Writers Who Kill

Just a Little Censorship Can’t Really Hurt, Can It?

2012-02-11T00:30:00.000-05:00

I’m a bit angry—no, really, really angry—soI’m going to rant for a moment. In Tucson, the school board has banned books byvery important and wonderful writers. Pardon me, they say they’re not banned(even though one of their members publicly said they were). They just boxedthem up and carted them out of the classroom mid-lesson while teachers wereteaching from them and students were reading them and doing projects using them.And teachers have been told they face termination if they’re caught using thesebooks or teaching anything else about “race, ethnicity or oppression.” This isa part of a war on Mexican-American studies, though it bans James Baldwin andbell hooks and Native American and white American authors, even Jane Yolen.

They’ve banned, or “boxed,” Civil Disobedience by Thoreau. They’vebanned, or “boxed,” The Tempest byShakespeare. They’ve banned, or “boxed,” LikeWater for Chocolate by Laura Esquivel and The House on Mango Street by my dear friend Sandra Cisneros.They’ve banned, or “boxed,” The LoneRanger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven by Sherman Alexie and Bless Me, Últimaby friend Rudolfo Anaya. They’ve banned eight of my friend Luis Alberto Urrea’swonderful books. They’ve banned, or “boxed,” United States Government: Democracy in Action by R.C. Remy! Andmany, many more—the complete list fills two single-spaced pages.

Many of these books are classics andhave won major national literary awards, but Tucson wants them kept away from theirhigh school students. It reminds me of the recent news stories about Texas andTennessee trying to have slavery erased from their history textbooks. Howfrightened are these small-minded people who want to censor the world ofhistory and literature from their own children? But then, it’s not their ownchildren’s educations they want to censor. It’s that of the children of peopletheir ancestors oppressed, children of people that they may have discriminatedagainst themselves. As if they can remove the reality of it, perhaps evencontinue with it, if they don’t allow these children to know about it.

Their silly substitution of “boxed”for “banned” is a way of saying, “See, it’s only a little censorship, not thefull thing, and a little censorship can’t really hurt, can it?” Actually, whenI see the complete, very long list of titles banned, I have trouble seeing itas a “little” censorship, but even if it were, I oppose censorship. Books andthe range of ideas and experiences they bring us are one of the treasures of afree society.

Fortunately, there is a movementagainst this discriminatory censorship. It’s called Librotraficantes, and youcan read about it, see a video, donate, and sign up as a volunteer here. www.librotraficantes.com A caravanof books and writers and readers will start from Houston and proceed to Tucsonthroughout the Southwest, stopping along the way for readings and to pick upyet more authors. They will be smuggling these forbidden books, “wetbooks,”into Tucson, where there will be readings and teach-ins and a public effort toopen closed minds.

Yes, even a little censorship, evenif you call it “boxing” instead of “banning,” hurts our free society and thestudents of those schools. My writer friends are doing something about it. I’mdoing something about it. Will you?

My Dad's short stories II

2012-02-10T00:01:00.001-05:00

This is the second blog about my father’s short stories.

To recap briefly, I helped my father write his memoires and I’ve blogged about it here. My father introduces me to his friends with, “He wrote my autobiography.” Not long after we finished he was diagnosed with dementia. Quite some time later, unexpectedly, he decided to write short stories. Since he started writing, his mental abilities have remained stable — substantially diminished from his initial level but stable. Others with his diagnosis have declined over time. My mother and I believe that writing has helped him keep up his sense of humor, interest in the world around him and even hope for the future. With his permission, while I am going through the process of having cataract surgery on both eyes, I thought I would share some of his efforts with you. Last week I included some of his stories. Here are some more,

Dad’s Short Stories

DOGS 11 1021-‘11

I live in various places along the west coast. The food is best there. It is more plentiful between May 1^st and September 1^st. Otherwise I live in Idaho and Montana the rest of the year as I find law enforcement is not so strict there. It isn’t bad elsewhere. I am a dog aged 5. You can always find food in this mountain state but you look harder. I have been considering a foreign state but you are no better off there. I was best man in Canada once. My girl friend Arlyne was the bridesmaid. Customs are different there. First, guests are carefully invited. If you are not invited, you have to wait until after the wedding to say hello to them. Second, there are lots of cameramen and they are taking pictures. This is spreading to the U.S. as everyone has a camera. I received several prints. To share the happiness, I put some on my bulletin board. No one ever mentioned them. One was of us kissing and my girl friend almost had a fit. She stepped back in surprise. She hadn’t yet adopted the custom. I intended to send a copy to most of my relatives. But Arlyne said no. My relatives would have to meet her. And so the custom died. Then we all got some mail. All dogs were free! They couldn’t be shot so we failed to spread that function.

How To Play Bridge

I am an average player and my partner is one of the best. One time I had 5 Aces so I moved one of them. My partner didn’t criticize, she had seen worse. One time I had six clubs but they were 6 spades. She didn’t criticize. Another time she put a spade with a club. She may or may not have seen the difference. I didn’t criticize but she didn’t wear glasses. Another time she had three hearts when she really had three diamonds. I didn’t criticize. I do wish she would buy phony glasses. I had five Aces again. I moved one and didn’t say a word. I got pretty good at moving cards. She ran for a spot on the council and for once I was very quiet. I wanted to see what she would do if she was elected. Then I had a great idea. You could have any number of any suit, up to two Spades. That was passed unanimously, even another voted for it.

SQUIRREL 11-16-‘11

The squirrel lived in a hickory tree in our back yard. Most of the time, he woke up every morning with his endless chatter. He was almost tame but he wouldn’t let a human touch him. He lived mostly on hickory nuts. He teased the dog for recreation. He ignored fences, of course. He spent almost as much time in the neighbor’s yard as he did in ours. He greeted us when we went out at night. I don’t know what he did in the winter. I’m sure that heaven has lots of squirrels; all they do is make one feel well. They do no harm. I wish I could live as well.

BLANKET 1-1-2012

This is a short story about a blanket. When you are cold, it is very valuable. When you are hot, it is a piece of junk. I have a red blanket and today I use it because I am cold. It could be green or black or brown. What other property could be so volatile? I have a car and it is the same way. My nurse throws the blanket on and off of me. Maybe we should have a national blanket day. Years ago we had a national dog day every year. In Africa they have a national dog day. They hunt and eat dogs. That day the dogs hide in a place they never tell humans about. The cats are very happy that day.

Celebrating Charles Dickens' 200th Birthday

2012-02-09T00:00:00.000-05:00

Thomas Carlyle on Charles Dickens wrote ". . . deeper than all, if one has the eye to see deep enough, dark, fateful, silent elements, tragical to look upon, and hiding amid dazzling radiances as of the sun, the elements of death itself."

When Dickens died in 1870, the world mourned his death. He was the J.K. Rowling of the time, a literary superstar. Although his novels were true to life and not the fantasies Rowling's are, he had passionate followers, who looked forward to reading each new chapter of The Pickwick Papers serialized in magazines and all the books to follow, serialized or published in book form.

Eventually, when books became cheaper and easier to publish and flooded the markets, critics and professors decided the public needed help in deciding which books were worth reading. In the twentieth century, it seemed that unless a book was complicated and difficult to read, it was not considered a work of great art. It was then Dickens started to fall out of favor, although not totally. There were always faithful followers.

Wilkie Collins is considered the father of the mystery novel, but in my opinion, Dickens was the true father. Collins was a youthful friend of his and most likely picked up all the important elemements of writing a novel, including mysteries, from Dickens, i.e. plot, suspense and cliff hangers to name three. Dickens wrote Bleak House in 1851, which had the first detective, Inspector Bucket. It was the same year he first met and became friends with Collins, who didn't start writing until later.

When Dickens died in 1870, The Mystery of Edwin Drood was appearing in monthly installments. But long before he tried his hand at writing a mystery, he wrote of good vs. evil - think of Fagin in Oliver Twist, for instance - and isn't that what mystery writers write about? Dickens created so many interesting characters that live on today like Pip, Cratchet, Tiny Tim, and a host of others.

And like his characters, Charles Dickens' books live on. Whether or not you like him - and I do - he has returned to favor among the literary elite, who decide which authors are worth being on the list of those who must be read. Christopher Hitchens wrote "Dickens was able to mine this huge resource of London life, becoming its conductor and chronicler like nobody since Shakespeare himself."

And now I need to get to that one thousand pages plus biography of Dickens that's been on my library shelf for some time, and also pick up a copy of Bleak House, one of Dickens' works I have yet to read.

Do you like Charles Dickens? If so, what is your favorite Dickens' book?

Interview with a New Zealand Bookshop Manager

2012-02-08T00:01:00.000-05:00

Interview with a New Zealand Bookshop Manager

Before I travelled to New Zealand I corresponded with a few authors and did not bring their books with me, foolishly thinking I could buy books by New Zealand authors in New Zealand.

Once I arrived in Auckland I went to the airport bookstore hoping to find something by the authors I had corresponded with but — no joy. There were science fiction, fantasy, romance and mystery books along with general fiction, but with few exceptions, mostly of travel books and maps, I might have been in an American bookstore where some mischievous employee had gone around doubling or tripling the price tags.

I tried a number of private bookshops in Christchurch and found limited sections of books by New Zealand authors and the authors I was familiar with in the states.

Next I tried at the University Bookshop, Canterbury Limited, (UBS) on the University of Canterbury campus. There was a section for New Zealand authors, textbooks for courses, children’s and young adult fiction as well as all genres of fiction. Several visits later, and between semesters, I worked up the nerve to talk to the manager, Gillian Newman, who graciously took the time to set me aright even though she had an upcoming sale to prepare for.

When I mentioned that books seemed relatively expensive she explained that the store had to pay a 15% import tax on all goods from overseas in addition to shipping costs. She also explained that, although there are many New Zealand publishers, national readership is relatively small in comparison to countries with larger populations which means publishers have short printing runs and relatively more expensive in production.

She said many successful national authors publish with foreign publishers to generate more sales so their books have higher prices in New Zealand. She pointed out that the shop has more national authors available than most shops and pointed out some award-winning children’s authors from their relatively large children’s section.

Ms. Newman said that the shop was co-owned in part by the student association but financially not associated with the university. She said students could often buy books on line or in the form of e-books for less than they could in the shop so buying books for the shop is tricky.

Thanks to Gillian Newman for her patience and kindness in answering questions. I thought readers might be interested in the bookshop trade here.

The Winter Writer

2012-02-07T05:03:00.000-05:00

Today is cold and clear. The sheep, in their winter sweaters, love this weather. Most of the horses do as well.

Sometime in October, my creativity, dormant over the summer, wakes. I do my best writing in the autumn. Thanksgiving is the high point and then there is a sudden down turn in mood and creativity until mid January. I find the cold invigorating, both mentally and physically. I grew up in New England and I find these Delaware winters a bit on the wimpy side. I don’t get to wear my heavy wool sweaters often. There aren’t long stretches of freezing between thaws.

So having come out of my post autumn slump, which was particularly bad this year, I am once more off and running. I have one short story I am editing for a publisher, another almost done and I need to start a third which is due in April.

For years now people have been urging me to write another novel, and I have been resisting. I am a short story writer, not a novelist.

Bending to the pressure, I started novel number seven, using characters from my short stories. Maybe I have learned enough about writing to make a go of this one. Maybe I will live long enough to finish it. Maybe I will have fun doing it.

I have been trying to figure out who the murder victim is and why he is in the town at all. I have actually written the first scene, which may find its way into the trash. For now, I am satisfied.

I read the Pennsylvania Gazette from 1752 to find out what was going on at the time. I found one murder, several robberies. Most horses stolen were black, most escapees were Irish indentured servants, not slaves. Delaware newspapers will be a bit harder. Oh, boy, a fun day in the library in downtown Wilmington.

I will balance research with writing for the next few weeks. The research will taper off and the writing takes over. Once the first draft is done, I will go back to research to fill in the gaps and flesh out the story.

Very little of this early work has anything to do with plot. It is all location and character. I had a jump start on both with the two short stories on which this novel is based. I have to have more complete characters, a better grasp of the location. I need to change some things from the stories.

For me plotting is the hardest part of the job. Odd, since mysteries depend heavily on plot. The plot forms as I write with many twists and turns and false starts.If I try to outline a plot at the beginning, I never finish because once I figure it out I am done.

I had lunch with a writer friend yesterday and he told me he knows everything about the story before he starts to write. I admire that, but I just can’t do it.

Me? I am six characters and an author in search of a story.

Around the time of my next post-Thanksgiving slump, I hope to have the first draft of Death on the Delaware done and ready for the really hard work of revising.

WIPs Unwrapped

2012-02-06T00:00:00.001-05:00

In an unusual moment of clarity, I realized that I knew nothing of myfellow bloggers’ WIPs, an unforgivable lapse since we all blog to promote ourwork. Last week, I asked James Montgomery Jackson and Alex Morganabout their WIPS. This week, I ask the same questions of WWK alumnae PaulineAlldred and current blogger Linda Rodriguez.

PaulineAlldred

1. What is the title or tentative title for your WIP?
The tile for my WIP is DAD’S CHOICE. As the protagonist confronts obstacles andantagonists, the choice becomes hers.

2. Tell us yourjacket hook.
DAD’S CHOICE, combines a hair-raising plotinvolving murder, money laundering and human traffickers with the secrets andemotional conflicts of a family in crisis. The novel is set in Boston andCambridge, Massachusetts in 1995, the year when O.J. Simpson was tried for murder.Jess, the protagonist struggles to master Windows ’95 and learns her two poundmobile phone can be used as a weapon.

Co-ownerof a visiting nurse company, Jess believes she’s reached the point of takingcharge of her life with work she enjoys and a potential life partner. However,the death of her estranged father and the disappearance of her sister plungeher into the task of unraveling past secrets and forgiving family members whoprefer her to focus on their needs. At a turning point in the story, thevillain offers her the choice—to save her family members and, acceptingdisgrace, to give up her business or to keep her business and let her familymembers save themselves without her help.

3. In which stage of progressis your WIP?

This is the firstdraft of my WIP. Since I belong to a Guppy critique group, I revise chapters ona regular basis. However, I am not trying to polish my writing to perfectionbecause I want to give free rein to my imagination and subconscious beforetackling the inconsistencies and gaffs I am sure are there.

4. How many hours a week doyou work on your WIP?
I write for threeto four hours a day but spend at least two more hours thinking aboutcharacters, plot, and problems in the writing so far. I am often doing othertasks while thinking about my WIP.

