Lea Wait's Blog, page 243

How to Launch a Book on a Budget

Whether you’re an author with a traditional publishing company or you’ve elected to go it alone, I don’t think it’s really a surprise that budgets are tight when it comes to promotions and marketing these days. Unless you are one of the chosen few star players for a traditional imprint, many of the costs for launching your book may fall on your shoulders. And, of course, if you’re an indie working on a shoestring budget (and who among us isn’t?), then everything is pretty much on you. Since I’ve been working as an indie author for almost five years now and am preparing to launch a new series, I thought now would be a good time to share my own launch process for this latest novel.

First, a little about what I’m doing. My new Flint K-9 Search and Rescue series features characters from my bestselling Erin Solomon series – so I’m essentially doing a spinoff with some of my strongest characters. The first book in the series, The Darkest Thread, is out officially on October 25.

THE ADVANCE READER TEAM

In today’s digital-savvy world, pretty much everyone you talk to in publishing is all about the almighty mailing list. I have a mailing list of about 3,000 subscribers at this point. In my August newsletter to those subscribers, I put out a general call asking for readers who would be willing to review the new book if I provided them with an advance review copy (or ARC, as it’s known in the business). Because authors’ careers are made or broken based on the number of reviews they have on Amazon and Goodreads these days, the advance reader team is a critical component in the launch process.

I ended up with a team of 75, with which I’m very happy. I sent out personal messages to everyone who responded as their emails came in, and then sent out an official welcome on September 15 through Mailchimp. I had 75 promotional codes for my audiobooks through ACX (the Amazon company I go through to distribute my Erin Solomon audiobooks), so was able to let everyone on the mailing list choose one of the first three audiobooks in my series, as a special perk for being on the advance reader team.

On October 6, my ARC was ready to send to the advance reading team. I use BookFunnel as the easiest way to distribute free books, as readers can choose the format that works best for them depending on the ereader they use. In the email I sent on October 6, I provided a timeline for when I would like the book review up; reiterated the fact that I was not looking for solely positive reviews, but rather am looking for fair, honest reviews about the readers’ perceptions of the novel; and asked each reviewer to please include a disclaimer at the beginning of the review per Amazon guidelines, in order to make sure we weren’t violating their rules. That process got a little muddy as Amazon has just changed those guidelines, but ultimately it was determined that the best disclaimer to use at this time is: DISCLOSURE: I received an ARC of this novel at no cost to the author.

THE LAUNCH SEQUENCE

While the advance reader team was at work, I was busy prepping everything else. I posted the book for print pre-order on Amazon, posted the details of the book on Goodreads, and got digital pre-orders up on Barnes & Noble and Kobo, as well as preparing the book for release on Amazon and Draft2Digital (which distributes my books to the iStore for me, since I don’t have a Mac). Though you can do digital pre-orders on Amazon, I unfortunately got turned around with the mechanism at my last book launch, so it’s not actually available to me for the next year. Because sometimes Amazon is punitive; let that be a lesson to you.

On October 10th, I announced a dog photo contest to be held the day of the book launch, on October 25th. Since the book is about dogs, and I love dogs, and election season is horrible and all I really want to look at are happy, smiling dog faces, this seemed a good idea. I didn’t invest extra money in promoting the contest far and wide, and instead just relied on my social network on Facebook, Twitter, and through my mailing list. About fifty people submitted photos, which I think is a great turnout while still being manageable for me. I posted all of those photos in a Facebook photo album, and every ‘like’ each photo receives counts as a vote for that dog. The grand prizes for the contest are two $25 Amazon gift cards and a Kindle Paper White, but everyone who enters will win something. I’ll be taking submissions for the photo contest until 5pm EST on Friday, Oct 22nd, and judging will take place during an online Facebook Launch Party I’m hosting between 2 and 9 p.m. on Tuesday, October 25th.

During the launch party, I’ll be giving out prizes, taking questions about dog training (I’m a certified trainer myself and have my trainer/mentor on standby to lend a hand with the heavy lifting when I’m uncertain about anything), sharing excerpts and extras from the novel, and drinking lots of wine. Because that’s what you do when you’re online for seven hours pimping your work.

It’s free to host an event on Facebook, and posting the album of dog photos for the contest is likewise free. You can opt to ‘boost’ the post and tailor your target audience accordingly if you’re comfortable with Facebook ads and have a budget to work with – depending on your prowess, I’ve heard this can be quite effective. That depends largely on how extensive your existing social media audience is, and just how many people you’re trying to reach. Realistically, I didn’t think I could handle much more than 50 entries in the photo contest anyway, so I’m very happy with my results.

As far as the sequence of everything else goes, I’ll be doing a ‘soft launch’ of The Darkest Thread over the weekend in order to work out any kinks and allow advance readers the opportunity to submit their reviews before the wide release on October 25th. I’m also running a cross promotion of my 5-book Erin Solomon box set (digital only), selling that set for an unprecedented (and possibly insane) $.99 from October 24th to the 30th. I have a BookBub deal to promote that on the 29th, and am doing other paid advertising with Booksends, Books Butterfly, and JustKindleBooks.

WHAT DOES ALL OF THIS DO?

