How I've Learned That Newton's Three Laws of Motion Perfectly Apply to Writing a Book During a Pandemic

 I (Donis)  actually went out to lunch with a friend last week (!) and we spent a great deal of time discussing how this pandemic has simply screwed up EVERYTHING. And I do mean everything. One of my husband’s doctors ordered a lithotripsy, a minor medical procedure, for him a couple of months ago, and husband dutifully got all the clearances from his primary doctor and his cardiologist, all the blood tests and x-rays ... forty days ago! We have not heard anything about when the procedure is supposed to happen. He called the doctor’s office a dozen times (I swear I am not making this up) and they never called back until he threatened to come down there and sit in the office until he got some answers. Which he did - and of course while he was gone, the nurse finally called our home number and I talked to her. Turns out the doctor is having trouble getting an OR scheduled for lithotripsy at any of the hospitals where he has privileges. Seems non-emergency procedures are so backed up at local hospitals because of the pandemic that it’s taking weeks and weeks to get anything scheduled. They could have at least kept us informed about what’s going on (grumble grumble). 

As for my pandemic-era writing, don’t even ask. There are days that I spend an hour starting at the screen and produce nothing. 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.

I have author friends who have full time jobs and small children and broken arms and still manage to pound out two 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. 

My writing regimen has become a perfect illustration of Newton’s three laws of motion.

Inertia: An object at rest remains at rest, and an object in motion remains in motion at constant speed and in a straight line unless acted on by an unbalanced force. i.e. if you write every day, your momentum will keep you writing. If something happens to make you stop and you miss a day, or two, or however many, you tend to remain at rest and its very hard to get started again.

Force: The acceleration of an object depends on the mass of the object and the amount of force applied. i.e. the bigger your manuscript grows, the easier it is to write on it, at least for me. It’s like a snowball gaining speed as it goes downhill.

Action and Reaction: Whenever one object exerts a force on another object, the second object exerts an equal and opposite on the first. i.e. the harder you work on the MS, the faster it speeds toward completion, like firing up a jet engine to make the plane take off.

Right now I’m slowly gaining speed (Law 2) However, half an hour ago we found out that the lithotripsy is scheduled for Monday, and considering the state of my pandemic-era will power, I fear I’m about to be acted upon by an unbalanced force and fall back into a state of inertia.

Summertime non-post

This is going to be one short post, because I have no time to think of anything intelligent to say about writing life. It's July, it's hot out, and Covid restrictions have recently been lifted in Ontario, allowing us all to finally bust out of our prison cells and go to stores, restaurant patios and family gatherings. Since my last post, I have acquired a new car, tried to ready my old one for sale, and spent ten days at my cottage with two of my children and their families, each family with a toddler. Does anyone get any writing, or indeed much coherent thinking, done with a two year old and three year old (who has given up her nap) to play with? In between shopping, cooking, eating, and washing up, we have had lots of fun, but there's been little spare time to check emails, let alone get any writing done for this blog or my current novel. 

My spiffy new car

Not that I'd have it any other way.

My current novel is in shambles. I am writing in fits and starts, with so many gaps between sessions that I can't remember where I am, what's happened earlier, and where I might be going. I write my first drafts longhand, and I have not had time to type out and print out what I've written, so I have nothing but scribbled pages to refer to. At the moment I am stealing moments of writing time during the children's nap (when they nap) and I am reminded that this is how I wrote much of my doctoral dissertation decades ago. Much of the rest of that was written once I had put my children to bed. Nowadays, however, I can barely type a whole sentence by that hour of the night. No wonder I can't seem to get any momentum going!

My favourite writing spot

But I know there will be time for writing, when they are all gone home, the cottage is quiet again, and I sink back into my familiar, mundane routine. 

But for now, I'm going to bed, because the house will be alive and hopping in a little more than six hours. 

Three things that bug me

By Rick Blechta

I guess that I’ve just been in a grumpy mood lately, but there are a lot of little things that I am finding irritating. I’m going to deal today with a few that involve words so I’m at least doing something that fulfills the mandate of Type M.

Maybe it’s just around Toronto, but I strongly suspect this is happening everywhere. Real estate is now sold by “teams.”

We drove north of Toronto for a brain-clearing walk in the woods yesterday. On the way we passed through an area that is rapidly being developed. All over the place were “for sale” signs and billboards that was being represented by teams. There is a lead name and then the t-word, as in “The Joe Blow Team.” I guess the reasoning is, that since Joe is very successful and well known for his real estate-selling skills, but they want to let you know that you may not be dealing with him, but one of his team members which is laudable. However, it strikes me as being overly precious.

While we’re on that subject, people who work in stores are now “team members” too. Either that or they’re “sales associates.” Want to work for any chain store or restaurant? You now are applying to become a team member. I guess being a team member or a sales associate is to make bottom-level employees feel more important, empowered, and valued — even if they’re still only being paid minimum wage. It’s all window dressing. Some bright boy or girl came up with this idea and every business has now jumped on the band wagon. Nothing has changed, of course, except the employees’ designation. Is anyone being fooled?

My last focus of complaint today is the one that really drives me nuts. Ever noticed how everything is now “curated?” The worst example I’ve seen of this was on a downtown Toronto convenience store that’s part of a chi-chi boutique hotel. They had a sign in the window trumpeting the fact that sold “a beautifully curated selection of convenience items.” I always thought that museums had the corner on curation. Now the guy who orders chips and pop in your local corner store has become a “curator.” It’s probably the most precious new phrase that’s crept into our vocabulary.

Do you have any current phrases that are bugging you? Let us all know. Come on, don’t hold back. We want to know!

Matching the music to the mood

(Image courtesy of Pixabay)

I was at a loss over what to write this week but then, while staring at that little cursor winking as if daring me to come ahead and try my best, my playlist switched to one of the most heartbreakingly beautiful pieces of music ever created for celluloid.

For some reason, Michael Kamen's theme to the TV mini series 'Band of Brothers' affects me deeply. In fact, there is a track on the album in which the voices of his daughter Zoe and singer Maire Brennan accompany the main theme and...well...I'm not saying I was moved to tears, I am from Glasgow, but there was definitely something in my eye.

