Susan Lynn Solomon's Blog: Retirement Journal, page 4

Day 82

No writing today. Nope, not a single word. As the Beatles wrote: “Good day. Sunshine…” I spent the day with my friend Frank, wandering through Buffalo’s Elmwood Art Festival. One of the great secrets about western New York is its incredible artistic community. Theater, music, paining, photography, poetry, prose. As we entered the area we stopped for twenty minutes to watch a dance troop perform. Walking along Elmwood, we passed other stages and listened to jazz, rock, salsa, folk, even a barbershop quartet. And the art work and crafts on display… Aah.

A painting caught my eye—one of those “I’ve gotta have it”s. Gulp, $1,600. Fortunately, the artist had a nicely framed print of the picture at a price the budget wouldn’t choke on, so this evening a new piece of art hangs in my living room.

Home again now, artistic batty recharged from all I saw and heard, I believe tomorrow I’ll be ready to return to attacking poor Emlyn Goode.

Day 81

A second day with no plan but to write in the morning, spend an hour or so after lunch marketing, and, of course, ensuring I had an ample supply of cigarettes in the house. Someday I’ll have to figure out why, without a cigarette burning in the ashtray at my left elbow, no words go up on my computer screen. Perhaps the answer is found in research I did this afternoon (there is almost nothing an author can write of that doesn’t require research to give the story an air of accuracy).

In chapter 23 of the new novel, Emlyn is conducting a protection ritual (need I say, I’ve arranged things so she’ll soon need protection?). On the altar she sets up in her backyard the left side is dedicated to the goddess—the deity of the moon and the mother of women and men (yes, this is researched). So, the left. The side on which my ashtray must be. Hmmm. Is it possible such an arrangement is something I know in my subconscious? Something learned in a prior life? Years ago, a psychic told me I’d practiced this craft in more than one prior life. Is this why I’m now drawn to it in the Emlyn Goode stories?

Of course, it’s also possible I misunderstood that long-ago woman—she might have been psychotic instead of psychic—and I might have just slipped another cog. But, hey, why would I want the truth when my story’s more fun.

Day 80

A beautiful spring-like day outside. What a perfect day to have spent locked in my house, plugging away at the new Emlyn Goode novel. Once, I was asked when I knew I wanted to be a writer. I told her I known since my earliest memory. Of course, at that young age there were friends to play with, school work to do, and a life to grow into. Much older now, I’ve been writing seriously for a number of years and have been fortunate in having short stories and novels published. Today, I can’t think of anything I’d rather be doing. Where once I worried whether I’d get called for a date, on a day like this with the words flowing easily from my fingers to the computer screen, my worry was that someone would call and distract me.

So, now in retirement, I’m getting to live the one dream that’s remained with me through 70 years.

Day 79

Retirement Journal—Day 79
Woke this morning, but didn’t really. Strange dreams had me tossing through the night. By the time I finished my coffee what was dreamt had faded, leaving only a sense of unease. What I recalled was that while dropping into sleep, I was thinking about the direction the remainder of the new novel would take. Perhaps Emlyn would be kidnapped by the killer; perhaps she’d be tied up in a car trunk, and bounced while the car raced along pot-holed streets during a chase scene… I think what I dreamt must have been put in my head by Emlyn Goode—revenge for what I planned to do to her. That can happen to a writer who has created characters that can live on their own. All right, I admit I don’t have a firm grip on sanity.

What prevented a day of ennui, was what I saw when I, at last, forced myself to my computer. A sixth 5-Star review of The Day the Music Died. A Kindle reader wrote: “Once again I am spellbound. Cannot wait until I get to continue Emlyn’s story. Thank you for another intriguing read!!”

This was enough to get me writing. Take that, Emlyn!

Another thing happened this morning. Sisters in Crime, an organization to which I belong, notified me of a British competition for mystery novels that feature a cat in a starring or supporting role. Of course, I immediately entered Dead Again. This will, of course, cause me angst while I worry for months about what the judges will think of my story.

Damn! My father was right when he used to sigh and say to me, “There’s something very wrong with you, child.”

Day 78

Appointment with my cardiologist this morning left me with a broad grin. The nurse, who before the doctor came in, checked to see if I’m still alive, told me she’d enjoyed reading The Magic of Murder, and asked if there were more Emlyn Goode stories. I told her about Dead Again (the restaurant in which I killed someone in this book is of her favorites) and The Day the Music Died. She’s ordering both. When the doctor asked me “what’s new” I told him about The Day the Music Died. He wants to read it. Then, as I left the office, the secretary asked me about the Emlyn Goode books (apparently the nurse had mentioned them to her). I gave her the links. I mean, what writer wouldn’t feel great on a morning such as this?

The health of my heart? Yeah, that was okay, too.

So, home again still sporting that great grin, anxious to finish answering questions for a blog interview, and get back to work creating trouble for Emlyn (and, oh, did I do it). A first draft of the new novel is nearly finished, and again there are some places in which I laughed out loud while writing.

Day 77

I’ve spoken before of how I shudder when staring at a blank page. Start of a new story, start of a new chapter in a novel being written, it’s been the same thing. Yesterday I finished writing chapter 21 of the new Emlyn Goode novel. 56,000 words behind me. I inserted a blank page, typed “Chapter 22” on it, then, knowing if I stared at the emptiness that followed, I get heartburn, I said good night to my characters, shut down my computer, and read for an hour. This avoidance of my writer’s angst wasn’t cowardice… well, not entirely, at least. Here refer back to Retirement Lesson #3: No need to spend all day at an office working on someone else’s projects, there’s plenty of time tomorrow to face what I don’t choose to today.

Strange, though, when I opened the story this morning, instead of dreaded blank page angst there was a flow of words. Could it be giving my characters an evening off let them wake this morning refreshed and cooperative? I’ll need to ponder this… What? If I were sane I wouldn’t be a writer.

Day 76

Yay! Chapter 21 of Writing is Murder has been written. An old land grant hidden, and Emlyn Goode finally figured out where it is. Of course, this won’t tell anyone who’s been killing member of her writers group. But, in chapter 22 she’ll have a plan. Now (chuckle chuckle) what trouble can I get her into when she tries to pull it off?

Broke from writing this afternoon to stand outside and watch part of the sun disappear behind the moon. The website claimed we’d see 71% of the sun hidden at 2:31 or so. At 3:00 I went back inside. What a dud! If the eclipse happened in Niagara Falls it was hidden behind dark clouds. Oh well, maybe I’ll get to actually see it happen when it reoccurs in about 100 years.

Day 75

At my computer all day… well, except for an hour at the market to buy some food. Writing is Murder is comping along just fine. Nearly finished chapter 21. I hope by the end of week I’ll finish this draft, then set it aside for a few days to work on Abigail’s Window. In this story, Emily, haunted by her past, flees to the Burke House Inn in a small Canadian town. Even in this sanctuary, though, a ghost from the past accosts her. In showing Emily the joy of love found, then tragically lost at the Battle of Gettysburg, is it Abigail Bender’s intent to ease the burden of Emily’s loss, or to ease her into death?

Anyhow, that’s a first shot at a blurb for the story. I wrote it this morning because the words to the new novel refused to come. It was as if something blocked me. I didn’t realize until this afternoon the block was erected by Emlyn Goode and Roger Frey, who wanted the section to go in a direction I hadn’t planned. One thing I’ve learned in writing these stories: I haven’t the strength to fight my characters. Once I surrendered and did what they wanted, I heard them laugh, and the words flowed…

Uh… if while out walking someone sees a mind laying in the street, please pick it up and mail it to me—I seem to have lost mine.