Lea Wait's Blog, page 170

Voice in Fiction

by Barb Ross. Last post from Key West. Traveling home to Portland soon.

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Voice in fiction is defined as

the author’s style, the quality that makes his or her writing unique, and which conveys the author’s attitude, personality, and character
characteristic speech and thought patterns of the narrator of a work of fiction.

Learn about Author’s Voice in Fiction Writing

In writing and publishing circles, voice is often talked about in hushed tones as something undefinable and unteachable. It is the reason agents most often offer representation to authors, and the reason they most often reject them. “I didn’t fall in love with the voice,” or “the voice isn’t strong enough,” or “distinctive enough” or even “the voice didn’t speak to me,” are the kind of maddeningly vague rejections writers get. Editors say, “I can fix anything but voice.”

That duality, the author’s voice and the narrator’s voice, is certainly part of the challenge of talking about and teaching voice. Huck Finn’s character voice is strong and clear, but we can see through it to Mark Twain’s distinctive attitude, personality, and character as he pulls the strings. How did Twain do that?

Writers very often come to believe that voice equals

narrator’s POV
distance
tense
time
tone
word choice

PLUS

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I believe voice equals

narrator’s POV
distance
tense
time
tone
word choice

PLUS

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Let’s break it down.

Point of View

Lot’s of great stuff has been written about Point of View. From the mechanical–first person, close third person, third person multiple, and the much less frequently used

multiple POVs, with one first person narrator and additional third person narrators
second person narration. (You got up this morning. You kissed me good-bye. You went for run as you always do.)
third person omniscient narration, common in the classics, but rarely used in commercial fiction today.

Once we have a narrator or narrators and we know which person (first, third, etc) they speak to the reader in, writers much inhabit that person (or those people when there are multiple narrators) in order to understand how they view the world, their experience, and language. Sometimes we know all of that before we start writing and sometimes the personality of the narrator becomes distinct as we write and revise.

Distance

We also have to know how far inside that narrating character we are. The current trend commercial fiction is to be deep inside the narrator’s skin. At the New England Crime Bake there is a fun event where agents and a published author sit at a round table with a group of writers seeking representation and each writer reads the first page of his or her manuscript. When I have participated, whenever the agent responds to the work with, “I’m not getting the narrator,” or “the character is not compelling,” my more practical, writerly advice is, “Go back and edit out all the distancing words- I felt, I thought, I saw. We don’t hear those words in our heads. Put it on the page as the character experiences it.”

Two thoughts about distance:

The closest I ever felt to a narrator was in Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel. She throws the so deep into Thomas Cromwell’s guts at the beginning of each scene it feels like you have to fight your way to the surface, Alien-style, to look around and see where you are, who else is there, and what is going on. It is remarkable.
I’ve never been able to read Ann Cleeves’ first Shetland book Raven Black , even though I love her other books. One of the POV characters is an intellectually-challenged man who is practically a hermit. Cleeves so successfully gets you inside this character’s skin that I’ve found the space too claustrophobic to stay there for very long.

Tense

You all get what tense is. Choices are present, simple past and the much less frequently used (for good reason IMO, especially for a full-length novel) future and conditional.

Time

Naturally you must use language appropriate to your narrator’s time in history, but that’s not what I’m talking about here.

You must also know when the story is being told. Is it being told as events unfold so the narrator has no more idea what will happen next than the reader does? (This will always be the case if you are writing in present tense.) Or, does the narrator have some distance? Has he refined the tale down to one of his best bar stories? Or are the events in the story in the distant past, perhaps when the narrator was a child? Has the narrator grown and changed as a result of what has happened? Does she view these past events with new insight?

It’s important to understand when the story is being told relative to the events being related.

Tone

Is the book serious or is it humorous? If it uses humor is it light and funny, or ironic, sardonic, or sarcastic? Or, is the tone earnest, pure, reportorial, intellectual? How much self-awareness does the narrator have about himself and his role in the events in the story? Is the narrator offering knowing insights or naivety?

Word choice

Short sentences or long?
Formal construction or conversational language?
Complex vocabulary or simple?

You’ve got this one. This is the prose, and of course, it all depends on who the narrator(s) is (are).

Confidence

Now, on to my argument about confidence. I believe the “magic” in voice is the author’s command of the story and the story-telling. The narrator doesn’t have to be a confident person, but the author has to believe the story is worth the telling. The author has to whisper to the reader through the character, “Come with me. I know what I’m doing. This story will be worth your time. It will –entertain, amaze, challenge, amuse–you. I won’t let you down. I promise.”

