yes - eat, sleep, walk the dog and be a servant to the cat.

I'm not complaining. Okay, maybe about the household chores. And the tax thing, because nobody likes that. But the writing? Hell, no - because that's what I do and although the physical act of stringing words together often makes me groan, I do enjoy (as Dorothy Parker once noted) having written.

But here's the nub of today's lesson, dear reader.

Writers write. 

Yes, I will moan about it, about deadlines, about editors not understanding my brilliance (although generally they are right), I don't sell enough, I don't make enough, not enough people praise my work etc., etc.

But would I stop writing?

You might as well ask a bird not to fly.

It's something that's in me and sure, maybe one day I'll win the lottery, become filthy rich and stop. For a while. But then that familiar sensation would return and I'd want to write something, perhaps how hard life is for the filthy rich. Mind you, we have entire governments telling us that.

And to stop writing, to stop being published traditionally, would deprive me of another pleasure.

The thrill of holding the first copy of that book you sweated over for months never gets old.

This week I received my author copies of my new book 'An Honourable Thief.' Opening that box is always filled with anticipation because it's the first time I get to see the actual fruit of my labours (as well as the hard work of the editor, cover designer and the myriad of folk who beaver away under cover of an author's by-line).

Will it not look as good as it did on the screen? Will I feel a sense of anti-climax?

In the end, as I took out the first copy, the response to those questions were - it did and I didn't.

It's a hardback, so it's got heft. I like a book with heft. I'm from Glasgow so we're always on the lookout for a weapon. (I'm kidding, don't @me).

 

(Pic courtesy off my agent Jo Bell because I'm too lazy to take my own 

and, anyway, I didn't get a bookmark with mine!)

The one I have completed will today wing its way to my agent. I'll take this week to do as many of the other tasks as I can before I head off to Stirling for Bloody Scotland on Thursday. After that it's nose to the grindstone again.

But that, dear reader, will be another story...

Kernels of Truth

I’ve always believed the best stories begin with a kernel of truth. They stem, in some way, from real life. This week, I'm going to share a story I've used in writing classes for inspiration often. I hope it gets your creative juices flowing. 

*

 

"Prosecutors consider fate of 8-year-old"


Published: Sunday, February 06, 2000, Lubbock Avalanche Journal http://lubbockonline.com/stories/020600/nat_020600046.shtml#.WUOlMxPyv-Y


COKER CREEK, Tenn. {AP} Neighbors said that for months the ramshackle mobile home littered with piles of trash and beer cans had been the site of loud parties and drunken fights, most in front of two young boys who lived there with their mother and her boyfriend.

When it was quiet, they said, the children often were left alone with no food, running water or electricity.

Then, last week, the mother's boyfriend was stabbed to death, and the 8-year-old boy confessed to killing him, the Monroe County Sheriff's Department said. According to police reports, the boy said Keith Podzebka, 41, had been hitting his mother.

District Attorney General Jerry Estes said authorities are reviewing the case to decide if the boy will be tried as a juvenile or an adult.

"These issues are rare. I don't recall having an 8-year-old involved in a murder," Estes said Saturday. "This is a first for us."

Where the child is prosecuted depends on the motive and whether he has committed other violent acts, Estes said.

The second-grader described by neighbors as a sweet, intelligent child is accused of stabbing Podzebka in the chest Jan. 30 in this isolated rural community, tucked away in the Cherokee National Forest near the North Carolina border.

According to police reports, the boys' mother said another man stabbed Podzebka, but then her 8-year-old son confessed.

"He was smart with a lot of potential despite what was going on in that home," said Ann Irons, the parent of child who attends the same school as the boy. "He was attention-seeking but not violent. He was a good boy. If he did it, he was pushed."

The boy's mother was charged with child neglect and pleaded guilty Tuesday in Monroe County Sessions Court. She was given a suspended six-month sentence.

*

The story offers so many rich questions –– legal and ethical. If you think about it for a while, something will emerge that you can write about. It's all about the kernels of truth. 

CCWC 2023

 

This week people are heading to Bouchercon in Minneapolis. I’m not one of them. I admit there’s a bit of FOMO going on with me, but I’m okay with living vicariously through others on Facebook. Looking at the weather, part of me wishes I were there since it’s been 98 here in the beach cities for a few days. Extremely unusual for us, which means most people don’t have air conditioning, including us. In one of my books, A Palette for Murder, my fictional town of Vista Beach was going through a similar thing. Now all I can think about is the crimes that can occur when it’s hot and people leave their windows open!

Speaking of conferences, the 2023 California Crime Writers Conference is now open for registration. The details: 

Where: Hilton Los Angeles, 6161 W. Centinela Ave., Culver City, CA

When: June 10 and 11, 2023

Deborah Crombie

Rachel Howzell Hall

 

Guests of honor are Rachel Howzell Hall, Critically Acclaimed Author and LA Times Book Prize Finalist Nominee for the Anthony, Lefty and ITW Awards, and Deborah Crombie, New York Times Bestselling and Multiple Award-Winning Author of the Duncan Kincaid / Gemma James Mystery Series

This conference is a joint venture of the Los Angeles chapter of Sisters in Crime and the Southern California chapter of Mystery Writers of America. Its roots are in the SinC/LA No Crime Unpublished conference which was a one day event put on by the chapter. SinC/LA teamed up with SoCalMWA in 2009 to put on this conference which is a two-day event that happens every other year. In 2021, it went virtual, but it’s now back to an in-person event.

