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Do You Want To Kill the Snow, Man?

by Leigh Perry / Toni L.P. Kelner

As of today, the Boston area has had record-breaking amounts of snow. It's our snowiest 30-day stretch in history, and we accomplished it in just 17 days. (And we broke the previous record by a foot.) I think we have shoveled more snow than I ever saw in all my years in North Carolina and Florida, and that's with a snow removal guy to do the worst of the job. Kids have been out of school and grown-ups have been working from home if it all possible. (Okay, I always work from home, but I'm hardly the norm.)

This is not news, of course. If you've looked at a newspaper, watched TV news, listened to radio news, or visited Facebook, you've already heard. White, mostly, with spots of increasingly cranky-looking people trying to make their way to and from work, school, the grocery store, and so on.

This much snow makes such an enormous impact on the area, and as a writer, I'd like to share some of my thoughtful, insightful observations. After all, I've been here at home for six days out of the past three weeks, unable to leave the house, so there's been enormous potential for introspection.

Unfortunately, I just have the one observation, and it's not particularly profound:

Snow is exhausting.

First off is the manic preparation when you know a storm is coming: grocery store for food, gas station to make sure the tanks are topped off, bank in case you need cash, pet store for guinea pig supplies, drug store for the stuff you forgot to get at the grocery store, Radio Shack for batteries, and most importantly, book store for fresh reading material. By the time the snow comes, I'm ready to collapse.

Then come the storms, and I spend hours looking at weather reports as to when it would stop; repeatedly checked closing lists to see if my daughter's school would be closed; and just staring at the window in amazement.

It was pretty for those hours of snowfall, and kind of awe-inspiring. But when the snow stops, the real work begins. If you're a homeowner like me, you need to shovel at least some of the area around your house. We do have a snow removal guy for a lot of the work, but we had to shovel a path through our yard to get to where we park our car.

This was taken after the first storm. Or maybe the second. Honestly, they're starting to blur.

And this our yard is today, after the third storm.

I assure you that that my daughter is not getting shorter. It's just that much more snow. Once we make it to the cars, we get to clean them off. Cleaning a foot of snow off the top of a car is not for sissies. See that red spot in the to the left of the photo? That's the side view mirror of one of our cars. I think this is after the second storm. Or maybe the first.

But once we get to our cars, it's smooth sailing, right? Hah! If you don't live in a snowy area, you may not realize that as a street is plowed, the snow is shoved to the edges of the streets. Unless the snow is then carted away, you end up with taller and wider piles on the sides of the narrower and narrower streets. See how the curbs are pretty much gone in this picture, and don't you feel sorry for the poor guy who owns the car on the right? (This was after the second storm. It'll be worse than this now.)

Once you get to where you're going, the parking lots are often a mess. Plus they're smaller than usual, too, with huge mountains of snow hither and yon. (In an average year, those snow mountains last well into spring. I suspect this year's crop will last until the Fourth of July.)

So perhaps it's better to just walk. Nope. The sheer amount of snow means that sidewalks are poorly shoveled in many areas, which means you have to walk extremely carefully and sometimes make your way through snowbanks. That's hard work.

I suppose I could try to conclude with something philosophical about how making preparation for an impending storm compares outlining a novel, or how shoveling through snow to reach the goal of freedom on the road is like writing a book, or making my way through snowbanks is a metaphor for the difficult career of a writer, but you know what? I'm tired.

 

 

 

PS - As you read this, it is Wednesday. More snow is predicted for my area on Thursday night. Also for Sunday. Sob.

 

An honor just to be nominated

by Donna Andrews

It's been said before. In fact, it's a cliché. But like many clichés, it became one because it's true. When you're nominated for something, that's exactly how you feel. I look at my fellow nominees for the Lefty Award and the Agatha Best Contemporary Mystery Award--to say nothing of some other writers whose names would not have surprised me if they'd appeared on the list--and my reaction? “Wow! What an honor!”

It is, of course, always a delight to be in any group that includes G.M. Malliet, Louise Penny, Margaret Maron, and Femme Fatale, Hank Phillippi Ryan, my fellow nominees for the Agatha. Or Tim Hallinan, Jess Lourey, Cindy Sample, and Diane Valliere, my fellow nominees for the Lefty Award.