Most folks agree these days that—again, unless you’re one of the chosen few sitting in the winner’s circle with the Big 5 traditional publishers—the launch of a book is rarely going to set the world on fire. Rather, it’s a slow and steady race over time. You still want to make some impact up front, however, and the better positioning you can give your novel from the very start, the better chance that you’ll pick up momentum sooner rather than later. Personally, I just crunched the numbers and have $2,759.04 invested in this book, including the promotion for the Erin Solomon box set, cover design and editing for The Darkest Thread, SWAG for online and in-person giveaways, and print book stock.

I’m selling the book online at just $3.99 for the first week, and then will increase the price to its regular $5.99 on October 31st. That means I have to sell roughly 988 digital copies or around 310 print copies, in order to break even. Which is doable, but certainly requires some work on my part. My hope is to do that by October 31st so that anything I earn going forward puts me back in the black. Still, all of this is a scary prospect. I’ve now launched seven books, most of them with pretty good success, but I still find myself laying awake at night crunching numbers and praying to the publishing gods that things will go off without a hitch and my book will earn good reviews and equally good sales numbers.

Now, I know what you’re thinking… “But, Jen, I don’t actually have 2700+ dollars to spend on a book launch.” I hear you. So, here’s how I prioritize when I’m working with a smaller budget:

Book Design & Prep: The key to your success is having a great book to begin with. So, your top priorities in terms of expense if you’re an independent author are cover design and editing. If you’re a traditionally published author, those are happily two components you don’t have to fret over, so pat yourself on the back for snagging a traditional publisher who will foot those costs for you.
SWAG: This doesn’t need to be a huge expense. You can get bookmarks through NextDayFlyers (my personal favorites) or VistaPrint for $35 to $50, depending on how elaborate you get with the design and how many you order. Another fun bit of SWAG I’ve done in the past is to buy candy wrappers with my book cover and info on them. I get them through the Candy Wrapper Store; the cost is reasonable, and you just wrap them yourself around Hershey’s Miniatures and have a tasty customized tidbit to offer at signings and readings. If you want higher-end SWAG you can always opt for pens, hats, mugs, T-shirts, etc., but just think about how you’re going to use that SWAG, where you’re giving it out, and be realistic about just how likely it is that giving it out will actually lead to sales.
Advertising and promotion: If you’re not launching with an advance reader team or some good reviews through more conventional sources like Kirkus or Booklist, my recommendation is to not spend a lot (or anything) on paid advertising when you’re first launching your book. Wait until you’ve generated some reviews and some momentum, typically at least two to three months in, before you start looking around for advertising venues. Instead of paying for advertising and promotion early on, focus on things like hosting a Facebook launch party or doing something creative like holding a photo contest or something else that’s interactive enough to draw readers in. Author Rachel Abbott just started doing writing contests with her readers, which I think is a fabulous idea. Be creative, and have fun.

So, that’s my advice on the almighty book launch. If you’re an author, what have you found that works well for you when launching a book? And if you’re a reader, do you pay attention to book launches, or are you more likely to pick up a book after it’s generated some buzz?

Jen Blood is author of the bestselling Erin Solomon Mysteries, and the newly released Flint K-9 Search and Rescue Mystery The Darkest Thread. To learn more, visit www.jenblood.com. 

 

Sights and Sounds of Autumn in Maine

By Brenda Buchanan

The turning of the leaves took us by surprise this year.

The most beautiful season

After a long summer spent watering the garden we had modest hopes.

Too dry for good color, we thought. Wait ‘til next year. (Yes, Red Sox fans, we said that about more than the foliage.)

A few days into October the show began, startling us with its vibrancy.

Red maples flank a solider at Riverbank Park on Main Street in Westbrook

The swamp maples led the pack, but that’s true even in lesser leaf years. Then the big maple in our front yard began to glow, a reddish-yellow beacon visible from the end of the street. By last weekend all of southern Maine was alight.

Red tree, blue sky

To celebrate the end of a marvelous, warm summer, here are some photos from our recent travels, with some lovely poems about the season as accompaniment.

First, a Maine poet, Knox County’s own Edna St. Vincent Millay, whose iconic The Death of Autumn captures the despair that can accompany the dying season of the year:

When reeds are dead and a straw to thatch the marshes,

And feathered pampas-grass rides into the wind

Like aged warriors westward, tragic, thinned

Of half their tribe, and over the flattened rushes

Stripped of its secret, open, start and bleak,

Blackens afar the half-forgotten creek–

The leans on me the weight of the year, and crushes

My heart. I know that Beauty must ail and die,

And will be born again–but ah, to see

Beauty stiffened, staring up at the sky!

Oh, Autumn! Autumn! – What is the Spring to me?

Marshland adjacent to the Mousam River in Kennebunk

On the October 10 Writer’s Almanac, Garrison Keillor read Wendell Berry’s poem by the same name, which evokes not only the visual but the auditory aspects of autumn:

    Now constantly there is the sound,

quieter than rain,

of the leaves falling.  

Under their loosening bright

gold, the sycamore limbs

bleach whiter.

  Now the only flowers

are beeweed and aster, spray

of their white and lavender

over the brown leaves.

