Alyssa Maxwell's Blog, page 2
March 6, 2014
SleuthFest 2014, Final Recap
Ready for my third and final recap of SleuthFest? Let's jump right in...
In the Taboos workshop, the consensus seemed to be that, especially in cozy mysteries, readers don't like extreme violence, foul language, or descriptive sex scenes. But if an author has the ability to handle sensitive subject matter gracefully and can make them work in her story without jarring or otherwise offending the reader, then there are no real taboos. However, they issued this caution: the writer must have a special talent to pull this off. Not everyone can, so pushing the envelope on taboos can be risky, and can ultimately backfire on the author. Oh, and while you can pretty much kill off any number of people, do not hurt or kill any cats or dogs. Or other cute, helpless animals. Or any animals. Just. Don't. Do it.
Next came the panel on settings. I've always been a fan of "setting as character," meaning setting is never arbitrary, but carefully selected for its own particular atmosphere and traits in order to enhance the themes of the story—the idea that setting can affect the action of the plot just as much as a character can. The panel discussed urban vs. rural settings, and stressed that setting must always be seen from the point of view of the main characters. Do they have a history in that place, and what kinds of memories do they attach to it? Or are they new to an area, and how do they react to new sights and sounds? How does the way in which they perceive their environment reflect and or affect their current state of mind? When writing setting details, the author should always take into account the emotions of the main character. Those emotions should help "color" the setting details the author puts on the page. All the panelists agreed that portraying setting through their characters' eyes was more important that being 100% accurate. They recommended knowing as much about your setting as possible. For example, you don't want to show downtown Detroit after 6pm as a bustling place, because it simply isn't. The trick is to know enough so that you sound convincing, and run with it. One thing they advised against was too much accuracy when it comes to directions—you don't want to sound like a travel log, or like an author who did a heck of a lot of research and wanted to include it all in the book. As far as choosing an urban or rural setting, it really depends on the tone and action of the story.
I've been thinking about writing a short story/novella, so after lunch I attended the Short Story panel. The best advice I came away with was write your story and don't worry too much about length in the first draft. Later, go back and cut all unnecessary words and story elements that don't directly impact the plot. Every words counts – there can be no extras. For me, the advice to trim later removes some of the pressure of writing short.
However, the authors had other wisdom to share. Libby Fischer Hellman called a short story an "affair," whereas a novel is more like a marriage. It can allow you to expand on a subplot or secondary character from a novel, or as Michael Haskins pointed out, it's a good way to stay in your characters' head between full-length novels and keep them fresh in your mind. Short stories are also great for author name recognition. Twist Phalen and Stacy Allen begin with a premise first, and Twist says she then develops contrary characters she can drive crazy with the plot. Stacy Allen has an excel spreadsheet set up with lists of character traits, settings, and plot element choices, and apparently hitting F9 sets up her scenario for her. I need to look into that further. All agreed that short stories are much more popular and easier to sell than previously, thanks to ereaders, flexible pricing, and shorter attention spans. Finally, writing a short story is a great exercise in writing tight, a skill that can be transferred over to novel writing for fast pacing.
My last panel of the day was It's Their Job, Staying on Top of Your Sleuth's Career. No one lives in a void. Your sleuth should have a well-rounded life with family, friends, and yes, a career of some kind. What your sleuth does for a living is often exactly the thing that puts them in the right place at the right time (or wrong time, when you consider we're dealing with murder), or has given them the skills to get the job done. Depending on the career, it may influence what the sleuth observes, how they process the information, and what opportunities they have to track evidence. Your sleuth's career will be an ongoing thread throughout the book and throughout the series, so it's important to research it well and make it believable.
Along with this, the panel reminded us to also give our sleuth a flaw, something they need to deal with and that gives them an opportunity to learn and grow over time. Incidentally, the other night I started reading The Other Woman by Hank Phillippi Ryan (which I picked up at the conference bookstore), and in it her sleuth has just been fired from a high-powered job in TV news, and is having to start over as a small-time newspaper reporter, the only job she was able to get. I'll be interested to follow both the career and character arcs as Jane Ryland tries to get her life back together.
In my posts covering this conference, I've discussed history, what editors want, the traditional vs. self-publishing debate, taboos, setting, short stories, and story content in the form of a sleuth's career. That's enough information to at least get someone started on a book, in less than two days' time. But there was so much more to be learned about the future of publishing, promotions and discoverability, self-publishing, forensics, pacing...you name it, SleuthFest had a workshop on it. The conference organizers did an amazing job of putting it all together, and making SleuthFest productive and fun. They have my hearty thanks!! For me, SleuthFest started and ended all too soon. Next year I plan to attend the full conference, and hopefully sit on another panel or two as well. This year, Murder at the Breakers wasn't out in time to sign at the conference. Next year, I'll two books to sign! SleuthFest 2015, here I come!
In the Taboos workshop, the consensus seemed to be that, especially in cozy mysteries, readers don't like extreme violence, foul language, or descriptive sex scenes. But if an author has the ability to handle sensitive subject matter gracefully and can make them work in her story without jarring or otherwise offending the reader, then there are no real taboos. However, they issued this caution: the writer must have a special talent to pull this off. Not everyone can, so pushing the envelope on taboos can be risky, and can ultimately backfire on the author. Oh, and while you can pretty much kill off any number of people, do not hurt or kill any cats or dogs. Or other cute, helpless animals. Or any animals. Just. Don't. Do it.