Some authors don't like music as they write, some can't listen to anything with lyrics but I am one of those scribblers who uses it to assist in the writing process. I will even go to the length of selecting exactly what type of music depending on what I am writing.

Band of Brothers has been on the playlist while putting some finishing touches to an historical thriller I am writing on spec (publishers - please contact my agent!)

Unlike the series, the book is not set during World War 2 but the tone of Kamen's music is just right for the events in my story.

I also listened to the music of Fernando Velasquez, particularly his score for A Monster Calls, and Roque Banos' Alatriste.

You may have guessed that it is predominantly film and tv music I use because that is my preferred genre and I can become very evangelistic about it. I have been listening to it since I was no higher than the on/off switch on the record player but, more importantly, it covers such a wide variety of styles and approaches that I can find any mood accompaniement I want. I insist the people working in the field are among the most talented composers today because they can turn their hand to virtually anything.

I find that selecting the correct sound, or even composer if they have a distinctive style (John Barry springs to mind here), helps me hit the right tone or pace for whatever I'm writing.

Thunder Bay, my first Rebecca Connolly book, was written to John Williams' scores for The Fury and Jane Eyre as well as - poseur alert! - Rachmaninov's Isle of the Dead, which was kind of on the nose given the subject matter but its sense of dark mystery was just right.

The next two in the series, The Blood is Still and A Rattle of Bones, were predominantly soundtracked by Bear McCreary's work for the TV series Outlander. The storylines of both books hark back to events surrounding the 1745 Rising in Scotland so it seemed apposite.

Debbie Wiseman and Rachel Portman were my go to composers for the fourth book, Where Demons Hide, due out in the UK next year. The tone of this one is somewhat lighter and they had just the right touch, tinged with a bit of darkness, that I needed. I also used The Dead Zone - Michael Kamen again - and The Changeling by Ken Wannberg, Howard Blake and Rick Wilkins.

My favourite composer is Jerry Goldsmith and every one of the titles above was written to something from his extensive backlist. Whatever I need - fast-paced, exciting, moving, eerie, romantic - I'll find something that fits the bill. (And as if on cue, one of his tracks - The Edge - began playing as I wrote this paragraph. Movie moment right there).

It has to be admitted that people do tend to zone out when I bang on about the subject. In fact, there will be people who perhaps have clicked away before now. I get that, I totally do. I'm like that when people talk about sport (any sport). Not sport movies, of course, because I love them. I know - go figure.

I told you I was evangelistic on the subject, even to the extent of doing a weekly radio show for a hospital radio station in Glasgow (Radio schedulers, please note - I am available to do it professionally!)

If you are interested, it's on Southern Sound every Saturday at 4pm UK time. 

Community

I’m always amazed at the sense of community I feel when I engage with other mystery writers (or writers from other genres, for that matter). This week is no exception.

I’m launching a young writers program, a summer institute for teens. Getting this program off the ground and airborne during a global pandemic hasn’t been easy, and I have lots of people to thank, among them –– my Type M colleagues.

When I put out the call for guest speakers, Rick, Frankie, Tom, and Barbara (and others) immediately offered to help out and support young writers. I wish to thank them all publicly, but also to continue a thought shared by my agent, Julia Lord, who led off the speaker series. When asked what she enjoys about her job, she immediately spoke of this sense of community, telling our young writers how she took a risk by leaving film to enter the literary field in 1985 and finding help in so many unexpected places. Hers was a story of fellowship.

I like uplifting stories, especially when I’m hoping to get young writers to pursue the literary arts. I know –– anyone reading this post knows –– the publishing business is fickle, bottom-dollar-driven and requires relentless tenacity. But within it, there are great stories to read and tell, and even better people.

In A Relationship With My Air Conditioner

 

You may have noticed, at least I hope you did, that I missed my post two weeks ago. I was out of town for the first time in a year and a half. For my first trip outside of Los Angeles County where did I choose to go? Seattle, which experienced record high temperatures while I was there. On the hottest day it was 110-115 degrees F depending on where you were in the area. That is not, let me repeat NOT, normal for the area at any time of year. A couple lanes of I-5 had to be shut down because the pavement buckled. It took a few hours to straighten that out. 

Mt. Rainier

It was incredibly hot in my mother’s house. We played games like taking an indoor thermometer around various parts of the house and seeing which room was the hottest. One of the upstairs rooms won at 105 degrees F. That wasn’t even on the hottest day. We pretty much didn’t want to know what it was on that day. We also visited various stores, noting which ones had the best air conditioning. Big Lots and JoAnn were the clear winners here.

I was going to put candy outside and see how long it took to melt, but I was just too hot to care. Besides, the local news did a number of experiments for us. They noted how long it took shredded cheese, an ice cream sandwich and various other things like that to melt. I believe it was 90 minutes, longer than I expected. They also tried baking chocolate chip cookies on a tray on the dashboard of a car. That was a several hour project, but was reasonably successful.

Fans and portable air conditioners were pretty much nowhere to be found. Luckily, my mother had one of those units you put in a window so that kept one room of the house down to a mere 80 degrees during the day. Needless, to say, we didn’t do much outside except in the early morning. One of the items we saw on Facebook was someone from the area declaring they were in a relationship with their air conditioner. Hence, the title of this post.

I’m still glad I made the trip. We were there for my mom’s 99th birthday and had a very nice visit. Just wish it hadn’t been quite so hot. The mountain was out for almost the entire week we were there. That’s Mt. Rainier for those who don’t know what that phrase means. It’s 66 miles from Kent, where I was, but is visible from there something like 90 days a year. Couldn’t find the statistic, but that’s in the ball park.

We flew from LAX to Sea-Tac, which was an interesting experience. I was a little nervous about getting on a plane. Didn’t need to show proof of vaccination or get a COVID test. Every seat was taken and everyone had to wear a mask for the entire trip as well as in the airport. That turned out to be not as bad as I expected. It was a pleasant flight both ways. On the trip back to LAX, Los Angeles required that we fill out an online form basically acknowledging L.A.’s rules once we got home. When they first started that, it was to make sure that people knew there was a 14-day self-quarantine period. But, when we flew, that quarantine period had gone away and we just acknowledged that, since we were both fully vaccinated, that we would monitor ourselves for symptoms.

