Cynthia Harrison's Blog, page 21

Ways to be Wicked

The current writing project is gathering steam. It will be my third mystery and I hope to have an easier time with it than the last two. They say third time’s the charm, right? To that end, I have been doing a lot of plotting and planning. I’m finding Writing & Selling Your Mystery Novel by Hallie Ephron a blessing, particularly when it comes to fleshing out my killer.

I wanted this killer to be unique to St. Pete, where the book is set, and where I’m lucky enough to be currently holed up alone while my husband works in Detroit. Al should be here soon, but I want to nail down this bad guy (and it usually always is a guy, in books and in real life) before my good guy gets here.

My main character and her sidekick have been fleshed out for ages. I know almost everything about them. I know all about the murder victim, too. But I only have the slightest inkling of what makes my villain tick. I know the motivation for the murder, what drove him to do it. I’m fairly new to writing crime fiction, but it seems to me there  are so many ways to be wicked.

Acting out violently when experiencing negative emotions like hatred or jealousy is one way. Covering up a lesser crime by getting rid of a witness is another, more cold-blooded way. Revenge is an evil motive for killing if ever there was one. It brings me to the mind of the killer: sometimes the bad guy is psychologically damaged. Sometimes he’s without empathy, a sociopath. Not all sociopaths go psycho. Many sociopaths get along just fine in the world without murdering anyone, but everyone has to be a little crazy, at least in the moment, unless it’s self-defense or in the line of duty, to kill.

I’ve heard it said that we all have it in us: the ability to kill. Is that true? I’m not sure. A mother might kill if someone is harming her child. As a mom, I would not hesitate. A soldier will kill in war. A society may deem some crimes punishable by death. There’s the crime of passion. That one got a lot of men pardoned for murdering their cheating wives, and not so long ago. Here in Florida, “Old Sparky” is itching to get the Parkland school shooter in his electric chair.

If our president has his way, teachers would get “little bonuses” for carrying guns and shooting domestic terrorists who prey on schoolchildren. I’m a former teacher and find that a chilling idea. But it might make a good story. Think of all the ways arming teachers and paying them bonuses to kill could go wrong. Two teachers having an affair, one or both are married to other people. One, let’s say the guy, pressures the woman to leave her spouse and she refuses. She breaks up with him, even. He pulls the fire alarm and says he saw a woman wearing a red sweater and carrying a semi-automatic weapon heading to his ex-lover’s classroom. He shoots his ex, who’s wearing a red sweater and is also armed, because that’s what teachers do in this new world when the fire alarm goes off. Spurned lover claims he believed she was the intruder intent on harming kids.

That’s a pretty lousy plot and I won’t be writing it. I’ve got my own murderer to try to understand. Peeling back the layers of a killer’s life, dwelling on the evil within, is not exactly my favorite part of mystery writing. I like everything else better: pulling the plot together, fleshing out the other characters, getting the setting just right, having a theme or two humming under the surface. All of these are cake compared to writing a killer. But having a believable murderer, one who is exactly right for the book, who feels real, is high priority. He needs to scare the crap out of me. And readers, if I get lucky and get it right.

What We Keep

I am the only daughter of an only daughter. For this reason, I have inherited many precious items: jewelry, china, crystal and antiques. I now own the century old hope chest that had belonged to my dear granny since she was a girl. My mother was sitting on that hope chest the day she met my father.

Mom’s older brother had a new friend named Bill. When Bill saw Marge sitting on the hope chest, he flipped her necklace, a delicate cross with a diamond at the center, and said “Hi there, little girl.” She was only two years younger than he, so she felt insulted but also excited. More than that chest she sat on was full of hope.

When Granny and my grandfather moved to the countryside north of Detroit, she painted her hand-carved hope chest. Her parents had bought it new for her for her trousseau and now, fifty years later, it had pride of place in her foyer. In 1965, Granny remade her chest in a new  “antique” style finish. I loved the swirly ornate style of the chest and the way Granny’s paint glinted with hints of gold over the decorative façade.

The hope chest was the first thing my mom gifted to me as she began the process of clearing away a lifetime of things Granny had collected. Next came the china, then the crystal, and the jewelry. My mother is not a collector of fine things, but Granny was, and I am, too.

Now, as my husband and I plan a permanent move to Florida, we talk about what to keep, what to give away. Of course we’ll keep our family photos and my first edition book collection. He’ll want his tools, but will likely pare down his collection of a hundred or so baseball caps. We’ll sell or give away the furniture.