This is where the duality of the authorial voice and the narrator’s voice come together, in the author’s absolute confidence that the story is good, seducing the reader into believing in the author and the story, too.

Where does that confidence come from?

Sometimes the voice is the first glimmer the author has of the story. A voice starts talking in our heads. I have friends who tell me entire books have poured out of them this way. It may have been their first book or their tenth, catching the author by surprise.

This has never happened to me. When I hear a voice telling a story, it always peters out and wanders away by page 50, or with a short story by the fourth scene. I would love to have it happen, and maybe it will someday, but not so far.

More often, the author and the narrator are both timid, and it’s only in the revising and revising, as the confidence of the author grows and the narrator’s personality becomes more distinct that the voice takes command. Either way, a strong voice has to be there by the end. Voice isn’t magic, but it is the special sauce that makes every piece of fiction work.

Do authors follow some mental checklist on these elements of voice? Not really. I often compare writing fiction to riding a bicycle. In the beginning you’re conscious of everything–balance, steering, braking, pedaling, road safety. But once you learn, you’re only conscious of the thing that’s most challenging–steering on a wandering path, braking on a hill, navigating city traffic. Most authors don’t consciously make all the choices above, but if something’s not working, it’s worth going back and reviewing them.

Readers and writers: What are your thoughts about voice? I would love to hear them.

Weekend Update: March 16-17, 2019

Next week at Maine Crime Writers, there will be posts by Barb Ross (Monday), Susan Vaughan (Tuesday) Sandra Neily (Wednesday) Maureen Milliken (Thursday), and Lea Wait (Friday).

In the news department, here’s what’s happening with some of us who blog regularly at Maine Crime Writers:

 

 

An invitation to readers of this blog: Do you have news relating to Maine, Crime, or Writing? We’d love to hear from you. Just comment below to share.

And a reminder: If your library, school, or organization is looking for a speaker, we are often available to talk about the writing process, research, where we get our ideas, and other mysteries of the business. Contact Kate Flora

Here Comes The Sun

Two young women zipped by me in a red convertible with the top down when I was driving home from work Tuesday evening. Heads thrown back, sunglasses glinting with the 5:45 rays brought to us by Daylight Saving Time, they were having a grand time, laughing and singing along with the radio.

Their Mini Cooper was crusted with salt and spattered with road wash just like my CRV, but they were in the springtime groove and their anticipatory happiness was contagious.

The city streets are pocked with potholes the size of washtubs (is it me or are they worse than usual this year?) and the country roads are decorated with the traditional roadside signs warning of that distinctive northern New England condition known as frost heaves.

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Sign ‘o the times

But I’m ready to unzip my coat and venture forth into spring, because here comes the sun, my friends.

The snowbanks are receding, the early songbirds are getting vocal and I’m wearing shoes to work instead of boots.

Some days there’s still red ice on the sidewalks (as hazardous to those of us who traverse Portland’s brick sidewalks as the black variety that hides on Maine roadways after whatever thawed the previous day freezes up overnight), but it’ll be gone soon.

Everything is overdue for a good spring cleaning. House. Car. Gym bag. I’m itching to replace the wool and fleece I’ve been wearing since November with cotton and linen, eager to unpack the happy season attire of sneakers, shorts and swimsuits.

Red’s Dairy Freeze in South Portland opened on Monday. Local breweries are transitioning from Porters and Stouts to lighter ales and beers.

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Smelt shacks herald spring

Smelts are running and before you know it the clam shacks will open and we’ll all be sitting at picnic tables waiting for our number to be called.

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Oh yes. At Five Islands, perhaps? Or Bagaduce Lunch?

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Sunday is March 17. Two weeks ago, we took our holiday wreath down. Now it’s time to toss the beribboned evergreens in the ceramic pots that flank our front porch. However festive they seemed in December, the wintry mix of January, February and early March has left them glum and frozen in place, two stubborn ghosts of Christmas 2018.

But mark my words. By the time the sun comes up on St. Patrick’s Day those final Christmas decorations will be gone, even if I have to use an old screwdriver to chip them out of the lingering ice.

My brilliant poet friend Alice Persons, founder of Maine’s own Moon Pie Press, wrote a memorable bit of verse about this annual ritual. With her permission, here it is:

The Wreath People

By Alice N. Persons

I’m sick of them,

these wreaths —

brown, desiccated,

with forlorn red bows

they linger on doors and windows

in the strengthening sun.