The programming for the event is not set yet, but in the past there has been four different tracks going on at the same time: Law Enforcement/Forensics, Marketing, Industry/Business and Writing Craft.

I’ve attended every conference since its inception, serving as co-chair in 2011, and have learned an awful lot at each one. It just keeps getting better and better. 

Visit https://ccwconference.org/ for more info and to register.

That’s all I am going to say for now. Too hot and tired to think.

It's a Heart Thing

When I was in grade school, September and the first day of school was my favorite time of year. The odor of freshly waxed floors and chalk was intoxicating. My brand new supply of No. 2 pencils, my Big Chief tablet, my pristine eraser and my see through plastic ruler seemed to assure me there would be an absolutely perfect year ahead. My heart was gladdened with virtue and resolution.

Excitement ruled. There was a rush of pure joy in seeing my classmates once again. They never changed in the small community of Lone Elm, Kansas where I attended school. First, second, and third grades were all taught in one room. 

Recess was wildly vigorous and mostly spent in violent running games; Red Rover, 23 Scadoo, Statues, Ante-Over, New Orleans and others that would not be permitted today. They were an outlet for pent-up energy.

Come winter, the girls switched to jacks. Then, an all school project of coloring the spaces on our Big Chief tablets seemed to emerge every February. These pieces were then taped and linked together into a huge chain until it circled the outside of the whole school. My heart was warmed by this friendly comraderie. It was a group thing. By the time this worthy goal was achieved, winter had passed and we gleefully rushed outdoors again. 

Our teacher read to us after lunch. Years later, people have told me their fondest memory of school was when the teacher read stories to them. Often it's a student's only exposure to reading for pleasure.

 Another highlight was the traveling music teacher. She went from school to school throughout out county and we learned about people through their country's songs. To this day, during the opening of the Olympics I recall the line "but other hearts in other lands are beating, with hopes and dreams as high and pure as mine." Right now, my heart aches for the people whose "hopes and dreams" are broken through war. Even the Olympics are tainted with controversy. 

Much of my interest of African American history can be traced to the stirring of my heart when Teresa Shurr led us in traditional spirituals. Music played a huge role in my educational experience. Folk music added to my understanding of geography.

Newspapers this week are filled with tales of little children terrified to go back to school. No wonder! As a highly sensitive child, I don't know how I would have survived emotionally if my school had been subjected to carnage. My heart would have stopped.

How can today's children focus? Is their terror lessened when they see armed officers patrolling the halls, or does their presence add to the children's unease? What about the mental health of the poor teachers who are expected to be brave, self-sacrificing, and ever alert to the threat of danger? 

The contrast between my school days and the experiences of today's children could not be greater. Each new school shooting breaks my heart. 

Paranoia and Life Imitating Art

 Cindy and I are binging on “The Americans” currently streaming on Hulu.  We’re on season 5 and loving the show.  It’s set in the 1980’s, the Reagan years, and a man and a woman from the Soviet Union, posing as a middle class married couple with two children, are spying on the United States.

Now, with this kind of setup, you’d think you’d hate the characters.  After all, they kidnap, steal, lie, cheat, and murder to achieve the goals of their handlers.  Even worse…they have sex with other people to get information.  Well, maybe that’s not worse than murder, but it can still be jarring.

So, you'd think the characters are completely unlikable.  But much like Walter White and the Sopranos, you can empathize with them...most of the time. 

So, why am I even telling you this?  Writers are keen observers.  At least, that’s what we tell ourselves.  I’m always on the lookout for art imitating life or vice versa.

A CNBC headline this week stated, “Lukoil Chairman Ravil Maganov is the 8th Russian energy executive to die suddenly this year.”

The story goes on to describe how Mr. Maganov, chairman of the Russian oil giant Lukoil and outspoken critic of Russia’s role in the war in the Ukraine, died after falling or of the window of Moscow’s Central Clinical Hospital. 

Lukoil, the company Maganov helped to build, issued a press release that said the chairman “passed away following a serious illness.” 

Maybe that illness was called Gravity. 

Since the beginning of the year, seven other Russian energy executives have died by suicide or in murder/suicide events that included their immediate family.  One in particular, Alexander Subbotin, TASS reported that his body was found in his basement in a room used for “Jamaican voodoo rituals”.  The others were deaths by hanging or gunshots and not all were in Russia. One executive was found dead along with his wife and daughter in their vacation home in Spain. 

The retirement plan for Russian oil execs is brutal and deadly.

Watching “The Americans” has made me paranoid as hell.  It’s not bad enough that the FBI has found Top Secret files in a previous president’s country club estate, but dozens of those folders marked Top Secret were found empty.

Does that mean they’re still missing?  Who has them?

On August 28th, this headline appeared in BusinessInsider.com, “FBI is investigating a Ukrainian woman who posed as a Rothschild heiress and wandered about Mar-a-Lago with Trump.”

The story goes on to say, “A Ukrainian woman who posed as a member of the Rothschild banking family is under federal investigation after she infiltrated Mar-a-Lago multiple times and mingled with former President Donald Trump, a report says.”