California had fully opened when we left, which meant that all restaurants could be at full capacity and vaccinated people didn’t need to wear masks inside or outside except on public transportation. Washington state didn’t fully open until the day we left there, but they were pretty open when we were there. I admit it felt a little odd not wearing a mask in a store, but somehow not as odd as if I’d been in my home state.

All in all, it was a great trip. I’m glad we went, but I’m very glad to get back to more reasonable temperatures. 

 

In other news, for those of you who are attending More Than Malice, I’ll be participating in the author speed-dating event on Thursday, July 15, 4 pm Pacific/7pm Eastern. The event lasts an hour. I don’t know exactly where I’ll be in the lineup, but I’ll have 1 minute to tell everyone about my books. I’ve done this in person, which is incredibly tiring because you’re basically doing your spiel in a noisy, crowded room 20 times. This seems easier. Just hoping the internet gods smile kindly on my connection.

More on creativity

by Rick Blechta

Just under this post is one by Tom Kies, and I strongly suggest you read it. Not only is it excellent, but my post this week is riffing off it.

For longer than I can remember I’ve had people telling me how creative I am. 

I find it sort of embarrassing, actually, since I was brought up not to be conceited and being singled out for praise makes me feel as if I am being conceited if I acknowledge it.

Identifying first as a musician — since I’ve been at it by far the longest — a certain amount of creativity has to be acknowledged, otherwise you wouldn’t be much of a musician. Every musical phrase, every note to be honest, has to be created which is a thoughtful process if you wish to do it well.

But too much music can become a problem. It did for me.

When I was 38, after doing music seemingly 24/7 for 20 years, I burnt out. At that point, I was still teaching full-time in schools as well as conducting a high-end ensemble at the Royal Conservatory on Saturdays, but it began taking a toll on me psychologically. My wife, also a musician, suggested I find something else to do in my spare time. She knew I couldn’t walk away from my two jobs, but she also guessed that I needed some form of hobby or interest that had no musical component.

Easier said than done. I spent several months trying to figure out what that might be. Eventually I came to writing, something at which I’d always been pretty good. I wrote three interconnected baseball-themed short stories that I’ve thankfully lost track of. The characters were interesting as were the plots, but the writing itself was, shall I say, underdeveloped.

After reading a few books on how to write and pulling out the notes from a university creative writing course I took, I sort of got better at it.

I decided to write a mystery short story. Six months later, I realized I was no good at this mainly because my short story was 315 pages. I got up the nerve to show my novel to a few people, got some positive feedback, then found an editor to help me.

But midway through this process, I realized how happy and content I now was. My daily musical jobs didn’t bother me as much. I was no longer feeling burnt out. In fact, every night I couldn’t wait until the boys were in bed so I could get down to my created world.

And that, my friends, wraps around to what Tom said at the end of his post. Feeling creative and indulging it — no matter what it might involve — does something good deep inside us. In fact I can’t think of a single friend who has some sort of passion in life that isn’t also pretty darn happy.

Tom is so right.

Creativity

 There’s a theory that everyone is born with in innate sense of creativity.  As babies grow into toddlers, and toddlers grow into school age children, they have within them a sense of adventure and curiosity.  As they discover and learn, they take great joy in creating, whether it’s coloring, drawing, painting, singing, dancing, or making castles out of Legos. 

That same theory posits that as we grow into adulthood, we’re often urged to forget our creative side and conform.  Buckle down, do what’s necessary, make money.  

But that creative spark, though dampened, lives on in all of us.  It may come back out in the form of a hobby, tending a garden, making a special dinner, or redecorating a room.

This weekend my wife and I had an outstanding dinner at the house of two friends of ours.  In addition to a delightful meal, the conversation was thought provoking.  We talked about food (of course), home remodeling, a smattering of politics, watching your adult children evolve, and ghosts.  Yes, ghosts.

We also had a very interesting discussion about creativity.

We can save our discussion on ghosts for another blog.

Being of a certain age, we all had former lives and are all redefining ourselves.  One of us was a concert pianist who performed all over the world.  Her husband was a noteworthy magazine publisher.  Now they own a boutique hotel here on the coast, in a historic little town right on the waterfront.  They’ve redecorated, upgraded, installed a 21st Century computer and reservation system, and began a marketing program that includes sophisticated usage of social media. 

Additionally, they buy fixer-upper homes, make them look pretty, and sell them, moving on to the next project.  

They’ve traded one set of creative skills for another.  

My wife was at one time a very successful market research analysist who had done work for major corporations all over the world.  She’s retired now, and during our discussion, wondered what her creative superpower might be. 

During our earlier discussion, we talked about her enjoyment of genealogy and how it led to her discovery of a brother she never knew she had.  It’s an amazing story that I may share on another occasion.  But the conclusion we reached was Cindy’s creative superpower was in her curiosity.  She’s a discoverer—an explorer. 

Mine is that I’m a crime novelist and I make stuff up.  Being a novelist has always been a dream of mine.

I read where the definition of creativity is: Transforming your ideas, dreams, and imagination into reality. 

An article from Huffington Post cited a recent New Zealand study which says that “engaging in creative activities contributes to an “upward spiral” of positive emotions, psychological well-being, and feelings of “flourishing” in life.”

The Pacific Standard Magazine cited another study conducted at the University of North Carolina – Greensboro on college students that says that “those who reported feeling happy and active were more likely to be doing something creative at the time.”

When I think about it, the happiest people I know are the ones who are creating and/or exploring—trying new things. 

So, what do you do to get your creative spark fired up?

I take a walk around our neighborhood or up to the beach.  I find that by the time I get back, I have a fresh perspective on what I’m currently working on.

Here are some other suggestions I found on the web:

Keep a journal and jot down ideas as they occur to you.

Exercise.

Take a media break.

Read a book.

Don’t be afraid to play.  Thomas Edison’s notebooks and Alexander Graham Bell’s prototypes suggest that they played while working. 

Take a break from your daily routine.

Try to think about things and look at the world around you in a different way. 

