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New Covers for the Novels You Love

By Elaine Viets

How do you like the new covers for my Dead-End Job mysteries?
My Dead-End Job mysteries are now classics. The first 13 novels are being re-released by JABberwocky Literary on March 6 as e-books. JABberwocky also publishes Charlaine Harris' Aurora Teagarden backlist and that of other bestselling authors.
The Dead-End Job re-releases will have new covers by the award-winning Jenn Reese at Tiger Bright Studios. Inside, you'll find your favorite adventures by Helen Hawthorne, the
St. Louis woman who had a high-finance job, a beautiful home— and a good-for-nothing husband she caught in the act with their neighbor. When she divorced the bum, the judge saddled Helen with alimony—and Helen defied the courts and refused to pay her ex.
She wound up in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, working dead-end jobs for cash under the table. Follow Helen as she learns to thrive in the pink-collar world of South Florida. In the 13 novels, Helen changes from a bitter woman who distrusts men. She eventually remarries and becomes a private eye. She still works those low-paying jobs, but now she's undercover as a PI.
Helen also finds a new family at the Coronado Tropic Apartments, with Margery, her purple-wearing landlady, her neighbor Peggy and her parrot Pete, and the other colorful characters.
Helen's in-depth exploration of the pink-collar world is more meaningful now then when the series started. Here are Helen's first 13 dead end jobs:
(1) In Shop till You Drop, Helen sells bustiers to bimbos.
(2) Next, she works as a bookseller in Murder Between the Covers.
(3) Then she's a telemarketer selling septic tank cleaner in Dying to Call You. (Yes, I really sold it. Wanna hear my spiel?)
(4) After that, Helen works at a bridal salon for Just Murdered. When I sold wedding dresses, emotions were so strong, I wondered why there aren't more murders.
(5) During a hurricane, Helen tracks down a killer at a posh dog grooming salon in Murder Unleashed. 
(6) In Murder with Reservations Helen is a hotel maid, and finds out why you shouldn't use a hotel coffee pot. (Ask me if you dare.)
(7) In Clubbed to Death, Helen works at a country club, solving the problems of people who have no problems. The club's motto should be "Do you know who I am?"
(8) From there, she's a gofer at a high-end hair salon where a color and cut cost more than a car payment in Killer Cuts.
(9) In Half-Price Homicide Helen's at a resale boutique where trophy wives with controlling husbands get their folding money.
(10) In Pumped for Murder, Helen explores the fascinating world of women's competition body building, where "ripped and stripped" competitors live on three ounces of chicken – a day.
(11) After that, Helen is a stewardess on a luxury yacht for Final Sail, and learns to vacuum in the tracks.
(12) Life's a beach in South Florida, but the friendly folks selling parasailing and paddleboarding are in cutthroat businesses. Helen's role in Board Stiff is no day at the beach.
(13) The fur flies when Helen is a groomer for pedigreed show cats in Catnapped!
Get the whole set or treat yourself to the books you missed. They make good Mother's Day gifts, too. Prices start at $2.99 and go up. Check out the Dead-End Job novels here. 
Binge on the whole bunch -– there are no calories in reading!

Sometimes We Make it Up

Are you writing? Reading? (Procrastinating?) Today the Tuesday Femmes are talking about what we know, and how we know it. And then, what we do with it. Research I mean. Or no research?

Research or invent?

ALEXIA GORDON: I invent. I use real geographic locations--southwestern Ireland, coastal Virginia--but I make up the names of the towns, the names of the streets, the locations of buildings, the distances between point a and point b. I read about an author who visited Broadmoor to find out what a facility for the criminally insane was like and of an author who went hiking in the Alps to retrace the steps of a spy who fled the Nazis along the same path. Time and budget constraints prevent me from doing that type of on-site research. I try to make a quick visit to a place similar to the place I'm inventing--an island in the Great Lakes, an Irish village, a small southern town--to get a general idea of what such a place would be like then I use the internet to research specifics like what Georgian architecture looks like, where do the train lines run, and so on.

CATRIONA MCPHERSON: I've done it various ways. When I set a book in my home village of South Queensferry, I used real names and had a map and everything. (It was 1926, so the lawyers didn't get too antsy.) The research was me walking round with my dad and listening to him telling me stuff. I can recommend it! I've set books in real houses.

AS SHE LEFT IT took place in my pal Diane's house in Leeds. She read the book in the house. And THE CHILD GARDEN was my love letter to the house I lived in in Galloway for ten years. Sigh. And QUIET NEIGHBORS used a whole real town - Wigtown.