Thinking about our lovely furniture, collected over many years, piece by precious piece, gave me pause. My china cabinet. My favorite chair. My writing desk. Our lux king-sized bed. Yes, I could let it all go. Everything except Granny’s hope chest, which holds more than just things. It holds the story of who I am, how I came to be, and the ones who came before me.

I’m a grandmother now. My grandsons call me Granny. My granddaughter, not even a year old, hasn’t yet called me by any name. When I think of the future, into a world my grandchildren will inhabit long after I’m gone, I wonder if she will keep something of mine, if she’ll say “this was my granny’s.” Perhaps she’ll even say “and her granny’s before that.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Life Among the Couples

Long Bayou held a dance for Valentine’s Day last night. Earlier, I’d gotten most of my hair cut off but left the  silver at the roots. I am growing into that silver just as I am learning to face my many fears alone. The stuff I’m afraid of could fill a book, but the little six inch lizard that found it’s way into my home seriously freaked me out. I called my husband even knowing he could do nothing for me in Michigan. He didn’t answer the phone.

I used ant spray on the slippery little creature and swear his beady little eyes looked into mine asking “Why?” before he disappeared under the door to the heating and cooling unit. Then I went to the internet and found out these guys are harmless and also everywhere in Florida. Even inside houses. They climb walls and hide behind picture frames. Still, I chose this place to live and I have to make peace with its ways.

I applied courage like a third layer of mascara and put on my party clothes. My friend came upstairs for a drink before the dance. She peered in the closet with a flashlight, but there was no sign of my tiny intruder. Just one more thing I’m going to have to get used to here. That’s another long list of stuff: what I need to adjust to, what I need to figure out, what I must endure alone.

I texted my absent husband then went to the dance. The band was musically proficient but they played mostly romantic songs so the couples could slow dance. Karen and I sipped our wine, danced a little bit, but mostly looked on. We left early; I went up to my condo alone. I looked around for the lizard. I looked at my phone. No text from my husband, but on the plus side, no sign of the lizard, either.

 

 

Hidden Things

I’m at the most difficult part of writing my next novel: imaging a deadly crime and how someone (almost) gets away with murder. There’s much work to be done off the book, work unknown to all but the writer, at this stage of the game. Maybe that’s why I’m consumed today with the idea of hidden things.

Most of what is observable in the universe is hidden, so it shouldn’t be surprising that large chunks of our lives and our world are unknowable, too. Astronomers say that 95% of the universe is either dark matter or dark energy, neither of which they know much about. Almost everything in space is a mystery to us here on earth.

Our own corners of the planet can hold hidden secrets, dangers of which we aren’t even aware. Hiding places are everywhere, just ask the tiny ants that come from nowhere into my kitchen. You might think, well these are tiny ants, so sure, they can hide in cracks in walls or windows not observable to the naked eye, or so my exterminator tells me.

Yet right outside my home, there’s danger lurking in the bayou. My husband, Al, likes to walk the nature trails on the shore of the bayou. I shudder when contemplating joining him on these hikes. There’s a sign saying “enter at your own risk” and another further on with a picture of an alligator and the word DANGER. Those gators are hiding just under the bayou surface, waiting for the unaware, for the less vigilant hiker.

This week I finally consented to take a walk with Al, something I hadn’t done for several years due to my fear that a gator would rush out of the water, grab my ankle with his sharp teeth, and chomp. It happens. We all know it. Somehow we convince ourselves we are safe. We are the lucky ones who can enjoy nature without colliding with its evil elements.

On our walk, Al told me the hilarious story of another time he’d been hiking and gradually became aware of a six foot long snake walking beside him. Al said the snake was bobbing along, maybe three feet of him raised tall, as if they were pals out for a stroll. When Al flicked his eye toward the snake, it went belly-flat and slithered away. Snakes are really smart about hiding in plain sight. And that will be my last walk on the nature trail for awhile.

I’ve got a crime novel to write.

Writing seems to me much safer. Yet, crime novels, too, feature plots that are hidden behind the surface of the words, action, setting and characters. The hidden plot, the one the reader will never see, is that of the murderer. His motives, machinations and methods may never be fully revealed, but the author must write a complete hidden history in order for the visible plot to flow.

Postcard from St Pete

It’s hot today or maybe it’s because I have been busy all morning, making pancakes (hot stove), blow drying my hair (hot air), and starting the laundry. I would much rather be at the beach, like these people in the vintage post card. The day is a bit overcast but still warm enough for a stroll in the sand. We’ve been in Florida for five days now, finally starting to feel settled. Still have not been for a walk or a sunset on the beach.