There must be fifty in my neighborhood alone.

It’s almost Easter.

They have to go.

Green and fresh, in dark December

they gladdened the heart

but it’s long past time to

recycle, bury or burn.

I fantasize about roaming the streets

picking off wreaths with

silent rubber bullets.

I should get a medal from the mayor.

The Wreath People puzzle me —

they live among us, but why?

Is it laziness, inertia, an arcane ritual,

or do the dead wreaths

mark their houses for the mother ship?

From Thank Your Lucky Stars (Moon Pie Press, 2011).

Used with the author’s permission.

Happy St.Patrick’s Day, dear blog readers.[image error] Are you seeing signs of spring in your neck of the woods.? What are you most looking forward to when the snow finally melts and the flowers bloom? Do you have favorite poems about spring?

Brenda Buchanan is the author of the Joe Gale Mystery Series, featuring a diehard Maine newspaper reporter who covers the crime and courts beat. Three books—QUICK PIVOT, COVER STORY and TRUTH BEAT—are available everywhere e-books are sold. She is writing a new series that has as its protagonist a Portland criminal defense lawyer willing to take on cases others won’t touch in a town to which she swore she would never return.

Finally A Light At The End Of The Tunnel

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Vaughn

Vaughn Hardacker here: As I write this I am looking forward to setting the clock ahead one hour! I suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder (better known as Seasonal Depression) and this winter has been possibly the worst (defined as longest) that I can remember. We got our first snow on October 18 and, unlike most years, it stayed with us; add to that a cumulative snowfall of 152 inches (we are forecasted to get another five inches on Monday and Tuesday, March 11 7 12). Considering that we usually get snow through mid-April we could set a new all-time record

for cumulative snowfall.

For years I’ve been told that I suffer from S. A. D. but never really understood what it was. All I knew was that I hated winter (truth be told, I still do) and for many years made a point of never returning to Maine from November to June. In 2009 I returned rationalizing that snow and cold are only a problem if you have to go out in it–and as a retiree I could stay inside as much as I liked. I did not account for one thing . . . a phenomenon we call cabin fever.

I researched Seasonal Depression (S. A. D.) and here’s what I’ve learned

Seasonal depression is a mood disorder that happens every year at the same time. A rare form of seasonal depression, known as “summer depression,” begins in late spring or early summer and ends in fall. In general, though, seasonal affective disorder starts in fall or winter and ends in spring or early summer.

Causes

While the exact causes of SAD are not known, some scientists think that certain hormones made deep in the brain trigger attitude-related changes at certain times of year. Experts believe that SAD may be related to these hormonal changes. One theory is that less sunlight during fall and winter leads to the brain making less serotonin, a chemical linked to brain pathways that regulate mood. When nerve cell pathways in the brain that regulate mood don’t function normally, the result can be feelings of depression, along with symptoms of fatigue and weight gain.

SAD usually starts in young adulthood and is more common in women than men. Some people with SAD have mild symptoms and feel out of sorts or irritable. Others have worse symptoms that interfere with relationships and work.

Because the lack of enough daylight during wintertime is related to SAD, it’s less often

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Clearing My Front Walk

found in countries where there’s plenty of sunshine year-round.

Winter Symptoms

People with SAD have many of the normal warning signs of depression, including:

Less energy
Trouble concentrating
Fatigue
Greater appetite
Increased desire to be alone
Greater need for sleep
Weight gain

Summer Symptoms

Less appetite
Trouble sleeping
Weight loss

Diagnosis

If you’ve been feeling depressed and have some of the above symptoms, see your doctor for an assessment. He or she will recommend the right form of treatment for you.

Treatment

There are different treatments, depending on the severity of your symptoms.

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The View From My Front Porch

Traditional antidepressants are often used to treat seasonal depression.  Bupropion XL (I use this, it was sold as an aid to quit smoking under the brandname Ziban) is currently the only medication that is FDA-approved specifically to prevent major depressive episodes in people with SAD.

Many doctors recommend that people with SAD get outside early in the morning to get more natural light. If this is impossible because of the dark winter months, antidepressant medications or light therapy (phototherapy. I have a special lamp provided by the VA and it does seem to help somewhat; however sunlight works best for me.) may help.

