Lea Wait's Blog, page 66

Weekend Update: February 11-12, 2023

Next week at Maine Crime Writers there will be posts by Vaughn Hardacker (Monday), Maggie Robinson (Tuesday), Sandra Neily (Thursday), and Kaitlyn Dunnett/Kathy Lynn Emerson (Friday).

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

If you’re in the mood for a good Valentine’s Day romance, Kate Flora reminds you to pick up a copy of her romance, Wedding Bell Ruse.

https://www.amazon.com/Wedding-Bell-Ruse-Kate-Flora-ebook/dp/B086K46QHX/ref=sr_1_2?crid=E0I16ENI9G4U&keywords=Wedding+Bell+Ruse&qid=1676059119&sprefix=wedding+bell+rose%2Caps%2C120&sr=8-2

 

What could be more Maine than this?

 

And a question for you: What is your favorite Maine product? We’d love our giveaways to include some of your faves.

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, along with the very popular “Making a Mystery” with audience participation, and “Casting Call: How We Staff Our Mysteries.” We also do programs on Zoom. Contact Kate Flora

 

I got them steadily depressin’, low down mind messin’ February in winter blues.

John Clark echoing others who have posted about darkness, bleak feelings, and being stuck in a rut. It’s been a number of years since winter in general, and February in specific bit me in the backside. This year, cumulative ‘stuff’ has conspired to make the evil spirit of Doldrums reside on my shoulder.

Remember the fall off the wall back in October? That has turned into the gift that keeps on giving. Its most recent iteration is an inflamed TMJ on my left side that makes opening my mouth wide enough to eat, akin to a roulette wheel. Come up red, intense pain, come up black, chew carefully.

I’ve been on a very effective anti-depressant for years that has built a reliable floor under my darker moods. Unfortunately, fate left the door open and a prickle (I had to look this one up) of porcupines snuck in and chewed multiple holes in said floor, making emotional navigation a tricky business.

My blood pressure has chosen to spike after being well behaved for years. I walk around wondering what invisible damage it’s doing to my cardiovascular system. I’m checking it three times a week per my PCP’s orders and have to resist calling in panic at the more dire numbers.

Don’t get me started on how much other drivers’ behavior has deteriorated. Whether from watching the news, COVID, mental degradation, or a bad astrological sign, it seems nobody considers the consequences of running yellow or red lights, texting while driving, or being so close to my bumper they can count individual paint molecules. It’s at a point where I don’t dare stop for a yellow light because there’s no way to be sure what the driver behind me will do. I’m tempted to buy a pound of loose buckshot pellets and toss a handful out the window to deter tailgaters.

Then there’s the winter edition of Whack-A-Mole we call black ice. Any driving after dark these days on back roads is an adventure, particularly on sharp curves. Makes me wanna buy a Sherman Tank.

My energy level has me yearning to be horizontal with a book more often than vertical, so I can keep writing my current one. A disturbed sleep pattern probably doesn’t help, although I’d love to capture my dreams on DVR so I could re-watch them and make sense of what transpires.

Right in the middle of all this, reality stalked in, wearing steel-toed boots and sporting the mother of bad attitudes. Beth’s laptop decided her PIN was expired and she needed to create a new one. Sounds like a simple process, but it became anything but. In order to get a new one, she was required to have it sent to an expired email account, then texted to our landline, and finally could only be reset if she admitted to buying a Microsoft product, providing them with the last four numbers of the credit card used for the purchase, as well as the zip code where we lived at the time. RIGHT.

She bought MS Office at least 8 years ago with who knows what credit card, her TDS. Email is long gone and there was no way to change the phone # so she could have something texted to her cell phone. Wait, it gets better. I did some digging as did she and we found a potential work around involving creating a boot program on a USB drive. I went ahead, downloaded the files and reformatted what I thought was an old thumb drive…WRONG. I managed to format my 4 terrabyte SSD that I store all my programs and written work on. First off, the workaround failed and when I went to open up my current book I’m writing…Nothing.

I went and lay on the bed, giving serious thought to getting drunk for the first time in ages. Instead, I did some breathing exercises, went and researched recovery after formatting a SSD drive. The first program wasn’t worth buying, but the second one was…after it took 24 hours to churn through all the mashed data. I ended up spending $120 for the full version and have most of my written work recovered, but you can bet I’m double copying everything from now on.

Thanks to our very talented friend Clif Graves, and a linux boot disk, we have retrieved all Beth’s documents and photos. I immediately ordered her a new HP laptop with an SSD hard drive so her frustration level when starting up will diminish. Naturally that success was immediately offset when I searched for the $150 BJs wholesale card I won and it refused to be found and remains in hiding following a thorough search of the house. (I did come across a $50 Amazon card I got for a birthday present in the course of looking for it, though—spent it immediately, just in case).

Let’s not get started on the disaster we call congress. I’m afraid to blow my nose for fear someone there will call for an investigation on which way I blew, right or left.

I’ve provided the whine, but the cheese is on you.

