Peg Herring's Blog, page 22

I Really Mean It This Time: Dead Detective #3

Taking the bull by the horns is dangerous, but I had to. The third of the Dead Detective series languished at my publishers for over a year. It had been edited, but that was as far as it got: no cover, no release date.
So I asked for the rights back. Luckily they were great about it, and now the book can move on with a cover from Phillips Covers and formatting from Greenerside Digital.

I took a guess at a release date and made it April 20. I'm guessing the e-book will come earlier than that, since that's a simpler process. The print copies might come later, since there's the whole "mail-me-a-copy-of-what-it's-going-to-look-like" thing. If there's something wrong, that would delay the release.

Anyway, it's up for pre-order on Kindle right now, and I'll be sure to let everyone know when everything is in place.

Here's the teaser:

Dead Detective Seamus Hanrahan is bored on the ship that takes the dead from one phase to the next. It's a perfect existence, but since when is perfect exciting? When new arrival Cassie Parker refuses to believe she's dead, Seamus agrees to return to life on Earth and find out what happened to her. The hope is that something Seamus discovers will convince the young woman her life really is over, though Cassie insists she isn't dead and she'll never believe she is.
  In a small theater in Toronto, Seamus finds Christy Parker, who came to visit only to learn that her sister was killed backstage in what appears to be an accident. When she's convinced to take over Cassie's job as wardrobe mistress, Christy's life changes so fast she can hardly keep up. The loss of her only remaining relative, the demands of the new job, her interesting and eccentric coworkers, and a chance meeting with an old friend keep her mind more than occupied.
  Seamus travels through the theater troupe, trying to learn who might have hated Cassie enough to murder her. There are lots of secrets, but he finds neither guilt nor any definite sense of what happened the day Cassie died. Christy struggles on, disappointed that the police have closed the case on Cassie's death.
  Christy's friend has his own investigation to conduct, and Seamus begins to suspect the two crimes are connected. Soon Christy's life is in danger, though she doesn't know why, and she engages in a desperate fight to survive in the old, deserted theater.
  To make matters worse, Seamus, who's trying to protect Christy and figure out why Cassie had to die, senses something he's never encountered before, an odd presence that shouldn't be there. Can a dead guy be haunted, and if so, is it a good thing or really, really bad?

I'm an IT Person--with D-I-O in the Middle

Today's writer is supposed to know computer stuff. If I run an ad, they'll ask for photos with so many DPIs. It's expected that I will know how to convert the ones I have into the size they want. When I send a manuscript to someone, it has to be in a certain format: PDF for some, .mobi for others, etc. Again, it's expected I'll know how to provide those files. My websites/blogs have domains, at least in theory. I have no idea how to control them or even who's in charge of them. So while I'm a writer, toiling away to create stories people will want to read, I had to learn the basics of computer use beyond word processing, and now I have to keep up with new developments as things change.
IT I'm not. Things go wrong, and when they do, I'm likely to be helpless to correct them.
What would be great is to have a person who'll show up at my house at a moment's notice and solve the problem I'm having right then. I don't want to haul my computer to his/her office and leave it there for days. I don't want to explain the problem over the phone and have some professionally patient person give me step-by-step instructions using terminology that makes me feel like a kindergartener. And I don't want to schedule an appointment 3 days (or 3 weeks) hence, by which time I'll have forgotten what I did to create the problem and what I tried to do to fix it.
I chuckle at the ads that tell me how easy it is to do this or that online. Build a website in an hour! Host a blog that attracts thousands! Download software that makes your life a piece of angel food cake!
Yeah, right.
It isn't just my age, though I think growing up with computers has given newer generations an almost innate sense of how they work. Despite that, plenty of people a lot younger than I am confess they don't understand a fraction of what their cell phones can do. I once spoke with a young but high-level office executive who was unaware he was supposed to empty his temporary files periodically until the tech at his office showed him the gazillions of them that were slowing his computer down.
I think the capability that computers have leads designers to make them more and more complex, able to do all sorts of cool things. That's fine, but too many times computer people aren't word people. While they can visualize and create great apps, programs, and devices, they can't explain how to use them without using terms that make the average person give up and live without them. So here's my advice to designers of anything computer-related: Instead of installing all sorts of "helpful" functions that only make it harder to navigate my computer (ahem, Windows8), how about working on making directions a reasonably intelligent, college educated, highly-motivated user can actually understand?

