Jane Tesh's Blog, page 4

A House and a Home

There’s always a house. 

It might be grandmother’s house, surrounded by flowers and oak trees, filled with the good smells of chicken pie and vanilla pound cake.  Or it might be your first home, that little fixer-upper in need of modern plumbing and a paint job.  It might be the house where you learned to play the piano, a mysteriously dark house crammed with stacks of old magazines, or the one house in the neighborhood that always looks haunted, its lawn overgrown with weeds, its windows broken, and a dead car in the front yard. Or the house on the corner, the beautiful neglected Victorian mansion you wish you could afford to buy and restore. But somewhere in your memory and in your dreams, there’s always a house.

In my Grace Street Mystery series, 302 Grace Street becomes the home that everyone has always wanted.  It’s a big, rambling three story house that always needs repair, and yet it retains the comfort of an old pair of bedroom slippers.  Everything fits from the open living room with its island of comfortable mismatched sofas and chairs to the big kitchen overlooking a back yard filled with ancient oak trees.

302 Grace means something different to each person living there. The house belongs to Camden, a young man struggling with his psychic abilities. To Cam, who was abandoned as a child, the house represents safety and security, and he is happy to take care of it.  

His friend David Randall, a private investigator, finds a haven at 302 Grace after his family falls apart. Randall feels responsible for the car crash that killed his little daughter, and he feels her presence in the house, a presence he finds difficult to accept.  But for now, the house is not only his home but a place where he can have an agency of his own.

Also in the house is Kary Ingram, a lovely young woman who found shelter after her rigidly religious parents disowned her for becoming pregnant.  Now unable to have children, Kary is reorganizing her life to be able to adopt, and Randall, who can’t bear the thought of being a father again, realizes in order to win Kary’s love, he has to work through his sorrow to give her the one thing that will make her life complete.

The porch, where all the events of the world are settled, has rocking chairs and of course a porch swing, Cam’s favorite place.  It’s here that the characters will tell stories, solve mysteries, and discover that they are a family.  And nothing says Southern family more than a front porch.

Throughout the series, 302 Grace Street is the constant that keeps everything and everyone together.  It is the home you’ve always wanted filled with people who love you and who will always take you in.  It is the home that solves the biggest mystery of all: who am I and where do I belong?

 

 

 

New Video

I haven’t posted anything to my blog for a while.  What have you been doing, you might ask.  I’ve been learning some new tech tricks, including how to create and manage my own videos.  Now, some of you may be quite adept at this kind of thing, but for me, it’s a brand new toy. Thanks to animoto.com, I’ve been able to create some vidoes for my books.  It’s been a lot of fun to choose the right background, music, and images.  This is what I came up with for the second Grace Street mystery, Mixed Signals.

Now You See It Trailer

 

When one of my friends heard I was getting a book trailer, he thought I was buying an actual trailer full of books to pull around behind my car.  No, I said, this is the latest thing, a little commercial of sorts for your book, a preview, like you’d see in the movies.  I thought it would be worth a try, and thanks to the great folks at Book Candy Studios, who put together the images and the music, I now have a mini-movie of the latest Grace Street Mystery, Now You See It.

 

Great Things

As a teacher, you never know what affect you have on your students.  I was an elementary school librarian for 30 years, and occasionally, a former student will tell me how much they enjoyed coming to the library and how they loved Max, my alligator puppet.  Even though he never said a single word, everyone remembers Max because he would do things when I wasn’t looking and often tried to give me kisses on the cheek, which the children found hilarious.  I’m always surprised, too, by which books people remember out of the thousands I read aloud. Former students have mentioned The Phantom Tollbooth, The Hobbit, Harry the Dirty Dog, Cracker Jackson, and The Thief of Always.  