A Blog Post About Absolutely Nothing At All

I have no idea what I’m going to write today in this blog post. Let’s just say that this is definitely a pantser blog, as opposed to a blog about pantser writers versus plotters. I feel like the schoolboy having to write a five hundred word essay and using ‘the’ and ‘and’ and ‘that’ as many times as possible. I could talk about the actual craft of writing, but then again I suppose I’m getting to the essence of writing by writing about this topic: I’m waiting for my blog muse to show up.

I’m still waiting.

There was that cold snap that threw me for a loop. It might have been the coldest snap I’ve ever experienced as a New Englander. My car’s engine light came on and started blinking wildly, warning me to shut off the engine during this snap. So I got in my truck, only to discover that the heat refused to come on. I thought, “Who in their right mind would want to commit murder during a cold snap where the temperature is below negative forty?” On Mount Washington the temperature hit negative one hundred and eight. I hate wind chill. I like chilled shrimp, but that’s a totally different kind of chill. You can’t fly a kite or sail a boat when there is a wind chill. My son tells me all the time, “Chill out, Dad.” Or, “Dad, take a chill pill.” If there was a pill I could have taken to fight off the wind chill, don’t you think I would have taken it?

Where are you blog muse? I’m getting nervous and making a fool out of myself.

Anyway, I’m still thinking about what to write. I called my son out in L.A. and asked what movie or commercial he was working on. After telling me to chill out, he said he was working on a movie starring John Cena. But when I asked him if he had seen John Cena he said he hadn’t. That would have been an interesting blog topic to write about if he had seen John Cena and talked to John Cena. Because John Cena is a behometh wrestler from Boston and I was once a wrestler from Boston, although far from a behometh. But alas, that didn’t turn out well for my son, as John Cena didn’t appear that day. He was probably lifting weights. Or wrestling. Or acting like he was wrestling. Anyway, my son’s current assignment is working on a H&R commercial, and that reminded me that I had to do my taxes, and I hate doing my taxes as much as I hate paying my taxes. It makes me have to look at my royalty statements, although that doesn’t get taxed much.

Still waiting, Blog Muse.

Which got me thinking about writing. Which I like doing at times — thinking about writing. Then I remembered I had a blog post to write, which meant I had to think about what I was going to write for my blog post instead of thinking about the plot of my new novel, which is definitely more plotted than pantsed. So instead I sat down and watched a movie called The Menu about a five star chef who is sick of cooking fancy meals for fancy pants diners, and decides (SPOILER ALERT) to kill them all at the end of the dinner service. It was a good movie. It made me want to cook, because I love cooking. But not die after the meal.

I’m afraid you’re not showing up today, dear Muse.

So I went out and bought two more pizza pans because when I cook I like to make pizzas because they are definitely not fancy pants meals. I have one pan for grandma style pizzas; one pan for Detroit style pizzas; one more pan for more grandma style pizzas; and a slab of baking steel for coal oven Brooklyn style pizzas. Cooking pizzas helps take my mind off thinking about this blog post. Beer helps too. Beer and pizza go well together. Like Abbott and Costello. Pantser versus plotter.

I’ve given up. Let’s land this puppy.

So you want to be a writer. Hmmm. Take note. I am writing this thrilling blog from the seat of my pants right now. Stream-of-consciousness blogging, I think they call it. I am a blogger extraordinaire, although not really. I know that people like to talk about the weather a lot, and we did have some great weather to talk about. Cold weather and rain really gets peoples juices flowing, but bad weather pays the bills. Celebrities are usually a good topic to blog about, although my son never saw John Cena, so I can’t talk about that. Movie recommendations work well, so go watch The Menu. And who doesn’t like to cook for diners who will not live to blog about it. I could even have my own crime writing cooking show on the Food Network called The Barefoot Blogger.

Oh, (SHAMELESS SELF PROMOTION SPOILER ALERT BECAUSE THE MUSE FAILED TO SHOW UP) and I have two psychological thrillers coming out this year.

And there was one funny thing that happened, although it’s not very funny to me. In fact, it’s a little embarrassing to blog about seeing as how I think I’m losing my mind. I sat down to watch the Kansas City versus Cincinnati football game a few Sundays ago. I had my pizza, which I had cooked to absolute perfection, and my chilled beer, which was chilled the way I like it. I just got off the phone with my son, who told me he hadn’t yet seen or talked to John Cena. I figured that by watching the football game, I wouldn’t need to think about writing this stupid blog post. Then I watched the game, cheering and pumping my fist, not the least bit concerned what I would blog about.

I stood cheering at the end of the game on account that my team won. Yes, Joe Burrows did it again. Then my wife checked the TV guide and told me that I had watched LAST years game, and that this years game would start in fifteen minutes, and that it served me right because I should have been working hard on my blog instead of watching a stupid football, cooking and eating my own pizza, and quaffing chilled lagers. A true story. No joke. I mean it, man.

Hey, Muse, you showed up! Better late than never.

Maybe I’ve found my muse and that’s been the gist of this blog post: I’m losing my mind. Yes, I’m officially losing it. Your congratulations are duly noted and appreciated. This is what I’ve been meaning to say to you wonderful people all this time. I’ve found my muse, but lost my mind: all in all a good trade off. But now it’s time to go gently into the night. Every blog post must end or they tend to become rambling, nonsensical soliloquies, like that bridge to nowhere the government built years ago in Alaska. Maybe I’ll talk more about losing my mind in a future blog post, as my mind tends to lose more of itself the older I get. Unless my son meets John Cena. If that happens, then I’ll most happily talk about that — if I remember.