5. What are your aspirationsfor your WIP?
I plan to enter DAD’S CHOICE in competitions. So far,the competitions I am considering are, the Amazon Break through Novel Award,AWP Award Series, First Crime Novel, Daphne du Maurier Award, and the PikesPeak Writers Fiction Contest. As the novel develops, I may revise this list.Briefly, I will look for an agent but, in the present and future publishingenvironment, I am not certain about the role of an agent. I attempt to keep upto date with news about small presses and e-books and about the future ofreading in general. The digital age and even education has brought changes inhow people satisfy their need for stories.

6. Where do you hope to be at the end of the year?
At the end of this year, I hope I will be at the point of deepening DAD’S CHOICE,revising the main character’s emotional arc, and I will be able to see when itis time to stop meddling.

LindaRodriguez

1. Name the title ortentative title of your WIP.
EVERY BROKENTRUST. This is the sequel to Every Last Secret, which is going out for reviews from St. Martin’sPress/Minotaur Books as I write this.

2. Provide the jacket blurb of your WIP.
Here’s part of the jacket copy for EveryLast Secret: Half-Cherokee Marquitta “Skeet” Bannion thought she wasleaving her troubles behind when she fled the stress of being the highestranking woman on the Kansas City Police Department, a jealous cop ex-husbandwho didn’t want to let go, and a disgraced alcoholic ex-cop father. Moving to asmall town to be chief of the campus police force, she builds a life outside ofpolice work. She might even begin a new relationship with the amiable Brewsterpolice chief.

All of this is threatened when the student editor of the collegenewspaper is found murdered on campus. Skeet must track down the killerfollowing trails that lead to some of the most powerful people in theuniversity. In the midst of her investigation, Skeet takes up responsibilityfor a vulnerable teenager as her ex-husband and seriously ailing father wind upback on her hands. Time is running out and college administrators demand sheconceal all college involvement in the murder, but Skeet will not stop untilshe's unraveled every last secret.

I don’t have jacket copy for EVERY BROKEN TRUST yet, but here’s the synopsis:
In EVERY BROKEN TRUST,Skeet Bannion manages, most days, to balance her job as chief of campus policewith her unexpected responsibilities for raising a teenage boy and overseeingher difficult father’s rehab from a stroke. When her best friend and surrogatemother, Karen Wise, is attacked and becomes involved with murder that stretchesback into the past and the supposedly accidental death of Karen’s husband,Skeet finds their relationship strained. As Karen grows obsessed with findingher husband’s killer and becomes a suspect in new slayings, Skeet must workwith and against her beloved friend and her own adopted son to save Karen’slife and her freedom.

3. In what stage of progress is your WIP?
Every Last Secret isout for reviews while EVERY BROKEN TRUST is in final revisions.

4. How many hours per week do you devote to their writing?
I treat it as a job, 8 hours/ day to it, usually 4-5 hours/day writingwith the rest of the workday devoted to promotion and writing business. Rightnow, with a book coming out, I’m devoting more time to promotion and writingbusiness, so I’m only writing 3-4 hours/day. On weekends, I work for 2-3hours/day.

5. What are your aspirations for this WIP?
Most of all, I want to reach readers who will enjoy and appreciate mystories and my people. I hope to garner excellent reviews and plenty of onlinebuzz for my first book, Every Last Secret,and then I hope it will win awards. I also hope to sign a contract with mypublisher for several more novels in the EVERY series with Skeet Bannion.

6. By the end of the year, where do you hope to be with this WIP?
I hope by the end of this year to have finished the first draft of thethird book in the EVERY series, EVERY HARD HOMECOMING, and to be talking with my publisher aboutanother series I have in mind in which they’ve expressed interest. I’d alsolike to see Every Last Secret up forsome first-book awards in the mystery community.

7. In what area of the country are your novels set?
They are set in a fictional small college town a few miles outsideKansas City, Missouri, right next to the Missouri river and the border betweenMissouri and Kansas.

8. Will St. Martin’s help publicize your first release?
St. Martin’s has assigned me a publicist and will have an activecampaign to sell the book to libraries around the country. They have beenworking to get Every Last Secretselected by national book clubs, and I hope to share good news on that frontshortly. They are giving me a platform on their huge website, Criminal Element.I’ve been setting up events for a book tour myself, but my publicist is helpingwith that and making sure my books are in stores for all of them. My publicist isseeing that my books go out for review and persuading the big outlets to reviewthem. Most of it I’m doing myself, but I feel fortunate they’re doing what theyare since most big trade publisher do almost nothing for first novels.

9. How long have you been writing, and how long does it usually take tocomplete a manuscript?
I started as a novelist as a very young wife and mother (twins the hardway—less than a year apart). Later, I became a university administrator andturned to poetry because I never had any chunks of time to work on novels, justminutes here and there. Poetry works better under those circumstances. I hadsuccess—publication, books, awards—and I’ll continue to write poetry, but whenIll health forced me from my job, I turned back to the novel. I wrote EveryLast Secret over two years and started sending it out three years ago. Mynewest book, EVERYBROKEN TRUST, was begun after I learned I’d won the Malice DomesticFirst Novel Competition with Every LastSecret—in May 2011. I’m finishing the last revisions right now. It wouldn’thave taken so long, but I had a lot of traveling in there.

10. Do you work with a critiquegroup or partner?
I’m fortunate enough to be married to a publisher and editor. My husbandruns a university literary press. He’s my first reader. Then I have a fabulouscritique group, The Novel Group, with three other women novelists in KansasCity, and I regularly attend the Book Dissection Group of my local Sisters inCrime chapter. This is a wonderful post-graduate workshop in crime writing ledby Nancy Pickard. So I’m very lucky.

The Arts Are For Everyone!

2012-02-04T00:40:00.001-05:00

I’ve been giving writing workshopsat a local high school on the wrong side of the tracks. These kids have alreadybeen through lots of trauma and stress, though they’re only in their teens.These particular twenty kids, however, have fallen in love with writing, andit’s offering them a way to deal with broken families, broken hearts, andbroken promises. They learned that on their own without me.

I’m there to show them that writingcan offer them even more. It wasn’t easy at first. Some of them started outprickly. It’s natural when life’s been a hostile environment to be always onguard. It took patience, but we’re past that now. And they’re writing somephenomenal poems.

This last workshop I had the joy oftelling them that their work would be published in an anthology of Kansas Citystudent writing and that they would give a public reading at The Writers Place,the city’s stand-alone center for writers and literature. They’re prettyexcited. This is a kind of validation that they almost never get. And since thepoems that will be published were from a workshop we did around identity andspecific imagery, it’s a special kind of validation. They opened their heartson the page about the good and bad things in their families and their lives,and society is saying, “You are great just as you are!”

Out of the school population of 348,these twenty kids are winners. They may not be the only ones, of course, andthey may not all go on to college. However, they have learned to use languageto help themselves through tough times. They have learned to use language toform images of who they are and where they want to go.

The metropolitan Kansas City area isdivided by the state line between Missouri and Kansas. I’m grateful that thesestudents and I live on the Missouri side, which is, in general, much poorerthan the Kansas side with its quite wealthy suburbs. Because of politicalideology, Kansas as a state has denied the arts. Its governor disbanded theKansas Arts Commission and sent back tons of money to the NEA. Missouri, almostas conservative a state, has kept its Arts Commission alive, barely at timesbut alive still.

It’s the Missouri Arts Commissionthat is funding these workshops, the publication of this student anthology, andthe public reading for the students. I keep hearing from conservativepoliticians that the arts are just for rich, elitist liberals and offer nothingof value to everyday people. Don’t tell that to these shining-faced kids. Theyare writers, artists, and they know better.

My Dad's short stories I

2012-02-03T00:01:00.001-05:00

My Dad's Short Stories

I’ve written before on this blog about my father and helping him write his memoires. My father introduces me to his friends with, “He wrote my autobiography.” Not long after we finished he was diagnosed with dementia. Quite some time later, unexpectedly, he decided to write short stories. Since he started writing, his mental abilities have remained stable — substantially diminished from his initial level but stable. Others with his diagnosis have declined over time. My mother and I believe that writing has helped him keep up his sense of humor, interest in the world around him and even hope for the future. With his permission, while I am going through the process of having cataract surgery on both eyes, I thought I would share some of his efforts with you.

Dad’s Short Stories

MANGER 1-8-‘12

Away in a manger lies Jesus. He lays in total innocence getting ready for anything that will come. He has known the Spirit of God for many years. He was much older than the Spirit of God but he stayed with him anyway.

He already knew the characters of God and had known them for many years. He knew the good points of people like Adam, John, and Lazarus. Their work was yet to come. They journeyed for many years, even thousands of years. He had looked for husbands for some characters. He had found wives for a large number of Mongols. He found wives for every head of state. He knew of their good points and the foibles of all the world’s famous people as he guided them in what they were supposed to do. He showed them what God wanted them to do. He showed them how to handle the gate and not to stay as they all preferred. In other words, he showed them how to please the Savior. They were all ready to do Gods’ good work. No one is perfect in every way. They could only work with what they had. The Savior was pleased with what he saw. He could read western magazines and sleep. He called on Ike and helped guide him during his service.

RABBIT 1-3-‘12

The rabbit enjoyed Mr. McRae’s garden patch. Mr. McRae’s eyesight wasn’t very good so if caught, the rabbit didn’t move and the rabbit chuckled as Mr. McRae continued to look for him. The rabbit liked lettuce best of all. He also liked radishes and corn. Mr. McRae looked in the tomatoes a lot. Mrs. McRae was different. She had good vision but neither of them was able to catch the rabbit. The rabbit spent quite a bit of time in their neighbor’s garden but for some reason he particularly enjoyed teasing Mr. McRae. The third garden in the neighborhood was further away. So the rabbit didn’t get into it but occasionally. Then he overheard Mrs. McRae talking to her husband. She said that this rabbit never works in the garden at all. He just eats the stuff without helping. He thought about her side that night. She was right. So the rabbits stopped eating out of Mr. McRae’s garden. Their two children were well cared for and they lived in Farson. That is all.

Valentines for Vets

2012-02-02T00:00:00.000-05:00

Yes, Valentine's Day has become a day to help the greeting card, the candy and the florist businesses, but it also lifts the spirits of those who are the receipients of cards, flowers and candy, and it makes them feel loved. Of course, there are too many, like Charlie Brown, who feel neglected and unloved on this day.

Years after hubby left, and I didn't care anymore, I had a secret fantasy that a bouquet of flowers would be delivered to me, and the card would say "From a Secret Admirer." I'd lived alone long enough that I didn't really want my life cluttered with the maintenance of a "Secret Admirer," but flowers would be nice. Realistically, I didn't know how I'd get a "Secret Admirer" since I taught in an elementary school almost exclusively female, and the few men who worked there; principal, gym teacher and janitor were all happily married.

Still, it didn't mean I didn't get a plentiful amount of Valentines - dozens, in fact - and candy, too. Mostly Hershey kisses and suckers. Most of those Valentines were generic "To the teacher" and had the current cartoon character in favor that particular year; Sponge Bob, Spider Man, Tinkerbell, etc. But there were always a few larger, more expensive cards, too, those costing as much as a dollar, or even better, the handmade cards with sayings like "You're the best techer in the hole world."
It never ceased to amaze me how big Valentine's Day was to elementary school children. They started decorating their boxes at home far in advance. Well, at least most did. There was always that kid, who only remembered to tell his busy mom, while she was packing lunches and preparing for work, that he needed a Valentine's box that day while he was eating his breakfast. I kept white lunch bags on hand for those kids to put their Valentines into. Another thing that amazed me was how the kids so carefully read the messages on these generic cards as if the one who gave the card to them had written a personal message instead of scribbling their name on the back - if they even remembered to do that.

And that brings me to my message: Valentines for Vets. One of the things I had my students do every year after I heard about the program was to have them make Valentines for vets. Their handmade cards were decorated with drawings and construction paper hearts, and they wrote the most precious and often funny sentiments only a kid could think of. Like "Did you have fun in the war?" or "Were you afraid?"or "My Grandpa Jim was in the war. Do you know him?" Those cards had to have made the recipients smile. All the cards were placed in a large manila envelope and mailed to the nearest VA hospital. When I saw the annual plea for cards in the newspaper this year, I thought of those years and decided to do something like I lused to do. I went to the Dollar Store and bought enough cards for every member of my two book clubs, and took them to the meetings for the members to sign with a little message of appreciation for the vet's service to our country. Again, they went into a large envelope to mail to our nearest VA hospital. Why don't you send some, too? To get the address of your nearest VA hospital, go to: www.volunteer.va.gov.

Violence

2012-02-01T00:00:00.005-05:00

A co-worker and I were recently discussing the latest Mission Impossible movie. When I asked for her opinion, she said that she didn't like how violent it was, and thought it was one of the most violent movies she'd seen lately. I didn't agree. Yes, there were fights, guns, killing, etc, but I've honestly seen worse.

Many people think our society is too violent, and that we’ve become desensitized over time. I remember several years back when they started "editing" some Looney Tunes so as not to introduce children to all the violence in them. That bugged me on two levels. Not only were they messing with classic cartoons that I enjoyed so much in my youth, but they were also suggesting that children can't differentiate between real and imaginary violence.

Granted, there are some children for whom violence on TV is as real and frightening as seeing it in person – heck, Craig (my fiancé) doesn’t have a restful sleep if he watches a thriller right before bed – but for many of us, violence for entertainment’s sake helps us explore that darker side of our psyche in a safe, vicarious manner.

I strongly believe that each and every human being has the capacity for all possible emotions within them, including violence. Maybe writers just have the ability to tap into it easier than other people. Or maybe we're just not as afraid of it. Take Stephen King, for example. By all accounts, he's a nice (and seemingly normal) guy, and yet he can come up with such horrific tales.

I myself am a pretty mild mannered person. Were you to meet me on the street, I'm betting you would never guess that I enjoy James Patterson's books. Or that - while I'm not a fan of most horror movies - I watched the first five Freddy Krueger movies, and enjoyed them.

So the question is, do mystery writers seem drawn to violence more than other people? Is violence more acceptable when it's part of the news or a nature show, rather than a movie or book?

What do you think?

What the Truck?!

2012-01-31T00:05:00.001-05:00

Earlier this month, while lying on the couch recovering from a clutter clearing accident (darn New Year’s resolutions), I watched a Christmas movie that I had recorded in late November. It was a TV mini-series set in the old west. I was transported to a simpler time where skies were blue and free of smog; horses ruled the road and people looked well-groomed and impeccably dressed despite harsh conditions.