And finally—I like this one the best—dare to dream!

Watching The Sopranos

Frankie here. When I was thinking about my "brand" as a writer, I came up with the tagline that appears on my website -- "Every Crime Deserves Context."  I used that on the colorful "mystery writer" business cards that I ordered online a few years ago and intended to pass out at crime fiction conferences and other events where I was "wearing my fiction writer hat." 

I still have a large box of those business cards that I ended up not using. The problem was every time I started to exchange one with another writer or to give one to a reader with whom I was chatting, I found myself also reaching for the dull black and white business card provided by my university that identified me as a criminal justice professor and included my faculty contact information. The mystery writer business card seemed to provide only half of the information about who I am.

That brings me to The Sopranos. "How?" you ask. Well, let me explain. I may have mentioned -- I'm pretty sure I have -- that I'm working on a genre reference book that I was invited to write. I'm looking at nine gangster movies and The Sopranos, the "acclaimed" HBO drama. During June, I binge-watched the first five seasons of the show about New Jersey organized crime boss, Tony Soprano. I'm now watching the episodes from the sixth and last season. This has been a revelation for me because when the show was on in prime time, I didn't have HBO. Although one of my areas of research is crime and mass media/popular culture, I wasn't making enough money to be able to justify subscribing to a premium network. I caught episodes of The Sopranos only when I was staying in a hotel at a conference or visiting someone who had the cable network.

I bring The Sopranos up because watching the show reminds me that sometimes it feels like my tagline should be "A Lot of What I Know about Writing I Learned from TV." 

Yes, I read books. I have spent many of my happiest hours in libraries and in bookstores. The several times I have moved in my lifetime, the books filled many boxes. When I bought my small house I asked my contractor to build a room divider to separate living room from dining room and to provide floor-to-ceiling book shelves. I read every day of my life. But I've learned a heck of a lot about writing from television writers and the actors who can make binge-watching multiple episodes of a series a tutorial on character development and dramatic tension.

During my month of binge watching The Sopranos, I've been monitoring my reactions to the characters. The late James Gandolfini was a brilliant actor, and Tony Soprano's violent outbursts always leave me torn because I care about him. In Season 6, after almost dying, he is less volatile -- more thoughtful about ordering a hit on one of his own men who has violated the code that he is expected to live by. But that character may be killed in the next episode or two and his death will make melancholy. I know this because I was upset when another secondary character made his exit. He had a wife and children, and he wanted to move his family to Florida. He and his wife were in contact with a real estate agent, and like a couple on an episode of HGTV, they explained what they wanted and needed in their new home. This mob soldier had a strategy in mind. He would explain to Tony that he wanted to be allowed (breaking his vow of loyalty) to resign. Then he would wait and give Tony to think about it. So, he asked and he waited and he carried out the hit that Tony assigned him. But Tony -- after thinking about it -- still said it was "a no" on Florida. 

Now, this is the thing. I was ready for this to go badly. Ready for Tony to decide this soldier had to be taken out because he was no longer committed to his crime family. I was ready for Christopher or one of Tony's other trusted assassins to whack this character. Instead, the character sit in a hotel room looking at a photo of his children -- and then he took out his own gun and shot himself. Shortly after that, Tony went to visit his ailing Uncle Junior. He was out in the kitchen getting his uncle something eat, when Junior appeared in the doorway and shot Tony.

Now, it's true that Tony and his uncle had a complicated past. But I didn't see that one coming. Neither did Tony Soprano. And when he came out of his coma, he spent some time trying to dodge Dr. Melfi's questions about how he felt about being shot by his uncle. Dr. Melfi (Lorraine Bracco) is Tony Soprano's therapist. She has her own therapist, with whom she shares her complicated feelings about helping a mobster given to panic attacks understand his emotions and function better. Her advice that he "act as if" when he confessed he was feeling more vulnerable after coming out of his coma and feared losing his men's respect led him to beat up his own young strapping bodyguard in front of his crew to make it clear that he was still tough enough to lead them. 

There is another secondary character that I've come to care about -- Vito, a captain in Tony's mob family who has been outed as gay by two mob soldiers who saw him when they were collecting their protection money in a New York City club. Vito was dressed in black leather and dancing with a man. They didn't believe his excuse that it was "a joke." Tony's daughter's boyfriend also had some information that he finally shared. Now, Vito has fled and is in New Hampshire. Tony is still resisting the pressure from his crew to respond to Vito's betrayal of their code of masculinity. But the situation is embarrassing and may have a negative impact on business. He may yet send soldiers to track Vito down and whack him. And I care. I want Vito to get away.

The question is how I can feel so much ambivalence about these characters and still care about their fates. Even though I find Tony's violence off-putting, I felt bad for him when his wife, Carmela (Edie Falco) put him out. Even though he had cheated on her, I believed he loved her. I wanted him back home with Carmela and Meadow, his daughter, and AJ, his son. I wanted them to be a happy family.

I'm going to miss these characters when the series ends for me with the last 10 episodes. I'm going to think about them. And I'm going to spend some time thinking about how the characters evolved and how I can use that in my own writing. 

Next up, binge watching The Wire.

Voices

Donis here. I'm so glad to read about my blogmates finally achieving a measure of freedom through vaccination. My husband and I are fully vaccinated, too, and though we have gone shopping without masks and out to eat a couple of times, we haven't taken the great leap into travel yet. Part of the reason we're still staying close to home is that vaccinated or not, I haven't been feeling tip-top lately. I did mention a few months ago that I've been experiencing occasional bouts of vertigo, and I have been checked out by specialists who can't seem to find a definitive answer. I keep plugging, looking up new specialists, trying new things, etc. (Acupuncture seems to help a lot). I will say the episodes are much milder now, fewer and further between, but I still get them, so I've become rather neurotic about the idea of flying off into the great unknown. 

I feel better if I don't stare at the computer for any great length of time, which adds to the difficulty of working on my current WIP, not to mention keeping up with my online promotion or even answering emails. However, reading a physical book doesn't seem to bother me, so now that bookstores and libraries are open, I've catching up on my reading. 