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN: Well, all my books are in Boston. And Boston is Boston. And I try, much as I can, to make it be realistic and correct—I always worry that someone will email and say—hey! Beacon Street is one way, but not past Mass Ave. So when I can, real is safer. Plus , after 30 some years as a reporter here, it’s familiar. Who knew I was doing book research all that time? (The hilarious part, though, is when I am at the real place where something happened in the book. I’ll say--oh, here’s where Jane was mugged by the bad guy! Then I think no—I made that up….

Stay true to reality or tweak as needed?

CATRIONA: I do tweak. In QUIET NEIGHBORS, there's a book shop on the site of the helpfully named "The Bookshop" but it's a different one. My fictional bookshop is based on one in Norfolk, a few hundred miles to the south. I've also used a Galloway village - Durisdeer - and plonked it down in the county of Fife (in BURY HER DEEP), flattening an existing village and throwing up a volcanic mountain. The power is dizzying.

Tweaking went wrong for me once, when a woman turned up muddy and flustered to a library talk in Queensferry, having spent the afternoon looking for Cassilis Castle. I said at the end of the book that the castle was actually in Galloway (Cardoness) and I'd dragged it north for plot purposes. But she'd only read half the book and didn't know. She was quite annoyed, as I remember.

HANK: Well, all my books are in Boston. And Boston is Boston. As I said. But! Only sort of. For instance, I don’t have a murderer live at an address that exist. I’ll sort of open up the map and insert a new Hank street between two real streets.

In SAY NO MORE, there’s an exclusive neighborhood near Fenway Park. So Fenway is Fenway, and there is a real neighborhood there, but It’s not called what I called it, and the streets are invented. Still, it all looks like it would if it were real.

But in TRUST ME (the new book), I made up an entire town. Because I needed things to be the way I wanted them to be, and the history of the town to be what I wanted it to be. It still feels like a proper Massachusetts suburb. And if you didn’t look it up, you might think oh, Linsdale, I’ve been there! It’s right near Newton. But...it isn’t. It’s only in my head.

And I say in the acknowledgements: Please understand--and forgive--my manipulation of geography!

ALEXIA: Tweak away! Since my settings are made up, sticking to reality isn't an issue for me.

What do you only get face-to-face, feet on ground and what can you get through the internet?

HANK: Oh, all of the above. I spent some time today looking at maps of Boston Common, what streets are there, and all, and which direction. And google Earth is terrific—you can really walk thought the area! It’s mesmerizing. But I would have preferred to be there for the actual setting—how the old elm looks, for instance, or if the sidewalk has frost heaves. And I always look up the time of sunset, so I can be sure the light changes at the right time, and whether the street lights would be on.

ALEXIA: The internet provides me with facts. So many facts. I've been amazed at what you can find with a few well-chosen keywords. However, I agree, Hank. Google can't give you the feeling of a place. You need to be on-site to understand what it feels like to be somewhere. It's one thing to read about riding a ferry in a storm, or having high tea in a fancy restaurant, or seeing the view from a hotel balcony. But reading about these things doesn't give you the same information experiencing them does.

 CATRIONA: I agree, Alexia. I pore over maps but visiting a place always surprises me. One time I was researching the site of an action scene that I thought would be in deep green countryside - Thomas Hardy land - but when I actually climbed the hill all I could see was the sea laid out before me, a massive sparkling sweep of water. It would have been ridiculous to have Dandy Gilver on that hill not mentioning the sea. Phew. And then there's things like not mentioning the sudden bitter cross-winds as you turn a corner in Manhattan, or the length of time it takes to get up from the deepest tube stops in London, or the fact that it's still daylight at ten o'clock in June in the Scottish Highlands . . .

HANK: And knowing reality advances the story, right? It always does for me!

So Femmes and friends, how about you? Tell us your research secrets!

Typing

by Donna Andrews of the Femmes Fatales.

I've definitely reached the “it's all crap” phase of my latest book draft. This phase means that I reread what I've written so far and am suddenly struck by the awful realization that everything I have written is bad. Or at least deeply flawed. That it will require way more revision time than I have available to turn it into a decent book. That clearly this is the book that will reveal me as a writer who has nothing left to say, if indeed she had anything to say in the first place.

I have also reached the “Oh, my God, it's going to be too short” phase. I need to turn in a draft of about 80,000 words. Not just because it's in my contract—although it is—but also because if the book doesn't have a certain substance, a certain degree of complexity, it's deeply unsatisfying to the reader. And while I start drafting when I have an outline of greater or lesser completeness and magnificence, that I think will be enough to achieve that length, sometimes I'm wrong. Sometimes I need to add in incidents and plot twists to reach the proper level of complexity. Sometimes I write too tightly in the first draft and need to go back and layer in foreshadowing and description. And sometimes I am just struck by a groundless existential dread that no matter what I think of to add in, it will still be too short.