“Ukrainian-born Inna Yashchyshyn used the name of Anna de Rothschild and claimed numerous business ventures as she rubbed shoulders with high-profile Trump guests. On several occasions in 2021 and 2022, Yashchyshyn mixed with Trumpworld heavyweights such as Sen. Lindsey Graham, Kimberley Guilfoyle, former Missouri Gov. Eric Greitens, and Trump donor Richard Kofoed, the outlets reported. She was also photographed with Trump on his golf course, they reported.”

This is exactly the kind of shenanigans the Russian spies in “The Americans” pull.  

So, am I being paranoid?  In the words of one my recurring characters in the Geneva Chase series, “You can’t be too paranoid.”

Life on Fire

This has been an exhausting summer for us at Chez Casey. My husband has been dealing with doctors, hospitals, procedures, infusions, ad nauseam. He's through the worst of it, at least as of now, but omg how tiring. I, on the other hand, have been plagued with headaches that ruin entire days. My ENT doc thinks it has to do with high pollution. I note that I get these headaches a few days after my husband has some sort of health problem. I either have to move somewhere that doesn't have high ozone warnings or go see a psychiatrist. That's the problem with living a long time. Your vehicle starts to break down.

Like many young people, I was immortal once. I remember it well. I feared nothing because I couldn’t be killed. I could eat poison and jump off cliffs and never for a minute expect to suffer harm. But the most wonderful benefit of my immortal days was that I had time. The line of my life stretched out before me clear to the horizon and disappeared in the distance over the curve of the earth, no end in sight.

Oh, no, you may be saying to yourself, she’s going to wax philosophical about mortality. Never fear.

Okay, I’ll admit that I started out driving down that road in a shiny red Maserati which after a quarter-million miles is looking pretty dinged-up and the check-engine light is on, but that’s not the point. What’s changed is the road. In fact, it is beginning to dawn on my that the entire metaphor is wrong.

My artist friend Cher

Many years ago I had a friend whose entire life was a work of art. She was a fine artist, a painter. But everything she did - making a pie, sewing a dress, growing a garden, even cleaning the house - was done with as much care, eye for detail, and even reverence, as were her paintings. I still think about her with awe and maybe a little envy. She approached life in a way that I’ve often wished I could. She didn’t wish that things could be other than they were. She wasn’t moving toward a goal. Nor did she think that she had plenty of time to fool around before she lived an authentic life.

I’m not exactly saying carpe diem, though one should. That “seize the day” philosophy is what motivated me to finally take the leap and write stories. I love being a novelist, too, even though I don’t love all the stuff that goes along with it. Being a writer can be glorious, but sometimes it's painful, too. I achieved a life goal, and it isn’t what I expected. In fact, I’ve achieved a bunch of life goals, and none of them has turned out to be what I expected. Every one is much worse in some ways, and infinitely better in others. Is that the point, I wonder?

Life isn’t what I thought it was. I’m not driving anywhere and there is no road. My new metaphor is that life is a wildfire, and we’re all standing right in the middle of it with no way out. It’s overwhelming heat and light, it has no shape or substance. It’s scary as hell. It consumes everything around it in an unstoppable rush and a roar, and eventually it even consumes itself. You just know this isn’t going to end well for you and it’s going to be painful, to boot. But it’s still endlessly fascinating and incredibly beautiful, all the way to the end.

Staring at the mountain

 Today is the final day of August, and although summer officially ends on September 22, in reality, for most of us it ends on Labour Day. As the lazy, hazy days of summer draw toward a close, I can feel society collectively girding its loins and gearing up to face the renewed demands of work. Stores are full of families in search of back to school supplies and clothes, ads seem to be about nothing else, and adults are sizing up their fall wardrobes to see what is still presentable (and still fits). Vacations are coming to an end.

I have not had a regular week-day job – one that I had to set the alarm, drag myself out of bed and fight through traffic for – in over ten years. Since then, I've written about twelve books and faced deadlines, but the weeks and months, even the days of the week and hours of the day, blurred. We writers march to our own timelines and whether it's Sunday at 10 p.m. or Monday at 9 a.m. matters not a whit.

But I spent almost all of my life on a regular working-stiff schedule, with the last twenty-five years of it in a school system for which Labour Day was truly the beginning of a new work year. That pattern of marking Labour Day as the end of relaxed summer and the gearing up for serious work is deeply engrained, and even after ten years, it still feels like a transitional moment. As it approaches, I look ahead to what my fall writing plans are. Being between writing projects, I have had a very lazy summer of reading and visiting with family and friends. Now I feel the pressure to get moving and get productive again. I'm not the kind of person to stay idle and I'm not ready for the rocking chair on the porch. 

Time for a new writing project.

If Douglas is nearing the summit of the proverbial "first draft" mountain, I am standing some distance from the base, gazing at it in the distance and wondering where the entry path is. Indeed, if there even is an entry path.

Here's my mountain, remote and obscure.

Often I start my hunt for the entrance by researching the topic or setting. I order numerous books and settle down to a couple of months of background reading. I do have a germ of an idea for a story I'd like to tell and I suspect I'll have a lot of reading to prepare for it. Exploring new topics and gaining new insights that spark my imagination are always exciting parts of the writing process for me. 

