Susan Wiggs's Blog, page 21

It doesn’t mean what you think it means.

Get it right

Help me out here, people. For the umpteenth time, I’ve had a note from a reader telling me about an error in my book. Many writers I know, including the peerless Tess Gerritsen, get this kind of feedback.

Now, ordinarily, I love getting corrections from readers because it means that in future editions of the book, I can change, says “commissary” to “dispensary” or put the Pax River Naval Station in the right state (blush).

But quite often, a reader wants to change a word that’s already correct. The latest? Gabbie K. tells me I’ve spelled “minuscule” wrong. She wants me to spell it “miniscule.” Is it because it’s derived from the ancient root “mini” as in, “mini marshmallows”???

And don’t get me started on words that are spelled right, but are perennially misunderstood. There has to be a term for this–words that don’t mean what you think they mean. You know, like toothsome. Ask anyone what she thinks it means. Use it in a sentence, even. “He had a toothsome smile.” Trust me, toothsome does NOT mean toothy. It has nothing to do with teeth. Look it up, I dare you.

And niggardly is not a racist term, although this word is so misunderstood that I’m nervous just typing it. niggardly“>It means stingy, and always has. Out of ignorance, some people think it’s an offensive term. So much so that when I need to say “stingy,” I’ll just say “stingy. Or maybe if I’m feeling daring, I’ll say “begrudgingly.”

Oh, and just so you know–when someone makes a speech and you want to agree with them vociferously, it’s “Hear! Hear!” Not “Here, here,” unless you’re calling a dog. And did you know that if someone was killed by hanging, he was hanged, not hung? And the past tense of sneak is sneaked, not snuck. Check it out, people. You know I’m right.

[Note: Some sites like the New York Times have a  new lookup feature. Select any word, and it will takeyou to a dictionary link.]

Here are a few more “counterintuitive-nyms” for you. Treat this as a pop quiz. Do you know what these words mean, how to use them and how to spell them? If yes, then YAY YOU:

Noisome, inflammable, invaluable. Chasten, bemuse, vilify. Fecund, lachrymose. Guttural. Timorous. Restive, leman, sacrilegious.

How about you? What are some sadly misunderstood and misspelled words in your writing world?

in media res :: in the middle of things

It’s a literary technique. If you’re a reader, you don’t need to think about it. Just scroll down to the excerpt, and enjoy! If you’re a writer, you need to know this stuff. The amazing author and teacher Rita Gallagher (yep, the namesake of the RITA Award) advised writers to start in the middle, retrieve the past and drive toward the future. Why does it work? Think of it as going to a party full of strangers. You spot someone who intrigues you…maybe you feel a spark of attraction. You get to know him right here, right now, in the middle of things. If the attraction deepens, then you ask him about himself–what brought him here? Where’s he from? What is important to him? What does he dream about, fear, hope for…? You get the idea. Something hooks you in, and you want to go forward.

Now apply those principles to the opening of a novel. Begin in media res. That’s a fancy phrase for starting in the middle of things. The example below, from Summer by the Sea, illustrates the technique. We meet Rosa, seeing the scene from her point of view. This is all we know of her at this point.

Some writing teachers also call this a misdirection hook. The reader assumes the next beat of the story is heading one way, but in fact it goes in a less-expected direction. Maybe. You be the judge. Happy writing!

Rosa Capoletti knew that tonight was the night. Jason As-poll was going to pop the question. The setting was perfect—a starlit summer evening, an elegant seaside restaurant, the sounds of crystal and silver gently clinking over quiet murmurs of conversation. At Jason’s request, the Friday night trio was playing "Lovetown," and a few dreamy couples swayed to the nostalgic melody.

Candlelight flickered over their half-empty champagne flutes, illuminating Jason’s endearingly nervous face. He was sweating a little, and his eyes darted with barely suppressed trepidation. Rosa could tell he wanted to get this right.

She knew he was wondering, Should I reach across the table? Go down on one knee, or is that too hokey?

Go for it, Jason, she wanted to urge him. Nothing’s too hokey when it’s true love.

She also knew the ring lay nestled in a black velvet box, concealed in the inner pocket of his dinner jacket, right next to his racing heart.