I usually reach the “it's all crap” phase and the “Oh, my God, it's going to be too short” phase at approximately the same time—resulting in the infinitely worse “Oh, my God, not only is it all crap, but there's not nearly enough of it” phase. This can happen 30% of the way in, or it might hold off until I'm 70% to 80% done—but it will arrive. Knowing this doesn't ward it off, or even make it any less painful to endure. Neither does having written over twenty-five published books, in spite of the fact that during the drafting of most if not all of them I felt the same dread and panic.

Knowing I've survived this before helps a little. But you know what really helps?

I keep typing.

The drawers of unpublished writers are filled with manuscripts that were abandoned when the author hit the “it's all crap” phase or the “Oh, my God, it's going to be too short” phase or one of their cousins that I haven't yet met (but could meet, any time, possibly while I'm still reeling under the double whammy of “Oh, my God, not only is it all crap, but there's not nearly enough of it.”)

The shelves of bookstores are filled with writers who weathered these phases and kept typing. Writers who, when their internal editors told them “it's all crap,” replied “then when I'm finished, I'll revise”--and kept typing. Writers who rode out “Oh, my God, it's going to be too short” by saying “well, when I'm finished, I'll see what's missing”--and kept typing.

So that's where I am this morning. Heading into the home stretch on a draft. A crappy draft that's way too short. A draft that at the moment seems less enticing to work on than cleaning my garage or finishing my income tax preparations.

If you want me, I'll be here typing.

Millenial Creativity

by Leigh Perry / Toni L.P. Kelner

As I sat down to write this, my older daughter Maggie's was in the basement pouring silicon over a clay sculpture of a wolf to create a mold. Once it cures, she'll be mixing up resin to pour into the mold to make a wolf figurine. Then she'll add a custom paint job. Earlier, she was drawing storyboards to add to her portfolio. My younger daughter was at her keyboard practicing a song she wrote, and then moved on to cover "Believer" from Imagine Dragons. Most of the day, she spent drawing on her iPad.

Now I'm not writing this to brag on my daughters. Well, not only to brag on my daughters, though I'm always happy to do that. It just occurs to me that despite the reputation of members of the so-called Millennial Generation, the ones I've run into are some seriously hard-working and creative people.

Don't just look at my girls as examples. When I was at Boskone this weekend, I ran into a 19-year-old woman who'd finished a fantasy novel and was looking for advice for improving it with an eye toward publication. Her twin sister writes poetry.

Then there are Maggie's friends. The three people she's going to be moving in with soon? One is a comic book artist who specializes in coloring, but can produce an entire book himself. Another is finishing up a degree in sequential arts. The third has studied both animation and comics. They all have day jobs, but in their free time, they create comic book anthologies and sell custom artwork at conventions. One of her other friends just got a job as an animator for a PBS station. She's working on prints to sell, too.

Okay, maybe this is a biased sample in terms of creativity--Maggie met them all when she was in art school herself--but their willingness to work hard is pretty representative of her friends. One is getting a teaching degree to go with her geology degree so she can teach, has a day job in retail, takes art commissions over the web, and creates her own fantasy costumes. Another is finishing her degree, waitressing, and doing historical recreations on the Lexington, MA town green. One regularly blogs detailed reviews of anime.

Valerie's friends? From her high school are the drama kids. While finishing their senior year at high school--and applying to colleges--they work backstage on the schools' three shows a year. One of them stage manages both at their school and in community productions. Then there are the kids she knows from live-action role-play. They create their own costumes, design games, write, and draw--all around going to school and sometimes working jobs, as well.

Look, I remember who I was at that age. While I dreamed of being a professional writer, I promise you that I did not work nearly as hard on my craft back then as they do, and none of my friends did, either. Honestly, I don't think I work that hard now.

So next time you see an article or meme about lazy, entitled Millennials, do what I do. Think of these creative young people, cheer them on, and blow a loud raspberry at people who don't know them the way we do.

Bite Your Tongue (or Sit on Your Hands)

I follow several writers, some published, some unpublished, on social media. Many post news of book deals, tweet about signing with agents, and ‘gram photos of awards. Friends and followers like, “heart”, and share the good news over social networks. Some writers also share their disappointments. A series is canceled, a manuscript doesn’t sell, an agent query is rejected. Friends and followers virtually gather ‘round to show support, offer encouragement, and share advice.