So I'll get on to the various book sites (used and new) and order some titles. Then immediately after Labour Day, I'll be ready to hit the ground, if not running, at least with a decent level of drive and excitement. 

No Place Like Home

                                                                  

I'm back from North Carolina. Two of my daughters live there now. Mary Beth is wrapped up in moving into a new house. I can't think of anything more stressful than moving but she has all these lovely butterflies to compensate.

 She had problems with the moving company at both ends. Nothing too hair-raising, but still. There were a lot of things that needed to be worked out. For instance, the men refused to reassemble any beds they hadn't taken down to begin with. The real work would begin after the men left. So many boxes! And because so many items had set in boxes for over a year she wanted to wash all the kitchenware and wash all the bedding. 

But the house was great. No problems there. That was not true for the other daughter and the huge four-story 100 year+ house. All kinds of work needed to be done. Fortunately they were aware of this situation before they bought it. It's gorgeous and can easily sleep fourteen. 

Can I work North Carolina into my Kansas-based Lottie Albright series?

No! At least not a book based in North Carolina. I could write from an outsider visitor's point of view. In fact, writers do that a lot and it makes for very interesting material.

I write about Kansas. I know what the birds sound like and understand the land. All sorts of details about my native state have been ingrained in my soul.

In 1881, the Kansas Legislature voted a $5000 appropriation for a Home for Friendless Women. Wasn’t that lovely? What do you suppose that was all about? I doubt it was a home for soiled doves, or even women who had gotten themselves in a family way, because society didn’t hesitate to pin brutally accurate labels on people. When I came across "Home for Friendless Women" it gave me the saddest feeling. 

Housing in Fort Collins has become out of reach for so many families now. Rent is sky high and buying is no longer a possibility. 

I'll always be a Kansas-based Dorothy at heart. Because "there's no place like home."

Climbing the mountain of words

 Neil Sedaka once wrote a song called 'One More Mountain to Climb', which was a quasi-spiritual about overcoming obstacles - not just the eponymous mountain but also rivers to cross.

Frankly, I think it could be may anthem of many authors toiling to reach the end of the first complete draft of a new book, for there always seem to be pinnacles and torrents a-plenty between them and those two magic words, The End.

Here's a mountain. I have actually walked up that one.
No pitons, ropes or those spiky shoes for me.
(It's Schiehallion in Perthshire, by the way. Ain't it purty?)

I envy those writers who tell the world that they merely sit at their keyboard and ascend that peak as though, to quote Rooster Cogburn in 'True Grit', it was no grade at all. Then there are those who appear to produce a new title every two months or so. It all must be a slight upward incline to them.

You may have gathered I am currently climbing yonder mountain, believing I have one more face to traverse before I can plant my flag on the summit, only to find myself clinging by my fingertips from a  fissure like Sly Stallone in 'Cliffhanger.'

(Okay, that's enough mountain climbing allusions. Stop it, and stop it now - admin)

When I began I thought I'd perhaps finally do a book of about 90 thousand words. Then it was amended to 95k. I passed that milestone and mentally promised to do 100k. 

I am now at 105k and counting.

To paraphrase Douglas Adams talking about deadlines, I like word limits. I like the sound they make when I pass them by.

Luckily, the contract does not dictate a word count.

As you can tell, stringing the words together is not my problem (in this instance). My problem is that bringing this story to an end is proving elusive. I see it flirting with me in the distance but when I reach the point last seen, it has skipped away with a coquettish giggle.

I do wonder if I have too much plot in this one. There does seem to be a great deal going on, although the actual solution to the mystery is straightforward. But then, that's what we do, isn't it? Make the simple appear more complex than it actually is. A bit like filling in any kind of official form, especially an application for creative grants.

However, I am within a whisper's distance of the end now, I can feel it. Of course, I still have work to do after that, because I have to ensure that the plot, complex though it is, makes sense. And that the misdirection is sufficiently opaque. And that I haven't repeated the same information twice. Or three times. OK, four. That I haven't changed the names of characters halfway through. And that the words I've strung together are in some semblance of order. 

See?

Mountains to climb, rivers to cross...

Childbirth Without Fear

 Memory is a tricky thing. We like to think our minds are sharp but what remains are not so much facts but impressions. So in writing this post, what I intend to share as clear details archived in my gray matter are instead small impressions that have remained with me.

Like most of you, I grew up surrounded by books. However, we didn't have a formal home library, in fact we didn't have any bookcases. Our library of sorts was the small pantry across the hall from the kitchen. The upper shelves were jammed with an eclectic assortment: World Book Encyclopedias, selections my sister and I ordered from the Scholastic Book Club, random paperback potboilers and science fiction bought secondhand. 

Most of the books belonged to my dad. He was in the Army reserves and every month he received new Army Field Manuals. They all had plain manila covers and were frankly, pretty boring, lots of charts and tables and few pictures of cool military stuff. But one was a favorite read, entitled Combatives, the Army term for hand-to-hand combat. The text was accompanied by large black & white photos demonstrating techniques for disabling an opponent using all manner of dirty tricks. The good guy wore crisply starched fatigues and the bad guys wore khakis. 

My dad was a chemist and another fave from his collection was a primer on how to blow up stumps with dynamite. It was from this book that I learned the word "tamp," as in tamp an explosive charge to focus the blast.

