TRUTH IS STRANGER THAN FICTION by Nancy L. Eady

The challenge a mystery writer (or any writer) faces is to tell a believable story from the writer’s imagination.  Real life, however, is much different. Here, we face outlandish situations people have difficulty believing are real. I have several of those in my past; as I relate them, ask yourself if you would believe these stories if they were in a work of fiction. I do promise you they are 100% true.

Back in the early 1990s, my husband and I visited Boston in June to attend my great-aunt’s 90^th birthday party. We flew in from Alabama and rented a car at the airport. We ended up with a neon green Kia Sportage, an early SUV with a high, boxy profile. On Sunday, with the party over we headed to the airport. Since we had some time to kill, and Mark had never seen Boston, we drove around the city. When we spied a narrow alley with an interesting graveyard, we turned into the alley. Suddenly, a twenty-piece marching band, complete with trumpets, trombones, woodwinds, and drums, swung out of the graveyard in front of us. Someone at the end of the band swung the gate shut. The alley was too narrow to turn around in, so we trailed behind the band like the grand marshals in a parade. A homeless man, a bottle shaped paper bag in his hand, walked out in front of the band and marched in front, waving one of the best parade waves I’ve ever seen. At the end of the alley, we came out on a major thoroughfare crowded with tourists. A police officer stood at the intersection to direct traffic. The homeless man wandered away, the band reached the street, and the police officer’s eyes met ours With a quirky smile, and a look that said, “Tourists!”, he raised his hands like he was parting the Red Sea and urged the band to either side of the roadway. He waved us through the band and off the parade route. Once we were safely on the way to the airport, Mark pulled over so we could finish laughing, too.

Then there was the time we took our first dog, Shadow, to the local football field. She had never run loose before. It was completely fenced in, so we didn’t have to worry about losing her. We all enjoyed it, but finally it was time to go. Mark started calling Shadow to him. He was walking straight at her, and she knew if she didn’t obey, she’d be in trouble. She started turning her head around to look everywhere but straight in front of her, saying through her actions, “I hear you, but I can’t see you.” It didn’t win her any more time at the ball field, but it was a clever try.

Fast forward to the last Bouchercon that was held in New Orleans. It was my first Bouchercon, and I was excited to be there, while my husband tagged along because he liked New Orleans. While I attended the various Bouchercon meetings, he drove around sight-seeing and ended up at the Metairie cemetery, where he met Lewis, the resident backhoe operator there. Lewis gave him a free tour of the cemetery, letting Mark ride the backhoe with him and showing him where all the “famous” graves were.

So, what’s your verdict? Are those incidents stranger than fiction, or would you believe them if they occurred in a book?

The Lure of Fiction

My agent would like me to write a memoir. Lately, I’ve been considering it—how I would go about it, what I would start with, which narrative elements I would emphasize, what theme(s) I would use to guide me into and out of the story. It can be exciting to think about the materials of my life from outside as the materials from which to build a narrative.

Soon, however, I have a fascinating character approach me seductively or an unusual situation or background catches my interest, and I’m adding notes to the long, long list of the stories and novels I want to write. As I read it over, I realize I’m unlikely to ever live long enough to write all of these, and I find my interest in the memoir withering.

Fiction wins out again. Because it is a superb thrill to successfully bring to life a character who’s never existed before. Because I want to explore certain backgrounds and themes. Because I love to inhabit a world that lives only in my imagination until I magically make it real on the page. Because life is short and the stories I want to tell are neverending.

I understand that good memoirs are in great demand right now. I understand that, if I wrote a memoir, it would receive more serious critical attention than a mystery or fantasy or historical novel or any mashup of those three genres would. I understand that I can probably command more money for a memoir, sell more of them, and make more money in royalties. These are all good reasons for writing one.

Still, the ideas for people and places and situations well up, and I add them to that lengthy list. I realize that, if I want to try to write even the majority of these ideas for books, I’d better begin now and work like a stevedore. So I set aside the memoir and look at my list and see two ideas/characters/situations that could be combined, and enthusiasm and excitement sweep over me.

What is this lure of fiction? Do you also find yourself seduced by your own desire to create people and a world for them to live in?

Organize Your Writing Life in a Way that Will Keep You Sane

I was never the kid who did homework on Friday nights until I had to be.

Early in my schooling years, I’d live it up (usually with pizza and a movie) on Friday and Saturday nights and then spend my Sundays scrambling to finish writing papers or doing math problems while beating myself up for not doing my assignments earlier.

This all changed very quickly when my long-time gymnastics habit turned into an actual competitive team commitment. Soon came 25-hour weeks in the gym to go on top of all my school work and other extracurricular activities like volunteering and, I don’t know, being a 12-year-old kid.

Suddenly, my schedule was my life.

In order to get everything done, I finally had to be the kid who sat in her room working on algebra problems until 10 p.m. Friday night. I didn’t care if this made me a total nerd because doing my homework on Friday night meant I could do what I wanted the rest of the weekend. Hang out with my friends all day Saturday, go shopping with my mom, watch the Chiefs game with my dad, play with my little sister, head to the gym for a little extra work on my own Saturday mornings.

The sky was the limit, as long as my work was out of the way.

Thus, work before play became my motto back in middle school when it was a must. Without it, I wouldn’t have been able to do all the things I wanted to do.

And it’s still my motto today.

Basically, my fiction is my “fun stuff.” What I want to sit down and savor. I don’t want to feel rushed. Or pressured by my other commitments to finish a scene, hit a word count, or whatever. So, I get other things finished first, and save my fiction for last.

This isn’t an easy task because these days, I also live and die by my schedule. It is PACKED. I have a full-time job, a family, a habit of ultrarunning. I have freelance—both writing and editing—and blogs like this one and the one I do over at Mysteristas. And, of course, I have my own writing habit.

Add all those things together, and I am one very busy person.

I can manage it all, but I need to have a hierarchy going or I get in trouble. So, just like when I was back in middle school, it’s always work before play.

My full-time job comes first. Then my paid writing and editing gigs. Then my regular unpaid gigs like this one. And then, finally, comes my “fun” writing.

(Obviously, family comes before ALL those things, but this blog is about work.)

Therefore, to stay sane/on top of things, I’ve got to get my paid obligations finished before my unpaid ones.

Not the most fun thing to do in the world, to be honest. I’d much rather spend all my extra minutes tweaking my work in progress, but, I’m an adult, and therefore I’m going to finish my freelance first. 

Every. Single. Time.

That said, actually sticking to my motto is especially hard when I’m in the thick of a project (like now) and can feel the words crowding center stage in my mind.

But, it must be done.

And once it’s done, I’ll have my fun—without all the other things I have to do hanging over my head.

How do you prioritize your writing life?