Fortunately, most writers limit themselves to these common uses of social media. However, a few writers take up their smartphones, not to seek congratulations or commiseration, but to excoriate those they blame for, in their view, thwarting their literary ambitions. You’ve read their posts: the “stupid” publishers don’t understand them, the “opportunistic” agents pass up the Great American Novel because it’s not marketable, the “idiot” editors insist grammar matters, the readers who leave negative reviews are—you fill in the epithet. These writers do not take rejection well. As they see it, their manuscript is perfect; everyone else is wrong. The “story” is the only thing that matters (they sneer at punctuation and spelling) and anyone who doesn’t agree their novel is brilliant enough to warrant the expenditure of 300,000 words is a “moron”. Or worse. Advice, or anything other than wholehearted endorsement of their vitriolic screeds by friends and followers is treated to the same burn as the offending agent (or editor or publisher) and to the ultimate social media act of retribution—a block.

Please don’t be that writer. Nobody enjoys rejection. No one expects anyone to be happy about rejection. But letting the whole world (and posting to social media is akin to letting the whole world know, regardless of your privacy settings) is not the way to handle it. Rant and rage if you must but do it in the privacy of your home or car or broom closet. Make sure no one but the cat/dog/goldfish can hear you. They won’t talk; humans will. Pin the rejection letter to a cork board and throw darts at it. Stick any leftover pins in a voodoo doll with the agent’s name scrawled on it in blood. But don’t snap photos to post to Instagram. Keep your anger to yourself.

Agents, editors, and publishers are on social media, too. They’re the original networkers. They networked before it was cool. You may not follow any of their accounts but at least one of your followers does. And publishing people follow each other. You know that caustic email you sent to agent X informing them how dense they must be not to recognize your genius? Well, agent X just tweeted a screenshot of your email to the Twitterverse, which includes agents A through W and Y and Z. You just been branded “difficult”. You’ve just been branded a lot of other things that aren’t repeatable in polite society. Think anyone’s going to represent you now? Nope. You think agents are morons; agents think you’re a toxic jerk. Editors and publishers agree with the agents. The same goes for your foaming at the mouth social media posts. A screenshot of a flame goes viral. Consider yourself quarantined. No one will come near you. They’d rather have measles.

Are you really surprised people in the publishing business (business, not hobby, not charity) want a manuscript that’s marketable? As one writing instructor put it, agents live on commission and need to earn enough to pay rent in New York. Editors and publishers have to pay rent, too. And maybe at least one or two of them has a point. Maybe your novel really isn’t a good fit for them. Try someone else. Maybe your novel isn’t as perfect as you think. Even manuscripts that are sold need editing. Maybe no one appreciates your story because it’s harder to decipher than a teenager’s emoji-laden Instagram caption. Maybe you should listen when they say your 300,000 word thriller stopped being thrilling at 120K. Maybe you can look past your hurt and find the nugget of good advice buried in the “no”.

If you can’t resist firebombing bridges and insist on refusing all advice? Self-publish.

Muddling through

by Donna Andrews of the Femmes Fatales.

From where I was sitting, last week was a pretty crappy week in the universe, in spite of the Olympics, which I'm not watching for reasons that aren't entirely the Olympics' fault. I'm not going to elaborate on the crappiness of last week for a few reasons--one is that we'd get into politics, and I'm not big on arguing politics on the Internet, even if I thought it would change anyone's mind, which it never does. And another is that I can't possibly be as eloquent as the Parkland students—like my librarian friend Chris Wiegard's niece, Emma Gonzalez. Google her. And besides, if you didn't think last week was a pretty crappy week in the universe, I want to know what universe you're in (and how I can get an invitation).

About the only good thing I can say about the bad mojo permeating the universe last week is that it helped me see my own bad week with a bit more perspective. What started off as a pretty good week took a nosedive on Tuesday when, while I was visiting Mom at the assisted living, I realized I was having to push my glasses up on my face rather often.

I took them off and looked at them and realized, to my horror, that The Glasses were finally breaking.

Couple years ago while reading in bed I took off my glasses to have a good stretch . . . and then fell fast asleep, fully clothed, teeth unbrushed, bedside lamp still burning. All of which would have been merely laughable if I hadn't rolled over on my glasses and bent the hell out of them.

I'm pretty much helpless without glasses—I can see really well at a distance of about six or seven inches, but beyond that things get really fuzzy really fast. So having a working pair of glasses is necessity rather than a luxury.

To my dismay, I found that the slept-on glasses were unfixable and the company that made the frames had discontinued them. My eye doctor's office scoured the country, got hold of one of the last remaining frames, and eventually had me back in business—but I was understandably nervous about what would happen when time and wear eventually did in the new frames. So I ordered a new pair.

They never worked. They seemed fine when I put them on—maybe a little off, the way a new prescription often does. But the longer I wore them, the more off they felt, to the point that I was getting bad eyestrain headaches. I had them remade once and adjusted a dozen times—nothing worked. And I got tired of fussing with them, and I had deadlines, so I put them in a drawer, intending to deal with them when I had more time.

