Kathy Lynn Emerson's Blog, page 88

Dream it, then Do it

Kate Flora: I begin with a confession. I stole this title from my mother. It comes from a newspaper column she wrote years ago, when she used to do a weekly column called, “From the Orange Mailbox.” It was about identifying one’s dreams and then acting on them. It made such an impact on my childhood best friend, Karin, that she read it at mom’s memorial service. I come back to it from time to time when I find myself cowering under my desk or spinning in small, slow, unproductive circles. And because my mother was very brave and I admire bravery, I remind myself of her advice as I try to shove myself forward.

So I stole the title. And why not? It’s a good title. As we all know, there is no copyright in titles, imitation truly is often the sincerest form of flattery, and there is more right than wrong in heeding the advice of one’s mother. So here I am, as we come into the season of craziness and challenged schedules, when we’re all getting too busy to THINK about anything, writing about the process of thinking and planning for the year ahead, and about to encourage you to join me in considering what might change the shape of your upcoming year.

Perhaps you’re saying, “Okay, but what do those tightrope walker’s feet have to do with this?” But you already know, don’t you. For most of us, taking chances on doing new things out of our normal comfort zone can be as scary as we imagine walking on a tightrope would be even if we were only a few feet off the ground. This is especially true about the things we dream. There’s a big risk involved in taking the steps to move from a dream, with all of its inherent possibilities, to the reality. Our steps may be clumsy. Our execution inept. Often we don’t even know how to start. But most of us learned to walk, and to read, and to drive a car.

Because I teach and have done a lot of consulting for writers, I’ve watched a lot of people taking those first tentative steps toward being a writer. If you’ve always dreamed of being a writer, it can be truly scary to actually clear the desk and sit down to start writing. What if you can’t do it? What if you discover that writing is actually hard? Second confession: It is. What if the flowing sentences and stories you always imagined aren’t flowing? Third confession: We sometimes write for months to reach that amazing phase where things flow, but when they flow it is one of the world’s greatest highs. And it never would have happened if we hadn’t been in the chair, writing, when it hit. What if you discover that your first drafts read like “See Dick and Jane run?”

Well, the truth is that realizing dreams isn’t easy. But looking ahead, ask yourself which is better, to exit this life having lived fully and taken some chances or to have held your dreams tightly in your fist and never risked finding out if they could be realized?

When I was a kid, I was such an avid reader that I used to take twelve books out of the library every week. I’d read six on the weekend and the other six during the week. The library was my temple. Writers were amazing people. I was completely entranced by their ability to take me into another, imagined world and hold me there through the power of their storytelling. I haven’t changed much. I still find writers amazing and I’m still entranced when I pick up a book that keeps me from seeing “the bones” or analyzing what the writer is doing, when I don’t want to stop reading. After twenty-five years at the desk and with fourteen books and numerous short stories on the shelf, I’m still excited about writers and writing.

Back in those library days, I dreamed of being a writer.

Taking the chance of realizing that dream may not be easy. I was in the unpublished writer’s corner for eight years before I sold a book, and sustaining my faith and effort took most of my courage for a very long time. But lately I’ve been thinking that it’s time to start expanding the dream. I’ve been asking myself what else is important, what else do I want to try out? Do I want to write different things? Have different adventures? Learn new things to broaden my perspective and help me see the world differently? I’m finally old enough not to be embarrassed about trying to do things that I may not be good at. I sing like a crow, but sometime soon I’m going to hunt down someone who has compassion for crows and take singing lessons. You probably won’t find me sprawled sexily across a piano like Michelle Pfeiffer, as we age we have to be cautious about breaking our osteopenic bones, but I may yet croak with joy.

I dream of writing a competent screenplay, despite the daunting nature of Final Draft. Of writing the books I’m scared to write. I dream of learning to take an interesting photograph where the people in it aren’t red-eyed, or blurred, or carefully centered by the type of photographer who once worried about coloring inside the lines. I’m trying to learn to color outside the lines. To tap dance. To stop putting myself into a box.

So far, I’ve only managed to kick a few holes in the sides of the box, but light is getting in.

What have you always dreamed of? What are you afraid to do? What’s holding you back? What might change that?

As soon as we’ve decorated, cooked, decorated, cooked, undecorated, cleaned up, and rested, let’s start thinking about some new adventures. Dream it? Sure. But then why not do it?

What Are You Doing About It?

Vaughn Hardacker here: Recently I responded to a facebook post from someone whose mother and father were old friends of my parents. I posted a comment in regards to the government allowing 10,000 Syrian refugees into the U. S.: “Before we allow any refugees from Syria, we should take care of our homeless veterans (I’m paraphrasing here)” She in turn posted a reply that could have been taken as someone shaking a finger in your face: What are YOU doing to help the homeless?

My reply: I am a member of a group that is currently working to establish a veteran’s homeless shelter in Aroostook County. We have already met with representatives from the offices of Senator Collins (we have also teleconferenced with the senator), Senator King, and Congressman Poloquin and members of their offices are involved in the effort. We looked into a location at the former Loring Air Force Base and after a period of time cut off all communication with them because each time we met they came up with a different excuse why they couldn’t commit to leasing us a location. The truth of the matter is that a private company entered into the discussion and threw more money at the Loring Development Committee (a situation of which we made the above mentioned officials aware). Our argument is that we wanted a long-term facility, whereas the private corporation may pull out at any time that they feel it is not profitable.  The thing that irritates me the most is that when Loring closed, the base was given to the State of Maine. The state then gave it to the LDA and the LDA is choosing money over the welfare of our veterans. We have not given up though and are looking at sites in Caribou and Van Buren.

I am the Senior Vice-Commandant of Meo Bosse Detachment 1414 of the Marine Corps League and, in conjunction with Cary Medical Center in Caribou, I have established the Aroostook Veteran’s Advocacy Committee, of which I was elected chairperson. I mailed a letter to every veteran’s organization in Aroostook County inviting them to select a representative to the committee. At-Large members of the committee are from the Veteran’s Administration, the offices of our federal and local elected officials. We held our first meeting on October 3, 2015 and of the thirty-three organizations invited, fifteen sent representatives. Our goal is to present the Veteran’s of Aroostook County as a single entity when pushing for veteran-related legislation. The AVAC will be speaking for over 1,000 Aroostook County Veterans and elected officials from such a sparsely populated part of the state will pay attention to the prospect of gaining or losing such a large block of voters.

Other than that I haven’t been doing much.

By the way, she replied back saying she was proud of me and forwarded the post to several people she knew were dealing with the same issues. Think about the impact that turning a bunch of government owned empty buildings into housing for the homeless across the country could have!