On Living in the Woods

My home town in Michigan's northern Lower Peninsula is so tiny it's easy to ignore it as you drive through--if you even do that. Since it's not on the road to anywhere important, most people never see it as they whiz by on I-75, miles away.

Residents often field questions like, "Where's your Wal-Mart?" or "Why can't I find your McDonalds?" Answer: There isn't one.

I don't even live in the "city." Our home is a few miles out, on a side road that has no name, only a number. The house is surrounded on three sides by trees, mostly big maples, that screen us from wind and sun except what comes from the south.

People who don't know ask, "What do you DO up here?" They comment on living so far from cultural events, hospitals, and shopping. I've listed some things I do, though others could name more activities, maybe better ones to illustrate why we live in our chosen location.

I enjoy the land. Any time of year, it can be my choice to walk, ski, or slog over many acres of land I know intimately. Often I share my walk with deer, sometimes with elk or smaller critters: raccoons, porcupines, and skunks. We try to respect each others' territories.

I listen to the trees. Trees never gossip, and they're pretty positive entities. A few of them groan at the pains in their trunks, but mostly they simply vibrate to the tune of nature, reminding me that the world goes on, even when I face setbacks and sadness.

I visit the creek--or the dry creek bed. Part of the year, a tiny little runnel crosses our property, chattering softly and disappearing into the ground after a quarter mile or so. It's a little miracle I look forward to on my walks: How big will it be today? How fast will it flow? When it finally dries up in summer, I'm always a little sad, because it's so very, very cool to see it grow and recede.

I grow things. Actually my husband does most of the work, since my back no longer tolerates much low-to-the-ground bending. Still, I hoe a little, plant a little, and pick when it's time. There's not much that can beat a meal of foods you coaxed from the earth and waited for.

I putz. My yard isn't as ambitiously flowered as it once was, but I work at it, trimming bushes, planting annuals in colors that make me happy, and--always and ever--pulling weeds.

I write, of course. In fact, I write a lot of the time. Still, it's reassuring to know I can pause when a plot knot irritates me and do one of the things listed above for a while. The plot problem usually works itself out while I'm doing something else.

Finally, I enjoy the privacy. Many people enjoy the sense of community living in a city provides, but I'm not one of them. While we're always happy to see those who drop in, we don't get company very often, and we're okay with that. If I sound hermit-like, I guess I am, a little bit. But right outside my door there's so much to do that I'm okay with being a hermit, at least part of the time.

Not Exactly a Book Tour

In the minds of many, a book tour is a glamorous thing, but like most everything else, reality is more prosaic than poetic. There are authors who draw crowds of adoring fans, like Rick Castle always does on the TV show. (BTW, I wish I had a quarter for every time someone asked me if I think Nathan Fillion really writes those books. PulEEZE!)
Most of us don't draw crowds; in fact, we're happy for every person that shows up. A speaker at Sleuthfest, the conference I attended in Florida last week, described arriving at a bookstore to find every audience chair filled, only to have them empty when it was announced over the loudspeaker that his presentation was about to start. He learned the homeless of the area were allowed to come in out of the cold and sit in the chairs, but they knew they had to leave when his talk began. Not only did he have an audience of only one person, he was responsible for the rest being tossed out into the cold!
People also imagine that publishers arrange tours for authors. They think we're met by limo drivers and escorted by publicists. That's true for a few, but most of us arrange our own events, and it's getting harder and harder. Bookstores are struggling financially, and some now charge authors a fee for a signing. And with library funds slashed, don't expect much in the way of remuneration there.
Fun with the "sexiest men at SF"What I did for the last few weeks was in no way a tour. We wanted to escape the cold, and we hadn't been to Florida for several years. I signed up for Sleuthfest in Deerfield Beach, knowing it was a nice conference in a great area. As part of the con I did some instruction and some introductions, and I met a lot of really nice people.
Afterwards we drove north to Lake Alfred, to a library that's been transformed since I last saw it. Due to a generous donation from an unassuming gentleman, the town now has a new building that's everything a small library could hope for. The people there were so nice I felt pampered, even spoiled, and we had a great day, a lovely lunch, and few laughs together.
How nice to have my books featured at Lake Alfred!That was the tour part. I didn't schedule more events, because we were supposed to be vacationing.
Lake Alfred's Clever Mystery Spot John's very patient with my "job stuff," but it's no fun for him to wait around in a hotel room or drive around large cities by himself while I talk, talk, talk about books and writing. We turned to things we both like to do: Busch Gardens, a Tigers game, and the Plant City Strawberry Festival. We once had a house near there, and it was fun to go back, though we found that the house itself has been torn down. Now we're back in Michigan, with snow instead of 80+ temps. As they say, it's good to get away, and great to get back home.
Intriguing art shop in New Smyrna Beach John checking out the fauna at Busch Gardens