Come on, Jason, she thought. Don’t be afraid.

And then, just as she was starting to worry that he’d chickened out, he did it. He went down on one knee.

A few nearby diners shifted in their chairs to look on fondly. Rosa held her breath while his hand stole inside his jacket.

The music swelled. He took the box from his pocket and she saw his mouth form the words: Will you marry me?

He held out the ring box, opening the hinged lid to reveal the precious offering. His hand shook a little. He still didn’t know for sure if she would have him.

Silly man, thought Rosa. Didn’t he know the answer would be—

"Table seven sent back the risotto," said Leo, the headwaiter, holding a thick china bowl in front of Rosa.

"Leo, for crying out loud," she said, craning her neck to see past him. "Can’t you tell I’m busy here?" She pushed him aside in time to watch her best friend, Linda Lipschitz, stand up from the table and fling her arms around Jason.

"Yes," Linda said, although from across the dining room Rosa had to read her lips. "Yes, absolutely."

Atta girl, thought Rosa, her eyes misting.

Leo followed her gaze to the embracing couple. "Sweet," he said. "Now what about my risotto?"

"Take it back to the kitchen," Rosa said. "I knew the mango chutney was a bad idea, anyway, and you can tell Butch I said so." She let Leo deal with it as she walked across the dining room. Linda was wreathed in smiles and tears. Jason looked positively blissful and, perhaps, weak with relief.

"Rosa, you won’t believe what just happened," Linda said.

Rosa dabbed at her eyes. "I think I can guess."

Linda held out her hand, showing off a glittering marquise-cut diamond in a gold cathedral setting.

"Oh, honey." Rosa hugged Linda and gave Jason a kiss on the cheek. "Congratulations, you two," she said. "I’m so happy for you."

She’d helped Jason pick out the ring, told him Linda’s size, selected the music and menu, ordered Linda’s favorite flowers for the table. They’d set the scene in every possible way. Rosa was good at things like this—creating events around the most special moments in people’s lives.

Other people’s lives.

Linda was babbling, already making plans. "We’ll drive over to see Jason’s folks on Sunday, and then get everyone together to set a date—"

"Slow down, my friend," Rosa said with a laugh. "How about you dance with your fiancé?"

Linda turned to Jason, her eyes shining. "My fiancé. God, I love the sound of that."

Rosa gave the couple a gentle shove toward the dance floor. As he pulled Linda into his arms, Jason looked over her shoulder and mouthed a thank-you to Rosa. She waved, dabbed at her eyes again and headed for the kitchen. Back to work.

She was smiling as she crossed the nonskid mat and entered the kitchen through the swinging doors. Quiet elegance gave way to controlled chaos. Glaring lights and flaming grills illuminated the crush of prep workers, line cooks and the sous-chef hurrying back and forth between stainless steel counters. Waiters tapped their feet, checking orders before stepping through the soundproofed doors that protected the serenity of the dining room from male shouts and clattering dishes.

The revved-up energy of the kitchen was fueled by testosterone, but Rosa knew how to hold her own here. She walked through a gauntlet of aproned men with huge knives or vats of boiling water, pivoting around each other in their nightly ballet. A stream from a hose roared against the dishwashing sink, and hot drafts from the Imperial grill licked like dragon’s breath at precisely 1010°F.

"Wait," she said as a prep worker passed by with a plated steak that had been liberally sprinkled with tripepper confetti.

"What?" The worker, a recent hire from Newport, paused at the counter.

"We don’t garnish the steaks here."

"Come again?"

"This is premium meat, our signature cut. Serve it without the garnish."

"I’ll remember that," he said, and set the plate on the counter for a server to pick up.

She planted herself in front of him. "Go back and replate the steak, please. No garnish."

"But—"

Rosa glared at him with fire in her eyes. Don’t back down, she cautioned herself. Don’t blink.

"You got it," he said, scowling as he returned to the prep area.

"Well?" asked Lorenzo "Butch" Buchello, whose fresh Italian cuisine was drawing in patrons from as far away as New York and Boston.

"Yep." Rosa grinned and selected a serrated knife from the array affixed to a steel grid on the wall. "Went down on one knee and everything."