In closing, I’ve been at a number of writing events where people ask “Why are there so many writers in Maine?”. I’ve heard several writers say: “The winters are long.” I understand where these people are coming from, but if, like me, you suffer from S. A. D. you may find the winter months to be your least productive. It’s now half-past March and May is a mere six months away and finally I can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel!

By the way . . . anyone know of a place with Maine summers and Arizona winters?

 

 

The College Admission Crimes: Rich & Famous Parents Gamed The System

Hey, everyone. March has arrived and the sun is warmer and the Maine snow is finally melting. I’m nearly done with my new novel, due to the publisher on May 1st. And getting ready for the launch of PRAY FOR THE GIRL on April 30th.

By now you’ve heard of the college admission scandal. It’s enough juicy crime details to be made into a riveting psychological thriller. The well-to-do, including two famous TV actresses, paid large sums of dough to get their kids into the college of their choices.

Ugh! Really?

This issue strikes close to home, seeing how my son went through the painful college admissions process last year. Thank goodness he landed at a school that he now loves and perfectly firs his academic and social needs (GO HURRICANES). Although his GPA and SAT scores were above most of the colleges he applied to, being a white male did not help in this day and age of geographical and ethnic diversity. I’m not complaining about this, it’s just the reality of modern day college admissions. It’s an aspect of college admissions that must be accepted as part and parcel of our times.

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So to hear that these affluent parents paid money to get their kids into the college of their choice, troubles even more. Besides being illegal, immoral and wholly unethical, it does incredible harm to the students more deserving of admittance. And those include students with higher scores, as well as highly qualified minorities seeking entrance to the college of their choice. As loud proponents of diversity and inclusion, these two actresses are the epitome of hypocrisy.

What in the world were these parents thinking? Their criminal meddling not only hurts other students, but it seriously harms their own children’s emotional and academic maturity. Did their kids know what their parents were cheating and committing criminal acts for them? And what did they think of them when they found out? Or maybe they expected to be doted on and spoiled, having grown up that way their entire lives. Then there’s presence at the university that accepted them. How do they feel about being there now? How about their professors and peers. I’m sure they’ll be harassed and despised on campus for how they were admitted, and it will be a very uncomfortable experience., especially when their parents become felons.. Was that elite degree worth it! These parents couldn’t have harmed their children more if they’d abused them, which in many ways they did.

Apart from the sleazy and corrupt aspects of this story, how are children supposed to grow and develop on their own if their parents don’t let them get by on their merits. These kids will grow up with an inflated sense of ego, as well as a hard time getting on in life. They’ll never develop a true sense of worth or self-esteem—and that’s the true crime in all this.

I tryout hope these parents will go to jailing guilty. As a writer of mysteries and psychological thrillers, I can think of a lot worse crimes to write about, but none that so vividly captures the hypocrisy of our times. And these were people who professed a  strong belief in women’s rights, social justice and diversity in institutions. How hypocritical can you get?

When applying  for colleges, I sar my son down and explained that rejection is part of life, and that often times life is not fair. I told him that it didn’t matter what college he got into, whether it be Harvard or the local community college. If he worked hard and put in the time, he could succeed at anything, and just as much as those students attending the super elite universities. That’s because we live in a meritocracy where the cream rises to the top. Ask any published author about rejection and they’ll tell you that failing was essential,to their development as a writer. The school of hard knocks is the most valuable learning institution you’ll ever know. Accept it. Embrace it. It will make you and your kids better persons.

With that said, I hope you can come to the book launch for PRAY FOR THE GIRL at Longfellow Books at 7:00 on April 30th. Hope to see you there.

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Elizabethan Roots of the Kick-Ass Heroine

Kaitlyn Dunnett/Kathy Lynn Emerson here, with a post for Women’s History Month. Some years back, as Kathy, I attended the annual Medieval Congress in Kalamazoo in the guise of an “independent scholar” (read that as “I went to promote my novels set in the sixteenth century”), and presented a paper (that’s what you do at scholarly conventions) titled “Elizabethan Roots of the Kick-Ass Heroine.” This seems an appropriate occasion to revisit some of the women I talked about then. Believe me when I say I could have included many, many more extraordinary women who lived all or part of their lives during the years 1558-1603.