What Writers Talk About

Looking way too serious before the panel
If you're not a writer, don't ever get caught in a group of them. The discussions are never-ending, and we love them, even if we've heard them a thousand times before.
I sat on a panel Saturday that discussed writers' dilemmas and how to solve them. After sharing a few of our own problem areas, we asked the audience to share theirs.
We could have stayed all day.
The funny thing is that in the final analysis, they're the same. How to overcome a stalled story (I recommend a break, even if it takes a week or two). How to cut to a reasonable word count (I listen to the MS read by my computer. Others read it aloud to themselves or to others). How to beef up a MS that's too short (I added a subplot; others add a secondary character). How to recognize your "personal errors," those things we all do that irritate readers (I use SmartEdit, which points out how many times I used the word just or how many sentences I started with I). And how to make your characters behave (You can't. You can only react to what they've done, sometimes with horror).
What's great about such discussions isn't the sage advice the other panel members and I gave. Yes, maybe we've been at this longer and have worked out some strategies, but we're all in this together. My editors still point out things they've been pointing out for years, things I should be able to see but don't because I'm working so hard to get the story
written down.
So authors talk about writing. We trade ideas. We give enthusiastic synopses of our projects. We ask questions.
And we go away fueled up to go at it again--writing the great American mystery novel.

"Gee, You Write a Lot of Books!"

Yes, I do.
I'm not Alexander McCall Smith, who writes a book every two months, but I do okay. Some people get all huffy if an author publishes more than one book a year, but there are some reasons why that's possible, even desirable.

First, we might have written a lot before we got published. While a lot of early work is practice and  should never be seen by the eyes of the public, other bits are worthwhile. Maybe a good book idea got shifted to one side because of deadlines and never got finished or re-worked or ended (It's taken me years to figure out how the sequel to MACBETH'S NIECE is supposed to go. I think we're close.) Maybe an author's worked on it a bit at a time for years and it's finally ready to go into the queue.

Second, some of us haven't got much else going. We're retired, so work isn't distracting us. We're past the age where a night of bowling or even a day of shopping tugs us away from the work.  We don't have a lot of family demands. Yes, we still do stuff, but we're at a point in life where we have lots of hours to fill as we want.

Which brings us to the third point. Writing is what we want to do. Though I still like things like travel and theater and long walks, my head is planning, improving, or polishing plots even as I do those things. It's a bug I couldn't shake if I wanted to. Not only do I like writing, I like editing, preparing to publish, and even promotion--sometimes. Naturally one gets more done if she spends more time on it.

That's why some of us are, or at least seem, more prolific than others. I admire my friends who write in slices, working around jobs, family, and other distractions. It's killer, and they often can't get more than one book ready per year. I'm lucky enough to have a lot of time to write. It doesn't matter if it takes two years of working two hours/day or six months of working all day most days. Putting in the time to make it right is what counts, not how many titles are listed under your name.

At Death's Door: Wishing They'd Let Me In

That was yesterday: if I opened my eyes, the world spun at merry-go-round speed. My head felt like it was splitting open. And a bucket was my closest friend.
Today is better, though I'm babying my stomach lest it grow nasty again.
Experiences like that makes me wonder about people who have real problems. Not just a 24 hour bug, but serious pain, serious issues.
When he was diagnosed with cancer, my dad said he was lucky to have lived a good life.
My mother said she hoped doctors could learn something from her experience so they could save the next person.
And my daughter often pointed out there were people worse off than she was, though I couldn't imagine who that would be.
I hope I can continue the family tradition of bravely facing death when my time comes, but after yesterday I'm afraid I'll just beg them to open those pearly gates and let me in.