Big mistake. Because I never got around to it. So when The Glasses, the old standbys with their battered, discontinued frames, broke, I was left with the pretty new glasses that give me headaches.

I had them adjusted, which helped some, except that the adjustment that they think will prevent eyestrain has them jammed so close to my eyes that my eyelashes brush them, resulting in the need to clean them every five minutes or so, when all the gunk your eyelashes are designed to keep out of your eyes ends up on the inside of the lenses. And I've ordered a new pair. Maybe this pair is cursed.

Still, I lost most of Wednesday afternoon and evening to a hideous eyestrain-triggered headache. Stress doesn't help, either, and Wednesday was certainly stressful for anyone who was paying attention. Or maybe it was Thursday I lost completely. Last week's a blur.

I've muddled through. I've been resting my eyes a lot, listening to audiobooks while the eyestrain eases. I hunted down my computer glasses—a pair of specs optimized for the distance at which I use the computer or read a book. Haven't needed them in years, because with The Glasses, my eye doctor achieved such perfection that I could see the monitor just fine with them. Now, the computer specs are a part of my life again, at least for the time being. They let me read. They're not as good for watching television, so my curious lack of interest in the Olympics has been a blessing. (I also hear from friends who are watching that the television coverage is even more annoying than ever, so there's also that.)

And I met my quota for the week, although I didn't meet it Friday, the way I'm supposed to; I had to work over the weekend. I was focusing more on the suspenseful side of the book, rather than the funny side. I'll probably have to go back when I'm in a better mood, or at least have my new glasses in hand, and up the funny quotient. Most important, I've vowed that I'm not going to let being busy sidetrack the quest to get a pair of glasses that works as well as The Glasses did. If I'd persevered back when I first realized the new glasses were a problem, I wouldn't be in such dire straits now.

Problems you can't solve rarely go away. Sometimes they fester and grow, sometimes they lie waiting for a chance to come out and bite you. But ignoring them doesn't do a damn bit of good. Not an earth-shattering truth, but one I was relearning on several levels last week.

And now I'm going off to start on this week's quota.

 

 

Death in the Stars: A Very British Eclipse

 

Today, we're bringing back Femmes Fatales favorite, Frances Brody. Frances writes  historical novels set in post World War I Britain, featuring Kate Shackelton. In Death in the Stars, Kate is caught up in the eclipse fever that grips in the nation in 1927. Beloved theater star Selina Fellini approaches trusted sleuth Kate Shackleton to accompany her to a viewing party on the grounds of Giggleswick School Chapel. Kate suspects an ulterior motive.

During the eclipse, Selina's friend and co-star Billy Moffatt disappears and is later found dead in the chapel grounds. Kate can't help but dig deeper and soon learns that two other members of the theater troupe died in similarly mysterious circumstances in the past year. With the help of Jim Sykes and Mrs Sugden, Kate sets about investigating the deaths -- and whether there is a murderer in the company.

When Selina's elusive husband Jarrod –- who was injured in the war and is subject to violent mood swings - comes back on the scene Kate begins to imagine something far deadlier at play, and wonders just who will be next to pay the ultimate price for fame.

Death in the Stars debuts in the US this week. Today, Frances tells us how literary stars handled the 1927 eclipse. Take it away, Frances!

                                                                         -- Elaine Viets.

 

 A Very British Eclipse

At 10 p.m. on Tuesday, 28 June, 1927, Virginia Woolf, her husband, Leonard, and several pals set off from King’s Cross on board one of the long trains bound for Richmond, Yorkshire. At 3 a.m., after a stop at York, they ate sandwiches from the china sandwich box. The train arrived in Richmond at about 3:30 a.m. Here, they transferred to an omnibus that would take them to Barden Fell, the highest point of Barden Moor. They passed a vast castle, where lights glowed in a window. Virginia Woolf was noticing the little farms.

What drew this literary clan from their comfortable London drawing rooms to the wild moors of Yorkshire was the hope of witnessing the total eclipse of the sun. Solar physics was in its infancy. There had not been a total eclipse over the British mainland for 203 years, and there would not be another until 1999.

Hundreds of thousands of people were on the move, travelling by trains, cars, motorcycles, bicycles and on foot to the recommended viewing points.  On the railways alone 200,000 people booked seats on special and ordinary trains. Five hundred students from Merseyside Schools boarded a ferry which would be moored at Formby Lighthouse. Fires were lit on the beaches. People camped out on the moors overnight.   