(SHAMELESS SELF PROMOTION SPOILER ALERT) And don’t forget about my two psychological thrillers coming out this year. I already have.

PAGE 130 AND THEN WHAT?

blogged by Jule Selbo

It happens every time I get to this point in a book – and yet I’m still surprised and angry and frustrated and consider taking up the less stressful (maybe it’s not) job of wearing an over-sized neon vest and holding STOP and SLOW traffic signs at road construction sites.

If you’re reading the Maine Crime Writers’ Blog, chances are you write or like to read crime/mysteries and are interested in how to structure the set-up, the placing of clues and red herrings, and creating possible suspects and reasons for the crime. And/or maybe you’ve grown attached to a certain investigator and want to know more (whether they be amateur or pro) about how he/she is setting out to solve the puzzles and/or nab the villains.

And, in a very human-predictable way, you’re interested in the WHY people do BAD things. How they do them and how they plan to get away with their nefarious deeds. I wonder, sometimes, if that’s the driving force behind writing/reading crime mysteries- most of us aren’t criminals and it’s compelling and fascinating to see how the bad guys’ minds work as they execute or mask their crimes.

I like the school of thought that states that antagonists should be as interesting as the protagonists – that ‘simply crazy’ or ‘just evil’ isn’t enough. I appreciate the advice that states the villain needs a raison d’être (even if skewed or malevolent or ‘all id’). The reader, through coming to an understanding of the perp’s reasons, can glean clues and food for thought about society/humanity buried in that raison d’être. The antagonist helps to flesh out the story, and the lives of the supporting characters and more.

So, by page 130, I hope I have a large percentage (all? most?) of the set-up structured, that possible villains/antagonists have been introduced, that the reader is engaged in the personal journey of the protagonist as well as invested in the solving of the crime.

And then, there’s that morning (usually when the moon is full) that a crisis of confidence crashes into my psyche. The page 130 burning questions flame: What, indeed, do I have? Is it enough? Is it too much? Is the content too fatty or too slim?

Does it need an influx of protein (more meaty events/chewier morsels of villainous behaviors)? Does it need more sugar (a little humor to lighten the load, that sprinkle of fairy dust and maybe a coincidence that won’t be deemed too much of a coincidence and will allow the story to move forward at a livelier pace)?

Or do I need more carb – when the protagonist (mine is the heroine of the Dee Rommel mystery series) is able to make lists, sit and think (drink?) and/or chat about the challenges of solving the crime and let all the clues and reasons and motives fill her stomach and brain and hope that digestion will bring about an epiphany?

(FYI, I have just sat down at The Works on Temple Street in Portland and ordered one of their great ‘everything bagels’ – just toasted, please, serve it plain), so sorry about the food mentions, I must be hungry.

 

So, at page 130, what does ‘my today’ look like?  Looks like back-to-outline day. First item on the agenda: Examine the original outline and see where it’s still holding true. Then adjust it to include the grace notes/fresh ideas/character impulses that I hadn’t predicted when I did the first rough outline and have added to the story.

Because my Dee Rommel series has an author-imposed (me) perimeter to each book, it’s clear (to me) how the outline needs to be structured. The first book, 10 DAYS, the crime/mystery had to be solved in ten days.  In 9 DAYS, Dee had nine days before the carriage turned into a decimated pumpkin. (Ah, more food, but this time it’s the fairy tale I’m thinking about.)  I’m working on 8 DAYS right now, and at page 130, find myself at the ‘four day’s left to solve the crime’ mark. If private investigator Dee can’t get the bad guys identified and off the streets in the remaining four days, her client’s well-being (possibly his life) is in great danger.

So, today I’ll put eight pages of plain white paper in front of me (horizontally) and label each one with the days: 8 days, 7 days, 6 days left to solve the crime and so on and so on. I’ll divide each page into six columns; one column for THE CRIME, one for  PERSONAL GROWTH, one for RELATIONSHIPS (here I’ll use different colored pens to signify friendships, her boss and romance), one for SUPPORTING CHARACTERS (use of different colors here will also be helpful), one for MAIN ANTAGONIST, one for WHAT HAVE YOU FORGOTTEN, DINGBAT BRAIN.

I’m expecting that this halfway mark outline will look a lot different from the initial one. Why? A: ‘Cause I now know more about the new characters I’ve created for 8 DAYS. And B: Because there’s been the natural organic growth of the story (for me) – the growth that only happens while actually writing the pages – and thus I may have had a new idea or two and now they have to be incorporated.

QUESTIONS:

If you are an outliner – does the outline change during the writing process? At what point do you need to take a look at it again? Perhaps adjust it?If you are a pant-ser – do you ever have to step back and list the events/beats/major plot points or character changes along the way. Or can you keep it all in your head?