[image error]Elizabeth Cooke (1540-1609) led a phenomenal life. So well educated that scholars from the universities consulted her on matters of mathematics, a prodigious writer of letters and poetry, she married twice and was twice widowed. In 1589, Queen Elizabeth appointed her Keeper of the Queen’s castle at Donnington and Bailiff of the Honor, Lordship, and Manor of Donnington. That this appointment was given to a woman was unusual, and not without controversy. She arrived there one day in 1592 to find the door locked against her. She ordered it broken open and found two men within. They’d been left to guard the place by a fellow named Lovelace, one of the Lord Admiral’s retainers. He claimed the queen had granted him the right to live there. Elizabeth set them “by the heels in her porter’s lodge: saying she would teach them to come within her liberties and keep possession against her.” A short time later, Lovelace showed up with sixteen armed men and freed the prisoners. Elizabeth took the case to law but while everyone agreed that she had been “abused” by the invasion of her home, her “stocking and imprisonment” of the men was deemed “not justifiable in law.”

By her second marriage, Elizabeth became Lady John Russell. An aside here—the Elizabethans seem to have been quite flexible about forms of address and she is always called Lady Russell, although properly she should be Lady John. They had two daughters, both of whom became maids of honor to the queen. One, Ann, was given permission to marry Lord Herbert and the queen declared she wished to attend the wedding. This was a good thing . . . except that it meant the queen would also set the date. When she had failed to do so for some considerable time, Lady Russell lost patience. She took the direct approach. Gathering up all the wedding guests, she set out for Greenwich to fetch her daughter. Her boldness was rewarded. The wedding took place on June 16, 1600.

Then there was the business of keeping a company of players out of the exclusive Blackfriars neighborhood. “Not in my back yard” also has sixteenth-century roots!

Ellen Flodder (x.1616) was the leader of a band of outlaws operating in Norfolk, Kent, Lincolnshire and Leicestershire. She was not exactly robbing the rich to give to the poor, and in 1615 she was executed for burning the town of Windham in Norfolk, but she certainly made a name for herself.

[image error]Grace O’Malley (1530-c.1603) the Irish pirate was even more famous. In 1593, Sir Richard Bingham, who tried her for plundering Aran Island in 1586, called her “a notable traitress and nurse to all rebellions in the province for forty years.” Although she came close to being executed more than once, she died a natural death. Her statue is at Westport House in Ireland.

Mary Wolverston (d. before 1617) married Thomas Knyvett (d.c.1553), by whom she had a son, Henry. Her second husband was Sir John Killigrew of Arwennack, Cornwall (d. March 5, 1584), one of a family long engaged in piracy in that area. Lady Killigrew was said to keep open house for the more respectable pirates at Arwennack House. On January 1, 1582/3, the Marie of San Sebastian was forced to drop anchor in Falmouth harbor. At midnight on January 7, as part of a plan conceived by Lady [image error]Killigrew, a band of local sailors and fishermen boarded the vessel, murdered the crew, and sailed the ship to Ireland to be plundered. Two Killigrew servants, Kendal and Hawkins, brought bolts of Holland cloth and six leather chairs to Arwennack House—the share allotted to Lady Killigrew and others in the household. None of the women actually went on the raid, but they did receive stolen goods. Mary’s son, Henry Knyvett, played an active role. The History of Parliament entry states that Lady Killigrew presented several lengths of cloth to her servants and that a daughter of the house (“young Mistress Killigrew”) paid a debt with twenty yards of the material. A. L. Rowse, in Sir Richard Grenville and the Revenge, adds a Mistress Wolverston, who received a bolt of Holland cloth and two leather chairs, along with other details not included in the account in Sabine Baring Gould’s Cornish Characters and Strange Events (available in Kindle format), which provides most of the information given here and corrects other accounts that incorrectly identify Old Lady Killigrew as Elizabeth Trewenard, Mary’s mother-in-law, and the ship as Dutch and/or carrying gold doubloons. Given that Mistress (abbreviated Mrs.) could mean either a married or unmarried woman, Mistress Killigrew could be one of Mary’s daughters or her daughter-in-law, Dorothy Monk. With Killigrew serving on the Commission for Piracy in Cornwall, nothing was done at first when the Spanish merchants who owned the ship complained. Later, when they took their case to London, an investigation was ordered that ended with the execution of Kendal and Hawkins for murder and an accusation that Mary had been behind the plot and had buried the loot in a cask in her garden. A royal pardon saved her from punishment. Some accounts say this was due to the favor of Sir John Arundell of Tolverne and his son-in-law Sir Nicholas Hals of Pengersick. Others credit the influence of her brother-in-law, Sir Henry Killigrew, who was prominent at court. Still others say her son paid substantial bribes to secure her release from prison. Although Mary was referred to as “that old Jezebel” by Hawkins and Kendal after their arrest, her age is unknown, as is the date of her death. At around the same time as the ongoing investigation, Mary’s husband died without a will and £10,000 in debt. Mary’s grandson erected a monument to Sir John Killigrew and his wife in the church of St. Budock in 1617.