Parties, suppers and all sorts of celebrations were held on the eve of the eclipse. In the Irish Sea, passengers on the crowded Isle of Man-Liverpool ferry danced the night away. Harry Craddock, famous bartender at the Savoy Hotel, had returned to Britain when the USA went dry. He claimed to have stirred the last legal cocktail in New York. Now he created an Eclipse Cocktail. Grenadine became the background of a burnished sky. Gin and lemon provided a corona of light around the olive that stood in for the sun.

The 29-mile wide path of totality extended from the coast of North Wales in the west to the Lancashire coast in the east. The British Astronomical Society, in conjunction with the Royal Society and Ordnance Survey, had long been planning for this event. The chosen observation station for Sir Frank Dyson, Astronomer Royal, was the grounds of Giggleswick School Chapel, near Settle, Yorkshire.

Astronomers set up their instruments. The BBC was on hand to check whether an eclipse affected sound waves. The Daily Mail chartered a plane for use by the Astronomical Society, to observe and photograph the eclipse from above the clouds. Newsreel reporters and cameras were on hand. 

The forecast was for cloud. Very early that morning, astronomers, school staff, boys and visitors went into the Giggleswick Chapel. They prayed that the clouds would part at the right moment. Prayers were answered. Miraculously, the clouds parted at twenty-three minutes and thirty seconds after five o’clock. Those people in the grounds of Giggleswick School Chapel witnessed the eclipse, and so did Virginia Woolf and friends on Barden Fell.

Not everyone was so lucky. Mist, rain and clouds created poor visibility on Mount Snowdon in Wales. When the great moment came, "the drenched spectators facetiously produced their smoked glasses, and in a spirit of unquenchable humour stared solemnly at the dark."

When researching the 1927 eclipse for Death in the Stars, I read two scrapbooks kept at Giggleswick School. Their creator, Thomas Brayshaw, gathered a treasure trove of eclipse memorabilia, letters, cuttings, and photographs. He was not entirely satisfied with his collection. He wanted a particular magazine and was unable to obtain a copy. He regretted his choice of scrapbooks. His note for future generations stated that had he known how much interest there would be, he would have bought better quality scrapbooks.

Mr. Brayshaw, don’t be apologetic. The scrapbooks fascinate. Your memorabilia stands the test of time.

Virginia Woolf and party returned to London by 8 p.m. that Wednesday evening. Theirs was a special train. The fare for the excursion was 18 shillings each.

 

Writing in the library

by Donna Andrews of the Femmes Fatales.

I work best at my desk. My laptop computer has all the programs I need—basically Open Office for word processing, Excel for the spreadsheet on which I track my progress, and Firefox for those bits of ad hoc research that come up while I'm writing. I have a chair whose height I can optimize. A heated footmat for those days when there's a chill in the room. A full range of my favorite lunch options, writing snacks, and beverages half a flight up. My own bathroom a full flight up. All my reference books at hand. And it's a rare day when I hear any noise other than the various household machines and systems doing their job. Dishwasher, washer, dryer, furnace—not big distractions.

So why am I making plans with fellow writer Robin Templeton to write together at the library once a week or so?

This past Sunday our local chapter of Sisters in Crime had its latest writeathon at the Reston Library. At a writeathon, or writing marathon, you get together with a bunch of writers not to interact but to work on whatever project you have on hand—solo, but feeding off the energy that seems to arise from doing in companynwhat is normally solitary work. Only a small number of us met this month—eight? Ten? I didn't count, and unfortunately at this writeathon we were mixed in with the other Saturday library patrons, so it was harder to tell.

But it worked just as well as the previous marathons. I got 2700 words done. And Robin and I were both so pumped at how productive we were that we decided to get together at the Reston library once a week or so to repeat the experience. Monday happens to be a day when both of us are less apt to have other conflicts. And we both like the idea of starting off the week with a big chunk of productivity.

I'm not sure why a writing marathon is so effective for me, but I can think of two big factors. First of all, a lot of the other things that might be pulling on my attention aren't there. The laundry isn't half a flight down, waiting to be done. The messy kitchen isn't half a flight up calling to be tidied. I don't see the clutter at the far end of my office, the stuff I've unearthed in the course of my ongoing decluttering and haven't yet had the time to sell, donate, or put away. There are the temptations to be found on my computer and phone, but somehow they're easier to resist in the library setting.

Because, second factor, I've made an appointment to work. An appointment not just with myself, but with another writer who's equally serious about getting work done. So far, the desire to be there at 10 a.m., when the library opens, has motivated me out the door and gotten me settled at the computer and at work at least as early as I would have if I were working at home, and probably a lot sooner. It's a paradox I discovered when I quit my day job to write full time: when you have all day to write, sometimes you procrastinate about getting started, and you don't work as efficiently as you might. Sometimes I'm a lot more productive on days when I have to squeeze in my writing time between half a dozen other responsibilities.