Neither of them stopped working as they chatted. He was coordinating dessert while she arranged fluffy white peasant bread in a basket.

"Good for them," said Butch.

"They’re really in love," Rosa said. "I got all choked up watching them."

"Ever the incurable romantic," Butch said, piping chocolate ganache around the profiteroles.

"Ha, there’s a cure for it," Shelly Warren cut in, whisking behind them to pick up her order. "It’s called marriage," Rosa said.

Shelly gave her a high-five. She had been married for ten years and claimed that her night job waiting tables was an escape from endless hours of watching the Golf Channel until her eyes glazed over.

"Hey, don’t knock it till you’ve tried it, Rosa," said Butch. "In fact, what about that guy you were dating—Dean what’s his name?"

"Oh, actually, he did want to get married," she explained. Butch’s eyes lit up. "Hey! Well, there you go—"

"Just not to me."

His face fell. "I’m sorry. I didn’t know."

"It’s all right. He joins a long and venerable line of suitors who didn’t suit."

"I’m starting to see a pattern here," Butch said. He took a wire whisk to a bowl of custard and Marsala, creating an order of his famous zabaglione. "You run them off and then say they didn’t suit."

She finished up with the bread baskets. "Not tonight, Butch. This is Linda’s moment. Send them a tiramisu and your congratulations, okay?"

She headed back to the dining room and went over to the podium, which faced the main entrance. It was a perfect Friday night at Celesta’s-by-the-Sea. All the tables in the multilevel dining room were oriented toward the view of the endless sea, and were set with fresh flowers, crisp linens, good china and flatware.

This was the sort of scene she used to dream about back when the place was a run-down pizza joint. Couples danced to the smooth beat of a soft blues number, the drummer’s muted cymbals shimmering with a sensual resonance. Out on the deck, people stood listening to the waves and looking at the stars. For the past three years running, Celesta’s had been voted "Best Place to Propose" by Coast magazine, and tonight was a perfect example of the reason for its charm—sea breezes, sand and surf, a natural backdrop for the award-winning dining room.

"Did you cry?" asked Vince, the host, stepping up beside her. They’d known each other since childhood—she, Vince and Linda. They’d gone through school together, inseparable. Now he was the best-looking maitre d’ in South County. He was tall and slender, flawlessly groomed in an Armani suit and Gucci shoes. Rimless glasses highlighted his darkly lashed eyes.

"Of course I cried," Rosa said. "Didn’t you?"

"Maybe," he admitted with a fond smile in Linda’s direction. "A little. I love seeing her so happy."

"Yeah. Me, too."

"So that’s two of us down, one to go," he said. She rolled her eyes. "Not you, too."

"Butch has already been at you?"

"What do you two do, lie awake at night discussing my love life?"

"No, sweetie. Your lack of one."

"Give me a break, okay?" She spoke through a smile as a party of four left the restaurant. She and Vince had perfected the art of bickering while appearing utterly congenial.

"Please come again," Vince said, his expression so warm that the two women did a double-take. Glancing down at the computer screen discreetly set beneath the surface of the podium, he checked the status of their tab. "Three bottles of Antinori."

Rosa gave a blissful sigh. "Sometimes I love this job."

"You always love this job. Too much, if you ask me."

"You’re not my analyst, Vince."

"Ringrazi il cielo," he muttered. "You couldn’t pay me enough."

"Hey."

"Kidding," he assured her. "Good night, folks," he said to a departing threesome. "Thanks so much for coming."

Rosa surveyed her domain with a powerful but weary pride. Celesta’s-by-the-Sea was the place people came to fall in love. It was also Rosa’s own emotional landscape; it structured her days and weeks and years. She had poured all her energy into the restaurant, creating a place where people marked the most important events of their lives—engagements, graduations, bar mitzvahs, anniversaries, promotions. They came to escape the rush and rigors of everyday life, never knowing that each subtle detail of the place, from the custom alabaster lampshades to the imported chenille chair covers, had been contrived to create an air of luxury and comfort, just for them.