So as the holidays close in on us, give thanks for what you have and don’t forget those who are not as fortunate.

 

Holm for the Holidays

The holiday season is upon us, which means this is my last post of the calendar year. It’s been a pleasure blogging alongside the fine folks of Maine Crime Writers – and I’d like to thank our regular readers for sitting shotgun on THE KILLING KIND’s path to publication. It’s been a wild ride, and one that shows no sign of slowing down; I’m delighted to report that last week the Boston Globe declared it one of the Best Books of 2015! (Come to think of it, THE KILLING KIND would make a fine gift for the thriller fan in your life. Just sayin’.)

I thought I’d leave you with a Christmas story I wrote a few years ago. It’s a fun little elf noir that serves as a sequel of sorts to the Rankin/Bass production of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. I hope you enjoy it, and that whatever you and yours celebrate this holiday season, your days are merry and bright. See you all in 2016!

The Final Bough

Hastily Penned by Chris Holm in a Crass Attempt to Exploit the Spirit of the Holidays

I woke to the sound of slay bells.

Not that I recognized them as such at first. It’d been some time since I last heard them. During the Cabbage Patch Riots of ’83, that was. Management worked my fellow elves to the bone that year, trying to keep up with demand, and when the union finally struck, they sent a cadre of their Rock ’Em Sock ’Em ruffians to bust up the picket line. Me and the rest of the North Pole PD did our best to keep the violence from bubbling over, but our best wasn’t good enough. Ever since that day, I’ve walked with the help of a candy cane – and believe me, I was one of the lucky ones. Lots of pointy-toed shoes aimed skyward once the snow settled that day, and the bells chimed clear through to midnight, honoring the fallen.

Don’t let the red suit fool you – El Hefe’s no friend to the working elf.

Anyways, when I woke, I just assumed the godawful ringing was in my head – I’d hit the nog pretty hard the night before. Which explains how I wound up coming to in someone else’s bed.

She was a short drink of water, with a pair of getaway sticks that went most of the way to the floor. She sat beside me in the bed, wearing a saucy flannel nightgown and matching sleeping cap, her pointy ears jutting fetchingly out to either side. Not bad, I thought to myself. Now if only I could remember her name.

“I thought you said you were a cop,” she said, plucking a lollipop from a silver case and placing it between her luscious lips. “Some kind of big-wig detective, to hear you tell it.”

“I did?” I asked, rubbing sleep out of my eyes and trying in vain to remember anything of the night before. “I mean, I am!”

“Then shouldn’t you be going? Sounds like you’ve got a case.”

Damn. The dame was right. The slay bells meant one of our kind had been killed.

“Yeah,” I said, grabbing my pants, and my pointy blue police cap, its copper bell jingling. “Uh, listen – I had a great time last night…”

“Sure you did,” she said, flashing me a dazzling set of teeth – a rarity among elves. Our diet’s nothing but candy and Christmas cookies all year ’round – and it ain’t like working for Big Red comes with dental. My own teeth were pitted and scarred and too long past their last brushing, and felt fuzzy from sleep and candy both. “Of course, you passed out before anything happened. Drunk as you were, I’d be surprised if you even remember my name.”

Shit. She had me. Best to bluff. “Of course I do, sugarplum,” I said, pulling on my shoes and making for the door, beside which rested my trusty cane, “but if I told you what it was now, you’d just feel bad for trying to guilt me. Now if you’ll excuse me…”

I pushed open the door of her modest hut, and stepped out into the bitter cold. My bum hip and nogged brain throbbed in time. As the door swung closed behind me, she called to me, “It’s Holly.”

***

Christmas lights flashed blue and red across the crime scene; looked like my boys had beaten me here. They’d roped off the scene with crime garland, and it was a good thing; it had already attracted its share of looky loos – elves and toys both. Made sense: it was Christmas morning, so folks didn’t exactly have much else to do. Least the reindeer weren’t awake yet; all those hoof-prints can be murder on a crime scene.

I lifted up the garland and stepped under, snow crunching underfoot. “Whadda we got, Mel?”

“A damn mess,” Mel replied, his face grave. “Looks like an Abominable attack. Nothing even left to bury.”

He wasn’t kidding. The snow was a churned up mess of Abominable tracks, broken tree limbs, tufts of fur – all bright red with spattered blood. Soon as I saw it, I knew I’d never look at a Cherry Snow Cone the same again.

“Any witnesses?” I asked.

Mel nodded toward a cute little number perched atop a Yule log at the edge of the scene. “The victim’s little lady. Claims she saw the whole thing. Want me to take her statement?”

“Nah – I’ll talk to her.”

I hobbled over to where she sat. She looked up as I approached, tears brimming in her bright blue eyes.

“Hiya, dollface,” I said. It wasn’t a term of endearment – she was a doll. Eleven inches tall, with big doe eyes, a fake-looking rack, and synthetic hair of platinum blonde. “You got a name?”

“Mitzie,” she replied.

“No kidding?” I said, eyeing the sleek, expensive lines of her designer skiwear, which clung tight to her preposterous curves. “You look more like a Barbie to me.”

She looked down, her face reddening. “I’m off-brand,” she said.

Ah. Explained the tacky makeup.

“You wanna tell me what you saw?”

Her head bobbed. “It was horrible. My poor Hermey and I were out for a walk, when the Abominable just came out of nowhere! He scooped up Hermey, and ate him in one bite. Would have eaten me too, I think, if I weren’t indigestible.”

I made appropriate noises of sympathy, asked some follow-ups, took some notes. It was odd – her affection for the deceased seemed genuine enough, but something about her story just didn’t ring true. Of course, that coulda been because the dame was made of molded plastic.

In the end, I thanked her for her time, and had one of my officers take her home.

***

Once I left the scene, I headed over to Santa’s shop to let Hermey’s supervisor know he’d punched out for the last time. It was SOP in all cases involving elf injury or death. The big day had come and gone, so the factory floor was quiet – left mostly to the janitorial staff, though a few mechanics fussed over one of the robotic assembly arms at the far end of the room. Time was, my people were known for their woodworking skills, their exquisite craftsmanship, but those days are long gone. What kid still wants a hand-tooled rocking horse in the age of X-Box 360s? So we adapted. Went high tech. Cranked out console after console all year long, and the games to match. You wouldn’t believe how much Gates and company gouge us on the licensing fees.

Hermey’s supervisor was a barrel-chested elf with bushy eyebrows that looked as though they were always set to angry, and a severe, triangular goatee to match. A fat cinnamon stick dangled unlit from his mouth, though his snow-white teeth didn’t show any sign of stains. I was glad it wasn’t lit. Smoking’s such a filthy habit. Though I will admit that on occasion, I enjoy a pinch of nutmeg between cheek and gum.