  The calling of a crow sounds

Loud – landmark – now

that the life of summer falls

silent, and the nights grow.

A tree alight

Finally, Song For Autumn, by the marvel who is Mary Oliver, a poet whose connection with nature is second to none.

In the deep fall

don’t you imagine the leaves think how

comfortable it will be to touch

the earth instead of the

nothingness of air and the endless

freshets of wind? And don’t you think

the trees themselves, especially those with mossy,

warm caves, begin to think

of the birds that will come—six, a dozen—to sleep

inside their bodies? And don’t you hear

the goldenrod whispering goodbye,

the everlasting being crowned with the first

tuffets of snow? The pond

vanishes, and the white field over which

the fox runs so quickly brings out

its blue shadows. And the wind pumps its

bellows. And at evening especially,

the piled firewood shifts a little,

longing to be on its way.

Fall dunes at Ferry Beach in Scarborough

Maine Hermits … and How I Used Them

Okay. No, I didn’t use hermits in real life. But I used them fictionally in my DANGLING BY A THREAD (shipping October 24).

The only hermit I’ve ever seen on a regular basis (I know – that’s a contradiction in terms) was a man who lived on Lower Mark Island, off Southport, in Maine. It was the mid-nineteen fifties, I was about ten years old, and my family had rented a home for the summer in Cozy Harbor while they looked for a home to buy.

I spent the summer crabbing and walking through the woods on Pratts Island and collecting shells on the small beach there. But I wasn’t the only one to notice the tall, dark-haired man who wore his hair in a ponytail and who rowed or paddled his skiff into the harbor about once a week. No one I talked to knew his name, or anything about him other than that he’d built a small shed (no water or electricity) on Lower Mark Island, and that he sometimes got mail from Boston at the general store. People called him “Ponytail” or “The Character.” I heard several years later that in the summer of 1964 he’d drowned.

Lea, in Cozy Harbor that summer

He fascinated me. I was young, and he was by far the most interesting person I’d ever seen. Like everyone else, I wondered what his history was, and what had brought him to Maine, and to his remote shack.  Years later, in 2008, I attended a local lecture about him at the Boothbay Harbor YMCA. Someone else had been thinking about him all these years and had investigated.

Hi name was Robert Speed, and he’d had a disrupted childhood, with dramatic financial highs and lows. He’d joined the Army at the end of World War II, worked in a VA psychotherapy ward, and was released in 1947, at one point ending up in a mental institution himself in upstate New York. In 1956 his father died and left him $1500 and he bought Lower Mark Island and a dory. He lived on the island for the last seven years of his life.

He wasn’t the only Maine hermit. More recently, in 2013, a man was found living alone in a tent in woods near Rome, Maine. He’d lived there for twenty-seven years, talking to no one, unknown to everyone, surviving on food and books and batteries for his radio that he’d stolen from summer camps in the area. Dubbed the North Pond Hermit, Christopher Knight is now in the Kennebec County Jail, serving time for the more than 1,000 burglaries he committed to get supplies.

Both men chose to live isolated lives. Neither bothered anyone else (although Knight did steal food and clothing.) They were not fully self-sufficient, but, in today’s world, they came close to that goal.

When I was writing DANGLING BY A THREAD, the fourth in my Mainely Needlepoint series, I thought of both of these men, and created Jesse Lockhart, known in Haven Harbor as The Solitary. Jesse lives alone on Kings Island. I gave Jesse a purpose – something Robert Speed and Christopher Knight might have had, but, like other details of their lives, kept to themselves.

And I gave Jesse a friend – Dave Percy, the ex-Navy veteran who now teaches biology at Haven Harbor High and has a poison garden. Dave’s one of the Mainely Needlepointers, and he introduces Jesse to Angie Curtis, the protagonist of my series … and then, of course, the mystery begins.

To find out more you can read a free prequel to DANGLING BY A THREAD linked to my website, http://www.leawait.com.

And, of course, soon you can read Jesse’s story, in DANGLING BY A THREAD.

Thinking Ahead

Jessie: In NH thinking about cold New England winters

As much as it pains me to admit it, we’ve had the heat on in the house. Leaves have turned, the beaches are empty and the stores have started stocking scrapers for the car. There’s no denying, at least here, that winter is almost around the corner. All of my family, on both sides, hails from Maine which means I’ve inherited a lot of collective wisdom on surviving the longest season. Here are my favorite tips from over the years:

1- If the pipes aren’t frozen your blood’s not frozen. You’ll be fine.

2-Never turn the heat on, or up, if you aren’t already wearing at least one sweater and your fleece lined slippers.

3-Learn to bake. Nothing warms the house and your insides like freshly baked bread.

4-If you’re feeling discouraged search the internet for stories on kudzu, killer bees and alligator attacks. You’ll likely feel a little less disgruntled about living in a place too cold for any of those things to take hold. You’ll also experience the warm, prideful glow that comes from realizing you are more tenacious than kudzu, killer bees and alligators.

5-Point heat works. Learn to love a hot water bottle. If you place one in your lap it’s like having a cat, without the disdain.

6-Always buy vehicles with black interiors. On sunny days back your wheels out of the barn and into the driveway in the morning. By lunchtime the inside will feel like a greenhouse. You can have a mid-day meal or a cup of cofffee in your shirtsleeves, even in February.