Rosa knew such attention to detail, along with Butch’s incomparable cuisine, had elevated her restaurant to one of the best in the county, perhaps in the entire state. The focal point of the place was a hammered steel bar, its edges fluted like waves. The bar, which she’d commissioned from a local artisan, was backed by a sheet of blue glass lit from below. At its center was a nautilus seashell, the light flickering over and through the whorls and chambers. People seemed drawn to its mysterious iridescence, and often asked where it came from, and if it was real. Rosa knew the answer, but she never told.

She checked the time on the screen without being obvious. None of the servers wore watches and there was no clock in sight. People relaxing here shouldn’t notice the passing of time. But the small computer screen indicated 10:00 p.m. She didn’t expect too much more business, except perhaps in the bar.

She could tell, with a sweep of her gaze, that tonight’s till would be sky-high. "I’m so glad summer’s here," she said to Vince.

"You know, for normal people, summer means vacation time. For us, it means our lives belong to Celesta’s."

"This is normal." Hard work had never bothered Rosa. Outside the restaurant there was not much to her life, and she had convinced herself that she liked it that way. She had Pop, of course, who at sixty-five was as independent as ever, accusing her of fussing over him. Her brother Robert was in the navy, currently stationed with his family overseas. Her other brother, Sal, was also in the navy, a Catholic priest serving as chaplain. Her father and brothers, nieces and nephews, were her family.

But Celesta’s was her life.

She stole a glance at Jason and Linda, and fancied she could actually see stars in their eyes. Sometimes, when Rosa looked at the happy couples holding hands across the tables in her restaurant, she felt a bittersweet ache. And then she always pretended, even to herself, that it didn’t matter.

"I give you two months off every year," she pointed out to Vince.

"Yeah, January and February."

"Best time of year in Miami," she reminded him. "Or are you and Butch ready to give up your condo there?"

"All right, all right. I get your point. I wouldn’t have it any other—"

The sound of car doors slamming interrupted them. Rosa sent another discreet look at the slanted computer screen under the podium. Ten-fifteen.

She stepped back while Vince put on his trademark smile. "So much for making an early night of it." The comment slipped between his teeth, while his expression indicated he’d been waiting all his life for the next group of patrons.

Rosa recognized them instantly. Not by name, of course. The summer crowds at the shore were too huge for that.

No, she recognized them because they were a "type." Summer people. The women exuded patrician poise and beauty. The tallest one wore her perfectly straight golden-blond hair caught, seemingly without artifice, in a thin band. Her couture clothes—a slim black skirt, silk blouse and narrow kid leather flats—had a subtle elegance. Her two friends were stylish clones of her, with uniformly sleek hair, pale makeup, sleeves artfully rolled back just so. They pulled off the look as only those to the manor born could.

Rosa and Vince had grown up sharing their summers with people like this. To the seasonal visitors, the locals existed for the sole purpose of serving those who belonged to the venerable old houses along the pristine, unspoiled shore just as their forebears had done a century before. They were the ones whose charity galas were covered by Town & Country magazine, whose weddings were announced in the New York Times. They were the ones who never thought about what life was like for the maid who changed their sheets, the fisherman who brought in the day’s catch, the cleaners who ironed their Sea Isle cotton shirts.

Vince nudged her behind the podium. "Yachty. They practically scream Bailey’s Beach."

Rosa had to admit, the women would not look out of place at the exclusive private beach at the end of Newport’s cliff walk. "Be nice," she cautioned him.

"I was born nice."

The door opened and three men joined the women. Rosa offered the usual smile of greeting. Then her heart skipped a beat as her gaze fell upon a tall, sandy-haired man. No, it couldn’t be, she told herself. She hoped—prayed—it was a trick of the light. But it wasn’t, and her expression froze as recognition chilled her to the bone.

Big deal, she thought, trying not to hyperventilate. She was bound to run into him sooner or later.

"Uh-oh," Vince muttered, assuming a stance that was now more protective than welcoming. "Here come the Montagues."

Rosa struggled against panic, but she was losing the battle. You’re a grown woman, she reminded herself. You’re totally in control.

That was a lie. In the blink of an eye, she was eighteen again, aching and desperate over the boy who’d broken her heart.

"I’ll tell them we’re closed," Vince said.

"You’ll do nothing of the sort," Rosa hissed at him.

"I’ll beat the crap out of him."