The strangest book in the family library was Childbirth Without Fear. It projected an intimidating, forbidden knowledge vibe. Early in junior high, I finally worked up the nerve to open it, expecting shocking graphic snapshots of childbirth and was both relieved and disappointed that there weren't any. I can't remember any of the illustrations except for the one bizarre photo of two women in their underwear wearing masks as a chubby man in a doctor's smock gestured with a pointer. I recently searched for the book online to see how correctly I remembered that picture but the examples for sale were all more recent editions and lacked the weird image from my memory. What unusual impressions have stuck with you from nearly forgotten books?

Sherlock Holmes Stories

 

Sherlock Holmes. Most people probably know he’s a fictional detective. I’m not a Sherlock aficionado, but I did read all of the Conan Doyle stories when I was in high school and re-read some of them fairly recently. I’ve watched most of the Sherlock based TV and films. There are so many of them.

 Recently, I’ve been getting into the new stories written by other authors that feature Holmes and Watson. Here are the ones I’ve enjoyed the most: 

John Gaspard, author of the Eli Marks Mysteries which I thoroughly enjoy, also did Greyhound of the Baskervilles. He took the original story by Conan Doyle and inserted Sherlock’s dog into it. The story is told through the eyes of his greyhound, Septimus. It’s a thoroughly enjoyable read. I listened to the audio version narrated by Steve Hendrickson.

I’m also enjoying the Sherlock stories written by Bonnie MacBird. Honestly, I was first attracted to them because of the covers. Turns out, I enjoy the stories as well. The fifth one, What Child Is This?, is set to be released in October.

Then I became aware of the Sherlock in Minnesota series by Larry Millett. I first saw the title of the third book in the series: Sherlock Holmes and the Rune Stone Mystery, which features the Kensington Runestone found in Minnesota in the late 1800s. I’ve read a lot about it and even been to the museum dedicated to it in Alexandria, MN. It’s a nice museum and the Discovery channel series about the it was interesting as well.

Back to Sherlock. I decided this looked like a fun series so I picked up the first book: Sherlock Holmes and the Red Demon. Okay, I listened to the audiobook also, interestingly enough, narrated by Steve Hendrickson. I have to say I’ve become a fan of his narration. Loved the story so I’ll be moving onto the next one.

Those are the Sherlock stories I’ve been reading recently. Do you have any favorite Sherlock or Sherlock adjacent stories or TV or films?

Distracted

by Charlotte Hinger

 I'm at my daughter's house in North Carolina. It has been quite a road trip. My daughter who lives in Fort Collins and I have traveled from Fort Collins to Beaufort, North Carolina with an Alaskan husky who belongs to another daughter living in Raleigh, North Carolina. 

We will both fly home. Dakota did really well. Since the dog is diabetic and is partially blind, this whole undertaking could have been a nightmare. Mary Beth is delighted to have her dog back and Dakota was overjoyed to see Mary Beth. 

I'm late with my blog! I simply forgot. But my readers will probably profit more from the lovely pictures than my weekly essay. 

Cherie and Jim's house is on the coast. It has four floors. The top one simply provides access to a Widow's Walk. These four-sided open walkways were included in the old historic houses so that women could scan the horizon for their husbands' ships. 

Gorgeous sunsets. No wonder I'm distracted.

And we have all these matching comfy rocking chairs that are ideal for watching the birds and the lake.

There's something about an approaching storm. The sky seems close and so very visible here.

In addition to being enthralled with the lush vegetation here, I've learned that Beaufort has an intriguing history. Thomas Kies, who shares the Monday spot with Douglas Skelton is the mayor of Beaufort. He can tell us more about this quirky little town that was a hangout for pirates.

See you next week. 

Death of an Author

 The author falls to the ground, Geneva kneels next to him, gives mouth to mouth, then Mike starts chest compressions.

Finally, the two come back in the dining area and Mike announces:  I’m afraid the Author is dead.

There’s a collective gasp from all the characters.

Cindy cries out: No!!

Mandy cries out: Oh, my God!

Cindy and Mandy hug each other.

Geneva: He was murdered, She’s holding his glass.  She sniffs it and says.  It smells like cyanide.  Someone in this room killed the author.

Mike shouts: No one leaves this room.  This is now an active crime scene. 

Olmstead comes to the podium. Well, this was not how we had planned dinner.  Olmstead looks at Mike Dillon. Should we continue to bring out the next course?

Geneva: I don’t know about anyone else, but I think we can conduct this investigation over dinner.  Besides, I’m hungry. Turns to audience- Is anyone else hungry?

On September 8 and 9, the Carteret Community Theater is performing a dinner murder mystery at the Carteret Community College Culinary School as a fundraiser for the theater.  The theater building itself was gutted during the disastrous days and nights of Hurricane Florence and the theater group is raising money in a capital campaign to rebuild the theater into something really special.

I was asked to write the murder mystery which I've entitled “Death of an Author.”  It’s my first crack at writing a script.

No, I don’t play the author.  We have an actor who plays me.  Full disclosure, he looks a lot like me.  We’re about the same age, we both wear glasses, and we both have beards…but in reality, he’s taller and better looking.