I've particularly enjoyed three books I've recently read: Ann Parker's Mortal Music, Sheila Lowe's Dead Letters (available Aug. 3), and Mariah Fredricks' Death of a Showman.

One wonderful thing these three books have in common is their beautiful and appropriate use of style and language, qualities that lift a story out of the ordinary, as far as I'm concerned. 

I think sometimes that writing is very much like singing.  For some singers, their own voices are the most important element of the performance, and the song is simply a vehicle to show off their virtuosity.  For other singers, their delivery is secondary to the song itself, and though their voices are beautiful, they don’t purposely draw attention to them with all kinds of vocal gymnastics.

Both styles of singing are wonderful. I love to listen to a beautiful voice. It almost doesn’t matter what Maria Callas sings since her voice is so gorgeous. Same with Sinatra. His voice and delivery transcend the material.  

Sometimes, however, the song, or the story itself, is so beautiful that a true artist will step out of the way and deliver the music or the words in a plain and straightforward style and let the material speak for itself.

Have dose, will travel

 Liberated! Well, at least the door has been unlocked, so that I can twist the handle, ease it open, and step cautiously outside. Rick's post of Monday talked about planning his long delayed trip to visit family in New York City and to research his current book. I am starting the same process. I am currently writing the latest Amanda Doucette book, the title of which I can't name because even my publisher hasn't been told yet. Amanda has been travelling across Canada in this series, with each book set in a different, iconic location. She started in the far east in Newfoundland, and this latest one is set in the Pacific Rim area of Vancouver Island, in the farthest reaches of western Canada. It's a wild land of rugged mountains, dense forests, giant trees, long beaches, treacherous rocks, and some of the best  surfing in the world (So they say. As a Central Canadian, I know the land of sparkling lakes, hardwood forests, and rocky granite shores. I don't know the surfing world). 

Fire in the Stars, set in Newfoundland

I've been to Vancouver island from time to time to visit Victoria, the provincial capital, and to travel up the more protected inside coast. I have never seen the wilder west coast, mostly the domain of adventure travellers, artists, and First Nations. Pictures, books, and travel blogs can't begin to give me the feel I need, and because there is a historical backstory from 1970, there is also research I have to do in local historical societies and archives. I've found that most of the really meaty information about daily life is in small local publications, which are rarely digitalized as far back as the 70s. So in addition to visiting the Royal BC Museum in Victoria, which houses the provincial archives, I want to poke around in Tofino and Ucluelet, the twin towns that constitute the main settlement in the Pacific Rim area. I also hope to hunt down some long-time locals who remember the wild commune life on the beaches in the late 60s and early 70s.

I usually like to do my research when I'm in the early stages of the first draft, because I get some of my best inspiration from the material I gather on site. This year, however, the pandemic happened. I had first booked a trip for May, figuring that was as late as I could push it without interfering with my winter deadline to submit the book. But in May, Canada was still in the grips of the third wave, most activities and venues were locked down, and travel was restricted to essential only. First Nations territories and activities were closed to the public. I could not even book accommodation in BC, let alone plan kayaking, hiking, and sightseeing trips.

But now vaccine rates are rising across Canada, and case numbers are dropping. I have had both doses of Moderna and am thoroughly modernized! Events and activities are opening up cautiously, and I decided that I could safely book a trip in September, when vaccine rates should be even better. This virus has tricked us before, but this time I am really hoping we have it beaten down enough that some semblance of normal can return. If it has a surprise for us in the fall, foiling my travel plans, I will be in trouble. I will have to dig around the internet, pump my BC friends for information, and rely on secondary sources, all of which will limit the effectiveness of the book. 

So fingers crossed that this will all work out, and that I can at least see the rugged mountains and forests, even if I can't get to the remote hot springs I have in mind.

On the road again

by Rick Blechta

Grand Central Station

Having been double-vaccinated, my wife and I are busily planning a trip home to the NYC area for the first time since Christmas of 2019.

I must say it feels a bit strange to be making these plans. Normally we make this trip at least twice a year, oftentimes more. Since it’s been so long — and also because we haven’t gone anywhere since the pandemic began in late January 2020 — it feels like we’re going somewhere we’ve never been before.

The time since our last trip has been tough because my wife’s mom is 91 and in frail health. She has live-in, 24-hour-a-day help and my wife and her sister (who lives in LA) have to take care of all the business things, pay bills, sort out problems, etc., etc., something that’s difficult and frustrating from such distances.

On my side, only my brother still lives in the area but he is recovering from a major illness, and even though I’ve spoken to him a lot since he became ill over a year ago, it was only by phone. However, I also have lots of friends down there too.

So it will be good for both my wife and me to be “on site” if only for a week.

But I have even more reason to be excited. You see, my WIP is set (mostly) in the New York City area and I can expend some shoe leather chasing down locations I need, asking questions, doing general research, in other words, the stuff I really enjoy when working on a novel.

First will come a train ride down the Hudson to Grand Central Station in Manhattan. I’m not all that familiar with that route into The City because unlike my main character, I grew up on the Long Island Sound so I took a different train route into Grand Central — and believe me, I know that route very well indeed, having used it every day for my first two years in university (NYU), not to mention numerous other trips.

Then I want to visit several places in Manhattan that I’m thinking might suit my needs for other locations. Some of these I’ve seen before (as in walking by them), but others I’ve only seen through Google street view, and believe me, that’s not enough informationon which to base a scene in a book.

If I had more time, I would also travel to Washington, DC for a few more days of feet-on-the-ground research. Now is just not the time for that. Better to start small in our first “big” trip in 19 months.

Anyone else planning to travel? And where are you going?

Schroedinger's Book

(Author's note - just noticed this falls into line with Thomas's post last week!)

The last time we were all together I mentioned that I had completed the final draft of my latest.

Obviously this is not the one coming out in the UK next month (which is called A RATTLE OF BONES, by the way, in case anyone from dear old blighty is reading this). No, that one was completed so long ago I've forgotten what it was about.

I joke, of course. I know there's a murder in there somewhere.

Here's a pic of the cover, just because I can and the site admin is off enjoying the July 4 celebrations as I write this:

Anyway, the one to which I have only recently appended the legend THE END won't hit shelves until some time next year and, as the authors among us will know, there is an entire process to go through before then. I may have typed those two little words but, sure as God made those little green things that grow on trees, it really ain't.