"You’ll offer them a table, and make it a good one." Straightening her shoulders, Rosa looked across the room and locked eyes with a man she hadn’t seen in ten years, a man she hoped she would never see again.

What was your first time like?

They say you never, ever forget your first time. It’s one of those “aha” moments when the world shifts, and afterwards, nothing is quite the same. You keep this moment in your heart forever, and it’s still vivid even decades later, it’s still as vivid as the rose that just opened in your garden.

And for me, one of those defining moments happened in the Target store on Katy Freeway in Houston, Texas, circa early 1980s. That was where I discovered romance novels.

I always knew I would write; this much was clear from the time I learned to talk. Even before I could read or write, I would dictate stories to my mother and, bless her, she would dutifully write them down. But as an emerging novelist, I hadn’t found my “voice” as a writer. Fresh out of graduate school, I had been trying to figure out what sort of book I longed to write–a literary masterpiece, a dark thriller, a shoot-em-up western?

To be honest, the reader in me was ready for a fabulous, sweep-you-away novel to give my brain a vacation. A book called “Shanna” by Kathleen Woodiwiss, with a hot pink and orange cover and a lush, sexy illustration jumped off the shelf and into my cart.

I dove right in, and didn’t come up for air until I’d savored every thrilling word.

And by the end of the first chapter, I had an epiphany. This was the sort of book I was yearning to write. I wanted to take the reader on a fabulous journey filled with love, adventure, danger, heartfelt emotion and pulse-pounding passion. I wanted to sweep the reader away.

Not long afterward, my first novel was published, and it was filled with–you guessed it. All of the above.

Summer by the Sea has everything I was looking for that day so long ago. There’s a lonely young woman who still dreams of the boy who stole her heart. There’s a nostalgic beach restaurant offering delicious shore dinners (recipes included). And most importantly of all, there is an emotional ride filled with laughter and tears. I’m thrilled that it’s available again, because it’s one of those books that has been sprinkled with fairy dust from the very start, thanks to readers. It’s been national bestseller lists. It won the RITA(sm) award for Best Contemporary Romance. It’s been translated around the globe, and now it’s heading right back where it belongs–into the hands of my favorite people in the world–readers like you. This special edition has a reading group guide and a yummy new recipe.

Tell us about your own "first time." What book got you hooked? Where did it take you? How did it change you?

How did you discover your favorite author?

They say you never forget your first time. My tiny inquiring mind wants to know. Was it a recommendation from a friend? Book club? Advertisement? Online? At the library? Chime in!

Pleased to meet you!

Calling all book clubs :: Let me send you a review copy

So my awesome publisher has produced a nice glossy advance-reading-copy edition of STARLIGHT ON WILLOW LAKE.

Lakeshore Chronicles #11, but you don’t have to be familiar with the series to fall in love with this one.

I know all writers will tell you “this book has a special place in my heart,” but this one REALLY does. After you read the dedication page in the front and the acknowledgment page in the back you’ll know why.

It’s a good book club topic. The storyline deals with��with tragedy, a person’s role in caring for a parent, and how exploring the past can lead to a whole new perspective on life. Just as bonus, there are dogs, comedy, Balinese cooking, a few cuss words. and love scenes that will curl your toes but not offend your mother. Swear.

You know what’s missing? A reading group guide. I’d love your help with this. What’s the most thought-provoking topic your group has every discussed?

I have 15 copies of the ARC (pub-speak for “advance reading copy”) to give away. Here’s how to enter. Send��the name of your book group, along with a contact person and mailing address, to susanmwiggs (at) gmail dot com, and fifteen winners will be chosen at random on May 1. You’ll receive the ARC along with some other goodies for readers to enjoy long before the book gets published.