7-If all else fails check the weather reports for Helsinki, Finland or, better yet, Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia before reading your own forecast each morning. If that doesn’t cheer you right up you’d best become a snow bird.

Readers, do you have any seasonal survival tips? Writers, do you have a favorite season to write about?

(Not Quite) Goodbye

Before I get to today’s post, a quick note: I’ll be appearing at the Curtis Memorial Library in Brunswick tomorrow, 10/18, at 7PM. If you’re around, stop by and say hello! Now, onto our regularly scheduled programming…

The Broadway Bridge in Arkansas was deemed too weak to stand.

That’s no surprise, I guess, since it was 93 years old and in serious need of repair. What is surprising is what happened when a demolition crew tried to bring it down last Tuesday. But why take my word for it when you can see for yourself?

As the Arkansas highway department tweeted, “that didn’t go quite as planned.”

Why did I decide to share this with you? Two reasons.

The first is that my latest novel, RED RIGHT HAND, begins with a terror attack on the Golden Gate Bridge that leaves the landmark damaged, but still standing. Obviously, that’s a potent metaphor for humankind’s resilience in the wake of such horrors, but it’s also the likeliest outcome thanks to some truly spectacular feats of engineering. (Aside: did you know the Golden Gate Bridge was designed by a Mainer? I didn’t, until someone on Twitter told me.)

The second is that this is my last post as a regular contributor to Maine Crime Writers. I’ve been circling a new project for a while now—the big, ambitious standalone I mentioned on 207—and now that I’m ready to dive in, I realize it’s going to require every ounce of focus I can muster. But, not unlike the bridge, I’m sure this ain’t the last you’ll see of me around these parts. I’ve been guest-posting here since 2012, after all, and will happily continue to until the sun burns out or you folks get sick of me, whichever comes first. (My money’s on the latter.)

Anyway, it’s been a pleasure. Thanks for reading, commenting, and generally supporting Maine writers, this Maine writer included. I promise you, it means a lot to all of us. If you’d like to stay up-to-date with all things me, keep an eye on my website, Facebook author page, and Twitter. And, of course, you can swing by the Curtis Memorial Library in Brunswick tomorrow night!

Since there’s nothing I like more than a viscerally satisfying ending, I should tell you that they eventually managed to tear that old bridge down. Even weakened by the explosions, it didn’t go quietly. But again, don’t take my word for it. Like their failed first attempt—and the fictitious attack on the Golden Gate in RED RIGHT HAND—someone uploaded video of it to YouTube, because of course they did.

Weekend Update: October 15-16, 2016

Next week at Maine Crime Writers there will be posts by Chris Holm (Monday), Jessie Crockett (Tuesday), Lea Wait (Wednesday), Brenda Buchanan (Thursday), and Jen Blood (Friday).

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

from Kaitlyn Dunnett: That Goodreads giveaway for the paperback of The Scottie Barked at Midnight is still going on. It’s open until October 20. Here’s the link:

https://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/show/205951-the-scottie-barked-at-midnight

From Maureen Milliken: The digital audio version of No News is Bad News , the second in the Bernie O’Dea mystery series is now available on Audible and iTunes. It’s produced narrated by the wonderful Trudi Knoedler, who also produced and narrated Cold Hard News.

Click on the photo below to listen to an audio sample:

Click on the photo for a sample of the audio version of No News is Bad News.

Kate Flora: The wonderful Dale Phillips did a long interview with me this week on his blog site. Curious about a writer’s long career and perhaps some dark secrets? Check it out: http://daletphillips.blogspot.com/2016/10/interview-with-kate-flora.html

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

Details to Use in Describing Characters

Kaitlyn Dunnett/Kathy Lynn Emerson here, writing today about the challenges of finding just the right descriptive details to make characters, even the minor ones, distinctive for the reader. Although it is possible to write about someone without ever describing their appearance, in most cases it helps to provide a few hints. If the reader first meets a character in Chapter Two and he doesn’t appear again until Chapter Nine, it is convenient to be able to refer to “the guy with the big nose” or “the woman with the squeaky voice” to refresh the reader’s memory, rather than rehash the entire earlier encounter.

one of the great British faces

You can, of course, model a character’s physical appearance on a real person. There are some great faces out there, especially among British actors. And, at least in a contemporary setting, you can describe someone as looking like a young Judi Dench or an older version of Miley Cyrus. There are a couple of problems with that, though. You need to be certain that your readers  know who the heck you’re talking about. And, of course, the reference may end up dating your work.

A better plan is to come up with a few memorable details to describe each new character as he or she comes into the story. The difficulty comes in finding a happy medium between details that are bland—he was six feet tall with brown hair and blue eyes and an aquiline nose—and language that is way too florid. Some of the best (or worst) examples of the latter are finalists in the annual Bulwer-Litton competition for opening lines. That said, the boundary between an over-the-top description and writing that is vivid can often be a bit blurry, and it is very easy to get stuck trying to come up with the right words to describe someone, no matter how clear the writers’ mental picture of the character may be.