But what I remember from my elementary school days are two things my fifth grade teacher, Mrs. O’Brien, said to me.  Mrs. O’Brien had one green eye and one brown eye, and one day I pointed this out to her.  The minute the words left my mouth, my fifth grade self retracted in embarrassment.  Of course she knew!  She looked in the mirror every now and then, didn’t she?  And no doubt her mother must have let her in on it.  But she didn’t roll those mismatched eyes, or give an exasperated sigh, or shake her head sadly at my stupidity.  She very kindly said, “Yes, Jane, I know.”  And somewhere inside me, even at eleven years old, I realized something that changed the way I treated people from then on: that if it’s possible, you never make the other person feel bad.

And the second thing?  I don’t recall the situation, but I can still see her standing at the classroom door.  Perhaps we were going out to the playground.  Perhaps we’d just come in from lunch.  That part doesn’t matter.  What matters is what she said to me.

 “Jane, one day we’re going to hear great things about you.” 

What a wonderful thing to tell a child—or anyone, for that matter. You’re going to do great things.  You have a future.  You’re going to make a difference.

            Just like Mrs. O’Brien.

 

An Excellent Retreat

An Excellent Retreat

In 1990, I had the good fortune to take part in the Writers Retreat Workshop created and run by Gary Provost and his wife, Gail. I’m still not sure what prompted me to sign up for the workshop. I saw an ad for it in Writer’s Digest. It was in Connecticut. I live in North Carolina. It lasted about a week and it was not cheap. But something compelled me to go. It was one of the best decisions of my life.

The retreat was held in a beautiful old house with a wide front porch and huge trees. At the bottom of the elegant staircase was a baby grand piano that I enjoyed playing after our dinners. Meals were delicious and snacks readily available all day. Each person had his or her own private work space, and we were encouraged to write as much as possible. Gary, billing himself as our “Manuscript Doctor,” or “M.D.,” dressed in a doctor’s coat and stethoscope, and came around to diagnose our problems. We also had group readings and constructive criticism. But I knew that first day as I listened to Gary’s first talk what my problem was. I had multiple points of view running all through my story. I’d hop from one character’s head to another, sometimes in the same paragraph. The minute I realized this problem, my work began to improve.

We met with agents and editors and discovered that they were real people. We watched “Tootsie” and “Diner” and discussed back story, needs and goals, the inciting incident, the black moment, and other important facets of good storytelling. I sat out under the huge trees, staring up at the leaves in the sunlight and feeling creative.

At the end of the workshop, we had a graduation ceremony complete with diplomas and gag gifts from Gary and Gail. It would be many more years before I got published, but Gary’s guidance and the positive experience I had at the workshop kept me going. Sadly, Gary passed away not long after. Gail Provost Stockwell continues to run the Writers Retreat Workshop and can be reached at P.O. Box 4236, Louisville, KY 40204, wrw04@netscape.net. Gary’s excellent books, Make Your Words Work, and 100 Ways To Improve Your Writing, are filled with expert advice for fiction and nonfiction writers.

The dedication in my first book reads: “To Gary Provost, teacher and friend.”

The Saga of Dennis

I walk every day in my neighborhood and always take a plastic bag or two to pick up recyclables. I also find things, and one of these was a little dog still wearing his harness with leash attached. I tried my best to catch him, but he was quick as a rabbit. On Petfinder on the Internet, I discovered the missing Yorkie was Dennis, and he’d escaped from his owner several streets over from mine. An excellent name, as this little menace managed to elude me, his owner, the neighbors, and Surry Animal Rescue workers for months. I even borrowed a cage from the rescue folks and baited it with pizza. The next morning, I could see something in the cage, but my moment of triumph was short lived when I saw I had captured an extremely annoyed possum.

More weeks passed. The weather became colder. Dennis remained wild and free. Occasionally, I would see him basking on a front porch, or sprawled in the church parking lot, completely unconcerned that everyone in the neighborhood was trying to catch him, that it was freezing cold, and that he still wore a leash that could possibly hang him up in a tree.

Then one day, a neighbor greeted me with, “We got him!” Her daughter was playing with her dog in the backyard, and when Dennis came over to play, she managed to grab the leash. Dennis was returned to his owner. Happy ending.