In one scene, an old codger named Nicholas, played by actor Ernest Borgnine, drove a buckboard wagon to transport a badly injured sheriff home. The story question at that moment was: would Nicholas be able to get the sheriff home in time to be with his family for Christmas? It was a nail biter so you can imagine I was completely engrossed.

Yet, I became distracted when I noticed a dust cloud with a glint of silver rolling down a dirt road in the background. What the… I bolted upright from my prone position and grabbed for the remote, knocking over a bottle of ibuprofen in the process. Stop. Rewind. Play. Land sakes! That shiny object was a 21st century truck (or SUV) rocketing down the hill heading straight for the pioneers. Well, that took me out of the story.

I pondered how this vehicle kicking up a dust cloud could pass by completely unnoticed. Since the scene featured an actor with the star power of Ernest Borgnine, I imagine the movie crew would have been very careful. Plus, they are usually watchful for intrusions on the set and if they miss something, professional editors catch it in post-production. One explanation is that the editors noticed and decided it would be too much money to digitally erase the truck. Or, maybe it slipped by unnoticed because everyone was SO focused on the characters’ actions and dialogue in the foreground that they didn’t pay attention to the background.

I wondered…am I concentrating solely on my characters’ actions to the exclusion of the background details, too? Did the murder in my story take place on the third floor of a two story house? Was the body buried in a flat prairie one day and in a mountainous terrain the next? Did the middle-aged murderer really grow 6” taller by the end of the book? Yikes.

I think continuity mistakes are inevitable in a first draft since a story evolves as it is written even if one uses a detailed outline. After completion, every major and minor change requires the writer to check for consistency throughout the book. The only way I know to do this is to keep track of tedious details, be vigilant during editing and get critiques.

How do you catch discrepancies that suddenly materialize and threaten to barrel through your story?

Peeking At WWK Writers' WIPs

2012-01-30T00:00:00.000-05:00

After realizing last week that Ihad no idea what works in progress my fellow bloggers were writing, I decidedto find out. I posed six questions for each of them to answer concerning theirwork. This week, WWK alumni James Montgomery Jackson and Alyx Morgan answer myquestions.

James Montgomery Jackson

1. What isthe title or tentative title of your WIP?

I have twoWIPs: CABIN FEVER and “Future Novel”

2. What isthe dust cover blurb of your WIP?

I’m notquite at the point of polished blurbs but here are the teasers:

CABIN FEVER:Finding in the middle of winter a comatose, naked woman on the porch of hisremote Upper Peninsula of Michigan home thrusts Seamus McCree (the seriescharacter) into the middle of murder and mayhem sponsored by a splinter of theMichigan militia.

“FutureNovel”: On the Vernal Equinox of 2091, Seamus McCree’s sixteen-year oldgreat-grandson, S-7, is visited by a high-ranking officer of the hated EasternArmy. With his grandfather’s permission, she slips S-7 out of the so-calledNeutral Territory of Upper Michigan into the United States of Eastern Americato short-circuit the plans of an infiltrator from the Western American States who is seeking tocause a world war.

3. In what stage of progress is your WIP?

CABIN FEVER:Will write the polishing “final draft” this spring.

“FutureNovel”: Wrote 30,000+ words last year and realized I started the story in thewrong place. Planning for the first time to try to write an outline first forthis dystopian thriller.

4. How manyhours per week do you devote to your writing?

Alas, lastyear I spent most of my time on bridge-related activities, preparing for theMarch 2012 release of One Trick at a Time: How to start winning at bridge. Much of the time I wouldnormally have spent writing, I used to improve my own bridge game, so Iwouldn’t embarrass myself at the tables! Although this year I will be promotingthe book, I’ll actually be playing much less bridge and have more time towrite.

5. What are youraspirations for your work?

I aspire tohave people read them.

6. Inrelation to your WIP, where do you hope to be by the end of this year?

I’ve setunrealistic goals before and set a goal this year to set realistic goals. Mywriting goals are: #1 promote the bridge book; #2 submit BAD POLICY (CABIN FEVER'S predecessor) to small presses (which Ihave already started); #3 submit CABIN FEVER to agents: and #4 have a completed first draft (and maybe even atitle) for “Future Novel.”

EBD-I havetwo additional questions for Jim.

Unlike“Future Novel,” aren’t your Seamus McCree novels set in present day?

Yes theyare, but I have become increasingly concerned about the power of corporationsin the US. I thought the best way to fictionally express that concern was toproject forward 80 years to a point where corporations are the government.

Althoughyour bridge book isn’t fiction the process of publishing and promotion shouldbe very similar. Would you be our Welcome Wednesday guest on April 4^th?

I’d be happyto. (I admit to first checking the calendar to make sureit was really April 4^th and not April 1^st!)

Alyx Morgan

1. What is the name the title or tentative title of your WIP?

REICHENBACH FELL?

2. Provide the jacket blurb of your WIP.

Living on the island of Alameda has always beenpeaceful, if not a little dull for high school sophomore Tabitha Patterson,until a series of thefts offers her a chance to put her love of Holmesian logicto use. Despite the misgivings of a certain police sergeant, Tab and her bestfriend Stu eagerly hunt down the clues necessary to solve the mystery. Thecloser they get, the more dangerous the villain becomes. When the crookthreatens Tab’s grandmother, she decides enough is enough. Has Tabitha met hervery own Professor Moriarty?

3. In what stage is your WIP?

The book is completed & in its [hopefully] finalrevision stage

4. How many hours per week do you devote to their writing?

Depends, roughly 4-10 hours

5. What are your aspirations for the work?

I’d love to see it published. I will send it toagents first, but might end up self-publishing.

6. In relation to your WIP, where do you hope to be by the end of thisyear?

I’d like to have sold some copies of my book, and be onthe revisions for the next book in the series.

EBD-I alsohave two questions for Alyx.

Do you workwith a critique group, Alyx?

I don’t, no. I have a few people who are my beta readers (one of whomhas become my editor), but I haven’t joined an actual critique group yet.

Are youworking on your second manuscript while completing revisions on the first?

No. I haven’t learned how to do that yet. When I finish these revisions& send it off to my readers & editor, then I’ll begin work on thesecond book. Until then, I feel that it’s better for me to focus on one storyat a time.

Construction Work

2012-01-28T08:00:00.000-05:00

Then comes the line editing. Can I say this more clearly? Or make this more truly felt? Or give this more emotional power of statement? Or compress this paragraph or scene to add tension and vigor or energy?

This is, of course, a simplified description of this whole process. It often goes in fits and starts on sections at a time instead of the entire manuscript. Frequently, while in one later process, I realize that I made an error or omission in an earlier process, and I have to tear down that section and rebuild. But in the end, I should have a snug brick cottage or grand pillared plantation house or fashionable urban apartment complex.

After that, the problem is how to sell it? How to convince the person in search of living space that mine is the perfect one for him? And that's another whole job!

How do you see the process of writing a novel? What areas do you find most often skimped? Which areas make you toss the book at the wall if missing or ill-written? And if you're a writer, which layer gives you the most trouble, the most joy?

Construction Work

2012-01-28T00:32:00.001-05:00

Writing a novel can be overwhelming, especially if you've studied creative writing or learned anything about doing it well. There's so much to keep in mind--plot points, narrative arcs, character development, setting and atmosphere, dialogue, action, sensory details, emotional truth, motivation, suspense, surprises, secrets, transitions, ad infinitum. All of these factors and so many more go into making up a satisfying novel. How do we keep them all in our head and get them all down on the page?

As a reader, it just seems magical when a novelist brings all these elements and more into play to create a good novel. When important ones are missing, the reader may not know why the book isn't satisfactory, but she knows it just doesn't make the grade.

My own solution has been to work in layers, much like building a house. Once I've developed strong characters and a dramatic situation to involve them (laying the foundation), I write straight through a scene or several scenes, getting down what the characters do and say. This is the basic storytelling structure like the skeletal wooden framework of the house-to-be that rises from the foundations.

Next, I go back through and let the reader see and in other ways sense the surroundings of the scene as experienced by the viewpoint character--and I include emotions at this stage. After that, transition work take place. Each scene must be made to follow smoothly and inveitably from the one before it. Of course, by this time I may have moved the scene around to different places in the story timeline to create more suspense or generate surprise, to further a narrative arc or optimize a plot point.

Then comes the line editing. Can I say this more clearly? Or make this more truly felt? Or give this more emotional power of statement? Or compress this paragraph or scene to add tension and vigor or energy?

This is, of course, a simplified description of this whole process. It often goes in fits and starts on sections at a time instead of the entire manuscript. Frequently, while in one later process, I realize that I made an error or omission in an earlier process, and I have to tear down that section and rebuild. But in the end, I should have a snug brick cottage or grand pillared plantation house or fashionable urban apartment complex.

After that, the problem is how to sell it? How to convince the person in search of living space that mine is the perfect one for him? And that's another whole job!

How do you see the process of writing a novel? What areas do you find most often skimped? Which areas make you toss the book at the wall if missing or ill-written? And if you're a writer, which layer gives you the most trouble, the most joy?

Squinting

2012-01-27T00:01:00.001-05:00

Squinting

I had cataract surgery on my right eye. I thought I would end up looking like a pirate, but they gave me a plastic eye patch. I looked more like a Cyborg. The operation went well and an operation is scheduled on my left eye for February 14. I’m walking around (often I’m walking into things) wearing glasses with one lens poked out.

It is hard to focus with one lens on my cornea and the other lens in front of the other eye. I can close one eye or the other. My poor brain gets tired. Reading and writing is hard to do.

Luckily, I have a few blogs already reviewed by fellow writers. Of course none of the other writers on the blog are fellows.

So, please excuse the brevity of this blog. I’ll be back to writing as soon as I can.

Cats in Cozies

2012-01-26T00:00:00.000-05:00

CATS IN COZIES

and other animals

Cats are prolific in cozies, and if it's not a cat, there's often a dog.Sometimes there are even both, or some other animal. Maybe Carolyn Hart startedthe cat craze in cozies. I'm not sure, but I know it was years ago when Istarted reading her books. Her character, Annie Darling, had a cat named Agathain her mystery bookstore. Amanda Flower's character, India Hayes, has a cat inher series; Lorna Barrett's character, Tricia, has a cat in her Booktownseries; while Krista Davis's character,Sophie, has both a cat and a dog in herDiva mysteries. And then there were the Cat Who . . . series. I'll admit I tired of themafter a while. There are only so many times I could read about a cat lickingits private parts. I didn't think the plots were strong enough to endure that.

Although pets aren't just in cozies, by any means, they are more likely toappear there. Maybe it's because readers of this genre are looking forsomething a little less threatening than a police procedural or thriller. Andmaybe it's because writers of this genre have cats or dogs. I know most, if notall, of the authors I mentioned have cats, dogs or both.

In my opinion, there are several reasons why authors include animals intheir books:

One: Writing is a solitary life. The writer needs to isolate themselves asmuch as possible to write, and unless the writer has another job with socialinteractions, or an active family living with them, it could be a lonely life.A pet can alleviate some of that loneliness. Enter the cat or dog. They're acompanion, and they sleep a lot, giving writers their needed solitude. Fromfollowing the Guppy list serve (a subgroup of Sisters in Crime), cats seem tobe the more popular pet among the writers who post there. Maybe it's becausecats don't need to be taken out for walks. Also, if a writer has a cat or dog,they can write realistically about the animal's behaviors.

Two: Pets humanize the protagonist, show a tender side to them, and becauseboth cats and dogs are popular pets, many readers can relate to them. Ofcourse, children can soften a protagonist, too, but children create problems.It's hard for a sleuth, especially an amateur sleuth, to take off sleuthing ona whim when they have children to consider. Not that it's impossible, but it'smuch easier to leave a cat or dog at home than a child.

In my series, my protagonist, Catherine, has a cat. At the end of the secondbook, she also acquires a dog. Her romantic interest, the police chief of hersmall town, has a cat and ends up with the dog of a murder victim at the end ofthe first book. Because I've had cats and dogs for years, I find them easy andnatural to write about. Do I enjoy reading books without animals? Absolutely.Do I like books with cats and dogs in them? Yes, but only if the book is wellwritten with a good plot. I have a lot of favorite authors, who don't includeanimals. Cats and dogs are not as important as a protagonist I like and a wellwritten book with a good plot.

Do you include cats or dogs in your work? Do youhave a cat or dog?

An Interview with Michele Drier

2012-01-25T00:09:00.014-05:00

Michele Drier is a member of SINC and a Guppy. She recently finished writing her first novel, Edited for Death, and sold it to Mainly Murder Press. As a former news reporter and an art lover, she was able to pull a potent story together using her reporter experience and her love of art. The tale takes the reader back to World War II and is tied into the present time. It’s a story that keeps you guessing and will surprise you with its twists and turns. It’s one of those stories that is hard to put down. You will want to keep reading to find the next clue.
Dee Gatrell (DHG)

DHG: Tell us a little about yourself, Michele. What part of the US do you live in? Children, pets, grands?

MD: I live in California. That’s a pat answer, because right now, I live in the Central Valley (summer heat!), but through the years I’ve lived in all parts of California from Humboldt County (redwood forests, rugged seacoasts, 40 inches of rain a year) to Riverside (SoCal, Palm Springs, Mojave Desert, Disneyland, 12 inches of rain a year); from San Francisco (summer fog) to the Sierra foothills (winter snow).

The first member of my family to arrive here came to San Francisco from St. John’s, New Brunswick in 1849, and another ancestor, from Long Island, arrived in 1850. I have a great-great-grandmother who crossed the Isthmus of Panama by mule in 1852. I think the adventuring spirit was finished though, because most of us have never left, but we sure moved a lot!

I have one daughter who is a Neonatal Intensive Care RN (I’m very proud of her!), two granddaughters and, currently only one aged, lame cat. As all my animals over the years have been, Djinn was a rescue and was injured before I met him.

DHG: When did you start writing?

MD: I guess I’ve been writing, in one form or another, all of my adult life. I’ve been a newspaper reporter, had short stories published in college anthologies, wrote more grants than I can remember, have written white papers, policy statements, newsletters and annual reports. As many reporters do, I’d always thought about writing a novel. In my case, it just took about ...let’s just say a LOT of years to do it.

DHG: You just published your first book. Please tell us about Edited for Death. How did you get the idea? Are you an art or history fan?