When I grocery shopped I only bought fruit, vegetables and whole grains. Al hasn’t noticed yet that he is on the PBWF diet with me. We did go out to dinner last night with my dad, my brother and sister-in-law, Becky. A night off from cooking and also, full disclosure, I ate a filet mignon, paired with a nice pinot noir. I have not had a steak since I began straightening the curve months ago. Once Al leaves–he has another week with me here before he has to go back to work–it  will make sticking to a plant-based program much easier.

What I love about my diet-for-life is that once you’re in the groove, there are no cravings and no hunger between meals. It’s easy to step outside the diet and get right back on, which is not true of any other diet I’ve ever been on. Also, the energy levels go way up and I just generally feel sunnier. I’m hoping it is helping me inside as much as outside. I want to be below the pre-diabetes numbers I’ve been carrying around for a long time without giving it a thought. I wish I’d admitted to myself that most often pre-diabetes leads to diabetes.

In other news, I’ve been working on audio versions of The Paris Notebook. Almost done. Have a cute little office area now that my writing room has become a guest room. I’ll be writing much more after Al leaves, too, as my editor will be sending edits on the crime novel any day. It makes me wonder how we will work things out when he retires. My big idea is to sell our home in Michigan and move down here while scouting out a larger place. Just like Virginia Woolf, I need a room of my own. With a door. Ideally, one that opens to the Gulf of Mexico.

Letting Go

The doctor was pissed. She was a small Indian woman and it radiated off her like a heat wave. “You have to stop eating!” she said. “You’ve gained an enormous amount of weight in a small time. This is what you must do: No breakfast, a little tea, that is all…” I tuned her out. I already felt bad enough about the ten pounds I’d gained when I stopped smoking. But I wasn’t fat.

Then I saw my mother. At a big baby shower with all of her girlfriends there, she looked at me when I came up to the table and said “WHAT happened?” I said “Oh, it’s my blood sugar,” and sat down at the table. I was humiliated. I’d known these people my entire life and I was afraid to tell them I had gained weight. That was obvious. The blood sugar excuse just popped out instead of “I’m packing on the pounds, Mama.”

She knew. But she wanted it to not be true or she was embarrassed that this is what her daughter had come to, this was how her daughter had let herself go. Despite plenty of people at the table being my size or bigger, my mother rejected the notion that a daughter of hers could be overweight so thoroughly that she asked a stupid question with a look of horror on her face rather than just say “Hi, honey, glad you could make it.”

I have never understood that phrase “She’s letting herself go.” What does that mean? She let herself go to the refrigerator? She let herself go to the candy store instead of the beauty salon? People never say men “let themselves go” but if a woman allows her hair to grow in to its natural silver she’s “letting herself go.” If she doesn’t get a mani-pedi before sandal season, she’s “letting herself go.” If she refuses the gym, she’s “let herself go.” And heaven help the woman who wears anything in her wardrobe faded black or yellowed white or chosen an ill-matched outfit. There she is “letting herself go” again. No jewelry? No lipstick? No mascara? Letting herself go. Such a shame.

When I was a teenager, I didn’t wear a bra (and I needed one). I didn’t wear make up. I never got my hair cut, not even the frizzy ends trimmed. My jeans were faded and my tops were flannel shirts from the men’s department. I just really didn’t care about all the girly stuff. None of my friends did. But then I entered the working world and to fit in, had to get in line. Wear a uniform. Shave my legs. Attempt to paint my face. I even got contact lenses when a friend suggested it.

I’ve never been a slob. I take a shower and use deodorant. I brush my teeth. I comb my hair. When I think of someone who let’s herself go, I imagine a train wreck of a woman with a dirty face, filth under her fingernails, wearing too tight clothes that show her muffin top or wrinkled cleavage to unfortunate advantage. That woman is probably homeless and mentally ill. Letting herself go so far from the norm is probably a symptom of her disease. She needs help. She’s sad and alone and she’s not me. She needs a hug and a treatment program.

I don’t wear make up now that I’m retired unless my husband is taking me out to dinner or I’m meeting friends for lunch. Most days, I write in my pajamas. If I notice it’s getting on in the afternoon, I take a stretch break and throw on yoga pants. I recently found out I’m allergic to hair dye. My silver hair has grown in an inch or so. Yes, I’m letting it go natural. As women, we fight nature bleached tooth and polished nail. But I’m telling you, letting go feels really good.