Elizabeth Cecil (1578-1646) was better known as Lady Hatton, the name she kept after she was widowed in 1597. She was one of the wealthiest women in England when she chose Sir Edward Coke as her second husband. They had two daughters, but the union was not a success. By 1617 they were quarreling openly over Coke’s plans to marry their youngest daughter, Frances, then fourteen, to Sir John Villiers. Lady Hatton took action. She spirited the girl away from her father and hid her. Unfortunately, Coke found them and took the girl away. Lady Hatton followed Coke and Frances in her coach until it lost a wheel. She continued to stalk her husband and daughter, looking for another chance to rescue the girl, until King James stepped in and ordered Lady Hatton taken into custody and held until after her daughter’s wedding took place.

Although she did not succeed in her rescue, she was relentless in her efforts to help the girl. When the marriage failed, she took Frances in and when Frances was later arrested for taking a lover, Lady Hatton devoted her entire fortune to freeing her.

[image error]Jane Howard (1537?-1593) is one of the few real people who appear in my Face Down mystery series. She appears in Face Down Before Rebel Hooves. She was the daughter of Henry Howard, the poet earl of Surrey. She and her sisters were well educated, studying Greek and Latin among other subjects. Jane also composed verses. In 1569, the earls of Northumberland, Westmorland, Cumberland, and Derby concocted a plan to rescue Mary Queen of Scots, then in captivity in England, and marry her to Jane’s brother, the duke of Norfolk, thus restoring Catholicism to England. Word of this plan leaked and when Norfolk was arrested, he urged the earls to abandon their plans.

They might well have done so, had not Lady Westmorland persuaded her husband and the earl of Northumberland to take up arms. Of her brother’s defection, she is said to have remarked: “What a simple man the duke is to begin a matter and not go through with it.” To the earls, who were considering flight or surrender, she said, “We and our country were shamed for ever, that now in the end we should seek holes to creep into.” She goaded them to proceed until, on November 14, 1569, they began the first civil war England had seen since Wyatt’s abortive rebellion in 1554.

Ultimately, the uprising failed, but not for want of Jane’s encouragement. The earl of Westmorland fled abroad, but Lady Westmorland, with more courage than sense, threw herself on the queen’s mercy. She wrote for leave to come to court, saying that “innocency and the great desire I have had to do my humble duty to her Highness . . . emboldeneth me to continue this my suit.” The queen denied her request and Jane was confined at Kenninghall for the remainder of her life.

More complete mini-biographies of the women included in this post can be found at my website, A Who’s Who of Tudor Women and I’ve reprinted each of those entries in recent Facebook posts at Biographies of Tudor Women

 

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Kathy Lynn Emerson/Kaitlyn Dunnett is the author of nearly sixty traditionally published books written under several names. She won the Agatha Award and was an Anthony and Macavity finalist for best mystery nonfiction of 2008 for How to Write Killer Historical Mysteries and was an Agatha Award finalist in 2015 in the best mystery short story category. She was the Malice Domestic Guest of Honor in 2014. Currently she writes the contemporary Liss MacCrimmon Mysteries (Overkilt) and the “Deadly Edits” series (Crime & Punctuation) as Kaitlyn and the historical Mistress Jaffrey Mysteries (Murder in a Cornish Alehouse) as Kathy. The latter series is a spin-off from her earlier “Face Down” mysteries and is set in Elizabethan England. Her most recent collection of short stories is Different Times, Different Crimes. Her websites are www.KaitlynDunnett.com and www.KathyLynnEmerson.com and she maintains a website about women who lived in England between 1485 and 1603 at www.TudorWomen.com

Snowshoeing and writing

One of the consequences of the wonderfully abundant snowfall we’ve enjoyed in western Maine this winter is that our snowshoe trails have turned into relatively deep slots. My wife and several of our neighbors informally maintain a series of trails along and up the smallish mountain we live beside. We have assigned them names and recorded them on a map that we share only with friends and family, but because the area is adjacent to the Sunday River Ski Area other folks make their way onto our trails. That’s perfectly fine, but this year the number of snowshoers, the amount of snow, and the persistent cold temperatures that have prevented the typical pattern of shrinkage have combined to produce those slots.