MD: I’m both an art AND history fan! I’ve dragged friends and relatives through more cathedrals, castles and museums than they ever wanted to see. These two passions helped me mold the story in Edited for Death. Newspaper editor Amy Hobbes thinks she sees a way to write a book when California’s senior Senator dies, and she discovers he was born and raised in a small, nearby town. The quest into the Senator’s life and his family leads Amy to a secret that’s been kept for more than 60 years and now has ended three people’s lives.

DHG: Who published your book and where can it be bought?

MD: Edited for Death is published by Mainly Murder Press in trade paperback and is available at their website, at Amazon and at Barnes & Noble or ordered from your favorite bookstore.

DHG: How many books have your written? Can you tell us a little bit about them? Which genres?

MD: Although Edited for Death is the first book I wrote, I published my second book, SNAP: The World Unfold in e-book formats this past summer.

Unlike “Edited,” a traditional mystery, “SNAP” is a flight of fancy...a vampire romance! It was an interesting challenge to write in two different genres. With “Edited,” although fiction, the plot, characters, settings have to be plausible. If the sun is low in the sky behind the Golden Gate Bridge, it dang well has to be setting!

With “SNAP,” although the sun still sets in the west, the whole premise is vampires...and though there may be plenty of people who want to believe in them, well, they haven’t been proven. There’s more latitude in writing a story that’s totally fantasy.

DHG: What is your favorite genre to read? What genre do you favor when writing?

MD: Probably mystery. I like a good tale that introduces interesting characters and keeps bringing up new plot possibilities, and characters who have a range of emotions and experiences. I prefer traditional mysteries, with complex threads. I love P.D. James, Elizabeth George, Kate Atkinson. If I never read another psycho thriller with a sociopath leaving women’s body parts all over the landscape, that would be fine. As a woman and a feminist, I also don’t like reading about “woman as victim”.

On the other hand, I love action! Michael Connelly, Robert Crais, Daniel Silva...bring ‘em on!

DHG: How many rewrites do you do on your stories?

MD: Oh, wow! Wholesale rewrites, probably two. Piecemeal, it can be several. I start a story by sitting down and writing Chapter One, and each time I come back to it (hopefully, every day, but lately, less than that) I read the last 10 pages or so already written. That can set me off on a different tangent, so those last 10 pages may get sliced to pieces. I’ve cut chunks out and moved then to another chapter; written a prologue and turned it into Chapter Four. “Edited” began life as a third-person, past tense novel. It’s now (and should have been from the beginning) a first-person, present tense.

DHG: Are you a pantser or a plotter?

MD: Oh, definitely a pantser! From the previous answer, you can see there are some drawbacks to that way of writing, but I don’t know how to do it any other way. In school, I was the one who always wrote the paper and then went back and outlined it. I never mastered how to make an outline first.

My characters will surprise me by acting in a way that I wouldn’t have thought about, or get into a situation that reveals hidden traits I didn’t know about. It’s a fun, but sometimes frustrating, ride!

DHG: Other than writing, what other career path have you taken?

MD: I’ve had two distinct and separate careers over the years. First was in the media, and I spent years as a reporter and editor. I was in and out of the business twice. Being in print media today is very, very sad. A newspaper was always expected to make money, but in today’s cutthroat advertising milieu, and the push-back to make more and more profit, telling a good story or covering an interesting event has fallen by the wayside.

The other career, for almost two decades, was as an Executive Director or CEO of non-profit social justice agencies. I’ve managed organizations that counseled sexual assault and domestic violence survivors; established day-care centers for low-income working mothers; led a state-wide organization that advocated for affordable housing and homeless programs; created and ran a large-scale agency that supported and encouraged the arts and arts education, and was the CEO of a legal services program that served about 10,000 seniors in Alameda County.

I guess I’ve always liked a challenge, and writing for publication in today’s environment sure fits that bill!

DHG: Thank you, Michele. Here’s hoping your books sell lots of lots!

MD: Thank you Dee, and thanks to the Writers Who Kill, for giving me this opportunity to share!

Building a Novel

2012-01-24T01:30:00.000-05:00

I love a book with a strong sense of place.

Poor plot or no plot, doesn’t matter as long as I am transported to somewhere I have never been. I often read with a map in my hand if the setting is real, as in Victoria Thompson series set in New York City in the late Victorian period.

My own works are usually set in real places: Cambridge, Massachusetts or Wilmington, Delaware in the 1890s, or a small Massachusetts town in the early 1800s, even the two historical sites where I work. I have just started novel #7 set in a fictional town on the Delaware River.

The advantage of using a real setting is that there are maps and all kinds of information out there. I know who actually built and lived in the houses my characters inhabit. I know what was going on in the town at the time the action of the story is taking place. Though the houses are real, I took the liberty of moving them to another location. I chose Dana Street because that is where the fare on the trolley line went from five cents to seven cents. I also have a large selection of secondary and tertiary characters.

The advantage of- a made up location is that no one can say you got it wrong. In one novel I read, the bus, which was one I took frequently, went up one street and turned left. Well, it doesn’t, you actually have to change at that intersection. Minor but annoying.

So I have to begin by inventing a whole town. My first problem is that the land I want for my town is actually marsh and hard to build on. So I have to set down some foundation of rock or my town will vanish. I have been wandering around for days wondering what is under my feet.

When I laid out my town of some 700 people, it divided itself into Delaware Street where the better sort live, the middle sort to the north and the poorer sort to the south, in the marsh. I can already feel the mosquitoes. Good thing there is a breeze off the river most days. I already know this is a port of sorts, since the Delaware River was the highway to Philadelphia in a time when roads were poor if they existed at all. Fishing in the river and farming on the dryer land to the west, sustain the town.

The town had to be named after the prominent families, the Cobbs, the Pleasants and the Mannings. Delaware is filled with place names that incorporate a landmark. Crossing, Gap, Corner, Inlet, Point or Cape. Even Hummock. So Cobbs Crossing was duly incorporated. Now I had a map of the town with a tavern on the western edge on the main road from New Castle to Delaware City, both real towns.

A tavern…great place to find a body of a stranger. But who and why? Cobbs Crossing is not on a well traveled or important road. Why would anyone be murdered there?

Let’s keep spinning and see where we are a year from now.

Pictures: New Castle County Courthouse, Geologic Map of New Castle County and Delaware City from the air.

What Are You Writing?

2012-01-23T00:00:00.000-05:00

Over the last year and a half,I’ve talked about writing my WIP, TOASTING FEAR. Most of my blogs havedescribed my observations about writing, what obstacles I’ve encountered, howI’ve handled critique remarks and edits, what methods I’ve tried, how I’ve createdcharacters—their arcs and motivations and what plot points I’ve determined.

All of the writers on WWK writeblogs every week to discuss their writing. But another factor—the reason weblog—is to promote our work. It occurred to me that I have no idea what WIPs myfellow bloggers are creating, which, to say the least, is counterproductive.And if I don’t know, how would you, our readers, know? Blogging about ourwriting experiences and our interests is all well and fine, but we also mustlet our readers know what we are writing.

For the next few weeks, I’m goingto interview my fellow bloggers and blogger alumni, JamesMontgomery Jackson, Pauline Alldred, KB Inglee, Kara Cerise, AlyxMorgan, Gloria Alden, Warren Bull and Linda Rodriguez about their WIPs byasking each of them to answer the following questions or provide informationabout their work.

1. Name the title or tentativetitle of their WIP?

2. Provide the jacket blurb oftheir WIP.

3. In what stage of progress istheir WIP?
4. How many hours per week theyare able to devote to their writing?
5. What are their aspirations fortheir work?
6. In relation to their WIP,where do they hope to be by the end of this year?

Over the next few weeks, I hopeall of us will become acquainted each other’s work. I’m interested, and I hopeyou will be too.

Lost in the Jungles of Final Revision

2012-01-21T10:22:00.000-05:00

I’m in the throes of final revisions. Toss me a lifeline. Or at least some really fine imported dark chocolate.

There are several times when writing a novel is no fun. The first is the middle of the book. Middles are always sucky. There’s no way around it.

They’re swamps that you just have to wade through, never being able to see more than a few inches ahead and full of traps, quicksand, and dangerous predators.

Every writer I know—and some of them are multiple NYT bestsellers—hates herself or himself and the book while in the middle. Once you emerge into the end, the pace steps up, your excitement returns, and you stop feeling your book is horrible and deformed. By the last page, you’re in love with it again.

In the first read-through and the revisions that come from that, you see problems, but it all looks fixable, and you’re stunned at how basically good the book actually is—or has the potential to be. Your beta reader told you about things that need work, but also said the book was going to be great. So you wade in and start hacking this off here and moving it over there, cutting out these and adding that, beefing up this character and toning down that one. You feel like you’re doing good work.

Then, you start on the final revision. This is not the last editing your book will get, of course. You’ll do line edits and proof it before sending it off to agent and editor where they will find new things that need fixing, and you’ll love them for it. This is just the final big structural revision before it goes out to others because anything else will need another good eye. (Every writer needs at least one good editor, no matter how good a writer and editor she is herself.)

This is where you’re making all the major and difficult changes that you left for later because they were major and difficult. This is where you’re honing theme and correcting pacing and making sure you use all the senses throughout and that you keep the reader engaged all the time.

This is where you hack your way into the jungle of book with a mental picture of how you’ll carve out a gorgeous estate with a palatial residence, and then you get lost, and your bearers run off with the last of your food and water. You have to keep moving because if you don’t, you will sit down and cry as you starve to death.

This is where I am right now. I have come through this before. I know I will again. I continue repeating this mantra to myself as I keep cutting a path for myself. It’s not that I hate the book, as in the sucky middle. This time it’s that I’m afraid I’ll… Let. The. Book. Down.

But I’ve promised to have this done and send the book off to my incredible agent, and I have to make it something good enough to send her. I think I’ll have my husband take me out for dinner, and I’ll buy some luscious imported chocolate. And tomorrow, I’ll head back into the jungle of final revision.

And then you go on

2012-01-20T00:01:00.000-05:00

And Then You Go on

When I got my Masters Degree I went back to work the next day to find that nothing had changed. I thought, “Now that I have an advanced degree, it will be easier to do therapy.” It was not. The people who were difficult to work before the degree ceremony with were just as difficult afterward. Shouldn't they appreciate the time and effort that had gone into getting my degree? Maybe they should but they didn't.

I had some of the same “magical thinking.” i.e., irrational ideas, about my Ph.D. I put in additional time and effort, managing to rack up considerable debt, very little changed in my life. Nothing changed about my work. Friends of mine in the program, who had been selling off their furniture piece by piece to squeak through financially, went to a car dealer with proof of their degrees. Before they had the pieces of paper that showed their degrees, the dealer would not sell them a new car. With the documentation, the dealer accepted their rust bucket, which was coughing up its carburetor and sold them a new car at a ridiculously high interest rate. I noticed people returned phone calls more quickly to Dr. Bull than they had to Mr. Bull. That was about it.

I wrote a 100,000 plus word novel. Nothing changed. Nine years after the idea for the novel came to me, the novel was published. A few things changed. I could call myself an author, although I later met unpublished people who used the same word for themselves. There is no clear demarcation so I don't disagree with them. I tried to sell the book. Ha! I tried to understand the voodoo of Amazon's rating of sales. Triple Ha!

I started attending the Great Manhattan Mystery Conclave, working with a critique group and seeking professional editors, which did improve my writing. I started to learn from Sisters in Crime and Guppies. I used Mystery Writers of America as a resource and found other information on line. I continued to write, won a few prizes, and started the process over again. I joined the Border Crimes chapter of Sisters in Crime. I put three novels up on Kindle. A small publisher talked to me and brought one of them out as a paperback. I won a mysterious photograph of the month contest by Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine which edged my earnings from approved publisher just above the requirement and became an active member of Mystery Writers of America.

And now its time to go on. The more I achieve the more I change the goals I have for myself. It's great to win an award, to get something published, to have more than one title up at a time. I have enjoyed all of those achievements, but even though I believe and have evidence to show that my skills are improving, the process of working as a writer has not changed a whit. I sit down in front of a screen, type something crappy and then I have to tighten it with a red pencil, check to see that I did not change the characters names mid plot and send it through the refinery. Not much has changed in the day-to-day activities.

Now I go on.

I AM A WRITER!

2012-01-19T00:00:00.003-05:00

I am a writer. I write poetry and mysteries. Although I've been writing for thirty years - not counting my teen years - I've only recently started calling myself a writer. Before that I labeled myself wife, mother, Girl Scout leader, teacher, etc. etc. but not a writer.

I first had something published the year I started college as a non-traditional student. My first English professor encouraged me to submit an essay I'd written in class to ICON, a Trumbull Campus literary magazine of Kent State University. It was an emotional piece, "Saying Good-bye" about the death of my eighteen year old son with cancer the year before. I received many positive comments about it which only encouraged me to start submitting poetry. From then until I graduated,I had at least one if not more poems in each issue of ICON, but I still did not call myself a writer.

Except for my first semester when I was unsure how I'd do in college after being out of school for so long, I always took extra classes - almost all literature, poetry or writing classes. I was that odd student who loved writing; term papers, poetry, research papers, whatever. It was something I enjoyed, but to me it didn't necessarily mean I was a writer.

When I graduated, I became a third grade teacher. I loved it, but missed the academic life so I went on to get a Masters. Fortunately at that time, I was able to get it in English and didn't have to pursue something relating to elementary education. Again I was in my element; reading, researching and writing. I'm still not sure how I did it because as a teacher, I always went above and beyond what was necessary. Probably on very little sleep. In those years I was a teacher, and that was the only way I saw myself; not as a writer.

Sometime after I got my Masters, I started my first book, a cozy mystery with a gardening theme since gardening is one of my other passions. I'd planned to write a mystery for some years, but I procrastinated until my sister, Elaine, came up with the idea that we should write a book together. We worked on it together in the beginning. However, since we don't live near each other, before long I took over the writing. It took several years, but I finished it. Since it wasn't published, I still didn't consider myself a writer.

Off and on for the next ten years or so, I sent out query letters and with each rejection, I stopped sending out those query letters for several months or longer before starting up again. But I didn't stop writing. I finished a second book in the series, a middle-grade mystery, and I'm almost finished with the third book in this series, and have lots of ideas for more books. I still hated to call myself a writer, though, because if I said that to anyone, they'd ask me what I'd published, and except for poetry over the years, I didn't have anything else published.