And—here's a third factor I just thought of--on a writing marathon day, in addition to the lack of distractions and the focus that comes from making an appointment to write, I'm motivated to justify my being there by turning in a good word count for the day. Not to compare with anyone else's total, but with my own memories of past writeathons.

So as I plod along in my slow pursuit of today's writing goal, I find myself thinking fondly of Saturday's and Monday's productivity, and a little annoyed that this coming Monday's President's Day holiday could interrupt what I am already seeing as a useful weapon in my writing arsenal.

Anyone else found writeathons useful?

Call me unreliable . . .

I've been asking around about unreliable narrators recently, taking soundings about whether to ... out a bit of Louise Penny's quote on an upcoming book.

And was there ever a more princess problem than that? "Boohoo, poor me, I don't know how much of the fabulous cover quote from Louise Penny to include on my next book jacket. Please send fruit baskets."

Turns out people have strong feelings about unreliable narrators. Because people have strong feelings about being lied to. 

I read an interesting little book about lying recently. Sam Harris, who has written extensively about morality and free will, has come up with a argument in favour of complete truth all the time. Brutal searing honesty, not even a white lie between friends to spare feelings.

    Q: Do I look bad in this dress?

    A: Yes, I'd change if I were you.

    Q: Can we bring the twins to the party?

    A: No, your children are a trial because of their bad behaviour.

And most relevant to people in the writing community, I suppose:

    Q: What did you think of my script?

    A: It struck me as weak and worthless. You can't write.

He made a decent if chilly case, arguing that if we tell the truth people get the chance to react to reality and make real improvements in their lives, arguing that telling white lies is condescending in the moment and harmful in the long term. I sort of agreed, but I read that whole section muttering 'Yeah but, who put you in charge?" And "What about kindness?"

I was sold on Harris's definition of a lie, however. He called it "anything you say that's intended to make someone believe you think something you don't think". That gets honest mistakes out of the way and also gets rid of the technicality loophole.

    Q: Do I look bad in this dress?

    A: No. (unspoken: it's not the dress. You're just ugly.)

    Q: Can we bring the twins to the party?

    A: Yes (unspoken: I can't stop you buckling toddlers into their car seats and driving them to my house)

    Q: What did you think of my script.

    A: Very interesting. (unspoken: to discover that you have no perspective on the fact that you can't write     for toffee.)

And he has a pithy way of summing up how important honesty is in human interaction. "To lie is to recoil from relationship" is a terrific summation, isn't it?

But some of what Harris calls honesty seems to me to be just cleverer lies. So for instance, if you've been manipulated and or guilt-tripped into letting people come and stay in your house when you don't want them there, and they say, on arrival:

    Q: You sure this is okay?

Harris suggests:

    A: Hey! What are guest rooms for?

That bothers me. Isn't that absolutely designed to make the guests believe you want them there? Isn't that just a technicality? And anyway - here's where I really disagree with him - isn't the last moment when it mattered what you thought about having guests the moment before you agreed they could come? Once they're invited, IMHO, it's time to get over yourself, commit to the decision you made and make sure they feel welcome. (By the way, this is his example. This is nothing to do with house guests of mine, past or pending!)

And then there are those times when honesty would achieve nothing good and would cause pain unlikely ever to fade. Harris lost me when he said a father should tell the truth to a daughter coming downstairs on her wedding day, looking like a dog's breakfast, maybe even recently regurgitated, and asking "How do I look?"

But, I did immediately want to write a story that opens with that scene. What a delicious hand of psychological poker that would be!

And now, over to you. What do you make of unreliable narrators? And where do you draw the line between white lies and murky grey? 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Seven Sinister Sisters

 HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN: What a terrific group of guests we have today! Only at a place called Femmes Fatales would we be delighted to welcome Seven Sister Sisters, right?

But they are on tour, together--how cool is that?--and today are bringing their inimitable style and substance here to you! And what a fascinating idea--One Question, Seven Answers! Our own personal mystery author panel. 

 

  Thanks so much to the Fantastic Femme Fatales for hosting the Seven Sinister Sisters on our grand blog tour! We are seven mystery authors, all members of Sisters in Crime, with new books launching between now and April.

Our question today ... can you give us a peek inside the mind of a mystery writer?

Becky Clark jumps in first. "Most days my mind is somewhat alarming, but a peek is probably safe. I write cozy mysteries with some humor so I’m always on the lookout for stuff that makes me laugh. I figure if it makes me laugh, chances are good it will make others laugh too. I recently found out (fine, I was told right to my face) that I'm weird. Apparently not everyone reads the police blotter and immediately has 748 unanswered questions. Not everyone takes notes on overheard (fine, eavesdropped) conversations. Not everyone tries to figure out all the ways Thanksgiving dinner can kill somebody."