And if you look at the other awards given out by the same conventions—yikes! Some difficult choices. Every single one of the nominees for the Bruce Alexander Memorial Historical Mystery Award is both a friend and a writer whose work I enjoy. (That would be Rhys Bowen, Susanna Calkins, Kelli Stanley, Jeri Westerson, and fellow Femme Fatale Catriona McPherson). I could say much the same thing with the Agatha for Best Historical Mystery, which includes Rhys Bowen, D.E. Ireland, Victoria Thompson, and Charles Todd, who is on there twice, with the latest Ian Rutledge book competing against its stablemate, the latest Bess Crawford.

Always a delight to see friends I've known since before their mysteries came out land on the best first lists, along with new faces that I will try to find time to enjoy. Congratulations to Annette Dashofy, Terrie Farley Moran, Tracy Webber, and my two fellow Northern Virginia area writers, Sherry Harris and Susan O'Brien on their Agatha noms, and to Lisa Alber, M.P. Cooley, Allen Eskens, Lori Rader-Day, and Holly West on their Rosebud nominations.

I'm going to have a hard time with the Agatha best short story voting, because two of my critique partners, Barb Goffman and Art Taylor, are on the list—and Art's on it two times, one for a story in Homicidal Holidays, which Barb and Marcia and I co-edited, and once for a story in Ellery Queen. And when you add in Edith Maxwell and Kathy Lynn Emerson . . . can't I just have five ballots?

Trying not to play favorites in the Agatha for Best Nonfiction, but two friends are on the list—Kate Flora and Femme Fatale Hank. Don't know their fellow nominees—not yet anyway—but congratulations also to Adam Plantinga, Lucy Worsley, and Stephen Bates, and I'm looking forward to reading you.

Juvenile/young adult—more decisions! I don't know Kate Milford or Amanda Flower—yet—but I plan to read them, along with the books by old friends Harlan Coben, Lea Wait, and Penny Warner,

And then there's the Rose Award for fiction set in the Left Coast Crime region. Congrats to Chelsea Cain, Terri Nolan, Gigi Pandian, L.J. Sellars, and Johnny Shaw.

Too many decisions! And a lot of reading to get done over the next few months. Not as much reading as I'd have if I didn't have so many friends on the list—I do try to read my friends' books. But these days I have so many excellent writers as friends that I'm always behind on some of them.

And with apologies to my friends, when it comes to voting, it's all about the work. Not about whether we're friends, or fellow members of SinC or MWA, or published by the same publisher, or repped by the same agent, or any of the things some people may think should influence your vote. All of those things might make me more likely to read a book. And more likely to nominate the book, if I like it, because I'm a firm believer in only nominating books I've read, no matter how much I might adore a writer friend or admire his or her previous works. But when it comes down to the voting, I like to think I'd be honest enough to vote for my worst enemy's book if I thought it was the best one nominated for an award.

Thank goodness I don't have any enemies on any of those lists! Just friends--way too many current and future friends.  So all I have ahead of me is a lot of reading.

 A lot of good reading. Based on the nominated books I've read, and the previous books of writers whose nominated new books I have yet to read, and the good reviews I've seen—I'm looking forward to it.

So if you haven't read me—or any of my fellow nominees for any of these awards—I hope you'll find the time between now and Left Coast Crime or Malice to do so. Happy reading!

 

 

How Writing is like Valentine's Day

Catriona writes: The shops are a riot of clashing red and pink, the price of roses is hiked up higher than Oliver Hardy's waistband and the population is preparing to split into the resentfully pressured and the wryly disappointed. Yes, it's Valentine's Day again (nearly) but before you roll your eyes and turn away, murmuring that this is one over-commercialised minor saint with nothing to offer you, look who's here at Femmes Fatales today.

 

 

It's only Jess Lourey, come to talk about her brand-new novel FEBRUARY FEVER, the tenth Murder-by-the-Month novel, this time with added lerrrrve.  And Jess is giving away not one, not two, not three - wait, yes, actually three signed copies to commenters today.

 

If you haven't yet met Mira James (library-assistant and corpse-stumbler of note), octogenarian Mrs Berns (serious contender for best side-kick ever), Johnny Leeson (butchest/sweetest Minnesotan since Pa Ingalls) and chiefs Wohnt and Wenonga (hard to explain: you really should read them) then you're in for a treat.

 

It's all the more impressive that Jess has now written ten of the twelve books - full of light and laughter - when we peek into her writing life at the darkness and weeping there.

 

And now, Jess Lourey:

 

 

How Writing is like Valentine's Day.

 

1. It isn't.

 

Unless, of course, Valentine's Day can be a painful, lonely time that requires you to dedicate vast swaths of time to what may be a fruitless effort and to risk public rejection.

 

Hmmm.