I entered the competition for the Guppy anthology FISH TALES, and was so excited when my short story "The Professor's Books" was accepted. Then in 2010 I entered the Love is Murder short story contest and won it for my short story "Cheating on Your Husband Can Get You Killed." I was recognized at the conference in 2011 and received my payment of 5 copies of Crimespree Magazine with my short story in it. Still I didn't think to call myself a writer. It wasn't until FISH TALES finally came out in the spring of 2011, and some of the previously unpublished Guppies started claiming that now they could consider themselves a writer, that I thought, "Oh, yeah! I am a writer." And it hit home even more when I was offered to become a member of the Writers Who Kill blog. A well-established blog with a following wanted me to be a part of their group. Now how exciting is that! Other writers consider me a writer , too.

It doesn't matter if my book, my baby, is not published yet. It will be even if I have to self-publish. THE BLUE ROSE and my other books will be published, and someday I'll be sitting at a table signing my books for readers because I am a writer.

Dare to Dream

2012-01-18T00:00:00.002-05:00

The sky’s the limit

“If your dreams don’t scare you, they aren’t big enough.”

Too many times, we find ourselves staying someplace because it’s comfortable. Whether it’s a job that you hate, or a city that you’ve outgrown, we oftentimes will stay in that place because we’re secretly afraid of trying something new. We talk ourselves out of it, without realizing that’s what we’re doing. So many fear-induced excuses masquerade as logical reasons: “I’ve got too much on my plate right now”, “I’ve never tried to do [insert dream here] before, so I probably won’t be any good at it”, etc.

But the truth of the matter is that we’re scared of leaving the safety of what we already know. There is a serious amount of comfort in the sameness of life. Even when small obstacles get put in our way – a traffic accident, spilling coffee on your outfit, a friend or loved one complaining (for the 20^th time) about their spouse/coworker/children – these are trials we’ve experienced many times before and know how to react to them. We know what’s expected of us, and how we should respond in those situations. So, when we entertain a thought of changing something in our routine, the part of our brain that likes the familiar rears up and searches for ways to talk us out of changing things.

But mixed in with the fear is a fair amount of excitement, we just don’t always recognize it enshrouded in all the fear. At first, it’s a very small voice that keeps the dream coming back to you; the “someday” voice. But each time it returns, the voice gets a little louder, until you (hopefully) can’t ignore it anymore.

Even people who appear to embrace change very well experience trepidation occasionally, I would assume. It’s just that they don’t let the fear stop them from roaming outside of their comfort zone. And I personally believe we all embody both sides of the change/no-change spectrum, just in varying degrees. For example, I see nothing scary or difficult in moving to another city (I’ve lived in over ten different ones so far in my life), but the thought of changing my hair color stops me dead.

I was even a little trepidatious when I was asked to join WWK as a bi-weekly contributor. I was honored, to be sure, but I worried that I wouldn’t fit in with the group, or be able to come up with two blogs a month for this site, in addition to the ones on my own site, and the other writing I want to do. But when I let the fear run its course, and I thought about the opportunity more, I realized that – in addition to being honored to be invited to the group – I really wanted to take on this task. I wanted to grow as a writer. I wanted to see what new and amazing experiences I would have. And I wanted to be a part of something as great as what my fellow WWK bloggers produce. Here was my chance to see where this dream of being a writer could take me.

So, thank you to E.B., Warren, Pauline, Gloria, KB, and Kara, for giving me the opportunity to blog with you all. I’m excited to be one among you, and look forward to a wonderful year!

When Pigs Fly and Dogs Surf

2012-01-17T00:05:00.002-05:00

I love a parade! It’s energizing--filled with up-tempo music, color and pageantry. The most impressive one, in my opinion, is the Tournament of Roses Parade in Pasadena, California. With its magnificent floats covered in plant material and flowers (most floats have more flowers on them than an average florist uses in five years) it truly is the granddaddy of ‘em all.

This year’s hopeful theme was Just Imagine. I interpreted it as the creative spirit triumphing over negativity and obstacles. I think these imaginative floats succeeded in bringing “impossible” ideas to life. Who would believe a float could be built for six surfing dogs including, Tillman, the superstar surfing/snowboarding bulldog?

But it was. The “Surf’s Up” float was the longest and heaviest float ever entered in the Rose Parade. It contained 6,600 gallons of water and used a wave machine to generate a wave a minute for dogs to hang ten on. At one point, as this float started to make a sharp right turn from one major road to another, announcers enthusiastically speculated it might not make it. But of course it did. (To watch video of the surfing dogs go to: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0JLva0y3ppg )

Another favorite, especially among the elementary school set, was the prehistoric dinosaur float. The head of the green dinosaur was ingeniously decorated using Brussels sprouts. Kids take note: Apparently there are other, better uses for this vile tasting vegetable.

While I wasn’t present at this year’s Rose Parade and had to watch it on television, I’ve attended three times in the past. The first time I was seated comfortably in the grandstand. The next two times I was squashed together with humanity on the cold, hard sidewalk. However, the floats seemed more impressive looking up at them from my position on the sidewalk. They loomed overhead creating gigantic shadows on the ground making me feel very small.

Yet, when I viewed the floats close-up at the post parade display area, it was easy to see that they were impressive not only because of their large size, but because of the meticulous attention to detail. Each rose had its own vial filled with water to keep it fresh and volunteers had painstakingly attached tiny seeds and flowers to create beautiful floral mosaics.

These creative, sometimes zany, ideas only succeed because of the planning and hard work that goes into making vision a reality. I imagine designers and engineers created many plans then added, subtracted and made changes until each float was exactly right. Sometimes success is due to quick thinking and prior planning--as in the case of the malfunctioning float that needed a tow.

I smiled when I saw a float with pigs flying planes. “When pigs fly” is a phrase implying that something is so impossible that it would never happen. But by believing in ourselves, hard work and pressing on through obstacles, our creative visions can triumph. Yes, in 2012 dogs surf and pigs do fly!

Photographs courtesy of Christopher Martin.

The Dynamics of Tension

2012-01-16T00:00:00.000-05:00

Writingabout evil is sort of like making fudge. You can’t cook it too long or it willbind into a solid unmovable and tooth-breaking mass, but kept short and sweet,evil’s texture is irresistible. Writing evil is the beating stage of fudge. Youcan feel and see the deliciousness of it all and maybe understand why peopleindulge in evil. It’s as seductive as wanting to taste that fudge, but more,perhaps diving into the bowl and wallowing in its warmth and decadence. It’s aconcept that Stephen King understands, and I’m learning.

I wrote a scene twice last month, which isn’t anything new.Sometimes I write a scene ten times until I get it right. The first time Iwrote the scene in the POV of one of my perpetrators, inappropriately, since onpage 240 I hadn't yet presented her POV. So, I rewrote it again from anothervillain’s POV. Although I had included this character in many scenes, Irealized that he too was a new POV, and I couldn’t use that scene even if itwould have been a good read. But— in writing through their POVs—I learned a lotabout evil and my villains. They’re despicable and fun to write.

My villains just don’t give a damn. They like being bad.They like messing with moral people. They do what they want, when they want,and they wouldn’t think of considering another’s point of view or feelings.These are truly ruthless and selfish people. Villains like to use people. Whenthey meet other villains who use them, it’s just a matter of time which onedestroys the other. At a recent local SinC meeting, a DEA agent spokeconfirming this notion. He said when the headlines announce violence in theMexican drug wars that the drug suppliers were killing each other off.

Innocent people don’t expect to meet villains. It’ssomething we read about in the newspaper. Evil catches the innocent bysurprise. But as a mother, I can easily envision my kids meeting up with evil.Being paranoid doesn’t mean you’re delusional. Duping innocents is a sickening aspectof villains that is true. Innocents are hurt. (My daughter carries pepperspray.) And yet, physical harm is only one aspect of hurting innocents.

Often that hurt shapes your main character’s emotional andmental framework. People react differently to adversity. Adversity makes themstronger or weaker. My heroes are so noble. They struggle—they try—they gobeyond themselves, challenging their fears, changing and growing stronger. Thereis a power struggle between the main character and the villain. It is in theaction and reaction between villain and protagonist, between evil and goodwhere tension lies. When the main character acts, instead of reacts, forcingthe villain to react can be a novel’s pivotal moment.

In writing from my villains POV, I’ve come to understand better theunderlying dynamic of tension from which I can write my main character’s POV. Understandingthe source of the tension in my novel, I hope, will sharpen my edge. Try it sometime. It's fun and a great teacher.

Movie or Book? Which Kind of Imagination Do You Have?

2012-01-14T04:00:00.003-05:00

Hi! My name is Linda, and I am a bookworm. I'm the kid who constantly heard "Get your nose out of that book!" and "You're deaf, dumb, and blind when you've got your nose in a book!" I was the kid who carried extra books to school beyond all the heavy required texts. I'm the kid who read ahead in the reading books to get to the end of the story.

Now, as an adult, I open a good novel at my family's and my to-do list's risk. I will disappear into the world of the book. My kids call it "Scorpio-ing." (I'm a Scorpio, and that sign is noted for its powers of concentration.) My youngest son has been known to jump up and down in front of his book-immersed mother, flapping his arms, to demonstrate to visiting friends how weird I am--though he and his sister inherited that ability to be swept up in an enthralling novel's world.

When I'm reading a good novel--classic, literary, mystery, science fiction, fantasy, makes no difference--the author's world and the people in it come alive for me, and I am living the book's story with them. I am experiencing that world and that story in a visceral way that is sometimes more real than the way I experience the quite-wonderful world of my daily life. I suspect I developed this ability as a survival mechanism in my dire childhood (which made "Mommie, Dearest" look like a fairy tale). Pouring myself into the book I was reading and the world it created in my imagination allowed me escape from some very scary times for a little kid. Novels kept me sane and allowed me to know there were many other ways of living in the world beyond the one in which I was currently caught.

That ability to live within the story I'm reading has served me well, though. It brought me whole, if scarred, from the kind of childhood that routinely tosses people into drug addiction, crime, mental illness, and suicide. It turned me into a writer at a young age. It allows me to experience my own stories while I'm spinning them in that same real way.

I enjoy movies, as well, but I have to say, no movie has ever given me that same total immersion into a different reality that a book does.I think that's because watching movies and television is passive while reading a book is active, drawing your whole brain into a co-creation of the world and people of the book. My oldest son can't do this. He's totally a movie person. His brain is wired a different way, very analytical, a whizz at math and computers where he makes much more money than all of the rest of us combined. So I know this isn't a given for everyone. I think it's a function of the type of imagination we are born with.

When I have had injuries and illnesses involving great pain and discomfort, reading novels has sometimes been the only way for me to gain some relief. For the hours I am caught up in the book's world and away from the pain troubling my body. I am living elsewhere and involved with other things. Mysteries and fantasy novels have helped me get through miserable nights when no medicine that I could take would do it for me and the equally great pain of grief. The Lord of the Rings movies are wonderful, and I love them, but they don't take me out of myself in the same way as the original books do.

What about you? When you want to wander in a new story's world or seek relief from emotional or physical stress, do you turn to movies or to books? When you read your books, do you become completely involved in the story's world?

P.S. I'd like to thank Warren Bull for introducing me to Writers Who Kill and all the bloggers on here for inviting me to join them.

Stay Strong Christchurch

2012-01-13T00:01:00.000-05:00

Stay Strong Christchurch

Farewell to Thursday Blogging

2012-01-12T00:01:00.000-05:00

I have enjoyed blogging on Writers Who Kill and feel honored to be a member but my life is very crowded at the moment. Finding time to work on my WIP and short stories is becoming increasingly difficult. Therefore reluctantly I must say goodbye to the blog readers.

I look forward to hearing about further developments in the lives and writing careers of my co-bloggers. Three new writers are joining the blog, Gloria Alden, Alyx Morgan, and Linda Rodiguez, and I am sure their contributions will be interesting and worthwhile reading.

Thank you again to the blog readers and to my co-bloggers, dedicated to the art and craft of writing.

You Gotta Have A Gimmick

2012-01-11T00:30:00.000-05:00

The other night, while procrastinating on my plot, I flipped throughcable channels and caught Rosalind Russell belting out ‘Gypsy”. The song that grabbedmy attention, though, was the three strippers schooling a neophyte Louise thatsimply taking off her clothes wasn’t enough. “You gotta have a gimmick,” theytell her and proceed to demonstrate how a trumpet, some light bulbs and a bitof gauze have lifted them out of the chorus.

Seems to me, mysterywriters are in the same boat, constantly being advised to have a hook. “I needto be able to say it’s a cat mystery or a cooking mystery,” one agent told me.“You need to layer something in so we can sell it to people who are interestedin that sort of thing.”

Problem is, all too often,those layers have the subtlety of ‘80’s leg warmers over stirrup pants. “Ohwait,” the amateur sleuth cries. “I can’t follow up on this clue until I meetwith a new client for my free-lance astrophysics business.” Which is okay ifastrophysics solves the crime – but all too often the business or hobby seemsto be a concession to “we could call it an ‘astrophysics mystery’ on thecover.” And then the poor author gets stuck slotting in tips at the beginningof each chapter. (“80% of the universe is made up of invisible matter called‘dark matter’.”)

I have nothing againstcooking, owning cats or practicing free-lance astrophysics. Amateur sleuthsshould do something beside hang out with their police detective boyfriendwaiting for another body to drop. I just don’t want to hear about it in detail.Even though Miss Marple knitted, Dame Agatha didn’t provide patterns in theback of the book. Nero Wolfe raisedorchids yet Rex Stout never included propagation tips. They were first andforemost detectives and didn’t need to dress it up with gauze and light bulbs.

Far from choosingbooks because I share a hobby with the protagonist, I find myself rejectingbooks whose covers proclaim “A Such and Such Mystery.” The obvious layering inof a hook is beginning to bore me. Even more, I resent being told “I can’t sellit without a hook.” One of these days, I’m just going to grab me a trumpet and takeoff my clothes.

Vaudeville no longeruses a giant hook to pull bad acts off stage. Is it time to retire the mandatoryhook in mysteries as well.

Dreams

2012-01-10T00:30:00.000-05:00

Dreams When I was in my 40s, I had a dream in which I found a well, deep in the dungeon of a castle. I dropped the bucket into the well and drew up multi-colored sparking jewels, which I carefully set out around the lip of the well.