This is a nervous time for the traditionally published. As you read this, the manuscript will be with my publisher and sooner or later someone there will read it.

Will they like it?

Will they (gulp) hate it?

Will they contact their legal representative to begin proceedings to have the advance returned forthwith, henceforth and to wit the aforesaid?

(Fat chance - I've spent it.)

It is only the first point in the journey from imagination to printed page during which the author's undergarments begin to bunch as the imposter syndrome takes hold.

There's the reviewing portion of the process and then when it finally heads out into the wide world to the strains of Born Free. It will make its own way in the jungle of books. Survive or die. Sink or swim. 

Of course, between where the book is now - that strange netherworld between acceptance and publishers sending the boys round to have a word - and where it will be  comes the editing stage.

My approach to this is simple - we're all trying to make the create the best book we possibly can so it's best to get along. That doesn't mean I accept everything my various editors have suggested, sometimes gently, sometimes forcefully, only once drawing an edged weapon and threatening me with physical harm. (I made that last bit up, by the way. I have never enraged an editor so much that they go all Rambo on me. Well, not yet anyway.)

I will accept and compromise where I believe it is in the best interests of my book and my artistic integrity. Yes, even I burst out laughing at that last bit. However, I will also stand my ground if I believe something is necessary.

But that is a good way in my future. For now and for a short time, to paraphrase bestselling author Ian Rankin on his own work, I have written the best book in the world.

But my opinion matters little.

In reality, it is like Schroedinger's Book - neither good nor bad until that figurative box is opened.

I'm rooting for the former, though. 

Happy 4th of July

 

Wishing a very happy 4th to all who log in to Type M for Murder. 

And to all my blogmates on this site who are affiliated with United Kingdom--I sincerely hope you have recovered from the War of Independence and do not wish any of your ex-colonists ill will. Out of respect for "special relationship" I will keep my 4th celebration very quiet. 

Besides, I have no choice. My family ran off on a river trip. 

What Makes It Worthwhile

 Today I received the first half of my advance for WHISPER ROOM to be published in 2022.  My wife watched as I opened the envelope from my agent and she asked, “Do you think that pays for your time spent working on the manuscript?”

I could see her smile and the mischievous nature of the question in her eyes as she asked it.  After all, I spend the better part of a year producing a novel.

I smiled and replied, “If you use money as the only yardstick to measure by, then no.  There are other forms of compensation, you know.”

She does knows that.  Like today, we’re moving our chamber of commerce office to another location.  The building owner completely renovated to our specifications.  Financially, she made us a deal we couldn’t pass up.  And it has a lovely koi pond, complete lily pads, frogs, and a family of turtles. 

While we were discussing the move, the landlord took me aside and told me she was two chapters into my first book, RANDOM ROAD.  She said, “I love your lead character, Geneva Chase.  She’s such a hot mess.”

Bingo!  That’s what makes it worthwhile. 

When I walk into a bookstore and see it on the shelf, or lately, in Barnes & Noble and see it on a table in the front of the store--my book parked right next to Stephen King’s latest. Yeah, baby!

Or when I see a favorable review online.  Or when I’m out and someone walks up to tell my how much they enjoy my books.  That’s how I measure success.

So, back to WHISPER ROOM.  This past Monday I sent the manuscript to my editor.  This is the scariest part of the process.  I’m freaking terrified that she’ll email me and say, “Nothing personal, but this is crap!”

Oh, let me digress for a moment.  The book’s title is out for testing.  I didn’t even know they did that.  

I’m sorry, back to the WHISPER ROOM.  Waiting for my editor to pass judgement on the manuscript is pure torture.  So, rather than dwell on it, allow me to offer what some other authors have said about the editing process:

“Throw up into your typewriter every morning. Clean up every noon.” — Raymond Chandler.

“You never have to change anything you got up in the middle of the night to write.” — Saul Bellow.

“Read over your compositions and, when you meet a passage which you think is particularly fine, strike it out.” — Samuel Johnson.

“Substitute ‘damn’ every time you’re inclined to write ‘very;’ your editor will delete it and the writing will be just as it should be.” — Mark Twain.

“Mostly when I think of pacing, I go back to Elmore Leonard, who explained it so perfectly by saying he just left out the boring parts. This suggests cutting to speed the pace, and that’s what most of us end up having to do (kill your darlings, kill your darlings, even when it breaks your egocentric little scribbler’s heart, kill your darlings)…I got a scribbled comment that changed the way I rewrote my fiction once and forever. Jotted below the machine-generated signature of the editor was this mot: ‘Not bad, but PUFFY. You need to revise for length. Formula: 2nd Draft = 1st Draft – 10%. Good luck.’ — Stephen King.

So, yes, I’ll be patient to see what my editor says, but I think I’ll deposit that advance when the bank opens tomorrow. 

The Big Meh

If you look up conspiracy theories, one of the most famous is Majestic 12, which was claimed to be the US government's secret operation to cover up its study of UFOs and to discredit anyone who reported the existence of Majestic or that UFOs were real. People who said they had witnessed UFOs--flying saucers--or their crew of little green men were ridiculed as crackpots. Others who came forward with stories of being abducted by the aliens and "probed" became for a time, practically a cottage industry. Over the decades we've had numerous tales of UFO encounters, the most famous of which was the Roswell Incident of 1947 (which is a plot feature in my debut novel, The Nymphos of Rocky Flats). The radio program, Coast to Coast AM, was infamous for giving air time to many conspiracy theories, UFOs among the most popular. I grew up reading books and watching programs about alien encounters and was of the opinion, to paraphrase Jodie Foster from the movie Contact, that if we are alone in the universe, "it's a waste of space."

The USAF did have Project Blue Book, which investigated UFO sightings from 1947-1985. After that, case closed on flying saucers, or so we were told. Recently, the US Defense Department has admitted that it has been cataloging UFO sightings, that UFOs have appeared repeatedly around military bases and nuclear facilities, but there's no public speculation about the UFOs other than we don't know what they are or where they come from. So, Majestic 12 was probably true, but as a disinformation campaign meant to disguise the actual study of UFOs. Score one for the conspiracy theorists.