Not too long ago, the Maine Romance Writers’ Facebook page posted a link to a “Master List of Facial Expressions for Writers!” Naturally, this intrigued me, so I followed the link to Bryn Donovan’s webpage. It turns out that Bryn has written an entire book, Master Lists for Writers, and published excerpts online to give folks a feel for what’s in it. I have not read the book, or all of the online lists, but what I did look at is exactly the sort of thing that writers trying to describe a new character would find useful.

What all this is leading up to is a similar share from me. Over the years, while writing both historical and contemporary novels, I came up with my own “Details to use in Describing Characters” list, arranged by an assortment of somewhat random categories. I refer to this collection of descriptive details every time I start a new book. It has saved me many a frustrating stretch of searching for just the right word. Feel free to borrow at will.

attitude:

meek

always listening

slovenly

a great exercise is to find the words to describe this famous character

build:

gangly

narrow shoulders

all angles

beanpole thin

newly-acquired height

wiry

flabby

stolid

sinewy

thin-chested

fine-boned

dainty

bulging biceps

corpulent

spindly legs

slightly bow-legged

plump ankles

dewlaps

angular

gaunt

scarecrow

rawboned

stoop-shouldered

fleshy

slight paunch

here’s another, if you don’t get distracted by the cat

slightly concave abdomen

lean

heavy-set

complexion:

pallid

florid

lost looks to swine pox (from the 16th century novels, obviously)

ruddy

splotchy

sallow

full of pustules and a new quat (ditto)

pale, flawless skin

livid scar

swarthy

peaches and cream

dusky

ears:

oversized

protuberant

hard of hearing

eyes:

mild gray

shortsighted

faded blue

perpetual squint

gimlet

almond-shaped

wide-spaced

murky green

pale, watery

protuberant

trough-eyed (one lower than the other)

brown so dark they appear black

squint-eyed

deep bags under—look of a sorrowful hound

heavy-lidded

molasses-colored

color of hazelnut shells

lynx-eyed (sharp sighted)

mud colored

beady little

wears an eye patch

publisher’s way to avoid showing sleuth’s face

face and facial hair:

negligible chin

broad red beard

moonfaced

horse-faced

double chins

bushy eyebrows

broad forehead

jowly

sculpted features

plump cheeks

high cheekbones

trailing mustache

wispy beard

long beard, narrowing toward chin

hollow cheeks

little tuft of a beard

cleft in chin

freckles

winged eyebrows

pockmarked

red-cheeked

narrow jaw

mole on one cheek

fleshy

fingers:

long

plump

steepled

thick as sausages

gait:

walked flat-footedly with a shuffling movement

awkward

lack of grace

slight limp

rolling

slow-moving

hobbles

scuttles

shambling

light on the feet

cover art with lots of descriptive detail

hair:

straw-colored

the color of ___

bald

mud-colored

lank

receding hairline

rich, blue-black hair that reflects sunlight

sand-colored

thinning

ginger

hands:

hamlike

meaty

folded over slightly concave abdomen

laugh:

trilling

rusty

mouth and teeth:

lips flattened in a hard line

thin, cruel

large yellow teeth

toothless

four large front teeth all the same size

pouting lips

small, perfect

missing tooth in front

blue-tinged lips

brown teeth

teeth overlap

toothy smile

small, sexy gap between two front teeth

Is a picture worth a thousand words? Is this Lady Appleton from my Face Down and Mistress Jaffrey mysteries?

nervous habits:

fidgets

tugs on beard

drums fingers on ___

clenches and unclenches hands

pleats fabric

nose:

hawklike

broken veins in

bulbous

beak of a

bump on the bridge from a break

large, slightly flattened

Roman

aquiline

or is this Lady Appleton? (same artist, by the way, the talented Linda Weatherly S.

smell:

musky perfume

scent of lavender

old socks

scented kitty litter

voice and diction:

soft-spoken

nasal whine

sniffles

sultry

slow, measured speech

repeats everything twice

hoarse smoker’s

raspy

deep baritone

clipped speech

lazy drawl

careful of words

 

And there you have it. Kathy/Kaitlyn’s little list. They may all be things you’d think of anyway, but sometimes having a quick reference written down can be a life saver. Happy Writing, Everyone!

Kathy Lynn Emerson/Kaitlyn Dunnett is the author of over fifty books written under several names. She won the Agatha Award 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 for “The Blessing Witch.” Currently she writes the contemporary Liss MacCrimmon Mysteries (Kilt at the Highland Games) as Kaitlyn and the historical Mistress Jaffrey Mysteries (Murder in a Cornish Alehouse ~ UK in December 2016; US in April 2017) as Kathy. The latter series is a spin-off from her earlier “Face Down” series and is set in Elizabethan England. Her websites are www.KaitlynDunnett.com and www.KathyLynnEmerson.com

 

 

Saying Goodbye to Mister Roger

John Clark here to share some memories of good times I had with a friend who left us last week.

Coming round for the first time at Loudon

I’ve never had an abundance of friends, well close ones anyway. It never seemed to work out for more than two or three people at any given time. When we moved from Chelsea to Hartland, one of my major concerns was losing my long time support system in the recovery community. After all, I’d been going to meetings in the same area for 23 years. My friend Loyd and I had alternated as coffee makers for the Sunday night Coopers Mills meeting for over ten years and separating from that security and stability was unsettling.