Sound good?

my good deed for the day : : taking your excuses away from you

I hear it from emerging writers all the time. I���ve got a great idea for a novel. I���m going to sit down and write it as soon as I…

…get my day job under control
…get my final kid into kindergarten
…into college …out of jail
…get my finances in order
…fix my marriage
…finish painting the house
…pay off the car
…clean the can opener
…clean the rain gutters
…get the puppy housebroken
…retire from my job
…finish watching the third season of “Weeds”
…get my Bachelor���s…Master���s…PhD…LLB…MD
…pay off my student loans
…read all the Outlander��books
…check in with my nineteen thousand Facebook friends
…upgrade my computer
…make tenure
…landscape the yard
…take a vacation
…host my book group
…teach my teenager to drive
…finish knitting this sweater
…forgive my parents …forgive myself
…get over my fear of failure …get over my fear of success
…get permission from my parents/spouse/children/therapist
…hire an agent
…learn to use the subjunctive case
…quit worrying about what my family will think of my story, especially the dirty parts
…stop smoking/drinking/playing online games
…figure out the business of publishing
…lose 20 pounds so I look good in my author photo…

You name it, and a procrastinating writer has said it. Here���s a dirty little secret. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but the cruel reality is this. There will never be a good time to write. Life will always intrude. That���s what life is. Be glad for that. If you have no life, you have nothing to write about.

The good news is, there���s a simple solution. Make time for the things that are important to you. If writing your story is important, make time for it. Simple as that. Turn off the TV, leave the dishes undone, close your e-mail, grab a notebook and pen, and tell your family, “Don���t interrupt me unless your eyes are bleeding.” You���ll be surprised by the respect they give you.

The way you spend your day is the way you spend your life. So quit being your own worst enemy and start being your own best friend. Make time to write, even if you don���t have time.

I have procrastinated my way through the writing of many books. Somehow, the story emerges. The Beekeeper’s Ball hits the shelves next week. There’s a lot of love and food in that book. Let me know what you think.

how to revise your novel :: don’t stop until you’re proud

Step one – open shitty first draft.
2 print out in word draft mode, light colored ink. 3 put on extra
strong glasses and lamp. rewrite every single page until it looks
like it’s bleeding. Be aware that you might need a lot of physical
space for laying out the pages. clothespins are key. 5. type in
handwritten edits. 6. go back to step 2 and do it all again. lather
rinse repeat.

Step one – open shitty first draft.

Step two – ��print out in word draft mode, light colored ink.

Step three – put on extra��strong glasses and bright lamp. Rewrite every single page until it looks��like it’s bleeding. Be aware that you might need a lot of physical��space for laying out the pages. Clothespins are key. So are Post-It notes.

ugly stuff

Step five – type in��handwritten edits.

smells fishy to Barkis

Step six – go back to step 2 and do it all again.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

everyone’s a critic

Barkis is not too subtle when he wants to go for a walk….

The secret? See below:

book cover art::harder than you think

So after telling you about the process of writing a novel,��I promised to talk about cover art. How does a publisher get that sucker all spiffed up and ready for the bookstore?

Oh, so carefully. Most publishers have an entire dedicated art department whose sole purpose is book design–the image, the fonts, endpapers, you name it.

Back when I was self-publishing, I designed my own.

bringing you bad books since the age of 8

Art was not my forte, clearly.

Book cover art is the topic of endless and passionate debate among writers and people in publishing.

Because it matters so freakin’ much. It’s the reader’s first glimpse of your work. You’ve got a split second to grab her attention. And in that split second, you have to convey that a) this is YOUR kind of book and b) it’s a particularly great read and c) she should just ignore all those other books on the shelf nearby that are vying for attention.

How does a book get from the mess on my living room floor…

Barkis is bored. He just doesn’t get it.

…into the reader’s hands?

You need not just a beautiful cover, but the RIGHT cover. For example, this cover is beautiful:

Where’s the romance?

…but it doesn’t scream “sweep-you-away-historical-romance” the way this one does:

Sexy tiiime!

They’re all nicely done, but guess which one sold the best? Yep, the one that looked the most romantic, dramatic and compelling to the reader most likely to enjoy that kind of book.

After the original edition of The Drifter was published, the art department took another look at what my books were about and what my readers love–romance, fantasy, passion. So my next book, THE CHARM SCHOOL,��went through a major transformation. Here is the cover-in-progress:

I sent my editor a little thumbnail image from a book of clipart. I just thought it was pretty.��The main character��was a bookworm with a rich fantasy life, and this image made me think of her:

Thanks to my very smart editor, she got this sketch out of the art department, and I knew we had a winner on our hands:

I was hoping it would turn into a pink valentine of a book because, well, we readers love pink valentines. And Lo:

Now, THAT’s a cover.