Now we stand on the brink of confirming that we humans are not alone in the universe and that our visitors are creatures with technology hundreds of years more advanced than ours. In the near future we could either be entering a period of glorious enlightenment or facing horrific annihilation. 

And the reaction to such a monumental turn in our history is MEH. Unless a UFO lands in a display of pomp and high-tech wizardry like in The Day The Earth Stood Still, I doubt many will peel their eyeballs away from their smart phones. And when they do, we can expect a surfeit of Tik-Tok videos, involving the aliens...how? Hopefully just dancing.

Thinking About Grief

I have been writing. I can't say whether I've been writing successfully or not. I've been writing in the same state of mind in which I've been doing everything else over the past year - drifting in a dreamlike state. I had a long bout of a strange non-Covid illness in late February, a final, ironic cap to the pandemic quarantine, and though I'm physically better, the brain has not emerged from its fog. It hasn't helped that several friends and relatives have recently lost dear ones and are struggling with grief right now. There's nothing you can say. You can only be present, and I'm having some trouble even doing that.

I was nineteen when my father died - the first big loss in my life. I remember thinking that until someone you love dies, you don't really know the meaning of the word "gone". It's more than just physical absence; it's a black hole in the universe. The whole world you knew is sucked into it, and you come out the other end to find yourself on an entirely different planet. No matter how much you hate being there, you're going to have to live in this new universe for the rest of your life. 

So you do the best you can, like it or not, to build a new life, because what else can you do? And you do build a life - you're even happy again, eventually. But nothing is ever the same.

I've told this story before, but it seems fitting – Years ago, I was a department head at a university library while a new wing was being built on the building. My departmental offices and reading room were to be relocated to the new wing, but my very large, closed*, special collection of books was to stay in the old building. The plan was that they would knock a door in the wall between the old and new sections, providing us access to our books.

Until, out of the blue, the library director called me in and told me that there wasn't enough money left to put in the door, so were going to be left with our offices and a reading room in one building and our books in another, with no access between them without a ten minute trip from our fourth floor location, down to the ground floor, through to the old wing, upstairs to the collection, and back again. This was not the first time, nor would it be the last,  that I sat in the director's office watching the walls melt and feeling the top of my head about to blow off. After a long, passionate discussion, he promised to reconsider our dilemma (ya think?), but when I left his office, I was so frustrated and annoyed that I went back into a corner of the stacks and burst into tears.

Naturally, one of my colleagues stumbled across me and, alarmed, asked me what as wrong. I babbled out the door story and he listened sympathetically. There was absolutely nothing he could do for me, so after standing there helplessly for minute, he clapped me on the shoulder and said, "Well, have a nice day." It was so absurd that I laughed.

The Great Door Incident was only only ridiculous, not tragic, but I mention it because of what that colleague did for me. He listened and sympathized, and even though he was really powerless to do anything, he made me laugh. He didn't change the situation, but his attention helped me feel better.

By the way, I did get the door.

In other news, I feel my fellow TypeM-ers' pain about technology. I recently bought a new modem, which has greatly improved my Zooming experience. The new equipment has done little to help my state of mind, however. I have begun venturing out into the world again, which is nice, but I haven't regained my sense of time yet. I'm usually lost, unaware of what day it is, even what time of day (which is why I totally forgot to write my scheduled Type M entry on June 10th!) Sadly, I am brutally aware that it's summer here in southern Arizona. I doubt if anyone in the first world hasn't heard we had a week's worth of high temperatures over 115ºF. (46.11ºC). That'll kill you, I guarantee. Fortunately we had a little rain today, and the temps have dropped to the low 100s, which feels downright cool. I think it might be time for Don and me to move to a more salubrious clime.

____________

*A "closed" collection, for the uninitiated, means that the public is not allowed into the book stacks. You have to look up what you want in the library catalog, and a staff person goes and retrieves it for you. Most university libraries used to be like this, but these day only special collections do it like this. And yes, it's a pain.

Creeping cautiously into the future

 There's been a funny theme on Type M recently about all the ways in which life, technology, and other elements out of our control have been interfering with our ability to do our job. Be it the electronic devices on which we write our brilliant prose, those on which we promote it, or the brain circuitry that gets it all started, everything seems to be going awry.  

I feel as if it's been that way for almost a year and a half. Due to looming deadlines, I have managed to finish one novel and get one hundred pages written (and I use that term loosely) on the next - this despite all book events being cancelled and no vacations or get togethers with family or friends - but it's been a very disjointed, at times half-hearted struggle, and I am not confident in the result.

Some activities are returning to normal but I think many of us feel like a prisoner walking through the prison gates into the unfamiliar sunshine. Filled with both joy and trepidation. The whole world is suddenly open to us, except for those parole restrictions. What to do next? How to plan? How to structure our day? Some people are responding with a frenzy of pent-up activity - shopping, restaurants, socializing. Others are creeping cautiously into the light. 

I have started returning to my cottage and to the family gatherings that always marked my summer. Right now I have two of my three children and their families at the cottage, and we are all catching up on lost time. My days are consumed with cooking, washing up, swimming, canoeing, and sitting together over wine. 

Meanwhile, my lake association has resumed activities, with a Zoom exec meeting yesterday and an assignment to write two articles for the upcoming newsletter this week. Promised get togethers with friends are coming due and my calendar is getting complicated.

I know, given all that people have been through this year, I am extraordinarily lucky. But on the work front, I'm a dismal failure. I have not opened the file on my latest manuscript in weeks. And here I am in a rare moment of me time, writing this obligatory blog instead of tackling the book. My brain is no longer used to life in such high gear. I am worried that I have lost the thread of this book, if not my creative ability altogether.

I hope once I actually start reviewing what I have read and thinking about next steps, my creative muse will come back for a visit. It usually does, after it has given me enough time to worry.

It bears repeating…

By Rick Blechta

Yesterday’s post by Douglas concerning the perils of technology got me thinking.