Politics and Religion

That’s me in my first communion garb, when I got married to Jesus. I grew up with a Catholic mom who didn’t attend church and an atheist father. It was strange. I never went to church after I was on my own.

I felt like “Jesus is just all right with me” (remember that song?) but I had my own personal Jesus (remember that song?) I didn’t think too deeply about it. “Jesus freaks/out in the streets/handing tickets out for God.” (Remember that song?) Inevitably, my friends who became Jesus freaks had been busted by their parents for smoking pot.

I went to church again when I had kids. I felt like, well, I’ll give them this base and then when they’re old enough, they can decide. They went to cathecism and got all their sacraments. Our pedophile priest went to jail. When the priest who wants your sons to be altar boys goes to prison, it changes you. Also, I didn’t like other things. Their anti-abortion stance. No women priests. No married priests. It was so messed up.

I tried a few other churches but when my favorite “non-denominational” church fired our minister because she was Jewish, I lost faith. It feels really good to have faith but no matter, mine was gone. I hope there’s something after death, but chances are, there’s not. I still pray, and it works, there’s something inside me that responds to prayer. I’m comforted by the Buddha, who, when asked if there was a God, did not respond. Nobody knows, and that’s a fact. But I accept and understand the place religion has in people’s lives. I just don’t like the thing where it has to be one religion.

As for politics, I’m from a working class background and so is my husband. Our families have been union people from the beginning and we have always voted Democrat. I used to say I was an independent but I have never voted Republican. I take it election by election and I always like the Democrat candidate better. Usually they are more in line with every woman’s right to make all decisions concerning her body. I hate racism and bigotry and I see more of that in some candidates than others.

So, why did I just say all this? Well, this week I did a few political posts on Facebook, and I don’t usually do that. So I’ve been thinking about it all. Why is it a thing that we don’t talk about politics or religion? They seem like important topics to me, more now than ever. Yesterday, for 28 minutes, Hawaii believed they were being hit by a nuclear bomb. I think about that every day. That any day could be that day, and it seems this president more than any other kind of wants that. So maybe having a conversation or two about the politics and religion behind war and bombs isn’t a bad idea. Maybe it’s a very good one. Namaste.

Reading & Listening

I just listened to a woman read the opening from A Paris Notebook, my first novel from The Wild Rose Press. She’s fabulous. She’s hired! When my publisher hooked up with Amazon to offer TWRP authors a shot at Audible, I was right on it. 30% of people now listen to their books as much as read them.

Not many people read novels. It’s a tiny percentage of the reading public, most prefer non-fiction. It used to be the only people who read poetry were poets (and me). Let’s hope that’s never true for novelists. I know there are a zillion of us out there. And then some of them, like prolific Nora Roberts, write hundreds of (really good) books spanning their careers. I just finished Year One by The Nora and loved it. She’s written 200 books which just plugging in a few numbers I figure must be something like 5 books a year. So a book in 2.5 months. How does she do it?

This is a bit of a shaggy post. Lots of people are talking about the book by Michael Wolff that claims our current president acts like a child, doesn’t read and doesn’t listen. I feel bad for Trump. It’s so clear that he needs approval so he puff himself up with praise (mostly inaccurate) at every opportunity. I wince when I read things like “I’m a genius, and, like, mentally healthy, too.” That was a paraphrase, not a quote. But he did use the word genius to describe himself on Twitter.

I bet Nora Roberts wouldn’t do that. Neither would Oprah, who I hear may be mulling a White House race in 2020. If Trump runs again, we could call it the Celebrity Election. I really hope it doesn’t come to that. I like Oprah but I also like my Presidents to know how government works. I want them to know foreign policy. I bet she would do some homework before taking office. Because at least Oprah reads. She’s a really good listener, too.

New Year, New Spirit

Happy new year! I went to the bookstore yesterday looking for motivation. I need to move more. I’m not as active as my body likes here in Michigan during the winter months. I found a book (I always find a book) but it wasn’t exactly what I was looking for…then I remembered an email I’d received from Cassie Steele about esoteric spiritual practices. Cassie writes for the website Backpack Universe and she sent me a link to an article on on using Tarot to deepen understanding of our life path.

I have been reading Tarot for many years and knew I could use Tarot to unlock the secret of motivating myself to move, but before I even got out the cards, I realized the universe had already taken care of me. I’ll be leaving Michigan for warmer climes later this month, to my new home in Florida, where exercise is effortless because I simply live differently there. I don’t hibernate. I do much more purposeful walking there and I dance more there, too. I eat more healthfully. I engage more with physical life in general. Until then I resolve to do some gentle yoga by the fire every day. Just a couple of asanas listening to “Here Comes The Sun” will work.