 

I'm thinking about Valentine's Day, you see, because February Fever, the 10th in my Murder-by-Month mysteries, hit shelves February 8. It features a murder on a speeding, Valentine's-themed train. I wrote the book a year ago, and like childbirth, I remember it as a rosy, soft-lit experience where everything flowed beautifully. I'm presently writing my first thriller, tentatively titled Salem, and the experience is different than what I remember of writing February. The process of writing Salem is gross and hard and dispiriting.

 

I love it, of course. I love the research, the outlining, the waking up in the middle of the night as my sleeping brain smooths out a character tear. But when it comes time to pull it all together into a book? When it's time to actually write? That's hard. It's so hard it's almost impossible. I've written twelve books, ten of which are traditionally published and two which are self-published. I understand the narrative rhythm, I can budget time, I'm good with deadlines. And so why, every time, is it so hard to write a damn book??? As I texted a friend last week, it feels like I have to perform brain surgery that I have not been trained for. It ends up being easier to putz around--blogging, checking Facebook, cleaning the toilet bowl with the base with my tongue--than to jump into the writing of the book and risk a lethal error.

 

 

I know that sounds dramatic, but it's the truth of the mental game I play with myself each day I sit down to write, five days a week. Why doesn't it get easier with time, like any other job I've done? I'd appreciate your ideas on this below. In the meanwhile, you can check out Joseph Finder's article (http://www.josephfinder.com/writers/tips/just-write-the-damned-book-already/), where he essentially says that the trick of writing a book is to persevere (I suspect his advice to those of you worried about drowning would be "don't sink"); or this Psychology Today article (https://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/one-true-thing/201307/writers-block-it-may-not-be-all-in-your-head) which suggests that procrastination may be good (best guess: it was written by a procrastinator); or this Poets & Writers article (http://www.pw.org/content/how_to_get_unstuck_the_psychology_of_writer_s_block?article_page=4) which says the trick, essentially, to writing that book is to narrow your choices in the drafting stage--too many choices creates paralysis.

 

A combination of all three bits of advice, glued together like a 2nd grade macaroni art project, is what limps me through the first draft stage. I cut my choices with a short (ten page or so) outline, give myself space to daydream in the outlining phase (usually lasts about a month), and then I fight my monkey mind five days a week, writing 2000 words a pop. It's ugly. But it's all I've found that works. Sort of. [not "sort of" - CMcP]

 

>>>>>>>

 

Jessica (Jess) Lourey is best known for her critically-acclaimed Murder-by-Month mysteries, which have earned multiple starred reviews from Library Journal and Booklist, the latter calling her writing "a splendid mix of humor and suspense." Jessica also writes sword and sorcery fantasy as Albert Lea and edge-of-your-seat YA adventure as J.H. Lourey, and is branching out into magical realism, literary fiction, and thrillers under her given name. She is a tenured professor of creative writing and sociology at a Minnesota college. When not teaching, reading, traveling, writing, or raising her two wonderful kids, you can find her dreaming of her next story.

 

My personal cliches

by Kris Neri

Most writers strive to rid their writings of clichés. We struggle to produce the freshest writing we can, creating unique descriptions that will leave our readers in awe of our prose. Yet despite working to create the most memorable lines possible, a form of cliché invariably still slips into our work. Not necessarily clichés that everyone else recognizes as such. But our own personal overworked expressions.

All writers have go-to words and phrases that we use without any awareness of how often we’ve plugged them in. One of mine is “just.” What can I say? It just seems to fit in way too many situations. Fit? It’s more than a matter of merely fitting in. It actually feels outright necessary when I insert it. As if the line simply won’t work without it. Or just won’t.

While in the revision process, I’ve learned to do global searches for “just.” I know I have to eliminate many of them. If I don’t, my editor will gripe, and my over-sprinkling of them will diminish me in her eyes. But still…they just seem to work. I have to make deals with myself, agreeing to cut some in exchange for getting to keep others. I know we’re charged with killing our darlings, and I happily do that — but “just” rises above the level of a darling for me.

Sigh…it embarrasses me to write that, but it’s true.

Another of my personal clichés is my love of starting sentences with “but.” Sure, I know that starting with a "but," like starting a sentence with “and,” is not the hanging offense English teachers said it was in grade school. But (see?) once again, I overuse it. I like the way it links sentences together, while simultaneously introducing a bit of conflict. It works. But (again, see?) when I do a global search for sentence-starting-buts, I’m dismayed by how many start that way. And (I like sentences starting with “and,” too), in each case, it seems to work.