Years passed and I began to act on that dream on a train between Boston and Philadelphia. I started polishing my first gem; a Victorian widow came to life at the tip of my pen. She was followed by two men, academics, one who taught physiology and one who taught literature, perfect foils for my lady detective. Slowly over the next few years their lives flowed out around me until I ended up with a whole novel.

I had plenty of time. I was in my mid 50s. Seven novels and one hundred short stories later some of my gems made it into print. When I stop dreaming, I stop writing. It was a long time before I realized that. I may notice, or delight in, or be frightened by a dream, but I pay no attention to a lack of them.

This year I was hit by a situational depression the likes of which I hope never to feel again. It was the first holiday season after my husband’s death. I spent five days including Christmas Eve in the ER for a series of shots to prevent rabies from an animal bite. When I was told there would be no hay shipment for the sheep I decided to let them starve rather than take on a task I had no will or energy to complete. The last straw was when my computer came down with a case of malware that left me writing with pen and paper. For three weeks I let deadlines slide by. I wrote nothing. I read nothing. I didn’t dream. I was rescued by a friend who pointed out to me that I sounded depressed. Then the hay fairy managed to solve the hay problem. My beloved computer is in the tech hospital and should come home in a couple of days. For Christmas I received enough gift cards from several people to buy an e-reader. I spent three days, eyes glued to the little screen absorbing two novels that had been on my wish list for some time. I wrote this sitting at my dining room table with a legal pad and a ball point pen while waiting for my computer to come home. Last night I dreamed again.

The Holiday Writing Void

2012-01-09T00:00:00.000-05:00

Theholidays were great fun—in real life. But writing during this time was nearlyimpossible. Writing didn’t happen—disruptions happened making me appreciatethose writers who seek solitude in an isolated cabin nestled in the woods.Imagine the visions I had of the interior of that cabin—its confines, its firein the hearth, its population—one.

I still have a kid in college, so while Thanksgiving is onlyone day, her break for the holiday took a week away from my writing. No, Idon’t wait on her in servitude, but I also wanted to spend time with her sinceI only get to see her on breaks. That week started the holiday writing void.

Because we don’t live nearby our hometown, we traveled twoweekends between Thanksgiving and Christmas to celebrate with friends andfamily. Normally, I don’t write as much on the weekends because my husband ishome and I’m a lone-writer, but due to our traveling, I spent writing-timeduring the week doing catch-up work that the weekends normally accommodated. Then,there are those special tasks that the holidays spur that further encroached onmy time, the inevitable gift-shopping, baking and decorating. All are fun(except for the shopping), but forced me away from my work.

Am I whining?

I remember writing the last time on my WIP in the secondweek of December. Too long without a word on the page. Those in paying jobs orother professions must keep working. Those of us not yet paid take-up the slackand stage the holidays for others. By New Year’s Day, the void seemed vast.

Yesterday, I read the last scene I wrote in my manuscript,three weeks ago, as if I were looking through a telescope. Time has distancedme from my words, and I now realize that the last chapter has to be destroyedeven though it’s fun and chewy—an experiment that introduces a new POV,verboten on page 250, even if writing the scene gave me a new appreciation ofmy villain.

The rest of this week while cleaning away the Christmasdebris, taking down exterior lights and packing away the holiday for anotheryear, I attempt crossing that void, getting back into my character’s POV and,if I’m lucky, actually putting a word on the page that I can keep.

My characters lost mid action.

Howdo you avoid the void? What method do you use to get back to your manuscriptafter a month’s hiatus?

Don't Hate Me Because I'm Santa Claus

2012-01-06T00:01:00.001-05:00

Don’t Hate me Because I’m Santa Claus

On December 15, 1968 in Philadelphia, the city of brotherly love, the Eagles football team entertainment director, Bill Mullen, pulled a fan who was dressed as Santa out of the stands and asked him to take part in the half time pageantry as St, Nicholas. The man hired for the gig cancelled. Twenty-year-old Frank Oliva, being a life-long Eagle fan and a good sport agreed. He walked down the middle of the field between rows of cheerleaders dressed as elves.

Apparently the fans did not feel festive. Their team was 2 and 11 and about to go 2 and 12 for the season. They had the second worst record that year and missed out on the chance to draft first college players first for next season. A foot of snow had fallen the night before. The temperature was in the low 20s and wind gusts were up to 30 miles per hour. Fans began to boo Santa. By the time he reached the end zone, the snowballs started flying. Oliva had to walk the sideline all the way back to his seat through a barrage of icy missiles. Many people in the stadium said it was the best part of the game.

Although barely reported at the time, it has become iconic. And Santa disrespecting did not stop there.

My nephew. Kurt, recently pointed out to me that a television for an electronics store disparaged Santa Claus. Curious, I watched for it and discovered two ads with a similar plot and theme. A woman in a Best Buys store buys various electronics gizmos (technical term) for her family. The clerk says to her something like, “You’re going to give Santa real competition this year.” She looks at the clerk, her eyes narrow and she puts a sly expression on her face.

Later, on the rooftop she confronts Santa mocks him by imitating his laugh and then kicks a plastic Santa figure off the roof. In a second version she sees Santa by her Christmas tree. She texts insulting messages by one of the phones she just bought, calling him “elf boy” and telling him his gifts are not wanted.

Is this humor? Are we so overrun with the Santa-related holiday input that we’re ready jump down his throat or humiliate him? More importantly, is our way to deal the holiday to spend so excessively that every single one of our children’s wishes are met and there is nothing left for anyone else to buy for them?

Has the man in red become outdated? Should we put him on the shelf to collect dust next to the pet rock? Should we tell Virginia that, no, there is no Santa Claus but I can get a you a great deal on a smart phone?

What do you think?

Sharing the Pleasures of Reading

2012-01-05T00:01:00.000-05:00

In preparation for 2012, I’ve transferred all my passwords scribbled on two disintegrating pieces of paper onto a Rolodex. I’ve removed from the top of my scanner the piles of often needed reference books and printed online advice. With a present of a MP3 player, I’ve joined the ranks of the miniature digital world. How can a gadget so small hold so much downloaded music that travels weightlessly on my person from computer to bathroom and to mailbox?

Most of all, in the upcoming year, I look forward to attending two local book discussion groups, one for mysteries and one for non-genre books. Several of the readers in the mystery group also belong to the other group, seemingly unaware of less prestige given to genre writers. In fact, the readers don’t seem interested in writers’ egos and problems. The readers’ great love is the stories themselves. Readers are willing to attend writer presentations free of charge. However they seem no more interested in long and torturous biographies for writers than for creators of anything else they purchase.

Gone by Mo Hayder deals with the kidnapping of children. Several American editors and publishers refuse to consider this topic. However kidnapping exists in the US and readers in the discussion group identified with anguished parents.

In the non-genre book group, we read Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand by Helen Simonson and readers expressed the opinion that the themes were safe because they happened outside America. Themes such as the clash between the Pakistani Muslim culture and British culture could be examined without reservations.

Readers in both groups are intelligent and knowledgeable readers and the librarians that lead the groups understand books. They all display a love of the written word that I’d guess most writers want to engage. Also, as readers, they want the writer to present them with subject matter and characters that make them think as well as entertain them. In Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand, readers enjoyed the romance between a middle-aged couple from vastly different and opposing backgrounds. Readers like being party to the thoughts, feelings and observations of fictional characters no matter how flawed. Several readers expressed pleasure at well-written sentences and evocative images.

With the internet, intellectual information travels fast. People in rural areas are as well-informed as city dwellers. Perhaps readers in rural areas have fewer distractions and curling up with a good book seems very attractive when snow piles up outside and it’s a long, dangerous drive to the nearest theater or restaurant.

The next book we’ll discuss is Jo Nesbo’s The Snowman. Some discussion group members would prefer less violent mysteries because their workplace presents them with enough hassles without seeking out fictional wake-up situations.

I enjoy being part of both discussion groups with members who clearly love reading and don’t just skin through what they read. As a writer, I welcome the opinions of readers.

Interview With a Reader

2012-01-04T00:01:00.000-05:00

Interview With a Reader

In New Zealand I was able to track down and speak a member of a highly desirable and rarely interviewed class — a reader. I approached with caution so as to not frighten the woman sitting on the couch in my living room and asked what she was reading. From there I was able to skillfully deflect the conversation into what she does and does not like to read. In the interest of avoiding the paparazzi, my niece, the said reader, shall remain anonymous. No matter what you do to me I will not tell you it was Jenny I spoke with.

Speaking of mysteries she told me she does not like a book ending where there is no clear conclusion: the experience left her frustrated. She also said she does not like plot complications that seem tossed in for suspense and do not advance the story. Her example was a woman character who knew she is being stalked and who head a strange noise in a dark parking garage. The charter went to investigate unarmed and without calling anyone for assistance. My reader added that she does not like plots where all the interesting characters get killed off before the end of the book. (I admitted that is a pet peeve of mine also.) She mentioned in some books the dialog seems stilted and the problems seem too trivial to warrant being in a book.

She said she did not like authors who essentially write the same book over and over again although she understood that some readers do.

On the positive side Jenny liked multiple viewpoints and books that shift back and forth from the past to the present. She said she enjoys interesting characters and did not mind if the characters sometimes do something, “stupid” and, “human,” especially in a tense situation where it would be hard to think clearly.

She said she enjoys how seemingly unrelated events end up connecting elements of the plot. Along with humor, including dark humor. Jenny liked well-set-up surprises as long as there are not unbelievable cliffhangers and surprises every few pages.

She wants to like the characters and be entertained.

What do readers tell you?

Publishing Predictions for 2012

2012-01-03T00:05:00.003-05:00

I greet each New Year with excitement and a bit of trepidation; it’s a fresh start and the possibilities are endless. I have a similar feeling of anticipation when I turn the first page of a new book and the story begins to unfold.

However, I’m the type of person who reads a few chapters of a mystery then has to peek at the ending to find out whodunit. Likewise, I want to know in advance what will take place this year, especially in the turbulent publishing field.

Since 2012 doesn’t have an ending that I can flip to and read, I searched the internet for predictions of what the future holds for this quickly changing industry. Here’s a sampling:

• Large publishers as well as media conglomerates will acquire small publishers. With rising e-book sales and declining print sales, traditional publishing firms will need to restructure.

• More literary agents will set up as publishers, taking on mid-list authors that were passed over by large publishers.

• Authors will become dissatisfied with the rights they sign away to publishers. Shorter and more flexible copyright terms will become more appealing.

• The standard e-book royalty from major publishing houses will climb with increased sales. Currently, authors usually receive a flat 25% of take with e-books regardless of how many are sold whereas print royalties pay a higher percentage of suggested retail price as more copies are sold.

• There will be continuing modifications to e-books and how they are read. They will begin to be in color and contain advertisements. For extra fees, some will allow you to purchase access to photos, videos, documents etc. Both traditional and e-books will become shorter. E-reader sales will decrease as more people choose to read their books on tablets like the iPad. Also, publishers will begin renting their books using a Netflix type subscription model.

• Backlash will continue against Amazon’s business practices that some people see as leading to more brick-and-mortar bookstore closings.

• Pre-pub reviews will eventually disappear. Without actual stores there isn’t the need for advance notice of books.

• The line will blur as to what is defined as an e-book and a book app. There will be more interactivity and digital goodies added to products like e-books.

• Publishing companies are already considering intellectual property and seeing how they can extend it over many media platforms. A “book” may become a movie, television series, video game etc. One example of this is how Random House launched Random House Worlds, a transmedia partnership with a gaming software company, in 2011. This trend will continue.

What can we take away from these predictions? I see three major themes for 2012. The first is that publishing companies, agents and writers will continue to jockey for position and struggle to find their place in this quickly changing environment.

The second is push back against policies that are already in place. Authors will push publishers for more equitable rights and royalties. Also, small and mid-size bookstores will push back against the megalith of Amazon and its business practices. Perhaps lawsuits will settle some of these issues.

Finally, technology will continue to be a major change agent for the publishing industry with additional innovations in e-books and merging of books with the entertainment industry.

While the unknown can be scary, the good news is that there is opportunity in change: opportunity to be creative, entrepreneurial and to find or make your own niche.

Wishing you much happiness and success in the New Year!

My Failed New Year's Resolutions

2012-01-02T00:01:00.000-05:00

Keepingoff weight

For forty years, my father put on a pound peryear. Now elderly, his extra forty pounds have melted away. My tendency is thesame as his, so every 10 years I lose 10 pounds and start all over again. Hey,for 3-4 years every ten years, I look great.

Being patient

Itry, really I do. I’m getting better with age, but I’m still impatient. I’m agoal oriented person so being patient isn’t in my makeup. I wish I couldappreciate the process, and I do, but that doesn’t mean I’m still not impatient.When I raised children, I observed patient parents and usually found thatpatience equaled indulgence. Now, patience to me equals no results—why dosomething if you don’t get results. Yes, yes I’m trying (trying to appreciatepatience anyway).

Being less open-minded

Sometime after the 1960s, my open-mindedand academic approach to life transformed into naiveté and gullibility. Intheory, I still value this quality, but I also don’t like being played for asucker. Too bad, the approach could solve world problems, but it doesn’t workunless everyone adopts the approach. Until then, I’d rather not be a sucker. Itry, but I still succumb to a good hard luck story.

Being less materialistic

I’ve been accused of being materialistic(usually by those who are materialistic—as in “it takes one to know one”). No,I don’t live in a big house with granite countertops and Wolf appliances. Mycar isn’t a new German engineered monstrosity. But I like having assets in allforms, and I want to pass on some bucks to my kids. What people fail torecognize is my insecurity, and my fear of my children’s economic security in acountry where our exports no longer exceed our imports. Our economy’s minuteexpansion is exceeded by a burgeoning population. More hands—same pot. Whydon’t people get it?

Making New Year’s Resolutions

At the beginning of each year, I usedto wonder where it would lead. I don’t make resolutions since I understand thatI’m not really in control here on earth. I do what I can, but the role of Master and Commanderis now just a video game. It’s not that I lack determination or direction, butI’ve found that whenever I try to take control, fate’s hand interferes like thehand of a fouling defensive basketball player interrupting an offensive player’sshot. It’s fate’s job to interfere with my plan. So, I don’t make a plan,forcing fate into passivity, and I resolve covertly.

Where I resolve covertly.

Jerry Gets His Wings by E. B. Davis

2011-12-26T00:30:00.000-05:00

Church wasn’t Jerry’s favorite place. Yet,here he stood in a cathedral, dressed in torn pants and a jean vest stainedwith motor oil, while everyone around him wore their Sunday-best. Some even woregolden gowns that glowed in the twinkling candle-light showering fromhigh-placed wall sconces.