And yes, he dies as the entrée is being brought out.  If he’s taller than me, he has to die.

The entire show is about trying to figure out who killed the author.  The actors are all playing recurring characters from my Geneva Chase mystery series.  Geneva Chase is being played by an extremely talented lady by the name of Kimberly Murdoch.  She’s smart, savvy, and she’s appropriately being a smartass. 

Assistant Chief of Police Mike Dillon is being played by a gentleman named Ken Hamm.  And yes, he’s chewing the scenery and stealing scenes.  He’s freaking hilarious.

They all are. This isn’t my typical dark murder mystery…this is a comedy. It’s entertainment.

At least I hope so.  The actors are having a good time and it’s reassuring to see them all laugh at the appropriate lines.

It’s strange seeing my characters come to life and, to some extent, take on lives of their own.  Actually, that’s part of the show.  When the author dies, the characters go on. They now have self-determination, no longer being controlled by a puppet-master with an overactive imagination. 

A little bit of Rod Serling that’s sneaking into the evening.

We’re in rehearsal and I’m in awe of how hard these men and women work, and that includes the director and producer. Because this is an ongoing process, I’ve forgone going to two mystery conferences, Killer Nashville, which was this past weekend, and Bouchercon, that takes place in Minneapolis the same weekend as the dinner theater.

The trade-off, however, is that we’ll have over a hundred people both nights who will attend and then I’ll get a chance to sell and sign books afterward.  There’s no way I’d pass up an opportunity like that.  I can think of no better way to launch my fifth book, Whisper Room. 

Plus, this has just been a ton of fun!!!

Summer Entertainment

 We are still in the lazy, hazy days of summer, when many of us slow down, enjoy leisure pursuits and family visits, and generally put hard work on the back burner. My writing muse is still AWOL, but after more than twenty years and twenty novels, I figure a slowdown and a vacant brain are well deserved. 

Ii'm not worried. I have been spending my leisure time reading, reading, and reading, sitting on my dock with my morning coffee, relaxing at bedtime, and even in the middle of the afternoon. Because the lazy, hazy slowdown of summer is the perfect time for pleasure reading. On the beach, on vacation, on a chaise longue in the shade of your backyard tree. Sprawled on the grass in the local park.

And we authors love this idea. We want everyone reading!

Here is a tongue-in-cheek message that is circulating on the internet, listing the ways in which everyone can help in this endeavour.

I leave you now so that I can go back to lazing around with a good book.

Sharing Research

 by Charlotte Hinger

In addition to my mystery series, I have published historical novels, an academic book, short stories, and a number of articles. Recently, I have received requests for copies of my primary research. Some of this has been hard to come by. No one would even know it existed if I hadn't cited it in books and articles. 

Does that sound like an exaggeration? It's not! For instance, in describing the brilliant African American con man, John W. Niles, in my academic book published by Oklahoma University Press, I relied on a pamphlet published by the Vo-Tech boys in a high school class in 1923. It was housed in the historical society of Graham County, Kansas. A volunteer managed to locate it and copied it for me. 

I've wrestled with my reluctance to copy these documents and send them off to whoever. I've literally crawled up into dust-laden shelves for some of them. And persuaded county clerks to go fetch old records when they barely have time to keep up with current customers.

A very wise editor supports generosity. He pointed out that each historian puts material to a different use. I've come around to his way of thinking. But my willingness to "share" depends on the willingness of other writers to demonstrate basic courtesy. Nothing takes the place of "please" and "thank you." 

The first step in acquiring this kind of material always begins with the question "Does this exist?" If so, where would it most likely be located? This process is similar to plotting in mysteries. It's very satisfying to work out a plot in a mystery novel. I love the aha moments. 

Identifying and locating primary source material gives me the same triumphant feeling. I was positively giddy when I figured out that John Niles was the first person to get to United States senate to introduce a petition for slave reparations. I had the Senate Journal entry to back up that audacious assertion. 

I was equally elated over the miraculous moment during the writing of Lethal Lineage, my second book in the Lottie Albright series, when everything clicked. All at once. The book had literally been driving me crazy. More than a light bulb going off, it was like a meteor shower. 

Lethal Lineage is a locked room mystery. My first and probably my only one because I'll never have an idea that good again. It's still my favorite mystery in the series. 

Both my agent and my editor told me they didn't see the ending coming, but it made perfect sense. I was thrilled!

There's one historical document that I probably will never find. In 1879, the county commissioners of the County of Rook in Kansas were presented with a petition to organize the first township in the County of Graham. The petition originated in Nicodemus, so all the signatures were African American. I've searched for this petition at the Kansas State Historical Society and all the county offices. 

I would love to have it. Does the original exist? Probably not. But who knows? Sadly, families often horde old documents and photos thinking they will write a book someday. Then they die and the kids don't recognize the value of the pictures and papers and they are tossed. 

Here comes inspiration

 Inspiration can strike writers at any time, in any place.

As songsmith Paul Williams once sang, here comes inspiration, walking through the door.

Before I expand on that, let me just repeat something I've said before. Inspiration is NOT reclining in a chaise longue awaiting the angel's kiss upon your brow. Inspiration is nothing more than the spark of the first flame of a fire that might - might - one day erupt into a story, book, screenplay, play, shopping list, whatever. 