Luckily the meeting closest to our new home was at the same time and on the same night, not to mention less than a mile away as compared to the nine mile drive each way to Coopers Mills. Even so, I was antsy going down those stairs at the Grace Linn Methodist Church for the first time. I had no reason to worry. The same group was sitting around a table. They just looked different and talked a bit different. Roger was one of them and the first to stick out his hand to welcome me.

It wasn’t long before we began to spend time together outside meetings. We both liked fishing and Roger was happy hop in my truck and direct me to some of his favorite places to fool trout. In the process, I learned a lot about his life. He’d lost his left eye in a sledding accident when he was young and struggled with self-esteem and school during his teen years as a result. Like me, he’d discovered the subtle allure of alcohol to mask insecurity and fear. And, like me, it had seduced him before biting him in the butt big time.

He described himself as a retread, having been in and out of AA twice before hitting the bottom that landed him in rehab and then the Hope House. That did the trick and earlier this year Roger celebrated 29 years of continuous sobriety. He and I fell into a similar pattern to the one Loyd and I had down state. We alternated opening up the Sunday meeting and over time, I figure between us, we made more than 600 gallons of coffee.

In addition to being fishermen, we also were fanatic Red Sox and Pats fans, listening to games at times, watching them on his TV at others. I was a latecomer to NASCAR, while Roger was a lifelong fan. When Coke offered free tickets to Loudon two years in a row, I drove us down and it was a tossup as to who had a better time. If you’ve never attended a live race, you have no idea how much of a rush it is when 40 supercharged engines fire up simultaneously. Roger also had a fairly unusual hobby. He collected salt and pepper shakers, so many in fact, they dominated his living room. Perhaps a more surprising fact was that he was an accomplished archer, quite an impressive feat when you’re missing an eye.

Roger checking out the crowd at Loudon.

As time went on, Roger’s health got worse. His heart began failing and years of smoking (he’d quit by the time I met him) had resulted in emphysema. The combination began robbing him of very important things. Roger was an avid golfer, often playing every weekend during the summer with Mickey and Marie or with Michael and Debbie. It was an emotional blow when he could no longer muster the stamina to play. Even harder for Roger was the loss of his drivers license for medical reasons. However, Roger had more than turned his life around in sobriety, he had become a doer of good deeds and kindnesses. When he needed those acts repaid, there was an army of friends there to chauffeur him or assist with navigating the healthcare system.

He lived in a subsidized apartment complex just up the road from us in an apartment across the hall from his stepdad, Jack Woodbury. I got to know Jack through Roger and wrote a couple newspaper articles about Jack’s long career in music.

Even when Roger’s health declined, his attitude remained positive and he was comfortable letting his family and friends know that he was okay with what was coming. I’d call every Tuesday and ask whether he was up for going to the Canaan Bog meeting. If he wasn’t we both knew it was okay and we’d had a mini-meeting over the phone.

When I got the call from Jack, I was sad, but not surprised. He told me Roger died doing what he liked best, helping someone else. He was carrying a bag of groceries in from Jack’s car, sat on the steps to take a breather and left this earth. His step-brother, the pastor at the Jubilee Worship Center in Newport did the funeral and it was both funny and memorable because he’d known Roger when he was still a holy terror, complete with eye patch.

We thought Danica might come home with us, but it didn’t work out

I’ll miss my friend, but smile on my way to Canaan every Tuesday evening as I remember all the good times we shared. Goodbye Mr. Roger.

Male Partnering in the Birth Experience (Or, You Can’t Fire the Coach, No Matter How Big a Dufus He Is)

Since a previous post about preparing for parenthood was received well, here is another chapter from my tongue-in-cheek guide to parenting called How to Raise the Perfect Child, Or At Least Lie About It. Thanks for indulging me as I take a brief respite from the murder and mayhem of writing thrillers to luxuriate in the humor and mayhem of parenting.

Maybe I’m biased, but I think this deserves its own whole chapter.

When my cousin and his wife were taking Lamaze classes for the first time, the instructor gave the soon to be mothers an important piece of advice at the outset: you can’t fire the coach. Left unsaid was the remainder of her sentence: no matter how big a dufus he is.

Coaching is the generally accepted term for the soon to be father’s role in delivery. He’s supposed to guide his wife through the process, letting her know what’s coming, praising her and just generally being a supportive, loving and caring force for her during this difficult, yet triumphant and empowering, experience.

Right.

When I think of coaching, I think of Vince Lombardi prowling the sidelines at frozen Lambeau Field. A master tactician. Making all the right moves. In control of everything. Marching the Packers on to victory. That certainly wasn’t my role in the birthing process.

I wasn’t the coach. I wasn’t even the assistant coach. I was the coach’s sister’s idiot son, sitting on the end of the bench. A senior who never had and never would see a minute of playing time and whose biggest athletic attribute was the ability to separate the home from away uniforms. I wasn’t in control of anything. At best, every now and then, I could contribute a feeble “Go team” from the sidelines.