ONE MORE THING:

I’ve just finished a crime/mystery book (started and completed during the two-day Portland Great Chill that took place last week). I was taken aback by the author’s predilection to repeat information. Maybe he/she/they (take your pick) decided that the typical reader rarely sits down and reads an entire book in one or two days. Maybe it was the writer’s way to remind himself/herself/themselves of what had gone down (in the story) for the characters – just the day or hour before – and in the edit, no one excised the unnecessary.

I imagine most readers’ brains work in similar fashion. Even if I’ve put a book aside for a few days or a week, once I pick it up and start reading again, the memory cells jump out of the pocket in my brain where they’ve been resting and become clear and usable.  I don’t need the constant repetition.

QUESTION:

Since reading mysteries is an art and targets those people who like to solve puzzles and embrace clues in their brains, how much do you think the reader retains? Does repetition serve a purpose and how can it be used judiciously? How much is too much?

Would love to hear what you think… read what you think…

How Cold Was It Where You Were?

How cold was it at your house last weekend? The short, intense cold snap had everyone comparing notes and reminiscing about their personal histories of facing down bitter temperatures, a can-you-top-this competition of sorts, familiar to those of us raised where the winters were long and brutal.

The thermometer on our back deck, Saturday morning, February 4.

I grew up in north central Massachusetts, in hilly terrain near the New Hampshire border.  In my youthful world, cold snaps were not a reason to stay inside. We simply dressed for the weather.

I’ve written on this blog before about the bright red rubber boots into which we slid our shod feet, insulated with our older brother’s cast-off wool socks and waterproofed with recycled bread bags. https://mainecrimewriters.com/wp-admin/post-new.php?post_type=post&jetpack-copy=25528

The rest of our winter outerwear was creative as well, out of necessity. Kids tend to grow out of snowsuits before they wear them out. Same with ski pants and parkas. In my family, we had a big swaperoo every fall, when older siblings and cousins passed along whatever insulated clothing didn’t fit them anymore, a boon for the younger siblings and cousins. Our outfits did not always match, but we were warm and dry, whether sledding, skiing or building snow forts.

I wasn’t the only one hiking down memory lane this weekend.

In this week’s Weekly Packet out of Blue Hill, Pat Shepard, a researcher at the Maine Center for Coastal Fisheries, wrote a column that recounted how in 1934, “Hilton Turner’s grandfather walked from Isle au Haut to Stonington 14 times.” Isle au Haut is nearly 6 miles across Penobscot Bay, folks. Darned impressive.

Shepard also reported that “when Tim Emerson was a youngster, he struck out from Oceanville [on the east side of Stonington] on his bicycle (!) for Swan’s Island,” which is a heck of a long pedal across Jericho Bay. “Returning home in a stiff northwest wind was the hard part,” Shepard noted.

I hope Tim had a good hat.

Hiking on frozen bays was a necessary part of life other places as well. Here’s a memorable photo from the archives of the Portland newspapers, showing folks hiking across Casco Bay in 1862.

Credit – Portland Press Herald

Climate change makes such feats remarkable now. Sustained bitter cold is no longer a fact of life in Northern New England, and its relative rarity makes it news. Every meteorological outlet in the country did stories about the conditions atop Mount Washington this past weekend.  Here’s a link to The Weather Channel’s coverage: https://weather.com/news/weather/news/2023-02-02-mount-washington-new-hampshire-extreme-weather-wind-chill

And the Boston Globe featured a story on Saturday by a guy who went skiing at Pat’s Peak in Henniker, New Hampshire when the wind was howling. Here’s a link to his tale: https://www.bostonglobe.com/2023/02/04/sports/yes-i-went-skiing-this-cold-heres-how-it-went/

I’ve not checked with my pal Sandy Emerson about whether he was out on the slopes in Franklin County last Friday.  Perhaps he’ll let us know in the comment section, and if he didn’t ski last weekend, perhaps he’ll recount for us his coldest schussing memories.

How about the rest of you?  Do you have a story from this past weekend or one from your childhood about being out in the cold?  I’d be especially keen to hear from Vaughn and Kait, up in the County.

Brenda Buchanan brings years of experience as a journalist and a lawyer to her crime fiction. She has published three books featuring Joe Gale, a newspaper reporter who covers the crime and courts beat. She is now hard at work on new projects. FMI, go to http://brendabuchananwrites.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Weekend Update: February 4-5, 2023

Next week at Maine Crime Writers there will be posts by Brenda Buchanan (Monday), Jule Selbo (Tuesday), Joe Souza (Thursday), and John Clark (Friday).

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

Matt Cost has had the second book in the Clay Wolfe Trap series, Mind Trap, be released on audiobook through Audible. This follows last month’s release of Wolfe Trap. The second book in his Mainely Mystery series, Mainely Fear, will release on audible February 15th. Cost also did an interview with Big Blend Radio that will air on April 12th, the release date of his his debut Brooklyn 8 Ballo mystery, Velma Gone Awry. He has also had a request, and written, an article for Writer’s Digest on how an author decides who lives and who dies in their novels, To Kill or to Let Live.

Kate Flora: An important question for our readers. In the past few years, spring has brought our “Where Would You Put The Body” contest. Although the photos submitted have been great, and greatly entertaining, we’ve hoped for more entrants. So we are asking you: Should we run the contest again this year?