That takes application and, sometimes, perspiration.

I have a number of books I have been inspired to write, have begun and then at some point stopped not because of that mythical malaise writer's block but because I realised I was writing the wrong thing. That spark, the inspiration, was a false prophet and I eventually saw it for what it was.

The thing is, I never know it's a lying, no good rascal until I have a good few thousands words down.

Last night I watched a performance by my partner, the lovely Beatrice (I am contractually obligated to call her that). She's a singer, you know, and a darn good one.

Well, it was while I was ostensibly keeping an eye on sound levels and making myself look very busy that an idea for a book came to me. Or at least part of a book. I can't tell you what it is because then I would have to deploy a highly-trained team of ninjas to silence you. 

(Side Note: Autocorrect changed highly-trained to highway-rained. I mean - what?)

Yes, at the moment it is but a mere germ of an idea but it's there and it really was generated by listening to Beatrice and watching the audience. I didn't expect it but that's how inspiration works. It just walks through the door, or, in this case, was carried on the notes of songs wonderfully sung. 

Unfortunately, I am hip-deep in my second historical thriller, I have another to write after that and a further two Rebecca Connolly novels. And all before Christmas!

I'm lying, of course.

It's next Easter.

I'm still lying.

I could go into politics.

The thing is, I really, really, REALLY want to pursue this idea to see where it goes but it will have to sit on the far back burner for now, along with other notions, including a one man play based on one of my non-fiction books and - wait for it - a musical! No, I can't sing or play an instrument or read or write music but I can string words one after the other in some semblance of order and have a yen to put something together.

I'm the same with reading. I can be into something, might even be enjoying it, but then another title comes my way and I am desperate to dive into it, too. 

TV shows, too. I can be enjoying a series (or, as I've written before, finding it way too long but sticking with it to see how it ends) when another one, all shiny and bright, begins to flicker in the corner of my screen and I think I'll just have a wee taste and the next thing you know I'm immersed in that and the other one is left to languish so long that I've forgotten what it was all about. 

A bit like that last sentence.

I'm beginning to think I may have a problem.

Anyway, back to inspiration and the mercurial nature thereof. I never sweat where my next idea is coming from because I know that it will present itself at the proper time. At the moment I am quite replete with story ideas and have no need to go searching, thank you very much.

If only they wouldn't come looking for me!

Plotting the Journey

My dog Fergus has been home from daycare alll week because he has an eye problem that seems to have started with itchy, irritated eyes. He seems to have rubbed at one eye so much that he gave himself an ulcer in his cornea. Fortunately, eye drops can resolve the matter in 7-10 days. That assumes that he wears an E-collar and allows me to put the prescribed drops in both eyes twice a day. Let me simply say Fergus and I have not agreed about the necessity of doing either. Even with help from a friend, my yard guy, or my neighbor, getting drops in a determined dog's eyes is not easy. Having him wear an E-collar that he can't see around doesn't work out well when he bumped into things and can't go up and down steps. So, this week hasn't been as productive as I'd hope. 

The good news is that he seems fine otherwise and is happy to hang out with me and the cat. He's up for a car ride any time I head out the door. We've gotten in a few walks. But I haven't gotten a lot done. So, I'm hoping that when we go in for his follow-up tomorrow, his vet will say he can go back to daycare next week. 

I've been working when and where I can. High on my list is the synopsis that I promised my agent.  Writing a synopsis before I've finished a book always feels like trying to see into the future by gazing into a crystal ball. 

I'm a plotter. I spend lots of time sweating the details before I begin writing. I edit as I go along, and often the details change. That's because I continue to do research and often this gives me a better idea or, occasionally, I discover I've gotten something wrong. 

Sometimes the plot changes because a character says or does something unexpected. Arguably, this is my subconscious at work, but it feels as if the character has taken the story in a direction that I couldn't have predicted or planned for in my outline. When that happens, I go with it -- particularly if this happens with a secondary or minor character. Once it happened with my designated killer -- who suddenly offered his explanation for what had seemed to be guilty behavior. He had a secret, yes, but not the one I thought. If I had written a synopsis before I finished the first draft, I wouldn't have known that. I would have missed a subplot that took the book in a different and better direction.

I think I know how the book is going to end. But I still don't know which -- if any -- of the main characters will survive. This is a stand-alone novel, so theoretically all of the characters are in jeopardy. 

The other part of the synopsis issue has to do with "the hero's journey". I enjoyed playing with the three-act structure as I thought through the plot. But when I began writing, I realized I didn't really believe my protagonist would risk the goal that he has worked and sacrified to obtain because he was curious about the antagonist's inconsistent behavior. 

According "the hero's journey," in Act I, he is supposed to respond to a catalyst, may deny the call to action, but then takes the action that propels him forward. 

My protagonist is a Pullman sleeping car porter, who wants to go to law school. A couple of days ago, I was having another look at academic articles about the African American men who -- after the Civil War and through much of the 20th century -- were hired by the Pullman Company to work as the servants who cared for the passengers traveling by rail in the luxurious sleeping cars. But as historians who have done research in the archives and who interviewed the men who worked as sleeping car porters have documented the working conditions for the porters were stressful, both physically and mentally. They traveled hundred of miles per month, were on duty much of the time they were on board, and they had little opportunity for sleep during the night. Often they made back to back runs, coming in on one train and going out on another.