Like Becky, Edith Maxwell (AKA Maddie Day) has an overdeveloped eavesdropping muscle. "You see the cogs and wheels of an overactive imagination spinning overtime inside my mind. I overhear a conversation in a restaurant, see a man with a peculiar gait, or spy a lone teen with purple hair and earbuds, and my brain thinks, Ooh, suppose ... what if? When the imagination isn’t ruling supreme, my rational mind might caution, You’ll never finish this book. The story sucks. Nobody will ever read it. I tell that brain to shut up and get lost, then I go back to making things up."

What ifs are particularly important to Patricia Hale also. "A mystery writer’s mind works the same as any working woman/mother’s mind. What time do I need to pick up my daughter from dance class? What's for dinner? Do I have time to walk the dog? Are we out of milk (again)? But we add a twist. Like… what if my daughter isn’t at dance class and the teacher says she never arrived? How much arsenic would I need to add to the mashed potatoes to kiss my husband goodbye… forever? What if while walking the dog I find a body in the woods? What if I go to the grocery store, walk in on a robbery and get taken hostage? Mystery writers’ minds are much like everyone else’s, except we ask… what if?"

"Well, what’s likely to be at the forefront of any mystery writer’s mind is, of course, the hunt for new and creative ways to kill people off!" says Leslie Karst. "But ours brains are also consumed with the never-ending questions of how many clues and red herrings do we need and where can we best place them to make the mystery neither too difficult (i.e., unfair) nor too easy to solve? To my mind, that’s the hardest part of writing good crime fiction. Oh, and it’s a good bet that at any given time of day, this culinary mystery writer is also contemplating dinner."

Shawn McGuire admits, "Writing in the mystery genre has twisted my mind a little. I tend to see ways to kill people with common objects. Almost everywhere I go, I search out a place to hide the dead body! One day, my son was talking about the government watching us through our internet searches and commented that they might show up at out doorstep one day. I told him that if my search history – unusual poisons, cost of a fake ID and passport, how to escape police custody – hasn’t alerted them to stop by, we’re safe."

"That's true," Sue Star says. "We mystery writers sometimes make people around us a bit nervous. My husband, for one. He is (unreasonably) uncomfortable that my office bookshelves contain volumes about poisons, firearms, and unusual weapons. Fellow diners at restaurants, for another. When my writer friends and I go out to lunch to discuss our plots, we sometimes get carried away. The dead silence of our neighbors alerts us to tone it down. We’re used to such reactions, and so are our non-writing friends. They have to put up with our sometimes drifting attention when in the middle of their conversation we suddenly shout out, 'that’s whodunnit!'"

Real-life experiences filter through the mind of Cathy Perkins. "Authors are sponges, or at least I am. I soak up surroundings, conversations, and experiences and let them play in an overactive imagination. While I’m constantly pinging ideas for new stories, my imagination also percolates through life experiences. My years working in the financial industry serves as a framework for my Holly Price mysteries, but of course the stories are purely fiction. Because Holly works in a financial field, people ask how much of “me” she contains. I know many talented, hard-working women Holly's age and a few with her offbeat sense of humor, but she's a character who evolved as the story came together. I do wish I had Holly's quick wit. I always thinks of the perfect comeback...twenty minutes later…which is why I’m an author and not a stand up comic."

So, that's a tiny, perhaps horrifying peek inside the minds of the Seven Sinister Sisters. Let us peek inside your mind now!

Tell us some What Ifs from your real-life that would make a good premise, or the best real-life person you've seen who would make a great mystery suspect. And, of course, where would YOU hide the body?

To celebrate our new releases, the Seven Sinister Sisters are having a giveaway! Seven lucky winners will receive an ebook from one of us. One GRAND PRIZE winner will receive a signed copy from each of us! Enter to win by leaving a comment below.

Our tour runs from January 6th to April 30th and we’re answering a different question at each blog. Leave a comment at each blog for more entries! We’ll draw the winner from all the combined comments at the end of our tour.

If the grand prize winner is out of the United States, we'll send an Amazon gift card for the equivalent amount.

Watch our Facebook page <<http://www.facebook.com/sevensinistersisters >> for the next stop on the tour.

http://www.patriciahale.org

http://www.edithmaxwell.com

http://www.lesliekarstauthor.com/

http://www.cperkinswrites.com

http://www.shawn-mcguire.com

http://www.rebeccawriter.blogspot.com

http://www.BeckyClarkBooks.com