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, along with the very popular “Making a Mystery” with audience participation, and “Casting Call: How We Staff Our Mysteries.” We also do programs on Zoom. Contact Kate Flora

Slippery Winter Roads? Drive like You Have a Dozen Eggs on the Seat

Kate Flora: The weatherman says we should expect severe cold by the weekend. Farther

From Sennebec Hill in a snowstorm

north, there will likely be snow. I am settled into my now daily wardrobe of fleece-lined leggings and a heavy fleece top. Not figure-flattering but when the weather is this cold, I’m not planning on venturing out. My husband doesn’t notice and my plants don’t care. So as I settled in at my desk, scrolling through old posts for today’s inspiration, a copy of mom’s first book, From the Orange Mailbox, tumbled off my over-crowded desk. I started thumbing through it and decided that today what we all need is a dose of country living and old-timers storytelling from A. Carman Clark.

The apple orchard in winter.

The old-timers brought forth their stories about blizzards in this valley each time anyone “from away” complained about the winter storms. They told about tunneling through drifts to get to the barn and how in years past piles of snow were still snug against the north sides of buildings on May Day.

One year, I was told, the drifts in front of my farmhouse were so high that the men plowed out (or was it rolled down?) a detour around behind the barn and up through the blueberry field. They didn’t find East Sennebec Road again until April.

Driving through these winter storms leaves me feeling as though I’ve just been given three blood transfusions. No matter which route I take, I can’t get out of town and back home without facing at least one big hill. If there’s a storm, there are cars slithered crosswise halfway up or down those hills. I find myself talking to my car the way my grandmother used to talk to her horse, coaxing her on, praising her steadiness, and shouting encouragement as we gently skirt the stalled vehicles and climb on up the hill.

The first–and best–advice given to me about winter driving was offered by an old-timer who rescued me about a month after I got my first driver’s license. My multiple attempts to get up over Town House Hill (the only direct way out of the village in those days) were observed with interest by the men socializing in the local garage.

Finally I went into the garage to ask when the sanding truck might be along. No one knew but they did express the opinion that with good driving that hill was not a hazard. I wasn’t about to put on another backsliding exhibition. I stood quietly thinking very evil thoughts until at last one of the old-timers allowed as how it would be neighborly if he got my car up the hill for me.

After he had backed down four times (aware of the audience) he volunteered to drive me home in his car by the alternate route up the other side of the river. Enroute he gave me advice about driving in Maine winters.

“Now, comes weather like this you just make believe you got a dozen eggs right there on the seat beside you and you drive so they don’t fall off.”

“I wasn’t driving carelessly,” I protested, “and a box of eggs…”

“Lady,” my instructor said gently, “them eggs ain’t in no box.”

Many dozens of imaginary eggs have ridden beside me through stormy winters. Advice worth remembering.

But if I don’t have to venture forth, I like blizzards. I think of them as a warp in time–a period of unallotted hours. Freedom from musts and should and any kinds of chores. Usually I mix some bread dough because I enjoy the kneading and the aroma of baking loaves. I read, take naps, dig out some old 78 records, thaw some strawberries and asparagus–just let go and enjoy my own company.

Blizzard days were a pleasure when the children were in school because all took a bit of that “this day is a gift” attitude. From the upstairs bedroom we would drag down the Blizzard Box which contains years of recipes clipped from newspapers and magazines.

First we’d rummage through, taking and thinking about something different to eat. Then we’d set a few aside to try someday. Eventually we’d find a few too good to miss and start cooking. Many of our family favorites (preserved in the Good Book of Tested Recipes) were discovered and tried out during raging northeast storms. The box went back looking as full as ever but it was a delightful way to spend a few housebound hours.

Most of the old-times who told of blizzards past are no longer around–but their tales remain part of the legends of this valley. Perhaps their storms really were worse or longer. Or it may be that they settled in and enjoyed them and wove yarns to pass along to newcomers in Georges Valley.

When a blizzard can be–like a vacation–a suspension of regular activities in order to rest and refresh one’s mind and body, it adds a lift to the weeks of winter.

The world famous Orange Mailbox on East Sennebec Road.

Making it Better

Kathy Lynn Emerson/Kaitlyn Dunnett here, today as Kathy. As I’ve mentioned before, I’ve been doing a complete rewrite of one of my earliest published books, Winter Tapestry (1991), switching from multiple points of view to just one and emphasizing the murder mystery over the elements of romance and espionage. No scene has been left unchanged, although obviously some things stayed the same.

Wolfsbane, the poison used to murder Cordell’s father

Since readers of this blog may be interested in the process, I’ve decided to share a sample of what I’m doing to improve on the original. This is a brief scene in which Cordell, the protagonist, makes her escape from the free city of Strasbourg, where she and her father joined other English exiles after Mary Tudor became queen. I won’t get into all the ins and outs of the historical background. Suffice it to say that it’s 1553/4 and plots, counterplots, and spies abound. Cordell’s father has been murdered, possibly by the very person in whose house they’ve been living (Matthew Wood in the original; now renamed Francis Roydon). She is desperate to return to England and also to escape being married off to Roger Allington, a young man she fears may be in league with the conspirators. The arrival of her father’s steward (Tom in the original and Simon in the new version) gives her a way out.