“What can you tell me about the victim?” I asked him, after filling him in on Hermey’s sorry state.

“I can tell you he wasn’t much of a toymaker,” he said. “No aptitude for it – and no desire to learn. Why, just two months back, I moved him to Decorations and Accessories because he couldn’t assemble a motherboard worth a damn, though truth be told, he was no better at making wreaths.”

“You know anybody who might’ve wanted to hurt him?”

The elf’s eyes narrowed in suspicion – though I thought I might’ve caught a hint of panic in that look as well. “I thought you said his death was an accident,” he said.

“I said it appeared to be. But I’m required to look into every angle.”

“Ah,” he said, his face brightening in false cheer. “No angles here! Truth is, I didn’t know the boy too well. You’d be better off talking to his friends.”

Something about this case just didn’t sit right, like fruitcake in July. But it was clear I wasn’t going to find any answers here. “You got any names?” I asked him.

“Well,” he said, “he was always blabbing on about some reindeer by the name of Rudolph.”

***

“Look,” Rudolph said, “I told you, me and Hermey were tight and all, but I don’t know nothing about what happened to him. The way I heard it, it was an Abominable attack, pure and simple. So why you gotta come around and bother me so early? Been kind of a long night, you know?”

The reindeer was three sheets to the wind, the breath pushing past his pearly whites damn near flammable with peppermint schnapps fumes, and his nose so red from drink it glowed. Odd seeing teeth so nice on anyone who made their home at the North Pole, let alone three someones in one day. But if there was any rhyme or reason to the impeccable choppers I’d seen today, it was eluding me. Just like whatever it was that was hinky about this case.

“Look, I understand this isn’t the best time, but I’m concerned there may be more to this case than there seems. If there’s anything you can tell me about Hermey that might help my investigation, I’d appreciate it.”

“What’s there to say?” he said, either drunkenly belligerent or defensive, I didn’t know which. “Hermey was a good friend, and now he’s gone. Maybe you should be talking to his wife.”

“I already spoke to Mitzie,” I said.

Rudolph laughed. “Mitzie? Mitzie ain’t his wife. Hermey took up with Mitzie a few weeks back, lavishing her with Corvettes, condos, and clothes from the toy shop – and not those knock-off ones either, but the real Barbie deal. I told him he was nuts – he had a fine looking lady-elf at home, after all, and cute as Mitzie was, she wasn’t nothing but smooth plastic under them fancy clothes. But Hermey wouldn’t hear none of it. Guess he was smitten. Word is, his missus took it pretty hard.”

“Hard enough to want to hurt him?”

Rudolph shrugged, inasmuch as any reindeer can. “Why don’t you go ask her yourself?”

“I think I will,” I said. “His little lady got a name?”

“Sure,” slurred the reindeer. “Her name is Holly.”

***

Holly didn’t look too happy to see me again. Can’t say I was surprised. She also didn’t look too broken up when I told her Hermey was dead, and that did surprise me some. In fact, in any other case, it would’ve been cause for suspicion – but then, I knew she didn’t off the guy, since according to Mitzie’s report, Holly and I’d been tossing back some nogs at the time of the attack. But maybe she, I don’t know, bribed the Abominable or something. Stranger things have happened, I thought – though truth be told, that wasn’t true. Abominable snowmen may be a lot of things, but they ain’t the bribe-taking type.

“Listen, Holly,” I said, “I have to ask: did you have anything to do with your husband’s disappearance?”

“Of course not!” she said, and managed to look suitably horrified at the question. “What kind of awful person do you take me for?”

“The kind who picks up strangers in nog-joints on Christmas Eve and neglects to mention you’re a kept elf, for one.”

But Holly just laughed. “You’ve got me all wrong, detective. And you’ve got Hermey all wrong, too. Our relationship’s not like that. See, Hermey isn’t into me – not like that. His interests lie… elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere?” I asked. “You mean…”

“Dentistry,” she said. “It’s been his dream since childhood to be a dentist. When we first met, he said I had the worst teeth he’d ever seen. You should have heard him – he sounded like a love-struck fool. Back then, there wasn’t an elf would give me the time of day on account of the bad breath my periodontal disease gave me, so me and Hermey, we decided to make it official. He figured it would give him the opportunity to practice in peace, and in return, I got all my dental work for free. And now look at me,” she said, flashing me another of her dazzling smiles.

The glimmer of an idea formed somewhere in my mind, like tinsel on a distant tree. But whole pieces of the puzzle didn’t fit, which meant someone I’d talked to today was lying to me. It was time to shake the box, see what was rattling around inside. “Rudolph tells a different tale,” I said. “He claims you’re the jealous type. That maybe you had an axe to grind.”

“The only one of us with an axe to grind is Rudolph – and it’s with me, not Hermey. He’s been sore ever since last New Year’s, when he made a pass at me and I turned him down. Those fly-boys think they’re Santa’s gift to women, but if you ask me, there’s more to romance than some swagger and a giant pair of antlers. I’m sure he thought it was pretty funny, sending you here to harass me – and anyways, he was probably just deflecting, so you’d stop asking him where Hermey is.”

At that last, pieces began to click into place. Not enough to tell the tale, but an outline was taking shape, like I’d found the corners of the puzzle.

“You talk about him like he’s still around, I said. “Hermey isn’t into you. That his interests lie elsewhere. I’d stop asking where Hermey is. What do you know that I don’t?”

Holly blinked at me a moment, panic written across her face. “Nothing!” she said. “Honest, I don’t.”

I don’t know why, but I believed her. She had that kind of face. Trusting. Sweet. The kind of face an elf could get used to coming home to. “But you suspect something.”

“Yes. No. I don’t know. It’s just…”

“What is it?” I prompted. “You can tell me.”

“That chippie of his,” she said. “The one with the nice skin and the fake boobs. She’s not his type. Her teeth are plastic and flawless, and the rest of her, he wouldn’t care about. So if I were you, I’d be wondering why, exactly, he took up with her.”

***

I had to give it to Holly. Without her, I never woulda cracked the case.

Summer in Nyack was warmer than I expected. Even in August, the North Pole barely gets above freezing, and whenever it does, it’s nothing but shorts, swimming, and AC for me. I ain’t cut out for any climate where the mercury climbs more than halfway up the thermometer. Even the relative cool of this waiting room was making me sweat.

It’d been some months since I put it all together – since I’d answered every question but one. But that one question kept on bugging me, so I bit the flame-orange Nerf foam bullet, filled out an off-season sleigh requisition, and made my way here. To find Hermey. To get my answer.