Flowers, purple foil, generous endorsement from iconic romance author. It even had a peek-a-boo window with a glimpse at the illustration inside. And although the real��Isadora looked like this:

Isadora, the main character of THE CHARM SCHOOL

…she got a makeover for the cover art. This image is inside the front cover. It’s known as a “step-back.”

ready for action

I’m proud to say, The Charm School was my first national bestseller. The book got good reviews, won some awards, made some best-of lists, but I credit the sales to the right cover on the right book.��

Oh, and here–with apologies to the redoubtable Erik Larson–is my nomination for the worst book cover ever. On one of the best books, ever.

Foreign edition of Erik’s iconic work, Devil in the White City, with unfortunate cover art.

January News from Susan Wiggs

If you have trouble viewing the images in this newsletter you can read it online by clicking here

Available at these

online retailers:

amazon.com

barnesandnoble.com

Indiebound.org

booksamillion.com

Starlight on Willow Lake:

Preorder

Now in audio:

audible.com

brillianceaudio.com
In This Edition…

In the deep midwinter…in the Big Apple
Hot reads for a cold day
Connect with me in 2015
Recipe: Perfect Winter Soup

Hi Friends,

It’s the middle of winter but I’ve been looking for signs of spring. Seed catalogs, planning the garden, wishing the days would get longer….

And then this week, something happened to remind me that winter, too, has its special charms. I was lucky enough to experience the season in one of my favorite cities—New York. The predicted “great blizzard” turned out to be a lovely snowfall that simply slowed everything down. I took a brisk hike through Central Park with no traffic, just kids having a snow day and dogs romping in their booties. My fondness for shopping was curtailed, and I found myself walking down a nearly-deserted Fifth Avenue. Other than the occasional chunk of snow and ice falling from the sky scrapers, and pools of slush in the intersections, there were few hazards of traffic and congestion. Here are a few snapshots I took on my walk.

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And of course, the best part of a chilly hike is a warm hotel and a good book! Currently, I’m juggling several wonderful reads, including Lost and Found by Brooke Davis, Desert God by Wilbur Smith, John Doe (a short read) by Tess Gerritsen, Dollface by Renee Rosen, The Wonders by Paddy O’Reilly, and Crystal Cove by Lisa Kleypas. My own current releases are Just Breathe in audio, a reissue of Texas Wildflower, and the upcoming paperback edition of The Apple Orchard. The rest of the year is filled with special editions of reader favorites, and a new hardcover, Starlight on Willow Lake, available for preorder now.

Let’s make 2015 all about connecting. I love our growing community of good-hearted women…and a few well-behaved men! Here are my favorite ways to socialize online:

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/susanwiggs

Twitter: @susanwiggs http://www.twitter.com/susanwiggs

Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/21155.Susan_Wiggs

Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/beachwriter1/

Instagram: http://instagram.com/beachwriter1/

Google+:

Wordpress: https://susanwiggs.wordpress.com/

And finally, we get to the good part: FOOD. My dad had a saying I remember from my childhood: “What makes Joe Louis win all his fights? He eats Pasta Fazool, morning, noon and night.” I suppose it was Dad’s way of convincing us to eat healthy. So in honor of Dad, here is my favorite recipe for Pasta Fazool—the soup version. Enjoy!

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(photo credit: wbgh.org)

Pasta Fazool Soup (based on traditional recipes, trial, and error) aka Pasta e Fagioli

INGREDIENTS

2 tablespoons olive oil

½ cup pancetta or snipped bacon, or for the veggie version, use chopped fresh mushrooms; porcini would be a good choice

1 minced onion

2 cloves garlic, minced

3 cups chopped tomatoes, or one 15oz. can of San Marzano tomatoes, chopped

1 tablespoon chopped fresh herbs—I like thyme, sage or basil

¼ teaspoon red pepper flakes

salt and black pepper to taste

1 quart chicken or vegetable stock

1 can cannellini beans (15 oz.), drained and rinsed

Optional additions: chopped carrot, celery, kale or spinach

1 cup dried pasta—try elbow mac or small penne

Parmesan cheese fresh Italian parsley, chopped (for garnish)

Directions:

Warm the oil in a soup pot. Add the pancetta or mushrooms, onion and garlic and saute. Add the tomatoes, herbs, red pepper flakes, and salt & pepper.