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The slots are up to a foot and a half deep and just wide enough for two snowshoes. I’m sure some folks find them comforting—you can’t get lost—I think they’re unduly confining. My preferred snowshoes are wider than most because I like the heavy grippers on the bottom that newer and slimmer versions don’t have. Moreover, the depth of the slots makes it hard to use poles because the heavier snow in which to plant them is at a level that means you can’t maintain a steady pace. For me, rhythmic poling is one of the pleasures of snowshoeing.[image error]

What all this has to do with writing mystery novels occurred to me recently when my wife and I decided to escape the slots and head into open woods. Breaking trail is of course tiring, especially with snow depths over five feet, but it’s also fun because you escape into untracked areas of great beauty with only the occasional deer or hare track to remind you you’re not really alone. But my recent experience with heading off the trail was a reminder that those slots I was escaping have their use. [image error] Crossing what turned out to be a deep ravine that had been covered over to appear at the same level as the rest of the woods, I fell into a hole and ended up on my back, feeling like a turtle held down by his shell with my feet and arms in the air above me and no way to get traction. After some futile rolling about and trying to plant my poles below me, I called on my wife for help. She hadn’t yet crossed the ravine and so was able to stand and eventually get close enough to reach and push the release on my snowshoes. Now I was able to twist enough to get my feet, unburdened by the snowshoes, onto something like firm ground. With enough grunting and pushing and the occasional curses I finally managed to extract myself, reattach my snowshoes—and head immediately back to those slotted trails we had left behind 10 minutes earlier.

The lesson hit me later: slotted trails are like the constraints of literary genres—mysteries, romances, fantasy. They help a writer make choices and signal expectations to a reader. But they can also become boring, repetitive, constraining. That’s when the writer is tempted to head off into the untracked woods, dropping conventions and trying something new in plot or character development. Fun, yes, but potentially a trap requiring rescue. Frost of course made the same point when he compared free verse to playing tennis with the nets down. A winter lover himself, he might well have used my metaphor instead.

At the moment I’m having trouble with a new sort-of mystery I’m writing, trying to break the pattern of my earlier Maybe my recent snowshoe experience is trying to tell me something: get back in the slot.

Weekend Update: March 9-10, 2019

[image error]Next week at Maine Crime Writers, there will be posts by William Andrews (Monday), Kaitlyn Dunnett/Kathy Lynn Emerson (Tuesday) Joe Souza (Wednesday) Vaughn Hardacker (Thursday), and Brenda Buchanan (Friday).

In the news department, here’s what’s happening with some of us who blog regularly at Maine Crime Writers:

 

 

An invitation to readers of this blog: Do you have news relating to Maine, Crime, or Writing? We’d love to hear from you. Just comment below to share.

And a reminder: If your library, school, or organization is looking for a speaker, we are often available to talk about the writing process, research, where we get our ideas, and other mysteries of the business. Contact Kate Flora

Decisions

Bruce Robert Coffin here, wishing all of you who follow the Maine Crime Writers the very best that March has to offer.

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The other day I was typing away on my current work in progress when Robert Frost popped into my head. You know, the poet. Actually, it might be more accurate to say his poem The Road Less Traveled popped into my head. I had come to a point in the novel where I had to make a choice about which way to take the story and Robert’s words rang out as if he were reading them aloud.

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

I can’t help but wonder if Frost was using his stroll through the yellow woods as a metaphor for writing. After all, writing a novel, regardless of genre, is all about choices. All writers struggle with those key points in a story. Should I take it this way? Or should I tell this scene from the viewpoint of a different character? These decisions can make you crazy, but they are important and shouldn’t be taken lightly.

When writing or plotting a novel the decisions made by the author at each of these crossroads will directly impact how the reader interprets the story, and perhaps whether they end up loving or hating it.

One of my favorite comedy movies about writing is based upon the book Funny Farm written by novelist Jay Cronley. The film is about a big city sportswriter named Andy Farmer who quits his job and goes to live in the country where he will write the great American novel. A cliché, right? —Ask me sometime about the detective sergeant who left after three decades in police work to become a novelist.

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There is one hilarious bit in the movie where the furniture movers, hired by the Farmers, are lost and unable to find the town of Redbud. The driver stops in front of a farmhouse, where a man is sitting on the porch counting eggs, and says, “Hey Mac, can you tell me how to get to Redbud?” The farmer responds, “How’d you know my name is Mac?” The driver replies, “I just guessed.” Finally, the farmer ends their brief interaction by saying, “Well, then why don’t you guess your way to Redbud.”