The bored, matronly human behind the front desk called, “Next.” I was the only patient in the waiting room, so I hopped down off my chair, and hobbled caneless toward the door she indicated. I felt ridiculous in my street clothes. My T-shirt and Bermuda shorts had been made for a child, the latter with a spot inside the waistband to write my name and address, and the former emblazoned with some kind of anthropomorphic sea sponge. My shoes and hat were literally pointless, instead rounded at toes and tip, respectively. But if the lady who called me in noticed anything out of place about my height or garish outfit, she didn’t show it. Which was all the confirmation I needed I was in the right place.

The place in question was the dental practice of one Dr. Herman Tannenbaum, opened six months back. I was willing to bet Dr. Tannenbaum bore more than a passing resemblance to a certain deceased elf. And, after twenty minutes in the dentist’s chair, during which a harried dental technician made all manner of disapproving noises while she flossed and brushed my teeth, my bet paid out – in the form of a tiny, pointy-eared elf in a lab coat walking obliviously in for my consult.

“Hiya, Hermey,” I said.

Hermey pursed his lips. “Claire,” he said to the technician, “why don’t you take your lunch? I’ll take care of Mr…” he glanced at my chart and smiled, thin and humorless, “…Pine.”

Claire left without a word. Hermey closed the door behind her.

“So,” Hermey said, “how’d you find me?”

“It wasn’t easy,” I admitted. “The scene you set, you had us pretty well fooled. The cherry Snow-Cone-syrup blood was delicious, by the way.”

Hermey shook his head. “You know, you really should consider cutting back on the sweets. Your enamel is a wreck.”

“Thanks, doc – I’ll take that under advisement. Funny you say that, though, ’cause the truth is, it was teeth that set me thinking something wasn’t right. Your wife’s, on which you’d honed your craft. Rudolph’s, so he would look the other way come Christmas Eve. Your boss’s, as payment for the toys he stole so you could lavish little Mitzie with the gifts she demanded in return for her cooperation, since her teeth were fine as is. She was the key to the whole plan, wasn’t she? I mean, I checked the dimensions of her box, and it turns out it’s just big enough for an elf to fit in. Tell me, was little Abby Mitchell heartbroken when she got you under her Christmas tree instead of the doll she’d asked for?”

“You’re welcome to ask her if you like,” Hermey said. “She’s in the room just down the hall. Her overbite is coming along quite nicely, by the way, and all the work I’ve done on her was free of charge. She didn’t ask for Mitzie anyway, you know – what she really wanted was a Barbie doll. It was her parents who requested the off-brand, because they couldn’t afford name-brand accessories in this economy. If Mitzie’d been left under that tree, both she and Abby would have been sorely disappointed. And anyways, I couldn’t stand the thought of making one more wreath. Being forced to build toys when your calling lies in fixing teeth is bad enough, but being told I wasn’t even good enough for that? It was more than I could bear.”

“So you tied your final bough and then made your escape. Clever. There’s just one thing I’ve got to know. How’d you fake the Abominable attack?”

Hermey laughed. “I didn’t! I just asked nice, and he agreed to help. He prefers to go by Bumble, by the way.”

“Come again?”

“Bumble and I go back quite a ways – nearly as long as me and Rudolph, as it happens. And believe me, he’s anything but abominable. Sure, he was grouchy enough when we first met – but you would be too, if every tooth in your head were impacted. I pulled them for him, and ever since, he’s owed me one. I figured it was high time I cashed in. So, are you going to take me back?”

I thought about it long and hard, but in the end, I let him stay. Chalk it up to the Christmas spirit, I suppose. After all, where I’m from, Christmas is a way of life. Guess the Big Man ain’t all bad if he taught me that.

Besides, old Hermey is a magician with a dentist’s drill. I may’ve returned empty-handed, but my chompers have never looked better. You don’t have to take my word for that, either – you could ask my little lady. She and I’ve been going strong for going on four months – ever since I got back from Nyack.

Speaking of, I gotta split. Christmas is coming, and me and Holly got some halls to deck.

Six Lessons – Part Two (with more to come . . .)

By Brenda Buchanan

Last month I shared three important lessons I learned while writing my first three books. Barbara  Ross summed them up nicely in her comment: Make time. Make space. Seek balance.

My intention with this month’s post was to offer three more and complete the sextet, but once I got writing I realized I had more to say than I thought. (This is not an entirely new experience).

Today I’m going to focus on how I learned to embrace the process of revision. Next month, I will get into Lesson #5—getting over the things that turn you into a fraidy-cat—and perhaps even Lesson #6, which is about being true to yourself. But for now, let’s talk about revision, shall we?

Lesson #4:  Revision is More Fun than You Think

In my pre-published years, I felt about revision like I feel about dusting—that it was a necessary chore, the kind of task that invites procrastination. Sweeping the garage, cleaning out the fridge and washing the kitchen floor are reasonably rewarding exercises. Dusting makes the furniture look better only until the next sunny day, when the beams coming through your windows show more gray fuzz on the end tables. When dusting, I grit my teeth and force myself to be thorough, when my natural inclination is to give it a lick and a promise.

The difference between dusting and revision is that I now embrace the opportunity to make my words shine. My blog sisters Kate Flora and Barb Ross—the Queens of Revision—have inspired this attitude adjustment. On this blog and in workshop settings, both Kate and Barb have shared systems they have devised to tighten their prose, smooth awkward transitions and amp up tension. I don’t do exactly what they do, because their weaknesses (to the extent they have weaknesses) are not necessarily my own.  But like them, I have created for myself system to help me strengthen my stories.

I have created a worksheet that I complete with a sharp pencil, because writing by hand puts me in an analytical head space. This is critical during revision. I was frustrated when I attempted to revise solely on the keyboard, because that process didn’t allow me to break out of my intuitive writing mindset. But writing and revision are two different things. It was a big day when that important truth dawned on me.

Here’s a photo of my worksheet, which allows me to take my work apart one scene at a time. The worksheet page is geared to chapters, but my analysis is always scene by scene.

 

Brenda’s Revision Worksheet – fill out with #2 pencil for best results

In case the questions aren’t readable, at the top I note the day of the week and date when the action occurs, to keep my timeline in order. If I’m writing in more than one voice (as in Quick Pivot and again in the soon-to-be-released Truth Beat) I jot that down that as well. This allows me to sort the chapters by voice and review and revise what is going on from each character’s perspective separately. Then I ask five key questions:

Does the opening grab the reader?
What happens/what are the key plot developments?
What new characters are introduced? Am I giving the reader enough information about them in this chapter/scene? Too much?
What creates the tension?
Is the kicker (end of chapter or scene) strong enough?