I’m a lot more ruthless about my students’ and writing clients’ clichés. They’re not my darlings, after all, so they’re easier to ax. There’s actually an inverse ratio involved. I find myself as determined to root them out of their writings, as I am to hold onto my own. 

One that’s been making me especially crazy lately, which multiple clients cling to, is the phrase, “A phone was heard,” or something to that effect. Heard by whom? When a scene is presented in limited viewpoint, shouldn’t the POV character do the hearing? Shouldn’t it be presented in that way? Such as, Jane heard, for instance, or I heard. Even a line that mundane can convey something fresh and unique to the reader's impression of the character, which “A phone was heard” cannot convey. And yet (another way I like starting sentences), even as I tell them they should avoid this presentation, I see lots of published authors use that exact phrase. So, it’s clearly not wrong. I just believe their WIPs would be better without it.

Another one I see way too often, which often earns my bright red comment tag, is the dramatic overuse of the word “as.” New writers overuse “as” as much as I overuse “just,” but often they eventually move beyond it. (Naturally, my uses of it in this line aren’t overuse.) The difference is that they don’t remove theirs. If you’re one of those as-overusers, substitute other words for many of your instances of “as. “When” often works nicely, and if you’re using both, that alone reduces the number. Still, I continue to see staggering numbers of “as” in students’ works.

Maybe we do all use our own clichés. Maybe we so like the sound of these words and phrases, they rise to the super-darling level for all of us. I’ll continue to wrestle with my own and other people’s. But (once more!) something tells me that no matter how hard I work at making my writing as fresh and lively as I can make it, my go-to words will continue to find their way into it.

What are some of your personal clichés?

Our Mockingbird

 

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN:  Do you remember the first time you read To Kill A Mockingbird? Or saw the movie? How often have you thought about that story since then—the voice, the setting, the characters, the writing, the themes?  You can quote it, can’t you? It’s one of the most enduring and endearing and important books ever.

A terrific film producer, Sanda Jaffee, learned of two Birmingham Alabama high schools that were collaborating on their production of To Kill a Mockingbird.  That was irresistible—especially since one of the high schools was the one she’d attended so many years before. 

As Sandra says:

“I called the drama teacher, who I did not know. She laughed and said, “And you are wondering how we cast the black characters, aren’t you?” I said, “Well, yeah. I was kind of wondering that.” And she told me that my high school, situated in one of the wealthiest and whitest communities in the country, would be collaborating with an all black high school, which I would soon learn had no theatre department or even auditorium. The only thing I could think was, “I wish I could have participated in something similar.”

Sandra says: I grew up in Birmingham, Alabama, was a kid during the height of the civil rights movement and couldn’t wait to leave my home state.  But my experience there, for better or for worse was formative, and led me to make Our Mockingbird, a documentary that uses Harper Lee's 1960 coming of age novel, To Kill a Mockingbird, as a lens to view race, class, gender and justice -- then and now.

Growing up at a time when George Wallace was governor, I felt a lot of shame about being from Alabama. When I left in the ’70s for college in Boston, I think I held on to To Kill a Mockingbird as a way to align with something about Alabama that was positive.

Over the years I became aware of how resonant this story still is for so many others all over the world and decided to interview an array of people including writers, teaches and lawyers, about their own experience with the book.  Soon after I started filming I stumbled on a production of the adapted play To Kill A Mockingbird that was happening in Birmingham; two high schools were collaborating – one all white– and one all black – and since I attended the same all white high school I grabbed the opportunity to weave their story though the film as a 21^st century example of the influence of To Kill A Mockingbird.

And Facing History and Ourselves asked her:

How do you hope the film inspires audiences—both in thought and action?

Sandra said: I hope that as people watch these two high schools cross the divide of race and class, that other communities will be inspired to collaborate with groups that they have not interacted with, groups that they are segregated from by virtue of where they live or how their community is designed. I hope that after seeing the film, young audiences will have a better understanding of what happened during the civil rights era, and that they will advocate and act for change. I hope audiences will see the film and think about events like the 1963 Children’s Crusade in Birmingham, and the Freedom Rides, and the march from Selma to Montgomery, and realize that we still have a lot of battles to wage, and that we have to be vocal in order to get change. I hope that people will examine disparities in our education and justice systems and realize that they are connected—that all young people are entitled to the same opportunities in education, and that all people are entitled to equal justice under the law.

Here’s a link to a clips of Sandy’s documentary.  http://video.pbs.org/video/2365411495/ 

The film airs February 3 at 8pm on PBS’ World Channel (check local listings) and streams free after it airs until March 5. I’ll be watching tonight, and I cannot wait.

What are your Mockingbird memories?