The point of me telling you this is that writing fiction is all about guessing your way to Redbud. In our heads we imagine a great starting point for our stories on this side of the mountain. And maybe on the other side of this formidable barrier, representing our novel, is an exciting and completely satisfying conclusion. How we get there is entirely up to us as writers. We have unlimited options depending upon the pacing or build up we are looking to achieve. We can race up the mountain building momentum for the thrilling ride that will whisk us, and the readers, downhill screaming and grabbing for handholds to what is waiting on the other side. Or we can take a long slow circuitous route with switchbacks savoring every moment of the journey. It’s all about choices.

I hope you enjoyed this peek inside my writerly head. For those of you who consider yourselves strictly readers, you should now have a better understanding of what we writers wrestle with when trying to give you the best story possible. To the rest of you who sit day after day, fingers poised above the keyboard, nose pressed to the screen, trying to figure out how to get over the mountain, I wish you all the best in guessing your way to Redbud.

Until next month, write on!

Polishing

Lea Wait, here, posting this blog from “Writers’ Jail.” That’s what my friend and fellow author Barbara Ross calls it when your manuscript deadline is fast approaching, and you’re behind schedule.  Their schedule, your schedule … it doesn’t matter how you figure it. You know it when it happens. The only sane response is to lock yourself away, cancel all social engagements, hand your spouse (if you have one) the shopping list, and close your study door. (Oh — and when you’re in there? Turn off the internet and write. Don’t forget that part.)

So … I’m in writers’ jail, with a manuscript due April 1, a deadline that has been extended at least four times because of my cancer. I’m determined to make sure this time I don’t have to ask for another extension. April 1 might sound like I have oodles of time left … except for the chemo treatments and medical tests and exhaustion. And the 100 pages, more or less, I still have to write on my first draft. Not to speak of editing.

But what was I doing this morning? Polishing brass. (An admission:  I have a lot of brass and copper in my house. I had quite a bit of silver, too, but my daughters have taken a lot of that in anticipation of the future.) And that’s all right. I still have my brass and copper.  I inherited some, I was given some, I brought some home from Calcutta, some goes with my 1774 fireplace … you can guess the rest.

One brass lamp I polish – it’s made from a shell one of my great-uncles brought back from WW I.

Despite those who speak of “patina” as a justification to ignore dirt, grime, and tarnish, I firmly believe copper, brass and silver needs to be polished at least every six months. Brass and copper can go twelve months if it’s a really rough year, but they all need loving care or … bad things will happen.

So, because I am guilty of setting quarterly goals, I include polishing on my “to do” list every other quarter. But life has interfered. I polished a lot in the couple of months between my husband’s death last April, and my diagnosis in June. But since then I’ve had other priorities.

Very little has been polished since last May. The living room with the brass fireplace set, including fire dogs, tools, screen and fender tends to be the last room on my list, but I have brass and copper in almost every room of  my house.

Now, when I’m at this panicked point in a manuscript I usually aim at writing at least ten pages a day. Sometimes I can do more. Sometimes less. But ten pages is a heavy writing day.

Even when I’m in the depths of those pages, though, I need to take breaks. Eye breaks (look out the window! Don’t you wish you were there, outside?) Stretching breaks (even ergonomic keyboards don’t help with ten pages. Not to speak of when you have a cat on your lap.) Tea breaks. (Self-explanatory.) Sometimes, in desperation, chocolate breaks.

And polishing breaks.

Polishing a brass bowl or light fixture or 18th century saucepan feels good. Unlike that unending manuscript, I can see what I’ve accomplished. The house looks cleaner and brighter, which makes me feel as though I’m still a person. The physical polishing is a different motion from that of keyboarding, and (especially if done for only 15-25 minutes) can, if not totally relieve stress, at least get different back and neck muscles involved.

And, perhaps best of all … polishing doesn’t require a lot of thinking. So when a plot is dead-ended or a character is becoming boring or finding a new twist seems impossible … polishing a little brass or copper or silver can let me focus on those issues from a distance. Plus, for the part of me that my husband called “the Puritan Lea,” I’m not wasting time. See? I just polished three cloisonné bowls.

And when it’s time to go back to my study, I’ll be ready: this time, to polish my manuscript. Let it shine!