But there’s more to this story. At the time, a young relative of mine was struggling with alcohol addiction, so much so, she had to go to a special institution. No visitors. No phone calls. But she could get letters, so I wrote as often as I could, sending silly pictures and jokes, and of course, reports and updates about Dennis, Yorkie of the Yukon.

Later she told me that the Saga of Dennis meant a lot to her. If a little Yorkie could survive three of the coldest months on record in a harness and leash and not get hung up in a tree, or snagged on a rock, not get run over, or attacked by a larger animal, not starve, or freeze to death—if Dennis could overcome all those obstacles and find his way home, maybe she could overcome her problems, too.

As of this September, she is three years sober.

Thanks, Dennis.

The Series Appeal

I have always liked a strong woman character who comes to the rescue. I can trace this back to when I first saw “The Avengers.” Those of you of a certain age will remember the clever British spy adventure about “top professional” John Steed and his partner, “talented amateur,” Mrs. Emma Peel. Every week, Steed will announce, “Mrs. Peel, we’re needed,” and off they would go to tackle eccentric inventors, robots, and crazed villains of all kinds. Steed wore a proper Englishman’s suit and bowler hat and carried an umbrella that doubled as a weapon, and Mrs. Peel, played by the very attractive Diana Rigg, wore tight cat suits and could karate chop the hell out of anyone who messed with her. But that wasn’t all. In an amazing and exciting way—to me, anyway—she was always rescuing Steed. Up until then, there hadn’t been a TV show that featured a tough yet beautiful woman who could protect herself and her male partner. I thought it was the coolest thing ever.

Which brings me to the Foreigner series by C.K. Cherryh. Bren Cameron is the only human allowed on the atevi part of the world and the only one fluent enough in the atevi language to translate for the leader. In the ever-shifting political atevi society, high ranking officials have bodyguards, and Bren has two, a father daughter team, Banichi and Jago. Throughout all the adventures, take-overs, trips to space, alien contact, and the pranks and schemes of the leader’s mischievous young son, Jago is there to protect Bren in her extremely efficient fashion. They also have a clandestine love affair.

I liked this series so much, I couldn’t wait to read Cherryh’s other books, of which there are many, including one of her most famous, Downbelow Station. But I found to my surprise that I couldn’t get into them. Now, this is certainly not the fault of Cherryh, who is a fantastic writer with an unbelievable output. I think because I like the Foreigner series so much, I want to read more about those characters, and that’s that.

Through no planning on my part, I’ve ended up with two different series, the Madeline Maclin Mystery series, which is written from a female point of view, and the Grace Street Mysteries, which is written from a male point of view. Some readers will like one better than the other, and that’s okay. One set of characters will resonate with one person, but not another. You can’t please everyone. I’m happy when a reader likes anything I’ve written. If you do, thank you! If you don’t, may I recommend the Foreigner series by C.K. Cherryh?

Whose Story Is It?

When I began writing the books that would become the Grace Street mysteries, I tried many different points of view. I finally settled on Ellin Belton, Camden’s girlfriend, to get her opinion on everything that was happening at 302 Grace Street, because Ellin has very strong opinions, and I thought it would be good to see the other characters through her eyes.

However, I was chugging along—and chug is the word—when David Randall, a minor character, appeared in the doorway of the house. At that time, Randall was not the handsome dashing fellow he is today. He was paunchy and unshaven, wearing boxers and a tee shirt, a cigarette drooping from his mouth.

He said, “It’s my story. Let me tell it.”

I was surprised. I’d planned for him to be one of the tenants in Cam’s boarding house, a washed up salesman with no future. “Well,” I said. “Go ahead.”

The minute Randall started talking, I knew his was the voice the story needed. This was the point of view character. The story flowed in a way it never had with Ellin. No more chugging. He came with a tragic back story, a sarcastic sense of humor, and a passion for finding what others had lost.

“One more thing,” he said. “If this is my story, I’m going to be a hell of a lot better looking.”