He felt like a Budweiser shelvedwith the cognac.

Why didn’t he ever get to sit inchurch? The last time he’d been in one, he had served as a pallbearer at hisfriend Nick’s funeral. It hadn’t been a fair fight. Nick hadn’t known the otherguy was packing, and so Jerry helped bury his fellow Hells Angel. The ministerhadn’t been amused when they all wore their colors, those sleeves-ripped-off-at-the-shoulderjean jackets turned into vests and embroidered on the back with the motorcycleclub’s winged death-head logo.

Back in the sixties, that emblemterrified a lot of people. Youth, road trips…it had been fun. Not so muchanymore. The Hells Angels had expanded into an international organization withwebsites and sponsored events. Many members were older businessmen, even if,like Nick, some were on the wrong side of the law.

Thirty-years ago, Jerry opened amotorcycle repair shop. He fixed most of his friends’ hogs for free, making his living off the paying customerssince Harley Davidson had become fashionable. The club members were pissed-offknowing techie nerds owned more expensive bikes than they did. That was life inthe new millennium. Yuppies ruled, geezers drooled. Yep, on his last birthdayhe’d turned sixty-five. Where had the time gone?

Jerry didn’t belong in thiscathedral with all these nice folks. But he shuffled forward as the line movedahead. Lined up, waiting for what? He wasreluctant to ask. The others in line kept their distance and stared athim every so often. When he looked down at his feet to make sure he didn’t bumpthe older woman in front of him, his favorite biker boots winked out from thecuffs of his pants like a comforting old friend. Why was he here?

“Dang it,” he said aloud. He wouldhave said damn, but he stopped himself before uttering a curse in church.

The older woman in front of himturned around. If her creased forehead and grim, tight lips were anyindication, she sure didn’t like him much, but then her eyes darted around thecathedral as if remembering her place. Her frown changed into a contrite smileand the lines on her face melted. Even if a bit quick to judge, she wasprobably a nice lady. Her eyes moved over his shoulder, and she turned to facefront. He wondered what she had seen, and he jumped when a hand grabbed hisarm.

“How are you doing, Jerry?”

The man next to him lookedfamiliar. “Okay, I guess. Don’t know why I’m here. If I didn’t know better, I’dthink I was coming off some hallucinogenic.”

“Strange, huh?”

“Yep.”

“Hey, the name’s Mike.” Mike putout his hand, and they shook.

Mike wore jeans, boots and aworn-out tee shirt revealing his bulging tattooed biceps. His tattoo, partiallycovered by the tee shirt sleeves, looked like wings. Jerry wondered if Mike wasa club member, but church wasn’t the proper place for that conversation. Atleast he wasn’t the only Budweiser in the group. Mike’s skin glowed, much likethe golden gowns, giving him a youthful look. He also had long hair and a beardreminding Jerry of the hippie past. Out of the corners of his eyes, Jerry watchedMike. He also seemed ancient. How could he look young and old at the same time?Ageless—that was Jerry’s best guess, which didn’t make any sense at all.

“So why are you here?” Jerryasked.

“Assisting you.”

“Assisting me to do what?”

“Get your wings, Jerry.”

“Wings? I got my wings.” Jerryturned and pointed to the winged death-head emblem on the back of his vest.

“Not those wings, the next set isreal.”

“Look, I appreciate your help andall, but I gotta go.”

“We need your help.”

Shoot! When people asked Jerryfor help, he always caved. Big, Mr. Badass crumbled like a big cookie. But inthis cathedral, out of his normal element, he felt spooked. “No way,” Jerrysaid. “I’m out of here.”

Jerry stepped out of line,striding the aisle to reach the doors at the back of the cathedral and passingthose waiting in line. They smiled at him, that little smile, like Mona Lisa’s.Did they find him amusing? Amuse this, he thought, stalking down the aisle and bangingopen the door. I’m gone!

As Jerry walked out of the confiningcathedral into the expansive night, he realized there was nothing beneathhis feet. Catching hold of the door handle, he hung by his arms as his feetdangled over empty space. The cold permeated his clothing. His body started toshake from the cold, he told himself. But he knew his reaction was fear. He breathedin deeply and tried to pull himself up, looking inside the church as he struggled.The people in line were staring at him now. He noticed none of them volunteeredto help him, and they still wore that little grin, but when Mike came to thedoor, they all turned back to face the church altar like misbehaving schoolkids facing the blackboard and trying to look innocent for the teacher.

Mike grabbed his right arm and swungthe door toward the narthex. “No, you don’t. Not yet, without your wings.”

Jerry swung his feet up from thevoid until they reached the cathedral’s stone floor. Using the door forsupport, he stood, but he couldn’t let go of the door handle.

“It’s okay to let go,” Mike said.

“Where in hell are we?”

“Not hell, that’s for sure. Wehave to talk, man.”

“It looks as if we’re lost inspace, a cathedral in the middle of nowhere,” Jerry said. He wondered how adream could seem so real. He stared at Mike. His heart pounded.

With a sweep of his arm, Mike motionedJerry to a side door in the narthex. When Jerry didn’t move, Mike pulled himforward. Jerry’s knees locked in fear. Walking was impossible. He had to gethis act together and stop acting like a ninny. Clenching his teeth, he forcedhis knees to bend, damned if he’d allowed himself to be intimidated now. Nothinghad ever scared him before—even in ‘Nam.

As if hearing his thoughts, Mikesaid, “Ah, yes that’s the key.”

Jerry overcame his terror andwalked through the side door. “What key?”

“Pull up a barstool.”

Barstool? In church? From the doorway, Jerry lookedinto the anteroom. Tables surrounded a “U” shaped bar lined with worn woodenbarstools. The place was empty and dark except for a few neon beer signs lit onthe shelves behind the bar. The smooth countertop seemed hand rubbed, as if thefingers of a thousand sinners had stroked its surface. He’d seen people do thatbefore—stroke the bar—as if they petted imaginary dogs to soothe themselves.

Mike pulled out a barstool andsat down. Jerry left the stool next to Mike empty, choosing the next one. Onceseated, he noticed a window through which he saw the stars shining brightly,but the appearance of the star’s warm glow was deceptive. He knew that thebeautiful indigo sky was cold, so cold it had felt lonely during his quick ventureoutside. Gazing out the window at the distant planets, he recognized Earth. Hisblood ran cold.

Jerry turned to face Mike.Jerry’s fist slammed the countertop as his eyes bore into Mike’s eyes. “Whatkey?”

“You led a brave life.”

“Led?”

“Led.”

Gravity seemed to double. Jerryfelt his weight bare down on the barstool compressing its wood fibers. Heexhaled. “Like, it’s over. I’m dead.”

“It’s more accurate to say ‘nolonger of the flesh,’” Mike said.

Jerry walked over and placed hishand on the window’s glass. It was cold, as cold as his hand. He stared at hishand as if studying a foreign object, then he looked out the window. The glass wasn’twhat separated Jerry from the Earth’s warmth and from the living. It was death.“I need a drink.”

Like magic, a bartender appearedand asked Jerry what he wanted. “I’ll have a cognac,” Jerry said, for the sakeof perversity, which seemed oddly appropriate. He plopped down on the barstool.

Mike laughed. “I’ll have thestrawberry schnapps, Pete.”

“How can I be dead? I feelsolid.”

“You are solid, Jerry, in moreways than one.”

The bartender came back andplaced their drinks on the bar, then left them alone.

Jerry took a small sip of theliquor. It burned his throat and warmed his belly. “What’s this all about?”

“You’re about to become anangel.” Mike gestured with his hands as if he had laid his cards on thecountertop.

“Angel? I already am.”

“Yes, but you aren’t an angel inthe way you think you are.”

“I’ve been a Hells Angel since1966.”

“In name only.”

Jerry stood up, breathing hard,and grabbed Mike by the shirt pulling him off the barstool. “What do you meanby that?”

Mike grinned that little grinJerry was getting tired of seeing. Everyone knew something that he didn’t. Hefelt confused. People usually came to him for advice. What disturbed him morewas that Mike had implied he knew better than Jerry, who was a leader. He’dearned that spot in rank. Jerry released Mike from his grasp. Here, Jerry wasoutranked.

“Sit down, Jerry. I know you’reMr. Badass motorcycle club, but that status didn’t get you anywhere.”

“You’re not telling me somethingI don’t already know. But I’m no Heaven’s Angel.”

“Yes, you are,” Mike said, like itwas fact.

Jerry looked away. “Am not.”

“Some of your club’s members werebad. You won’t see Nick here. But you never were. I thought sometimes you wereacting, because when push came to shove, you immediately came to the right decision.Your nature.”

“Don’t know what you’re talkingabout.”

Mike laughed. “You hid it well.”

Jerry scowled at Mike. “Did not.”Jerry knew he sounded like a stupid kid.

“What about that blonde back inhigh school?”

Jerry smiled at the memory. “Shesure was sweet.”

“Yep, I know. I was there.”

Jerry narrowed his eyes, lookingat Mike. “I thought you looked familiar.”

“I was only there for an instant.No one else saw me except you. I left because you took charge and rectified thesituation. They would have gang-banged her if you hadn’t acted like she was allyours. You got her away from them. When you drove her home, she never told herparents how close she’d come to being a victim of violence, but herthankfulness in prayer was heard in heaven. You were responsible for all thatgoodness.”

Jerry looked down at the countertop, rubbinghis finger back and forth over the surface. “Wonder whatever happened to her.”

“She’s a grandmother of five now.Makes cookies. Retired after teaching for thirty years.”

“That’s nice.” Jerry smiled.

“Yes, one of the many youhelped.”

“That doesn’t qualify me for Heaven’sAngels.”

“Why not?”

“You gotta be holy or something.”

“Saving people, their souls, isour job. You helped us often. And what makes you think you’re not holy?”

“I’m just not that good. I’vedone a lot of bad things in my life.”

“Name one.”

“Broke a woman’s heart one time.”

“Yes Jerry, you did. But isn’t italso true you broke your own heart out of sacrifice?”

Jerry looked away. His throat closed. Tearsblurred his eyes. He returned to the window, gazing out at Earth, and wonderedwhere she was on that little swirling blue dot. He had never loved anyone more.And that’s why he’d turned her away. At thirty years old, how could they havemarried, a doctor and a Hells Angel biker mechanic? He never meant to fall inlove. It had started out as a one-night stand and turned into so much more. Buthe knew it wouldn’t fly. No woman ever took her place. He had never gotten overor forgotten her.

“She loved you too.”

Jerry unclenched his jaw tospeak. “It was for her own good. I know I hurt her, but it was the right thingto do.”

“You’re right. It wouldn’t haveworked out during your lifetimes. She got married and became a surgeon, helpingburn victims recover. But she never stopped loving you either.”

Jerry swallowed the lump in histhroat. “I’m glad.”

“All things work according to Hisplan, which is always for the good.”

“If you say so. It wasn’t so goodfor me.”

“You lived the life you wanted.”

“Yeah, guess so, but I lost a lottoo.”

“If you’re a good soul, it goeswith the territory.” Mike’s eyes glistened with tears as he looked at Jerry. “Yousacrificed a lot for His will to be done.” Mike paused and took another sip ofhis drink. “Do you remember how you got here tonight?”

“Nope.”

“Think Jerry. It’s ChristmasEve.”

Jerry sipped his cognac whilethinking. “A baby.”

“Yes, a baby. What happened?”

“I came out of the hospital afterchemo. Some nut aimed a gun at a pregnant woman. And then this cathedralappeared, and I met you.”

“You took the bullet for thatpregnant woman.”

“I had cancer, Mike. Sooner orlater I would have died anyway. Doesn’t make me some saint.”

“You would have recovered, butyou sacrificed your life.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Oh but it does. Every sacrificehas a reason even if on Earth it can’t be understood. The pregnant woman yousaved is the daughter-in-law of the woman you loved. You saved her grandchild,a child who will be very much like you and serve God.”

Jerry stared in disbelief atMike.

“There are no coincidences.”

“It was all worth it then,” Jerrysaid. Tears ran down his face.

“Yes, Jerry. When yourdoctor-lady arrives at your funeral, your friends will be quite surprised.”

Jerry laughed through his tears.“That should be some wing-ding.”

“At this moment, she’s verythankful for your presence in her life, not once, but twice. She always knewyou were a good man.”

“Oh crap. If she goes to myfuneral, my friends will know.”

“Too damn bad, Jerry. The truthalways comes out. Own up. You were a good man, and there aren’t that many.”

“I don’t want to stick around tosee that.”

“No, didn’t think you would,which is why you have to get your wings. We have work to do.”

“You think I’m going to flyaround with fluffy wings.” Jerry swiped at the tears on his face.

“It’s a little more technicalthan that and a bit less fluffy.”

“Will wings mess up my ‘Bad tothe Bone’ back tattoo?”

“No, but I have to warn you. Wemay get caught in backdraft and flying dung.”

“What?”

“It’s Christmas Eve, Santa’ssleigh and the reindeer.”

“Oh come on, you’re pulling myleg.” Mike smiled that Mona Lisa smile again. Jerry shook his head, “Son of a—"

“God works in mysterious ways. You’llfind out. Come on, down the hatch,” Mike gestured to their glasses. Theyfinished their shots, and then Mike ushered him out of the bar to the narthex.At the entrance of the cathedral’s nave, everyone in the cathedral looked at Jerrysmiling and applauding. The nave was empty all the way to the altar, and Mike disappeared.

Jerry saw Mike reappear at the altar as alarge soldier angel with gleaming wings held aloft. Mike, Jerry realized, wasArchangel Michael. The Archangel beckoned to Jerry to come forward with the tipof his wing. People slapped Jerry on the back and greeted him as he made hisway up the aisle.

“Time to get your wings, Jerry,” heheard Michael say.

At the altar, Archangel Michaelbestowed on Jerry angel wings as the bells of Christmas rang. His wings feltheavy and strong. When Jerry turned to face those in the pews, he caught hisreflection in a window, blackened by the night. His skin glowed with youth, buthe also appeared old. He frowned.

“New heavenly body stuffed withan old soul. You’ll get used to the look,” Michael said.

“How do you get through doorswith these wings?”

“There are tricks, Jerry. You’lllearn. Let’s go, you’re the best angel for this job.”

“And why’s that?”

“You’re familiar with the PacificCoast Highway.”