Here’s the Winter Tapestry version from a little over a third of the way through a 90,000 word book:

As soon as Cordell came down the household left for the wedding. She hung back as much as she dared, but it was not until the doors of the church gaped wide in front of them that Cordell and Tom were out of sight of the others. Staring into the dark interior, Cordell knew a moment of blind panic, a failing of her trust. If Tom had changed his mind . . .

But Tom, as soon as the back of Mistress Ponet’s rustling skirts disappeared completely within, caught Cordell’s elbow and propelled her rapidly back down the stone steps and into the street. They ran together, heedless of curious stares, into a dark alley, then out onto another narrow lane. Tom’s two horses were tethered and waiting for them.

Breathless, Cordell kilted up her skirts and mounted, not caring what any thought of the display of leg. She was doing it. She was getting away. She barely felt the hard little saddle slamming into her seat, or the rough stirrups rubbing against her wool stockings. She dug her heels into the horse’s flanks to urge him to greater speed. Moving as quickly as they dared through the twisting, cobbled streets of Strasbourg, they fled toward the riverbank.

“I’ve a barge waiting,” Tom called over his shoulder. “We’ll head south in case any think to follow. They’ll not expect that.”

Cordell laughed aloud. It was appropriate, and not without irony, that they should head in the wrong direction. Everything seemed turned around since Sir Anthony’s death, so much so that she wondered if it would ever be right again.

They boarded without challenge and as the watercraft slipped away from shore, Cordell looked for the last time upon Strasbourg. Was justice slipping away, too? She knew there was no more she could do to gather evidence if she stayed, that her continued presence only endangered the success of her father’s mission, and yet she felt uneasy, as if she had missed something important, some clue so obvious that she’d discounted it.

“I’ll see to the horses,” Tom said, giving her elbow an encouraging squeeze before he left.

Dear Tom, she thought as she watched him move away. She was taking advantage of his loyalty shamefully, even shamelessly. Her smile turned wry. She could imagine what they were saying back at the church. She wondered, too, if they had really meant to let her leave with Roger. It depended, she supposed, upon how deeply involved he was in their treasonous plans. It scarcely mattered now. Tom had freed her from all of them.

But even as the thought passed through her mind, she saw the arm uplifted in the water below. A swimmer was approaching the barge, and when his head lifted, briefly, above the river’s surface, she had to stifle a cry of dismay.

His strength was failing. She sensed it even as she realized no one else had seen the lone figure following them. She could turn away, and be safe, but if she did, Martin would surely drown. With an anguished sound, she flung herself flat at the edge of the splinter‑laden wooden surface and stretched out her hands. Seconds later she had his wrists in her grasp. Another moment and he was scrambling up beside her, dripping like a drowned rat and smelling worse, and offering her a hand to help her back to her feet.

“I will not go back, Martin,” she told him firmly.

And here’s the current version, about a third of the way through a 73,000 word manuscript:

A short time later, the Roydons and the Ponets left for the small stone church the English exiles shared with a French‑speaking Calvinist congregation. Roger had already gone ahead. They would expect the bride, since she had convinced them she was resigned to the marriage, to set out in that direction a few minutes later, escorted by Simon Fuller. Instead, Simon and Cordell turned the opposite way, heading for the narrow lane where Simon had tethered two horses.

As soon as they were out of sight of Roydon’s house, Cordell ripped the garland from her hair and tossed it away.

Uncaring that she displayed her legs to the curious stares of passers-by, Cordell kilted up her skirts and mounted a placid bay mare. Taking only time enough to pull the hood of her cloak up over her head, she dug her heels into her mount’s flanks and followed Simon’s larger horse, a dappled gelding, to ride as fast as they dared through the twisting, cobbled streets of Strasbourg toward the river.

Their destination was a passenger barge bound for the quiet Alsatian town of Colmar. Once aboard, Simon left her standing near several large bales of trade goods while he saw to securing the horses.

Dear Simon, she thought as she watched him move away. He had not hesitated to help her escape and she knew she could count on him to keep her safe on the long journey ahead.

By now everyone waiting at the church would know she and Simon had disappeared. They would search for them, she supposed, but by the time they thought to visit the waterfront, the barge would be long gone. That thought had no sooner passed through her mind than she caught sight of a familiar face.

Just as the barge began to move away from the dock, a gangly figure launched itself toward the deck. For a moment, Cordell thought he would end up in the river and likely drown, but by some miracle he succeeded in making the jump. He was breathing hard when he trotted up to her but his face wore a triumphant grin.

“I will not go back, Martin.”

Not so different, you say? Well, no. Is it better written? I think so. And there was a good reason for having Martin make the leap to the barge instead of swimming after it. Following the publication of Winter Tapestry, someone who had actually been to Strasbourg informed me that any attempt at such a feat would have been fatal. Poor Martin would have drowned.

Scenes Cordell wasn’t in are gone, of course, although some of the information in them had to be presented elsewhere (clues, you know!). I’ve also added to some scenes, fleshing out secondary characters and adding dialogue and descriptive details. I switched the order of paragraphs around in a great many places, since the original order didn’t always make sense. In real life, jumping from subject to subject and back again during a conversation isn’t unusual, but in written dialogue it can be confusing.