Questions 1 and 5 are a standard part of the curriculum of the arrive late/leave early school of suspense writing.  My best chapters/scenes open in the middle of action and end with a strong hook. In the beginning I had a new writer’s tendency to set the scene, but I’m learning to break that habit. It is fine for me to think about what Joe Gale would do while he got ready for a big day. But my readers don’t need to see him getting dressed or driving to an interview. Better to jump into the action, whether it’s a skull tumbling out of a collapsing wall or a tense interview with someone who knew a murder victim. Similarly, the last passage of a chapter or scene has to pull the reader into the next chapter or scene. A flat ending encourages the reader to set the book down. My goal is to keep ‘em reading.

Question 2 and 4 also are close cousins. Making myself write out what happens allows me to chart the action. Is there enough going on? Too much at once?  Then I analyze the chapter in terms of tension, again breaking it into scenes. Every single scene needs to have some tension. Sometimes it’s at a screaming pitch and sometimes it’s on simmer, to allow the reader some respite. But tension must be constant. Using a worksheet to chart the tension level has been an enormous help for me.

As for Question 3, I list the characters introduced in each scene to sharpen my awareness of pacing. Am I throwing new characters into the mix rat-a-tat-tat, so fast the reader can’t connect with them? Or am I being too measured, which can rob energy from the narrative?

The questions on this worksheet reflect the areas where I tend to get into trouble if I don’t watch myself. Your tendencies may differ, and thus the questions on your worksheet. But I do recommend creating a tool to help with the process of reflecting with clear eyes on the quality of your work.  It has turned me into a revision believer.

But I still disdain dusting, so don’t hold your breath waiting for a post from me on the merits of  microfiber vs. feather dusters.

As the holiday season settles upon us, I’m feeling deep gratitude for the many wonderful things that happened in my life in the past year.  I thank all of my MCW colleagues for their support and friendship, and wish for them and all of the readers of this blog a peaceful season filled with love and joy.

 

 

 

 

Weekend Update: December 5-6, 2015

Next week at Maine Crime Writers there will be posts by Brenda Buchanan (Monday), Chris Holm (Tuesday), Vaughn Hardacker (Wednesday), Kate Flora (Thursday), and Kaitlyn Dunnett/Kathy Lynn Emerson (Friday).

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

from Kaitlyn Dunnett: I was all set to tell you that both Kilt Dead and Scone Cold Dead, the second in the Liss MacCrimmon series, were on sale in December, Kilt Dead everywhere, and Scone Cold Dead only at Amazon. I even had a link to the Scone Cold Dead Kindle page. Then I checked again a couple of days later and, lo and behold, Scone Cold Dead was no longer priced at $1.89 but was back up to its usual $4.61. BUT Scotched, #5 in the series, had dropped to $2.20. What??? It’s Christmas season. Let’s confuse the shoppers! So, dear readers, the best I can do is tell you that Kilt Dead, together with the other Kensington titles by Maine Crime Writers and our sisters at Wicked Cozy Authors (see below) is on sale at all ebook outlets all month long. Any other sales are Kindle specials of some sort and don’t appear to last more than a day or two. On the bright side, if you go to look for Scotched and it has gone back up in price, there may be another of the titles in the series on sale. You can find out by going to my author page at Kindle. Here’s the link: Kindle Author Page

 

Lea Wait: Saturday, December 5, from 9 until 2,  I’ll be selling and signing my books at the Holiday Fair at the Unitarian Universalist Church of Brunswick, Maine, on 1 Middle Street. Come to meet crafters .. buy holidays greens or books .. and enjoy home-baked goodies at the cafe. Shop local!

 

 

An invitation to readers of this blog: Do you have news relating to Maine, Crime, or Writing? We’d love to hear from you. Just comment below to share.

And a reminder: If your library, school, or organization is looking for a speaker, we are often available to talk about the writing process, research, where we get our ideas, and other mysteries of the business. Contact Kate Flora: mailto: kateflora@gmail.com

 

Spotlight a reminder that mysteries, journalism are entwined

Hi, Maureen here. Just back from seeing the movie Spotlight.

I grew up reading newspapers. I’m the daughter and granddaughter of newspapers editors. We always had them in the the house, for many years getting two or three a day delivered.

I can remember having the Sunday comics read to me and thinking I couldn’t wait until I knew how to read so I could read them myself.

I’ve been drawn since I learned how to read to stories of carnage and tragedy, people’s lives upended and sudden unthinkable events. But I’m equally drawn to stories about liars and cheaters and abuse of power being uncovered. Any story where human beings behave in inexplicable ways — though I want that behavior explained.

The Life magazine story about the My Lai massacre, printed in December 1969.

Whenever I hear mention of the Kent State shootings, I have a vivid memory of being home from school that day and reading the story in the Dayton (Ohio) Daily News. I still remember the layout of the page. I was nine at the time. The other night I was watching an American Experience episode about the My Lai massacre and had a memory just as vivid as the Kent State one of reading about it in Life magazine. Minutes later, that very story popped up on the screen in the documentary. I later found a picture of the page online and realized I was eight when that story was published. But I remember looking at the pictures endlessly, and reading the story, horrified and fascinated by it.

I was also an avid mystery reader from the moment I realized mystery books existed. Starting with Encyclopedia Brown and Mary C. Jane and discovering Dorothy L. Sayers at the age of fourteen. I honed my taste for mysteries even tighter than my taste for newspapers stories. I wanted character interaction. I didn’t want horror and violence for the sake of horror and violence, I wanted people to behave in complex, tragic and haunted ways and that behavior to have an impact on those around them. And I wanted others to behave in brave and righteous ways, even if they were misunderstood. Sometimes especially if they were were.

Driving home after seeing Spotlight, I realized that there isn’t a lot of difference between good journalism and a good mystery. It’s no surprise I’m so drawn to both.

Spotlight — it’s great by the way — is a lot like my until today favorite newspaper movie All The President’s Men. It starts out with the reporters discovering information that many dismiss. No one recognizes the tip of the iceberg. But a dogged few feel in their gut there’s more there. And by the end, despite the forces against them, the good guys win and corrupt institutions topple. Sorry for the spoiler, those of you who haven’t seen Spotlight. On the other hand, if you don’t know how it ends, you haven’t been paying much attention over the last twelve or so years anyway.

I always knew that when I finally started writing mystery novels for real they would have a journalism angle. Every writer knows that if the protagonist is an amateur sleuth, there has to be a compelling reason she gets involved in a murder investigation. Journalism is a great vehicle for that. What better excuse to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong?