Since the early days of “personal computers” (remember that term?), I’ve used these sometimes frustrating contraptions quite a lot for work. Early on, I used them to write arrangements for my students. It was far easier and convenient and when the little so-and-sos lost their music — a frequent occurrence — I could just print out another copy.

Later on, when I transitioned into full-time graphic design, I had to use computers because, well, no one did anything by hand anymore. Again they sped up the process and made complicated things easy. Plus, when the inevitable changes came in from clients, it was easy and quick to pivot in the required new direction. Seriously, I can’t imagine doing graphic design work without using a computer.

Along the way, I learned a bit about how these exceptionally complicated — and getting moreso all the time — machines worked.

The heart of any computer is storage of all work done using it. If one can’t recall their work, a computer is useless.

It’s also one of the weakest points. If the computational part of your computer breaks down, you can get it fixed. However, if the storage part craps out, well, to put it succinctly (and somewhat crudely), you’re screwed. In certain situations files can be retrieved, but let me assure you, it can be a very expensive process running into the several thousands of dollars.

If you use a computer to store your writing (or anything you do), you need to understand that it’s not a matter of if the storage device (generally a hard drive) will break, it’s when — because they all break down eventually.

I’ve written about this here on Type M before, so today I’m just reminding everyone — back up your work to multiple locations! Make it part of your daily workday. I have two storage hard drives containing my files and I also use offsite storage. I felt very smug about my two hard drives until a graphic design friend asked, “And what if your house burns down?”

Whether you’re a writer or not, you don’t want to lose files, period. There’s nothing more disheartening to hear of a colleague who didn’t take adequate precautions and lost precious (sometimes) months of hard work to the computer demons.

I heard of a writer who lost his entire manuscript of his just-completed novel when his hard drive died. He had to go back and rewrite the whole darn book.

Don’t be like him. Back up religiously to multiple locations every day!

The case of the vanishing words

Sometimes I think technology is out to get me.

I don't mean in a Skynet, come-with-me-if-you-want-to-live way, but there are occasions when I think there's been a meeting called by my devices in which the agenda is this:

• 1. Minutes of the last meeting on how we can annoy Douglas.

• 2. New ways forward on how we can annoy Douglas.

• 3. Any other competent business (on how we can annoy Douglas).

Take my cell phone - please take my cell phone!

Here in dear old Blighty we call it a mobile, which does often cause confusion when I hear parents talking about their child being fascinated by a mobile. It takes me a beat to realise they are referring to one of those hanging contraptions that rotate and not that their new born is thumbing LOLs on social media. 

On the other hand, cell phone makes me think of tattooed felons making illicit calls from one of Her Majesty's penal establishments.

Anyway, my device has been proving unreliable of late. Calls either don't connect or when I answer an incoming call the other party can't hear me. It's also not alerting me to some texts for some reason. I don't mind when it's the usual spam but there are some people that I do really want to hear from and when I find one has arrived unanounced, and therefore unseen, it does annoy me.

Then there's my PC. It has been as slow as a week in the jail (without a cell phone). I've cleaned and dumped and even polished but it remains sluggish. Facebook in particular takes an age to load. And I often type faster than the technology can handle - at least that's how it seems - and it hangs there as if it's having a meeting on the shop floor to discuss the excess workload. My music apps can suddenly stop. And the built-in disc player is so useless - working only when it feels like it - that it should run for public office.

But more importantly, last weekend, the PC failed to save three thousand words of the book I'm writing.

I was nearing the end of the first complete draft of a new Rebecca Connolly and the words were flowing. I was in the zone, baby!

I did everything I was supposed to do and more. Auto-save was enabled. The text was also manually saved whenever I paused for coffee, functions of a personal nature or just for breath. It was saved to the PC, to an external hard drive and a thumb drive. I did all that because there had been a few minor issues and I wasn't taking chances.

I then took Mickey up the braes for a walk. It was a lovely day and I was thoroughly pleased with myself.

That's Mickey having a rest during the walk. 

Anyway, my plan was to complete the first draft when I got home. I was filled with confidence, unusually for this particular book because it has proved troublesome (Tip: Never move house when in the middle of writing a novel.)

But when I reopened the file I discovered that everything I had done that day was gone. Vanished into the ether. Not present on this plane. Or more importantly, nowhere on my computer.

It was a mystery so I consulted a friend whose knowledge of such matters I rely on with such regularity I'm surprised he doesn't insist on a retainer. But he could neither find the missing words nor explain why this had happened. It might be an issue with my software or my hardware. Or both.

And how did I feel?

Well, let's say I was somewhat vexed and there was some industrial language.

Naturally, much like the angler and the one that got away, I have convinced myself that those 3,000 words were the best I have ever written and even though the next day I churned out 4.5k to complete the draft they were not nearly as good. (Saved, incidentally, as above but also copied and pasted into an email. I was taking no chances.)

Then came the next phase in my writing process - printing it all up. I like to go through the words the old-fashioned way, with a pen, because I firmly believe that you see more on the printed page than you do on screen. Or, at least, I do.

However, that means I have to engage in a struggle with my printer, which does often seem to have a mind of its own. Maybe Skynet was involved after all. 

Before I can print anything, we have to engage in the old wireless set up two step. It resolutely refuses to connect until I make obeisance to it, telling it that it's the best, wisest, most beautiful printer in the whole wide world and if it would just please print up these 300-odd pages I'd be very grateful. It grants me the boon - and then runs out of ink. Having forseen such an eventuality, I produced a brand new cartridge, giving the machine a grin that said "I have you now." 

But my triumph turned to tragedy when I realised that I had somehow engineered to buy a colour ink cartridge and not a black one. Shamefaced, I had to go back to the shop and buy another.

Later, someone told me I could have printed it up anyway using the colour cartridge.

Cue more vexation and industrial language. 

Anyway, the pages were eventually printed - the ink cartidge held out to the very end but only just - and I have been going through them for the past few days with said pen.

The upshot of all this is that I believe I'll have to invest in a new phone and computer, and because I am toying with the idea of buying an Apple Mac I may have to consider a life of actual crime to pay for it.

As to the mystery of the missing words, that must be consigned to my Giant Rat of Sumatra file, not because the world is not ready but because I'll never get to the bottom of it.