When my wife and I were in Lamaze for the first time, our instructor showed us a video of what the husband should do in the delivery room. Maybe you’ve seen this video. There is a lovely red-haired woman sitting in a rocking chair, slowly rocking back and forth. She’s enraptured. She smiles constantly. In fact, she smiles through the entire delivery. I thought it was a commercial for Crest. Either that or she was an Osmond.

Now, the only inkling you get that she is, in fact, in labor is that every once in a great while she sucks in a small amount of air and then lets it out slowly. This woman goes through the entire labor without once swearing, crying or even mussing her hair. She spends most of it cross-stitching. Now I won’t say that my wife feels that that woman misled her about childbirth, but if you hold your screen close to your ear, you can still hear her swearing. Just keep this away from the kids.

Perfect, unruffled woman was not alone, however. By her side was perfect, supportive man. Her husband knew precisely what to say and when to say it. He knew when to remain quiet. He was calm and reassuring. And I’m pretty sure he was reading from a script, because I certainly don’t know any guy that facile. Most of us are like the second guy in the video: the just shut up guy. This guy couldn’t do anything right. The entire delivery was one long monotone: you’redoingfineyou’redoingfineyou’redoingfine. All the women in our class cheered when, after the delivery was finished, his wife looked at the camera and said: “I wanted to tell him to just shut up.” All the men in our class glanced apprehensively at each other. We knew. We were going to be the just shut up guy.

Some of my friends made the just shut up guy look good. One friend, seeing his wife in greater pain than ever before in her life, decided the moment needed a little levity. He broke in a new stand-up routine. As she writhed in pain, trying to bring his first child into the world, he did his best Jerry Seinfeld impersonation. For their second child, this friend abandoned stand-up for a career in sports broadcasting. He did play-by-play on the telephone to his parents for the entire delivery. “And the doctor hands the baby to the nurse. It’s an end-around. Oh no! Fumble!” His stitches will come out soon.

Another friend had it even worse. Now, most guys picture themselves Rambo-tough. The kind of guy who would never become squeamish at the sight of blood or anything, to use the scientific term, gooky. And this friend is a pretty tough guy. Unfortunately, not on this day. As he’s standing next to his wife, holding her hand, trying to be supportive, suddenly the room starts to get a little wavy. Being a tough guy, he doesn’t want to say anything, but that room keeps getting wavier. He lets go of his wife’s hand, who by the way is being of no assistance to him, and wipes his forehead when suddenly the instrument tray lunges against him and crashes to the floor, scattering the instruments around the room. Then the monitor smacks into him. Just trying to be polite and get out of the way, he backs into the wall and triggers some alarm. Seeing no graceful way out, he faints dead away. He wakes up on a gurney in the delivery room next to his wife’s gurney. His stitches come out soon, as well.

Another one of our friends took the complete opposite tact from the fainter. He LOVED the delivery. Not five minutes after his wife, battling dangerously high blood pressure, delivered his first child at great personal risk, our friend turned to his wife and, with a smile on his lips and love in his heart, proclaimed: “THIS WAS GREAT! LET’S DO IT AGAIN!” I don’t think his stitches will ever come out.

Now I was sure that I was ready for a starring role as coach. I had read how to be a good coach. The book said to bring a tennis ball to massage my wife’s back, so I did. The book said to bring a book to read to distract her from the pain, so I did. None of these ever left the overnight bag.

Instead, with our son, Morgan, my job was to watch the pain monitor. Unsure what the appropriate term for this was, I called it the “Holy Mother” box. As in “Holy Mother of God, a big one’s coming!” The nurse turned the monitor away from Erica and explained that the thin line tracking across the screen would show the strength of the contraction she was having, the one she just had, and the one coming. That placed me in a bit of a moral dilemma. I felt like Keith Jackson on the Weather Channel during tornado season: You think that one was bad, wait until you get a load of the next one coming. Whoa Nelly!

I struck a compromise with myself. I would tell her about every third contraction. The others I would swear the machine didn’t show. It led to priceless conversations like:

My wife: Arggghhhhhh! Is it almost over?

Me: (glancing nervously at the pain monitor): Ah, yes?

My wife: Seriously. Just tell me. Is it almost over?

Me: (a little more definite now) Yes.

My wife: Are you lying?

Me: (turning machine farther away from her) Absolutely not.

My wife: (next wave hits) ARGGH! BASTARD!

With our first daughter (second child), I was demoted. I was still on the sidelines, but I was primarily the student trainer who walks the injured athlete back and forth. That was my job. Walk my wife up one hallway, then down the second. Then back to the first. Then, oh heck, let’s see that second one again. For approximately six hours, my wife and I walked up and down these two hallways. After the first hour, I stopped asking her how she felt every two minutes and concentrated on not being the Just Shut Up Guy.

Then, suddenly, the Head Coach decided it was time my wife joined the game. Within twenty minutes, my wife shot from four centimeters to full dilation. We raced for the delivery room. More accurately, my wife proceeded at full waddle while I buzzed around her like some hopped-up mosquito. The nurse told Erica that the doctor hadn’t expected her to progress so rapidly, but would be in our room in “two minutes.” In her best Clint Eastwood impression, Erica informed the nurse that the doctor’s two minutes were up. At that point, I hid under the gurney.