But it was more than that for me. I not only wanted to write a mystery, I wanted to write about journalism. There are a lot of crime writers working right now who get it right — Gerry Boyle and Brenda Buchanan who both post on this blog are two of them — but I’ve read a lot of books over the decades that got it wrong.

The even bigger issue is the same one that drives me to be a career journalist. There’s a truth that needs to be told and I want to be the one to do it. When we do journalism right, it can change the world. The Spotlight team’s work to uncover the priest abuse cover-up by the Catholic Church certainly did that. But even when it’s a micro-issue — which is what most journalists deal with — it’s a public service, a voice of the people, a watchdog over government and those in power.

The Boston Globe reporting on the priest abuse scandal and its coverup by the Catholic Church, dramatized in the movie Spotlight, is journalism at its best.

I know that sounds high-falutin’ and some may think I’m a little to full of myself and my colleagues. I’m not saying we get it right all the time. There are plenty of rewritten press releases, one-source stories, articles that pander or promote when they should be digging deeper. But the overall goal is to get it right and that’s why many of us stick with it.

When I started writing my debut mystery novel, Cold Hard News, I had some characters in mind and interactions I wanted to write about. I’m fascinated by people, how they relate and why they do the things they do.

But I also had bigger things I wanted to say about the damage people in power can do when everyone just goes along with them, how the old boys’ network can control things, how people make assumptions about those around them based on position in society and other superficial factors instead of digging deeper.

On top of it, there was a specific incident in New Hampshire that happened a few years

Franconia, New Hampshire, police officer Bruce McKay pepper sprays Liko Kenney in 2007 in this police cruiser video image released by the NH attorney general’s office at the time. Moments later, Kenney shot McKay. The aftermath inspired a central plot piece in Cold Hard News.

before I started writing. A Franconia police officer and a local young guy who didn’t get along were both shot dead. The cop was shot by the young man, the young man by a passerby. I was bothered to the point of anger at how that second  shooting was resolved. I couldn’t change reality, but I could make my own. And I hoped through fiction, I could tell some truth.

So, yeah, journalism in way, even though I made stuff up.

I highly recommend Spotlight. I loved it for the journalism story. But I also loved it for the mystery, even though I new who the bad guys were from the start and how it would end. And I really, really loved it for the truth: that journalists and other people who believe in what’s right no matter what the common accepted believes are, who won’t take no for an answer and who won’t let the people in power get away with abusing it, triumph in the end.

CRIME WRITERS NOTE: If you’d like to do some Christmas shopping or just say hi, fellow Maine Crime Writer Kate Flora and I will be at the Belgrade Holiday Craft Show, 10 a.m. to 3 p.m., Saturday, at the Community Center for All Seasons, Route 27, Belgrade, Maine.

Stop by and chat about mysteries or whatever, take a look at our books, pick up some bookmarks for stocking stuffers. We’d love to see you.

Maureen Milliken is the author of Cold Hard News. Follow her on Twitter at @mmilliken47 and Facebook at Maureen Milliken Mysteries. Her website is maureenmilliken.com

 

 

Have You Been Booked Recently-a few suggestions for gift giving

John Clark offering some suggestions for those with readers of all types and ages on their Christmas lists.

First up is a great blend of romance, mystery and historical fiction from Jenifer Donnelly, author of A Northern Light and Revolution. These Shallow Graves (Delacorte Press, 2015, ISBN 9780385737654) is the story of Jo Montfort, a young lady from a wealthy New York shipping family who is pulled out of her life of comfort and constraint when her father dies in his study from a gunshot wound. When the police and her uncle announce it was an accident, Jo is shocked and saddened until she discovers evidence that starts her on a trail of discovery, convoluted family secrets and a slap-in-the-face exposure to how brutal life for those less fortunate in 1890s New York City really is,

When Jo visits the editor of a newspaper owned by her late father to deliver an item bequeathed to him, she overhears a young male reporter talking to his peers, claiming her father’s death was a suicide, but the police are covering it up. Her first reaction is indignation, but the more she listens and the more she looks at Eddie, the young reporter, the stronger her interest and attraction become. After finding money and her father’s missing agenda book in his office, she decides that enlisting Eddie’s investigative skills are in order.

Sneaking out of her mansion unaccompanied would have been unthinkable before her father’s death. Indeed, her life was headed toward an arranged marriage and a fancy wedding, followed by days of luxurious boredom, having children and doing the right things per society’s expectations. However, That’s exactly what Jo begins to do and as she enlists Eddie’s help, he introduces her not only to a new world, but a cast of characters, some memorable, many scary or pathetic. There’s awkward, but brilliant Oliver, a medical student who moonlights in the morgue where he hones his skills as a forensic pathologist before the profession was even conceptualized. Another person who stands out is Fay, an orphan like Eddie who was rescued from the streets by Taylor, a Fagan clone. She’s sassy and tough, but there’s a connection between her and Jo that transcends the huge gap between their lives.

As Jo and Eddie begin to unravel the secrets surrounding her father’s death and the mystery of a tattooed man long believed lost at sea in the Indian Ocean, who reappears after seventeen years, their attraction grows, even though Jo’s family constraints scream that it’s doomed from the beginning. What happens to them, to her family and the way the two young lovers deal with some pretty dark events, makes this 500 page book seem a lot shorter. It’s a great blend of romance and mystery, garnished with a really intense and accurate view of what life was like for classes in New York near the turn of that century. It includes a reading list at the end for those curious for additional facts about the details in the book. If you have someone on your list that loves any combination of the themes here, you’ll have a winner for certain.

Juvenile fans of historical fiction will be interested in The Hired Girl by Laura Amy Schlitz, Candlewick Press, 2015. ISBN: 9780763678180. Here’s a brief review of that one.

When your mom dies suddenly and you’re twelve and living on a hardscrabble Pennsylvania farm with your perpetually angry and demeaning father, what happens? You’re verbally abused, no longer allowed to attend school and have to assume all the work your deceased mother was doing. This is the reality in 1911 for smart, but impetuous Joan Skraggs. When her father tears up and burns her only three books, now fourteen year old Joan takes the money her late mom sewed into an apron and runs off, hoping to find work and a new future in Baltimore. Arriving at night and frightened when a man tries to take advantage of her, She’s rescued by a young Jewish man who takes her to his home. His parents, the wealthy Rosenbachs, give her shelter and then employment as a hired girl. Her job is to do whatever the elderly Malka, who has been with the family since Mr. Rosenbach was a boy, cannot or will not. She changes her name to Janet and tells the family members that she is eighteen.