Asking Questions Correctly

Long years ago when I was teaching, I used to coach students on how to ask questions correctly. I would tell them: "Several times over the course of the school year, I will come here with visibly shorter hair. Try not to say something like,  "Did you get a haircut?", which is questioning the obvious, or worse, "What did you do to your hair?" which is vaguely insulting.
Some of the kids had never considered how to phrase a question so it doesn't sound like an accusation, and some concluded I had deep-seated feelings of shame connected with my hair. They were hilariously careful about commenting on my haircuts every six weeks, but it was a good lesson in thinking before we speak.
The world would run smoother if we learned to ask questions only when necessary and then considered how to ask for information without sounding nosy, judgmental, and insulting.
Around the world, Americans are known for being intrusive, possibly because we have such an open culture. We ask total strangers about their jobs, their spouses, their homes, and their kids without ever considering they might not want to talk about them. We're pretty forgiving of the foibles of others, so it isn't a big risk to answer, but do we really need to know the details of someone's life we meet on a train and might never see again?
Our media has made the intrusive question into an art form, from "How did you feel when your house exploded with your three children inside?" to "What's under that designer dress, Miss X?" One hopes most Americans wouldn't ask those questions if they were the ones standing there with a mic, but we tolerate such absurdities. Can we not empathize with how a parent feels without watching him sob out an answer? Do we need to know what some celebrity wears under her insanely expensive clothing?
Spouses are often guilty of asking questions in rude ways, like demanding, "Where did you put my check?" The implication is that one's spouse hid a slip of paper somewhere, maybe as the opening play in a new game. What's wrong with, "Have you seen that check we got in the mail the other day?"
Mothers-in-law can be masters of the innocent but oh, so insinuating question. If I wear anything more revealing than a mock turtleneck shirt, mine asks, "Aren't you cold, dear?" 
Then there are the dreaded questions we get when we've had surgery, an accident, or something else that shows us in an unusual state. "What did you do?" is the common question, as if we chose to fall down those stairs. 
Often a comment is better than a question. "That looks uncomfortable," allows a person to explain if he wants to or simply respond, "Yes, it is," and go on to some other topic.
Questions are useful critters. If we need to know something, we should form a query neutrally, without sounding like the other person is stupid, contrary, or has done something incomprehensible. 
If we don't need to know, we shouldn't ask.

Protagonists Who Are Difficult to Like

Now available in print, e-book, and audio                                                                                      Killing Silence on AmazonThere's been a lot of discussion on mystery readers' sites lately about books like Gone Girl and The Girl on the Train. Some pan them because the protagonists aren't very likeable; others claim they brilliantly reflect the realities of life. The fact that The Gold Finch won literature's highest reward indicates that reflecting reality is a big deal for the important voices in publishing and reading.

I read The Girl on the Train last week, and I have to say it was well done. I was drawn into the woman's blurry world, and I guess I understand better now what it's like to be an alcoholic, promising yourself you'll do better tomorrow while you pour yourself another drink today. I never read Gone Girl, having heard there was no one to like in the book, and I stopped just over halfway through The Gold Finch, tired of the young man's spiral downward to the point that each time I set it down, I didn't want to pick it up again.  Whether that makes me a low-class reader or not I don't know, but in any movie I watch or book I read, I want someone I can cheer for, someone I like.

That's not to say I don't enjoy a protagonist with issues. I fell in love with Craig Johnson's books because Walt Longmire was so troubled in the first one, and Steve Hamilton's Alex McKnight and the Todds' Ian Rutledge grabbed me for the same reasons. In those books, however, the protagonist tries to assure that the problem he has doesn't make the situation (whatever the mystery is) worse for others. It only makes things harder for him personally.

Loser, my homeless protagonist, is that type. She's got lots of issues, but she's desperate not to inflict them on others. For me that signals the type of nobility required of an appealing protagonist: a lack of selfishness. The boy in The Gold Finch and the woman in The Girl on the Train are so wrapped up in themselves that they make others pay for their hurt and anguish. Yes, they have excuses, but so does Loser, so do Walt Longmire and Ian Rutledge. It's their determination not to inflict their hurt on anyone else that makes them, for me anyway, worthy protagonists, people with whom I can spend a few hours of my time without feeling I've wasted it.

So while I admit to the talent of writers who can accurately portray unlikeable characters, when those characters are protagonists I'm left feeling vaguely unhappy at the end. There are already messed-up people in the world who are beyond caring whom they hurt. I prefer those who, though troubled, work to make the world better, even as they wrestle with their own demons.

E-book Giveaway

My cozy mystery e-book, SOMEBODY DOESN'T LIKE SARAH LEIGH, is free from Feb. 18-21, 2014 on Amazon.