One scholar offers a fascinating analysis of the impact of sleep-deprivation on Pullman porters. Even though there was no scientific research on sleep deprivation in the early 20th century, the men themselves recognized the impact of chronic lack of sleep. Generally, they were able to get less than 3-4 hours sleep each night, and that on a cot in the men's washroom or a noisy upper berth made available for their use. Even this downtime was not available when they needed to be at the passengers' beck and call. The demand for time to sleep became an important element of the negotiations in the late 1930s between the porters' new union and the Pullman company. 

Reading about this issue of sleep-deprivatioin gave me the explanation I needed for why my protagonist does what he does in Act I. If he had thought it through, he probably wouldn't have. But -- tired and irritable -- he reactions without thinking. He tries to recover from his misstep, but his mask has slipped and his antagonist is taunting him. 

So, now I know where I'm going with this. I have a sleep-deprived hero who gets himself into trouble because he is too exhausted to "perform" his role wth a smile on his face. His lack of sleep will affect his actions throughout the book. 

I feel better about the synopsis now that I have more context. But I know other aspects of the plot are likely to change. 

What’s at Stake?

“More danger,” my agent said, after we’d been discussing a draft of a novel I sent her, two weeks ago.

We’d spent 30 minutes on the phone, discussing what I hope is the first book in a new series –– reviewing the setting, the family of characters, and the plot, which hinges on an event that takes place 5 years before the book opens.

How far would you go to clear your name? Can revenge be justified? These are the questions that drive the book.

Danger is hard to define, at least for me it is. I don’t write thrillers. I write mysteries. “Danger” need not be omnipresent to keep me going as a reader. In fact, I like ebb and flow, as a reader. So “tension” makes sense to me. Something tugs me along. It could be a single question. “I want to see how it will end,” I told my daughter the other day when she noticed I wasn’t listening as she talked over the movie.

Physical danger doesn’t interest me as much as the threat of it does. I don’t need a fight scene or a shoot out. I enjoy the puzzle and the sense of impending danger more than the actual event. Robert B. Parker said the compelling thing about westerns is when the cowboy chooses not to draw his gun. Why not draw the gun? What does s/he know that I do not?

I just started reading The Chain and, yes, there is a murder early in the book and, yes, the book moves very fast, but what has me hooked is this question: How far is a parent willing to go to get their child back? One single –– albeit a very compelling one –– question is enough to carry me through the book.

So I want to replace the phrase “need for more danger” with the question “what’s at stake?”

Isn’t that really what narrative tension is all about?

*

As an aside, I'm wondering, Where the summer went? I left Massachusetts at 3 a.m. on June 6 for our new home in Michigan and arrived 15 hours later, U-Haul and dog in tow. Two days later, I visited a surgeon, began a new job June 16, had (minor) stomach surgery July 26, and revised the novel mentioned above. After the craziness of the past 6 months, I want fresh eyes on it before we submit, so I'm having an editor review it. This is something I've never done before. In fact, my ego wouldn't have allowed it. I've published nine book, right? But I want as much feedback as I can get before my agent shows it to the world, so I'm eager to see what this retired publisher says. I'll keep you posted.   

Writing Long, Writing Short

 by Sybil Johnson

Recently, I’ve been working on an essay about crafts in cozy mysteries for a book on cozies being put together by Phyllis Betz. Essays need to be 2000-3500 words. I knew from the get-go that mine would be closer to the bottom end of the scale. Sure enough, the first draft has come in at around 1200 words.

I’m not surprised about this. I know I tend to “write short”. You may have realized this from my blog posts, which tend to be on the shorter side. I admit I have little tolerance for reading long email messages or blog posts. That doesn’t mean I won’t read them, but if they don’t capture my interest right away, I’ll most likely skip over them. That doesn’t apply to the posts of my fellow Type Mers, of course.

I’m not really sure why this is. I don’t lack patience. On the whole, I’m a pretty patient person. (Say that 10 times really fast!) I read long books. When I work on craft projects, they’re often of the longer variety. I suspect it has something to do with the messages and posts being online. My eyes get tired of staring at a screen after a while. I’d rather spend that staring time working on my own writing or updating a website.

My books in their final form usually come in around 75,000 words. That seems to be my sweet spot. The initial drafts, though, are usually 10,000 words short of that so I end up adding scenes to get to that count. This hasn’t been true of my WIP, which I am almost ready to declare done. It started out at 80,000 words and has now been edited down to 75,000. It’s a much better story for the changes. 

This all got me thinking about “writing long” vs. “writing short”. Is it easier to write too much and edit it down or write too little and have to add scenes?

In my own work, when I add stuff, it tends to be a very focused add. I think long and hard what needs to be done. Once I’ve figured that out, I tend to write the new stuff fairly fast.

There are times, though, I wish I was more verbose in my initial drafts. I think it would be “easier” to take words out than put them in. But if you have to junk entire scenes and rework the plot a bit, it can be more time consuming. So maybe it’s a case of the grass is greener on the other side. I’ve decided I should just go with the flow and believe the path to a final version is different for every story, even for the same writer. There is no “easier” way.

What do you all think? Is it “easier” to “write long” or “write short”?