There’s a steep learning curve because of her impetuosity and complete ignorance of Jewish customs and religious practices, not to mention her infatuation with David, the older son, as well as her determination to become a confirmed Catholic. Told through the entries in her diary and dialogue with others, this is an excellent historical novel for curious and smart juvenile and teen readers. They will cringe when Joan rushes into numerous situations with the best of intentions, only to be like a bull in a china shop and they will cheer as she survives and even thrives as she learns from her mistakes and is treated ever so kindly by the caring and understanding people who have employed her. It is a perfect addition to any library interested in adding a worthwhile title to their historical fiction collection.

Another choice for juvenile readers is Clementine For Christmas by Daphne Benedis-Grab, Scholastic 2015 ISBN: 9780545839518. This is a feel-good book about Josie who is extremely shy at school, but shines in her volunteer role, cheering up kids on the pediatric ward at the hospital with her dog Clementine. While there she is a different person, able to dress in costumes, sing and feel good about herself. It involves losing her dog temporarily while gaining confidence, understanding other kids and making new friends. It’s a perfect holiday read.

For those looking to thrill an avid teen reader, I suggest the Starbound trilogy (book three comes out today and arrives tonight!) by Amie Kaufman and Meagan Spooner. I devoured the first two and can’t wait for the final installment. These are science fiction blended with intrigue and romance at its best. Titles are These Broken Stars: A Starbound Novel, This Shattered World: A Starbound Novel and Their Fractured Light.

For adults I have three suggestions, If you have a police procedural lover on your list, check out Brian Thiem’s first book Red Line (Crooked Lane Books (August 11, 2015) ISBN: 9781629531946). I picked up a copy at the New England Crime Bake and read it right after I got home. After 25 years as a homicide detective in Oakland, Brian knows his stuff. I’ve attended two programs he’s done at Crime Bakes and came away impressed both times. The book only increased my respect. It’s a great read and he’s got more to come.

Sometimes I pick up books on impulse, reading the first few pages to see if there’s a really good hook. I brought my music CDs to Bull Moose for store credit and had to wait for a while so they could process the big box. I picked up The Consequences of Revenge by Rachel Van Dyken, Skyscape 2015 ISBN: 9781477830642. It turned out to be a total bed shaker, one of those books that has you laughing so hard the bed shakes so much your significant other keeps waking up and asking what you’re reading. Max Emory drifted through college, content to get okay grades while enjoying Milo’s (a girl) company and sorta hoping the friendship might blossom, but when she marries another of his friends, he’s in a complete funk. Despite having a fortune, thanks to his family hotel empire, Max holes up in his apartment, ignoring hygiene and tries totally lame pickup lines just to keep in contact with the world. This act blows up at a coffe shop when the barrista cuts him dead. Next thing Max knows, his friends have forged paperwork and he’s the bachelor star on an island with 24 single women as part of a reality show. One of the girls is Becca, the barrista. What follows involves creepy and desperate females, a goat and shark phobia, as well as a plan to foil any future zombie apocalypses. The story is funny, sexy and there are pieces of dialogue that would make even Ebeneezer Scrooge cackle with glee. If it’s a hit with the recipient, the author has a couple dozen more in print.

Lastly is a feel-good ebook for the folks on your list who prefer reading in this format, Holly Schindler’s Fifth Avenue Fidos: A Modern-Day Fairy Tale with “Bite” Mar 20, 2015. The description at Amazon.com says it perfectly: “Mable Barker, a frizzy-haired mongrel from Queens with no real life direction, is never going to snag a man like Jason Mead, a purebred Upper East Side veterinarian. Or so she thinks. Even in her daydreams, the infatuated-with-fairy-tales Mable imagines herself as a princess with a crooked tiara and a whole orchard of poison apples. Then again, Jason isn’t exactly traditional prince material himself. The shy but adorable Dr. Mead’s awkward ways around women have him substituting the search for his lifelong human companion with playing canine matchmaker—breeding blue ribbon champions. Jason’s first breeding attempt yields Innis, Fifth Avenue’s snarliest Pekingese. A dog whose temperament, it appears, will never fit show-dog standards…until he meets Mable, whom Jason hires as a dog walker. Could Mable actually have what it takes to handle Innis and Jason? Can three imperfect beings ever come together to create utter perfection at the Westminster Dog Show—and beyond? Will Mable and Jason ever trust their feelings, allow love to be unleashed? Will Mable ever see herself as a princess capable of riding off into the sunset?”

If you get some of these for yourself or as gifts, let me know what you think.

Why It’s “Read My Book,” Not “Buy My Book”

Hi. Barb here, covered in flour from head to foot from the Christmas cookie baking.

We’ve talked and written many times about how annoying it is to have writers, particularly writers you don’t know, shouting through their various social media outlets, “Buy my book. Buy my book. Buy my book.” It’s not that it’s impolite. “Please, please, please buy my book,” is arguably worse, because of the desperate, needy stink.

It is partially because of the used car sales approach of close, close, close, which is, of course, the entirely wrong way to sell a book. People buy from people they trust, and an author you don’t know, whose opinion about his own book is undoubtedly suspect, is the last person you’d trust for a book recommendation. Instinctively, we recoil.

Who do you trust for a book recommendation? People you know, especially people who have similar taste in books. These may be people you spend time with in the carbon-based world–your family, friends, co-workers, hairdresser, trainer at the gym. Or they may be people you spend time with online in discussion groups about–books, among other things. But in either case, you know them and you trust their taste.

The very best recommendations come from those who have read and loved a book. Which is more likely to cause you to act? “Have you read Joe Schmoe’s latest?” “No, you?” “No, me neither. It’s on my bedside table, though.” OR “Oh, my gosh, did you read Kate Flora’s latest Joe Burgess? I finished it before work this morning. It kept me up half the night.”

Recommendations are good, but the number one reason (by a huge margin) fans of mystery, thriller, suspense and romantic suspense buy a book is because they have read and loved another book by the same author.

So you see the similarity here? In both cases, the reason crime fiction readers buy a book is because someone has actually read the book. Books that people buy and leave moldering in their TBR piles, or in the huge, overstocked libraries on their e-readers, do the author almost no good at all. Because if buyers haven’t read the book, they can’t recommend it. And if they have it sitting somewhere waiting to be read, they’re unlikely to buy another book by the same author. Librarians are the same. If a book achieves next to no circulation, it’s likely to be pulled from the shelves and additional books are unlikely to be bought. All of this goes double, or triple or quadruple for series.

When I was in the software business, we had a name for this–shelfware–software that was purchased, but never installed, or never rolled out to its intended audience. Our software was sold on an annual license basis, and in the rare cases where we ended up selling shelfware, the transaction was regarded as an unmitigated failure. We knew we’d never sell that customer consulting or training or any other follow-on products. And when the annual license was up, the customer would never renew. Honestly, we believed that it wasn’t worth the time or effort it took to sell that initial license, even though we’d collected a hefty fee for it.