Cover and simmer for about 15 minutes. Add the beans and stock and optional ingredients, and simmer for another 30 minutes.

Meanwhile, cook the pasta until al dente, then drain and shake with a sprinkling of butter or oil to keep it from clumping.

Spoon a portion of pasta into individual bowls, and ladle the soup over it. Garnish with grated cheese and a few cut fresh parsley. Serve immediately. A glass of Barolo and a cut of warm salted rosemary bread is an excellent accompaniment. Yields 4 generous servings.

Mangia!

Susan Wiggs

www.SusanWiggs.com

work in progress :: a photo essay

I have the worst work habits. Sometimes I look at the pile of books I’ve written and I wonder how they got there. Well, the best way to describe it is “word-by-word.” You put down a word. Then you cross it out. Then write a few more. Stare out the window. Wonder if the can opener needs cleaning. Wonder if someone’s having a hissy fit on a social network. Wonder why you thought this was a good idea for a novel in the first place.

Sometimes you have to go to Bali to clear your head and get some serious thinking done:

My brain works better in Bali.

And, oh, here’s something. I write my first draft in longhand. In a Clairefontaine��notebook with a fountain pen loaded with peacock blue ink. Not because I’m quirky but because I think in longhand. And I’m left-handed so ordinary pens smear my hand as it drags across the page, but Skrip peacock blue on Clairefontaine paper does not.

tools of the trade

that first awful draft

So now what, you ask? After I bleed blue all over the page, I realize there is no backup copy.��If I happen to step out for a while, the house might burn down and the only existing manuscript will go up in flames, like Jo’s novel in Little Women. (I didn’t cry when Beth died. I cried when Amy burned the manuscript.) Sometimes I keep the notebook in the freezer, like Tess does with her notes in The Apple Orchard. I figure that’s the last thing that will burn if the house is reduced to rubble.

Eventually, I fill the notebook with about 100,000 words that loosely resemble a novel. Then I have to type the thing up. I can’t use a typist because I tend to revise as I transcribe. Dragon Naturally Speaking��voice dictation software works really well for me, provided the dogs��don’t go off on me when someone comes to the door. When that happens, here’s what appears on my screen: hep hep hep hep hep hep hep��hep hep hep hep hep hep hep.

the digitized draft

Oh, and here’s something. I don’t use Word. I know, I’m awful, but my very first writing software was WordPerfect��and my brain is stuck with it. I have to have Reveal Codes and anyone who knows WordPerfect knows why. Please, Word, figure out Reveal Codes! F3! Save my sanity!

Then I print the thing out and my writers’ group has a meeting about it. I’ve been in some writing group or other since 1986 and I don’t intend stopping. Magic happens in a writers’ group–critiquing and brainstorming and commiserating and celebrating. My current group consists of the fabulous Sheila Roberts, Lois Faye Dyer, Anjali Banerjee, Elsa Watson��and Kate Breslin. We read and talk about each other’s work and I adore these women and I would pledge them my first born child��but she is already married��with a kid of her own.

My group meets at a quaint waterfront bakery��in a small town. Baked goods��make the brain work better.

Moving right along…I rewrite the book a couple of times. At various stages, it looks something like this:

Revisions are not pretty.

…but you get to buy lots of colorful office supplies, so that’s something.

…and then I send it to my literary agent and editor. We have long deep talks about every aspect of the novel. Sometimes we get together in person and they are smart and kind and supportive and motivating and I thank God they are in my life, and this is why they get stuff like cashmere bathrobes and couture��watches at Christmas.

They came to my wedding. We did no work at all that weekend.

Editor and style maven.

And then I put on the Sweater of Immovable Deadlines and rewrite that sucker again.

tick tock…

Note the snow on the ground…

And at some point my editor says we’re good to go, and my agent says yippee, let’s send that girl her advance check…

…and I get to go shopping and tell people what a breeze it is to write a book.

Stay tuned. The next installment will take us through the cover design and publication process. Sound good?

Thanks for reading!