I’m sure there will be those who think I’ve been wasting my time rewriting a perfectly good book, especially one that I already reissued as an e-book back in 2003. But aside from the fact that some of the clunky sentences in the old version literally made me cringe, there’s been another benefit for me in tackling this project. I’m enjoying writing again. I’m actually having fun making it better.

cover of the currently available e-book

Kathy Lynn Emerson/Kaitlyn Dunnett has had sixty-four books traditionally published and has self published others, including several children’s books. 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. Her most recent publications are The Valentine Veilleux Mysteries (a collection of three short stories and a novella, written as Kaitlyn) and I Kill People for a Living: A Collection of Essays by a Writer of Cozy Mysteries (written as Kathy). She maintains websites at www.KaitlynDunnett.com and www.KathyLynnEmerson.com.

 

Writing Advice from the Trenches

In our MCW group post this month we will be sharing a piece of writing advice that we have found helpful. Or a piece of advice that we’ve learned from experience. Or a piece of advice from a favorite writing book. We hope you enjoy these and will find one that resonates with you.

Kate Flora: I am sure that you have heard this before, but I will say it anyway: write on a regular schedule. Every day, if possible, or on set days. Creating a regular writing practice helps to strengthen your writing muscles. It also, as time passes and the pages pile up, gives you insight into yourself as a writer. Are you a burst writer? A plodder? Do you need an outline to guide you or are you a writer who loves discovering what comes next? Do you prefer to write for a fixed period of time or does it work better for you to have a word count you must reach before you leave your desk? I am sure you have all heard me say, many times, that if you want to finish that book or that short story, you can’t wait for a moment of inspiration or for the fluttery little muse to land on your shoulder. You need to be at the desk, in the chair, and present when the muse arrives.

My other piece of advice, gleaned from ten years in the unpublished writer’s corner, is that despite the discouragement the publishing world can hand out, only YOU get to decide that you are a writer. It’s a great Dumbo’s feather to cling to in difficult times.

Maggie Robinson: I so agree with Kate that you should try to write every day. And I also think that if you can’t, for whatever reason, do not beat yourself up. Life happens. But it’s good to get into some sort of routine. When I worked full-time, I made myself get up at 4 AM to write. I had a quiet house to myself and no interruptions. It helped to have a supportive spouse and family who could find their own socks and make their own breakfast. I have a friend who waited till her kids were asleep and worked into the wee hours, another who brought her laptop with her everywhere so she could write at her kids’ doctor appointments and sports activities. She made every idle moment count, and those ten-minute chunks here and there added up. Find what works best for you, because there’s no universal magic trick to getting to The End!

Kaitlyn Dunnett/Kathy Lynn Emerson: I have two pieces of advice for writers. The first relates to what writers often call “the book of the heart.” If telling a particular story is important to you, don’t give up. It may not be something that will ever be a commercial success, but these days there are alternate routes to publication. I’m practical enough to encourage writers to aim for contracts with healthy advances and good publisher support, but writing what you want to write matters, too. The second bit of advice is related to the first: it takes as long as it takes. That applies to both writing a book and selling it, and leads right back to the “don’t give up” advice. If writing is your calling, it should be a joy, not a chore. Sure there are frustrations along the way, but there’s nothing better than holding the finished creation in your hands and knowing that, somehow, miraculously, that story got from your mind to the printed page.

John Clark: I’m going to be a heretic and tell you there are times when you should give yourself permission NOT to write. Earlier this month, I realized I had a stronger desire to read some of the pile of books whispering to me, than the call from Bent River. However, I’d also encourage anyone who’s got a blast of words in their head to get them out, especially when you find yourself distracted by them. Definitely not a good idea to be in rush hour traffic while your characters are screaming at you to get that scene on paper.

Matt Cost: Write. Write on.

Sandra Neily: I have this Reasons to Write list on my wall. (I started out in 2016 caring most about 2, 5 and 8. Now, older and wiser about publishing and navigating some medical stuff, I lean toward #1 and # 9.) Knowing this change has been so very helpful; I am more at peace about what I am doing. Maybe the message is that we need to regularly check in with our core motives and desires. They might have evolved.

WRITE INSTEAD OF ACTING DESTRUCTIVELY. WRITE FROM BEING RIGHTEOUSLY INDIGNANT. WRITE FROM BEING WOUNDED. WRITE FOR REVENGE OR TO PROVE SOMEONE WRONG.,.WRITE FROM FRUSTRATION THAT A STORY HAS GONE UNTOLD.WRITE TO DEAL WITH FEARS OR TRAUMAWRITE TO HELP ILLUMINATE OR CORRECT A SOCIAL INJUSTICE.WRITE IN REACTION TO SOMETHING THAT UPSETS YOU.WRITE YOURSELF OUT OF (OR THROUGH) A CRISIS.WRITE FROM IDENTIFYING WITH A UNIVERSAL STRUGGLE

And no matter what one writes (fiction, nonfiction) a grab-em mission statement you can share in a short elevator ride or social moment is a great thing. Ya never know! It can change too. My latest: I want to take readers on a north woods field trip that is so compelling, engaging, and mysterious that they won’t want off the trip until the last page. 