Which is why an author’s message should always be, “Read my book” and not, “Buy my book.” Because books that are purchased and not read are next to useless. (Of course, like good authors, we do not tell people to read our book, we show them how compelling and emotionally involving it is. After all, when we ask people to read our books, we’re asking for something more precious than their money. We’re asking for their time. But that’s another post for another day.)

Instinctively, writers know they are looking for readers, not buyers. This is why we speak at libraries where people have ready access to our books for free. And why we speak to book clubs where everyone attending probably already owns it. This why we go to bookstores and chat up the owner, even if no one shows up for our signing. We’re not looking for lots of people to buy our book. We’re looking for one or two people to read and love, love, love our book–and then to tell everyone they know about it.

Writers know this, but over the last decade or so, some of us have become distracted, by the pressure on the publishing industry, the message that we’re responsible for our own success and by the occasionally overt pressure to “sell.” We’ve focused on the sales in the back of the room, instead of the fan we created up front. And that’s a wrongheaded way to look at it.

I hear you screaming from the back, “What about my next book contract? I won’t get another one if nobody buys.” Or, “What about all the publishers today who are going three and out on series books? There isn’t time to build that fanatical audience.”

And that’s a problem. It’s a structural problem in the publishing industry and it’s a fact of our lives. But that doesn’t mean we should do the wrong thing. We’re looking for readers, not for buyers, and our conversations with readers should give them reasons to read, not buy, our books.

12 Things I Can’t Live Without

Lea Wait, here. One of the magazines that appears regularly at our house (for some reason I can’t quite fathom) is Elle Decor. I usually glance through it, drool a little over the homes pictured, and then it goes in the recyclable pile.

But one column I always read. It’s titled “12 Things He (or She) Can’t Live Without,” and in it famous people — usually those in the arts — list such critical items as their favorite champagnes or kid gloves or small restaurants in Paris or … And I drool again.

But, after all, we all have our favorites. So today I’m sharing the 12 things (note: this excludes people, which is sad, but, after all, they’re not THINGS) I can’t live without.

LL Bean flannel shirts. I wear them ten months of the year. In winter, I especially love those that are fleece lined.
“World’s Softest Socks”. Yes — there is such a thing. They come in lots of colors, and, again, with my “problem feet” I wear them every time I’m not wearing sandals.
Massages. Because people aren’t supposed to be on this list, I won’t mention Darlene Terry’s name, but having a massage in the comfort of my own living room at least once a month helps keep stiff necks and migraines at bay after days of sitting at a computer. Plus — did I mention how good a message feels??
Cayenne and cinnamon. (Not usually together.) Cayenne jazzes up almost anything that doesn’t involve sugar – and then cinnamon takes over. Plus, cayenne is supposed to raise your metabolism a tiny bit, and cinnamon fights glucose levels. Have I mentioned this old body needs all the help it can get?
Bookcases. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases are in every room (except the bathroom) and most hallways in my home. Filled bookcases, of course. For obvious reasons.
Sunsets over the river I can see from most rooms in my house. In all seasons, they give hope and beauty.
The smell of salt water mudflats at low tide. I’ve always loved it. When I was a teenager I wondered how to bottle it …
Birds. Growing up, I had parakeets as pets. Today my favorite birds flock to the feeders close to the house. I especially love hummingbirds and woodpeckers and cardinals and goldfinches and chickadees  … and the great blue herons and cormorants who live nearby and fly over.
Scented hot baths. They’re my cure-all.
Water: the sea, rivers, waterfalls, lakes. Love them all. But especially the ocean. (And hot baths.)
Independent bookstores. Of course. Where else do they know you by name and suggest books … and sell the ones my friends and I write?
Christmas. It’s my favorite holiday, and just thinking about it makes me smile.

What can’t YOU live without?

Learning to Enjoy What Comes

Kate Flora: We had a quiet post-Thanksgiving weekend. No trips to the Mall. No frenzy of on-line shopping. Just walks in the autumn woods and plates of leftover turkey and of course, pie for breakfast. I used to love the crescendo of color that fall brought, but I’ve never been able to embrace November. It has always seemed to me to be a month of browns and grays, of fading and decay. And as the years has passed and I’ve become less of a spring chicken and more of an old hen, fall can be a reminder that time–like the days–is getting shorter.

Since my impetuous premature birth one July day many years ago–startling a mother who’d just moved into a farmhouse on Sennebec Hill and who was expecting a baby in September, I’ve been rushing through life. Once I described it as going through life the way I walk on ice, going quickly over it so I’ll be on the other side before I fall down. But rushing through life comes with a price: too often, it means not seeing what is around me. So this fall, instead of rushing, I’m slowing down. I’m remembering to be present at the holiday table instead of worrying about the next course or the dishes. I’m trying to see the world I’m in instead of rushing toward the next season.

Slowing down and seeing lets me enjoy the more subtle tones of November. Instead of dismissing this world as ugly and dull, and sighing for the new greens of spring or the vibrant colors of my summer garden, I am seeing the beauty in shapes. In subtlety. In the surprises of a lingering mum or a rose that doesn’t want to stop blooming and the enormous hen of the woods mushroom that’s popped up in my lawn. I am looking at the seedpods of the ligularia and the gorgeous tassels on my grasses and making a different kind of bouquet. Without the distraction of green, tree bark is revealed in all its textured glory and different varieties of trees show their own distinctive shapes. I walk on carpets of leaves and scuffle like a child through drifts of fallen pine needles and feel how different they are beneath my feet.

Do people raised in cities or suburbs also feel this? Are their ears attuned to the different bird calls and notice who is around? Why are there so many more blue jays around? What does all the bird chatter mean? I need to dive back into a book I found recently, What the Robin Knows, and learn to pay attention to the different songs birds use as they go through their days.

I’ve been frustrated at my desk for several weeks, not getting much done and struggling to find my way into the work. Now I see that I need to carry this lesson of slowing down and enjoying what I’m doing and where I am back into my work. Instead of my usual insane rush through story, I need to slow down and enjoy the process. Not rail against my mind or my attention span because the work is going slowly and the words are hard to find–always part of the challenge of writing nonfiction–but just let it happen. Watch the story unfold, as I’ve learned to do yet keep forgetting, so that you, the reader, can be captured by it, immersed in it, and see how the world is for the characters. The characters are real, yet it is my “writer’s job” to help you see them. Now, it seems that perhaps the lesson of November is there if I will learn it: Notice. Be attuned. Slow down. Appreciate. Let the story speak the way I am letting the world speak. Then share what I am seeing.