I often find if a book isn’t working, it’s because the wrong person is trying to tell the story. Figuring out whose story it is can be a long process. There are several books still in the drawer, waiting for the right voice. Sometimes I let each character have a turn, hoping the work will take off and run. I live for those moments when a character decides his or her own fate.

The Grace Street mysteries continue to be Randall’s story as he strives to win Kary’s heart and work through the grief of losing his young daughter. He’s come a long way from the sleazebag I envisioned.

And Ellin has never forgiven him for taking over.

Rewriting — Literally

I just finished rewrites on Now You See It, the third Grace Street Mystery, which will be published this October. I love the rewriting process, mainly because I get to revisit Grace Street and find lots of new bits and pieces, new motivations, new clues, and somehow, it all comes together.

One particular experience with rewriting I can recall was in seventh grade English class. We were asked to write a descriptive paragraph. My teacher said, “Write your first draft in pencil and go over it in ink,” which I took literally. After writing my pencil draft, I very carefully traced over each word in ink, a daunting process, until my mother clued me in.

In this wonderful computer age, revisions are a snap. There’s cut and paste and copy and delete – zip! It’s done. In the olden days—yes, children, gather around the fire—we had mysterious substances called carbon paper and Correcto-Tape and Wite Out. I would always get to the bottom of a page before making a mistake. Out came the white goo with its tiny brush, the meticulous painting, and then the wait while the stuff dried. Then typing over the dried spot, hoping to be in the right place. Wow. Did I really go through all that?

Now, the freedom of the first draft! Just write! It doesn’t have to be perfect. It doesn’t matter if I can’t think of a word and put in xxx, or skip to another scene. All can be magically fixed with a few clicks of the keyboard or a swipe of the mouse, a long way from my patient tracing of penciled words.

I did get an A on my paragraph, though.

How I Write

I try to write something every day, even if it’s just a grocery list. When I was working as a media specialist, I found time during the school day to jot down some thoughts and ideas, but my very best writing times were during the interminable teachers’ meetings in the afternoons. Those of you who aren’t teachers can’t fully appreciate the incredible dullness of these meetings. You’ve put in a full day with the children, and in my case, shelved about a thousand books and picked up a thousand more. You’re tired and hungry and know you have about an hour before a lot of stores close. Information that could’ve easily been put in a memo, or in later years, in an email, was read to us. Often graphs and charts were put up on a screen and each item gone over in detail. During test season, the test rules were read to us. Sometimes there would be a speaker, and I did feel sorry for the luckless person trying to engage a group of worn out and jaded school personnel.

But I could get in at least a chapter, maybe two. I sat near the back, writing in my notebook, and occasionally looking up to show I was paying attention and taking notes, yes, sir! Meanwhile, my characters chatted away and had adventures while the meeting droned on. I was never in danger of missing anything important. In my thirty years in education, nothing in these meetings ever pertained to the media center. Ever.

Now I am retired! I recommend it highly to anyone who can manage it. I work in the mornings from eight until about noon, take a lunch break, and work from one until about three. If the work is going really well, I’ll write more after supper, but usually I’m done. I used to always write in long hand in spiral notebooks, but now I enjoy composing on the computer because it’s so easy to make corrections. I make very sketchy outlines, breaking up the chapters by Day One, Day Two, and so forth, but I rarely know what’s going to happen. I might have an idea of where I want the story to go, but my characters have minds of their own, and they always dictate the action.

I live in an apartment and rent the unit under me for an office. I hadn’t planned on renting a second apartment, but after suffering through some rowdy tenants who had all the manners of a pack of howler monkeys and could not shut a door without slamming it, I thought, if they ever leave, I’m renting that place. They finally hooted off to another part of the jungle, and peace reigned once more. There’s no phone, and I disconnected the doorbell, so when I’m at work, there are no distractions. My neighbors know not to knock on the door unless there’s an emergency.

I really love my office apartment, so thank you, howlers! You played a small and noisy part in the success of my writing career.