“Rode it all my life. Know everytwist and turn.”

“Good, we’re on accidentprevention. There’s a family traveling down that slick road tonight. Thedriver’s angry and going too fast.”

“Not happening on my shift,”Jerry said, but when they reached the cathedral doors and he looked out intothe void of space, he felt sympathy for fledgling birds on their first flight.

“Don’t worry, got your back, bro.”

“There’s a trick I have to learn.How do I fly without fear?” Jerry asked.

Michael turned to Jerry andsmiled. “Have faith.”

A Fractured Christmas

2011-12-22T12:01:00.000-05:00

A Fractured Christmas

‘Twas the night after Christmas

And all through the house

Not a creature was stirring

Not Dad. He was soused.

Mom pondered and worried

As she emptied a jigger

Why each year her sizes

Got bigger and bigger.

While Justin and Jenny

Counted each separate gift

To see who won Christmas

And who came in fifth

But wee little Tommy

Was filled up with joy

While he played with the boxes

And ignored his new toys.

For Those who won't be Home for Christmas

2011-12-19T00:01:00.002-05:00

For Those who Won’t be Home for Christmas: Reflections on the holiday

Despite the lights and carols, the bells and presents, for many people this is not a joyous season. A large number of the population don’t have homes to celebrate in or don’t have family and friends to celebrate with. Age, poor health, poverty, natural disasters and estrangement from family are just some of the reasons that the holiday will not be happy.

Many who have homes will not be in them due to incarceration, hospitalization or other forced absences. Those who work in the military, medical field, law enforcement or as fire fighters and others whose economic status requires them to work will spend the day away from family through necessity and duty. People far from home, whatever their circumstances are, may not be able to travel home.

People who have lost family and friends through divorce, death, conflict and desertion miss their loved ones especially when all the world around them sings the praises of united and reunited families. Christmas miracles happen to someone else.

The blaring, blinking, ceaseless reminders to shop and spend for the holiday are reminders to members of all religions other than Christianity that they too are excluded from the mainstream.

To you who won’t be home for Christmas I hope and pray you find a spark of happiness this time of year. Maybe from the knowledge that the season only comes once a year. Maybe from the happiness of small children who you don’t even know. For you who won’t be home for Christmas I wish you find a bit hope, even if it’s no bigger than a single grain of sand. You can hold on to that hope through the dark days and darker nights. It really can be better than it is right now. You have not been forgotten.

Whoever and wherever you are, whatever your faith or beliefs, may God bless you.

Just Desserts

2011-12-12T00:05:00.003-05:00

Bells hanging over the door to Joyous Creations jingled. Joy looked up from placing a fondant angel on top of a buttercream frosted cupcake and watched her demanding client, Frank, whom she had nicknamed, Frankengroom, track snowy footprints onto the shop floor.

Joy’s assistant, Sophia, looked towards the door. “Every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings.”

Joy picked up a pastry bag full of frosting. “I wish I had a guardian angel tonight. I only booked this Christmas eve wedding because the mayor and his daughter are my neighbors.”

Sophia placed sugar cookies in a pink box and handed it to a customer. “We’ll get through this. And, Joy, everyone has a guardian angel.”

Joy sighed and squeezed a swirl of frosting around the base of the angel then dusted edible iridescent golden sprinkles over her creation. Normally, Christmas was her favorite holiday. But this year, despite being busy at her bakery and surrounded by people, she felt alone. Gabe, her husband, had died two years earlier. She missed his touch, smile and laughter. Both her married daughters were busy with their own families and unable to visit.

Joy stopped and watched her client push through the line of customers. Bridezillas were common, but a Frankengroom, possessing the social skills of a reality TV star, was a first.

“Yo, Mrs. P. How far along are you? You look ready to pop. Triplets?” He pointed his finger at a large woman and used his thumb as a trigger while making a clucking sound with his tongue.

Joy grimaced. Mrs. P. wasn’t pregnant.

Sophia whispered, “His guardian angel must be busy cleaning up after him. Hard to believe he's a successful doctor.”

Frankengroom impatiently whistled the theme song from Jeopardy as he waited in line. Then he shouted over the other customers, “Joy, you will be on time for my wedding reception tonight at my mansion, right?” He winked and flexed a bicep at a female customer in front of him. “With the cupcakes, right? And I want them to taste epic! If they don’t, I’m not paying the rest of my bill.”

Edging past annoyed customers, he did the finger point and tongue click then snatched up the cupcake Joy just made. He tossed the sugar angel on the countertop breaking off its wings and began eating the cupcake on his way out, leaving a trail of crumbs.

The bells hanging over the door swayed and jangled.

Later that night in the ballroom of Frankengroom’s colossal mansion, Joy stood on a ladder she’d placed next to the large tiered cupcake tower that held 1,000 frosted cupcakes glistening with green and gold sprinkles. It formed a Christmas tree shape and specially decorated cupcakes were placed at intervals to resemble ornaments. Joy carefully positioned the fondant angel on top. Sophia set two larger cupcakes, one with a sugar figure of the bride and the other with a sugar groom, next to each other on the cupcake tower and wrapped twinkle lights around the base.

Joy climbed down the ladder, thinking of her cat home alone. “I’ll be glad when I can go home, sit next to Mistletoe and put my feet up in front of the fireplace.”

“Me too, I need to wrap presents for my kids tonight.” Sophia helped Joy fold and store the ladder.

Low music began as the wedding party and guests trickled into the ballroom after the wedding ceremony in the mansion chapel finished. Joy frowned as she looked at the best man. He looked familiar but she couldn’t place him. She straightened a red frosted cupcake with an iced poinsettia flower leaning into the evergreen centerpiece. Snippets of conversation swirled around her.

“He’s a jerk. I would be better off if he wasn’t my partner in our medical practice. I can’t take him any longer. He’s self-centered with a ginormous ego. Look at the groom’s cupcake with a miniature replica of him on top. The figure is twice as large as the one on the bride’s cupcake.” Frankengroom’s best man and a guest walked towards the cupcake tree. Joy wondered if she had heard correctly. Had the best man said that?

Joy guarded the tree from mishap. The mayor nodded at Joy and snapped photos as he approached a young man. “My daughter and this reception are beautiful. If the groom went missing, it would be a fun time. I’d be a happy man.” He slapped the younger man on the back. “She should have married you.”

Joy joined Sophia in the kitchen to grab a bite of dinner while the guests were served. “I don’t think Frankengroom has many fans. What does his bride see in him?”

A waitress overheard and confided, “Poor girl was crying before the wedding. I think she was pressured to marry him.” The waitress hurried off. Joy and Sophia exchanged knowing glances.

In the dining hall, the wait staff cleared dinner plates while the best man grabbed the microphone and began talking. “Everyone gather around the dessert tree to toast the groom and his lovely wife.”

Frankengroom shouted to him. “Yes, a toast. You couldn’t have made it through medical school without me, bro. Especially finals, right?” He wiggled his left ear with his right hand and put a finger next to his nose then pointed and did the tongue click.

The best man chewed the inside of his cheek then hoisted his glass. “Here’s to happy times ahead.”

Joy watched people clink glasses. The best man looked familiar. Now, she realized that he must be a doctor in Frankengroom’s medical group. Was it her imagination or did the bride shoot a wistful look towards the young man her father had consoled? Was he an old boyfriend? And what was that secret hand code from Frankengroom to his best man? The best man didn’t look pleased. Joy passed out plates of cupcakes to guests while studying him. She snapped her fingers realizing she had seen the best man’s photo in a recent newspaper article. His name was Dr. Howard-something, and he was hit with a malpractice suit after the death of his patient. There was more, but she couldn’t recall.

The bride and groom crossed arms and bit into their respective cupcakes. Frankengroom swallowed hard and said, “This doesn’t taste very good. At least I’ll save some money by not paying for this crappy...” He broke off, gasping for air, clutched his neck and staggered backwards into the cupcake tower. He and the tower swayed left then right in a strange confectionary tango.

Joy inhaled, watching her tower sway. “My cupcakes.” She moved in tandem with the tower while holding out her hands in a futile attempt to catch her work of art.

The tower twisted then fell to the ground, cupcakes splattering the guests like they were shot from paint guns. Huge frosting globs rained down on Joy. Frankengroom landed on top of the sugary carnage inches from her with the string of twinkle lights on his head. His new wife ran over and kneeled in the sweet goo next to him while Dr. Howard felt for a pulse then began giving CPR.

People screamed, backed away from the scene and a few grabbed their cell phones. Joy didn’t know with this crowd if they were dialing 911, tweeting their friends or taking videos for YouTube. She was shocked at the chaos and felt guilty that her first thought was for the ruined cupcakes.

Dr. Howard shook his head, stopped performing CPR and slowly stood up. “He’s gone.”

The bride covered her face with her hands while her presumed ex-boyfriend comforted her. Her father, the mayor, looked upward with a slightly bemused smile and crossed himself.

Sophia wiped frosting from her uniform then removed chunks from Joy’s hair. Joy scanned the room noting that some people had smirks of delight on their faces.

Dr. Howard jabbed his finger at Joy. “He ate your cupcake just before he died.”

Joy heard gasps, saw people’s eyes widen as they covered their mouths with their hands. She felt angered by the accusation. “Don’t blame me, maybe he choked.”

One hysterical guest yelled, “We all ate Joy’s cupcakes and could be next. Everybody, throw up!” She stuck her finger down her throat.

Sophia grabbed Joy’s arm, “You should get away from this madhouse flash mob. Go lie low in another room until the cops get here.”

Joy walked down the hallway deep in thought. Were her cupcakes responsible? There were many people milling around the cupcake tree who hoped that Frankengroom was now in a hot place. Anyone including the mayor, the bride, her ex-boyfriend, or the best man could have slipped something into the groom’s cupcake. But who hated him enough to kill him?

Joy saw Dr. Howard walk down the hallway towards her. She ducked behind a large potted plant and watched as he looked around then entered the groom’s home office. She took a deep breath, tiptoed to the door and peeked inside.

Joy saw him rifle through the desk, slamming drawers. Pausing, he looked around the room, focused on a wall filled with framed photos and walked over to it. After scrutinizing the pictures, he removed one photo from the wall and extracted a folded piece of paper taped to the back then tossed the picture on the ground. He unrolled the paper, looked it over and tucked it in his pocket. Joy ducked back behind the plant as he walked out.

She hurried into the office and looked at the numerous photos on the wall recognizing several people she knew including the mayor and his daughter. Joy saw the discarded photo was of Frankengroom and Dr. Howard in graduation caps and gowns. She scanned the photo wall and pulled down another photo of a group of students also in caps and gowns that looked like it was taken around the same time. She found a folded sheet of paper taped on back of that photo. Unfolding it she saw diagrams of hand movements with translations next to each. She noted that a pointed finger meant correct.

Suddenly Joy remembered the rest of the article. A classmate came forward and told the medical board about cheating in medical school after Dr. Howard’s patient died. Joy would bet Joyous Creations that this photo was a group who cheated. They probably used hand codes and this piece of paper was a code sheet. She guessed that Frankengroom used it to blackmail Dr. Howard. He probably blackmailed all the people on this wall using information about them hidden on back of their photos. Joy wondered about his strange method of bookkeeping. Perhaps Frankengroom enjoyed keeping the source of his money and power close. Or, Joy thought, knowing how clueless Frankengroom had been concerning people, he needed a pictorial to identify his victims.

She turned to leave and came face to face with Dr. Howard. Taken back, she tried to dodge him but her shoe, slick with frosting on the sole, slipped. He grabbed her arm with one hand and they locked eyes.

Joy screamed. Using his other hand, he smacked her hard across the face.

She saw stars then blackness.

“Get up, Joy!”

She groggily opened her eyes. The voice sounded like Gabe; where was she? Joy couldn’t see much in the darkness although it appeared she lay in a closet. Her ankles were tied together, wrists bound in front, and a cloth fastened around her mouth. She smelled smoke and saw it seep in under the door backlit by flickering light. Using her bound hands, she pulled down the cloth to free her mouth and yelled.

Struggling to a kneeling position Joy reached up and turned the closet door knob. She winced as the knob burned her hand. She tried again and opened the door staying low to the ground to avoid breathing heavy smoke. Curtains and furniture blazed on all sides of the room. Over the din of the raging fire and her own yelling she heard faint sounds of bells jingling. Maybe her imagination was playing tricks but the bells sounded like the ones hanging over her bakery door. Her heart pounded as she continued to yell. Spasms of coughing overtook her. The bells jangled again.

“Follow the bells,” a firm and familiar voice said.

She looked around but couldn’t see anyone talking. She began to scoot on her still bound knees following the bell sound then shook her head. Why was she going towards that part of the room? It would be faster to stand up, roll over the couch and hop out the door into the hall.

The comforting voice repeated urgent instructions. “You will be okay, sweet Joy, but you need to go to the bells. Now!” At that moment the couch caught fire and it spread to an area rug blocking off escape through the doorway.

She continued her scoot crawl over the hard wood floor, scraping her knees on shards of a broken vase. The sound of bells became louder and more insistent. She spotted a wind chime hanging over a window. Joy wobbled then stood up and opened the window breathing in fresh air.

She yelled for help. Two startled firemen ran over and pulled her through the large window. Joy looked back and saw the wind chime dance wildly.

“I’m glad you kept telling me how to get out,” Joy croaked out as the firemen set her down in the back of an ambulance.

One fireman cut off the cloth around her wrists while the other put an oxygen mask on her. “It wasn’t us. It’s a miracle you escaped that inferno.”

The bells hanging over Joyous Creations’ door jangled merrily. Sophia ran over to Joy and threw her arms around her. “It’s good to see you, but should you be back at work?”

“A month of TLC from my daughters was just the thing to help me recover. What did I miss?”

Sophia ticked off items on her fingers. “You probably know the best man, Dr. Howard Rosen, is in custody for murder, arson and trying to kill you. The good doctor confessed to poisoning the cupcake with the fondant groom on top knowing that Frankengroom would be the only person to eat it. So, Joyous Creations’ reputation is intact. Rumor has it that the bride was being blackmailed by FrankenG and that she reunited with her old boyfriend. Because the mansion burned down, we may never know all the people he blackmailed. All’s well that ends, eh? But, Joy, I still get chills thinking about you struggling by yourself to escape the fire.”

“Strange as it sounds, I wasn’t alone. I felt that Gabe was with me every step of the way guiding me to safety. You were right, Sophia, I do indeed have a guardian angel.”