I’m a true believer in diving deep into self-awareness. I’ve read about everything in the bookstore on my particular favorites which have led to a greater understanding of my own strengths and weaknesses. I’ve had psychic readings, religiously read Astrology Zone every month, Astrobarry every week, and of course, read Tarot as a guide, and, more lately, a portal to my intuition. I recently did a day of reading other people’s cards in a Facebook group and found I didn’t need to consult any of my (many) Tarot books. I saw the symbolism of each card immediately and intuitively. Several of those I read for connected right away with my take on where their life is at and what they can do to improve it.

I also follow the phases of the moon. Kate Surgery, a psychic who did a reading for me a few years ago, writes a lovely essay on the phases of the moon every so often. We have a super full moon today so I’ll be checking out what Kate has to say about it. Susan at Astrology Zone worried that the full moon would intensify the already wild energies spent on New Year’s Eve. It didn’t happen that way for me. I had a single glass of champagne and was tucked in bed reading well before midnight. Perhaps due to the moon, I was more restless than usual and ended up awake anyway to see in the new year.

If, like me, you’re looking in the bookstore for a quick start kick off to a resolution, you might check out some of these less traveled paths to deepen your connection to body and soul in 2018.

 

Tagged: Astrobarry, astrology, Backpack Universe, Cassie Steele, New Years Resoltuions, Psychics, Super Moon, Susan Miller, tarot

Coping with the Holidays

My beloved Granny died on Christmas day many years ago. I remember going to the hospital in the morning, as we were visiting Al’s family later than afternoon. I walked into her room and she wasn’t there. I’d seen the flowers I’d sent out at the nurse’s station, so I had a foreboding feeling, but not trusting my intuition I asked a nurse if she’d gone for tests. Although there were no more tests and we all knew it. Granny was DNR and under hospice care.

Driving home, I wondered why I hadn’t gotten a call from my mom. I told Al I couldn’t face a party and he stayed home with me. We tried calling everyone in my family but nobody was answering phones. We went to my grandparents’ home, where there had been so many wonderful Christmases, and my grandfather answered the door. He looked dazed but stoic. Before we left that day, I had a much better understanding of how far his dementia had gone. Granny had kept that to herself.

Since then Christmas has been hit or miss for me. Some years it’s wonderful and some years it sucks. This year it was more better than bad. I saw all my grandchildren. I saw my kids and my folks. I had trees in Florida and Michigan and Al was with me. He’s had most of the month off, saving all year to have this vacation time together with family. I could not have done any of it without him. My anxiety for whatever reason goes into hyper mode during the holidays. As much as I love them, I can’t navigate them alone near as well as I can with Al handling the tough stuff.

I’m blessed and I know it. But I’ve had awful Christmases alone and with others so I think about those people who may not be doing so great, for whatever reason, this season. I can’t speak to the horror so much of the world has to cope with right now, I can only tell you how I lightened a dreary mood upon my return from Florida. This is something anyone who has a tree, holiday decorations, and ornaments can do. It really helped me and maybe, when you start taking down your wreaths and angels and candles, it will help you too.

A few years ago there was a wildly popular book about the magic of tidying up. That might have been the title. I didn’t read it but I heard about the premise: take each item you own and hold it while feeling the emotion it evokes. Does it bring you joy? Is it useful? Keep it. If it doesn’t, donate it. I did that in a small way with my tree ornaments this year. We didn’t have any on the one in Florida, just lights. Then the kids came and we got two very special ones. I decided I wanted every ornament that went on my tree to give me joy. (Much easier than doing with every possession you own!)

So over the course of two days I whittled my 300 ornaments down to less than a hundred. What I found was that joy didn’t come from expensive ornaments. They didn’t have to be shiny or beautiful. Joy came from remembering who had given me the gift. My granny gave me an ornament one year when I first started teaching. When I held it, just as I held the ornaments from my children and grandchildren, I felt joy.

I donated the rest of the ornaments to Salvation Army in the hope that someone will find joy in all the dazzle that just didn’t spark for me anymore. And that’s my recipe for a little Christmas magic. It doesn’t work half as well if you just put the joyless ornaments in the basement. You need to give them away. Only then will your joy be complete. Until the next disaster. We all have them. But this year, I hope your burdens are light and your joy shines.

Tagged: coping, death, depression, helpful actions, holidays