When the doctor arrived, I figured it might be safe to crawl out from under the gurney, because, at that particular moment, my wife hated him even more than me. Just the sound of his voice ticked her off. “Push?” I offered meekly. “I can’t, it hurts,” she panted. “Erica…” the doctor began. “YAAARGHHHH!” she responded. Two pushes later, our daughter shot into this world. It’s a good thing the doctor had his catcher’s mitt on, or Shannon would have ricocheted around that room like a pinball.

I congratulated everyone on playing a good game, but, I have to admit, I had a few misgivings. While I was no longer the Just Shut Up Guy, I had become the Were You in the Room Guy. I’m not sure that’s a good thing.

Things didn’t improve with the birth of our second daughter, Maura (third child, for those of you still counting). I wasn’t even the student trainer any longer. I was the star athlete’s groupie friend, hanging out in the hot tub and trying to score drugs for the star from anyone and everyone. Erica’s mother took her up and down the hallways to “walk it off” while I played with the buttons on the hospital bed. They gave my “Holy Mother” monitor to a nurse; like she would know what to do with it. Basically, I spent the game parked in Row ZZZ.

I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. By the third time, Erica was no longer a rookie. She knew what she was doing, and didn’t need the coach. It’s just the state of the game these days. No one listens to their coaches anymore.

Given recent history though, that might not be a bad thing.

Push?

If My Writing Life Had A Playlist

Kate Flora: Some years ago, while I was working on a book, I decided that I needed to create a playlist to listen to that would help me get into the mind of my central character. It was a long time ago. If I actually made that playlist, I’ve long since lost it into the innards of a now-extinct iPod, a former computer, or the cobwebby vastness of my brain. All I remember is sending out an e-mail call for help to the young women in my family asking about what they listened to when they were angry. Then, when I was working on Finding Amy, and living every day with the tragedy of her death, I learned that Dante’s Prayer, by Loreena McKennitt, was one of her favorite songs. I listened to it then, and I listen to it now, and remember the lovely young woman I never knew. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FDw3CyOmj20

As you know, from reading this blog, listening to writers, or from your own writer’s life, the journey from idea to publication can be a long and sometimes painful one. I have some “anthems” that I play when I’m angry and frustrated about how hard it is, even with a track record of good books, to get published and stay published, among which is Freddy Mercury and Queen’s, “I Want It All.” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hFDcoX7s6rE

The Joe Burgess series begins with Playing God

A long, strange journey has certainly been the case with my newest book, Led Astray. First of all, I wasn’t planning to write another Joe Burgess book. When I envisioned the series, my plan was to write a quartet spanning the four seasons. The series began on an icy February night in Portland, when Burgess is called to the scene of a doctor murdered in his Mercedes, in Playing God. That was followed by the steamy heat of summer, and a dead child in a city park, in The Angel of Knowlton Park. Redemption, the story of a Vietnam veteran who came back damaged and never quite got it together, takes place during a glorious Maine October. The series was going to end with spring, and Burgess’s hopes for a more normal life, in And Grant You Peace, as Burgess tries to balance caring for his family with investigating a complicated crime among Portland’s Somali immigrant community.

If Joe Burgess, a lapsed Catholic, with a strong moral compass and deep compassion for people who can’t defend themselves, has a playlist, it’s going to veer between the music he listened to in Vietnam, and the hymns I listen to while I getting in touch with who he is. Like this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SV7znC9TWYs or this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TLV4_xaYynY And Joe Burgess, being an Irish-American cop, loves this song, which I play for him from time to time: Mary Black, Song for Ireland https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sbRuLOfHYfw

After the publication of And Grant You Peace, people started asking when they could read the next Burgess. I said I’d done the four seasons and I was done. And people reminded me that Maine has more than four seasons. For starters, there’s hunting season, mud season, blackfly season, and tourist season. So I e-mailed the publisher and asked if they’d like another Burgess, and stuck myself in a chair and wrote what my husband calls the 5th book in a 4 book series. The working title was: And Led Them Thus Astray. I met my deadline, delivered the book, got roundly and soundly beaten up by my editor, and after revisions was told the book was in the queue for a contract, and would be published in the fall of 2016.

Months passed. No contract appeared. No virgin in the publishing industry, I saw the writing on the wall, and sure enough, in January, instead of a contract I got the news that the publisher was discontinuing their mystery line. Poor Joe Burgess was an orphan. I consoled myself with endless repetitions of Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah, which is truly music one can get lost in,  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YrLk4vdY28Q as I pondered whether to look for another publisher.

In the end, after playing some music a bit more upbeat–Cher’s Just Like Jesse James (dreaming of the publishing industry going down in flames) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KeWN4Zr10kM and Cindi Lauper’s Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PIb6AZdTr-A because I DO want to have fun with this writing adventure, I decided to take control of my own destiny, and release the book myself. The title got shortened to Led Astray  to fit on the cover, and Joe Burgess finally gets his day in the sun. The e-book comes out on the 8th, the physical book and other e-book platforms in a few weeks.

Now I wait to see what happens.

(Note: all of the books except Led Astray have new covers in their e-book and paperback form. These are the original publisher’s versions)