 

 

Brenda Buchanan:  My advice is to find your writing community.  If you’re writing crime fiction, hoo-boy, is there a great crime fiction gang here in Maine and a more welcoming group you’ll never find.  The same is true whether you write sci-fi, or fantasy, or romance, or young adult.

How to find other writers? Take advantage of the programming  at local colleges and universities, join a statewide organization like the Maine Writers and Publishers Alliance, attend conferences and workshops if you can afford it. All are great ways to find your peeps.

If cash is tight, use the internet to look for writing groups in your area. Your local librarian almost certainly knows the other writers in your community, and if you sign up for your local independent bookstore’s mailing list you’ll know about all the upcoming readings and book events.

Most every writer needs to commune with other writers. Making connections—however shy you may feel at first—will get you through the hard times, and give you people to celebrate with when you have reason to celebrate.

Want more writing advice? Scroll back through our posts and you will find a wealth of great advice from writers who have been at this for years.

The Road to Maine was Paved with . . . Words

Please welcome our special guest, Kait Carson, to Maine Crime Writers.

Thank you, Maine Crime Writers, for inviting me to blog with you today. I’m an avid reader of this blog. The topics are diverse, and always interesting. I’d also like to thank Maine for its warm welcome. Maine has a reputation of shunning new residents, generally known as “people from away”. My experience has been quite the opposite. Maybe it’s a Valley thing, as in the St. John Valley. In the Crown of Maine, folks are warm and welcoming. Winter, not so much.

In 2005 hubs and I decided to pull up stakes in South Florida and move to northern Maine. The County, to be exact. We’d had it with the heat, and we won’t talk about hurricanes. There was only one problem. I was a Florida probate litigation paralegal. Not much call for that in Fort Kent. Can you see my secret smile? The happy dance in my heart increased with every mile. Torts were about to give way to tomes. In my world, this is known as living the dream.

There is something about Maine that fosters creativity. Whether it’s tales from long-time residents, the long, dark, nights, or the mysterious shadows of the pine forest, inspiration creeps into your soul and bubbles out through your fingertips. Words flow and ideas collide faster than you can capture them. Nirvana for writers.

We weren’t in the Valley a week when new friends took us out to dinner. As the wine flowed, our hostess reached across the table and patted my hand. “Strange stuff happens around here.” She slewed her eyes in the direction of the road to the Allagash. “My late husband worked for the railroad. The stuff that goes on in the woods has no explanation.” She declined to elaborate when her boyfriend gave her the one-eyebrow raised look. Didn’t matter, I soon had my own experiences to mull over.

Kait’s pole-dancing bear cub

Daylight comes late in the north woods. One morning I glanced out my office window to see the side of my driveway illuminated by a pillar of light. I reached for my phone to take a photo, but when I looked back, the woods were completely dark. Then there was the night I sat on the porch to catch a meteor shower. As stars flew through the sky, the treetops on the south side the property lit up as if bathed in a spotlight. There was no sound, we’re too far from the road for it to have been reflected truck headlights, and there’s no road behind or to the side of the property. In fact, if you walk out our back door, you can walk one hundred miles straight to the St. Lawrence Seaway and not encounter another human being or habitation except for the remains of abandoned logging camps. Nothing there to cast light on the tops of the trees.

local wildlife

Maine’s mysterious topics continued to provide fertile soil for a myriad of short stories and essays, but I wasn’t ready to expand the setting into longer works. So, when I learned of the National Novel Writing Month (NANOWRMO – NANO for short), I returned to my Florida roots for my first attempt at a novel. Maybe there is something to Hemingway’s “write what you know” exhortation.

I plundered my dive logs for material. After all, what better place to hide a body than under one-hundred and twenty feet of water. One dive, on the wreck of the Thunderbolt, stood out. A flesh-colored plastic bag floated from the wheel house of the long-sunk vessel. I caught sight of it from the corner of my eye and for a brief, shocking, moment, the undulating plastic appeared not as a bag, but a hand. That event provided the infamous inciting incident for Diving Diva. The book morphed into the full-length novel titled Death by Blue Water. The first of the Hayden Kent mysteries recently re-released and now available on Amazon.

Florida and scuba diving provide the backdrop for two more novels, Death by Sunken Treasure and Death Dive. The dark reaches of the northern Maine woods are set to feature in the Sassy Romano mysteries with the first, Deadly Deception, scheduled for release in the fall of 2023. Sassy inherits her family’s inn and artists retreat from her great aunt. What can possibility go wrong?

Kait Carson writes two series set in the steamy tropical heat of Florida. The Catherine Swope series, set in greater Miami, and the Hayden Kent series set in the Fabulous Florida Keys. A new series, the Maine Lodge mysteries, features Sassy Romano, a newly divorced thirty-something, who puts her past behind her when she inherits her family’s Inn and artist retreat.

Like her protagonists, Kait is an accomplished SCUBA diver, hiker, and critter lover. She lives with her husband, four rescue cats and flock of conures in the Crown of Maine where long, dark, nights give birth to flights of fictional fantasies.

You can reach Kait at kait@kaitcarson.com