Next came the panel on settings. I've always been a fan of "setting as character," meaning setting is never arbitrary, but carefully selected for its own particular atmosphere and traits in order to enhance the themes of the story—the idea that setting can affect the action of the plot just as much as a character can. The panel discussed urban vs. rural settings, and stressed that setting must always be seen from the point of view of the main characters. Do they have a history in that place, and what kinds of memories do they attach to it? Or are they new to an area, and how do they react to new sights and sounds? How does the way in which they perceive their environment reflect and or affect their current state of mind? When writing setting details, the author should always take into account the emotions of the main character. Those emotions should help "color" the setting details the author puts on the page. All the panelists agreed that portraying setting through their characters' eyes was more important that being 100% accurate. They recommended knowing as much about your setting as possible. For example, you don't want to show downtown Detroit after 6pm as a bustling place, because it simply isn't. The trick is to know enough so that you sound convincing, and run with it. One thing they advised against was too much accuracy when it comes to directions—you don't want to sound like a travel log, or like an author who did a heck of a lot of research and wanted to include it all in the book. As far as choosing an urban or rural setting, it really depends on the tone and action of the story.
I've been thinking about writing a short story/novella, so after lunch I attended the Short Story panel. The best advice I came away with was write your story and don't worry too much about length in the first draft. Later, go back and cut all unnecessary words and story elements that don't directly impact the plot. Every words counts – there can be no extras. For me, the advice to trim later removes some of the pressure of writing short.
However, the authors had other wisdom to share. Libby Fischer Hellman called a short story an "affair," whereas a novel is more like a marriage. It can allow you to expand on a subplot or secondary character from a novel, or as Michael Haskins pointed out, it's a good way to stay in your characters' head between full-length novels and keep them fresh in your mind. Short stories are also great for author name recognition. Twist Phalen and Stacy Allen begin with a premise first, and Twist says she then develops contrary characters she can drive crazy with the plot. Stacy Allen has an excel spreadsheet set up with lists of character traits, settings, and plot element choices, and apparently hitting F9 sets up her scenario for her. I need to look into that further. All agreed that short stories are much more popular and easier to sell than previously, thanks to ereaders, flexible pricing, and shorter attention spans. Finally, writing a short story is a great exercise in writing tight, a skill that can be transferred over to novel writing for fast pacing.
My last panel of the day was It's Their Job, Staying on Top of Your Sleuth's Career. No one lives in a void. Your sleuth should have a well-rounded life with family, friends, and yes, a career of some kind. What your sleuth does for a living is often exactly the thing that puts them in the right place at the right time (or wrong time, when you consider we're dealing with murder), or has given them the skills to get the job done. Depending on the career, it may influence what the sleuth observes, how they process the information, and what opportunities they have to track evidence. Your sleuth's career will be an ongoing thread throughout the book and throughout the series, so it's important to research it well and make it believable.
Along with this, the panel reminded us to also give our sleuth a flaw, something they need to deal with and that gives them an opportunity to learn and grow over time. Incidentally, the other night I started reading The Other Woman by Hank Phillippi Ryan (which I picked up at the conference bookstore), and in it her sleuth has just been fired from a high-powered job in TV news, and is having to start over as a small-time newspaper reporter, the only job she was able to get. I'll be interested to follow both the career and character arcs as Jane Ryland tries to get her life back together.
In my posts covering this conference, I've discussed history, what editors want, the traditional vs. self-publishing debate, taboos, setting, short stories, and story content in the form of a sleuth's career. That's enough information to at least get someone started on a book, in less than two days' time. But there was so much more to be learned about the future of publishing, promotions and discoverability, self-publishing, forensics, pacing...you name it, SleuthFest had a workshop on it. The conference organizers did an amazing job of putting it all together, and making SleuthFest productive and fun. They have my hearty thanks!! For me, SleuthFest started and ended all too soon. Next year I plan to attend the full conference, and hopefully sit on another panel or two as well. This year, Murder at the Breakers wasn't out in time to sign at the conference. Next year, I'll two books to sign! SleuthFest 2015, here I come!
March 5, 2014
SleuthFest 2014, Part 2!
With my panel over, I was able to enjoy Saturday at SleuthFest as a regular attendee, i.e., someone eager to soak up the wisdom of mystery professionals who are way more experienced than I am. I attended five panels in all. If I've misquoted anyone or left any names out, I humbly apologize. It was a lot to take in and I tried to keep track as best I could.
At the Editor's Roundtable, we were reminded to make our manuscripts the best it can be before submitting, and to follow each publisher's guidelines, which are always available on their websites. This might sound like common sense, yet each editor could give examples of writers who seemed to believe that little mistakes didn't matter, and who submit under the assumption that if the editor doesn't like something, "she'll fix it for you." So not true! Whether this is about story content, grammar and style, or formatting, even little concerns add up. The last thing you want an editor to think is you either don't have an eye for detail, or you're just not trying hard enough. Editor's want good stories, but they also want authors who are easy to work with--who are accommodating when it comes to house styles and are willing to adjust. And they are just as likely to reject a manuscript with dazzling writing but so-so content as they are to reject a fabulous plot with not-so-great writing.
Most of the editors seemed willing to point out a reason or two when they reject a manuscript, especially if the story showed potential and they might like to see it again. Deni Dietz of Five Star believes that kind of editor feedback is an important tool in helping aspiring authors grow and develop their craft. Shannon Jamieson Vazquez of Berkeley especially doesn't like to see too quick of a turnaround when she sends a rejection with an invitation to resubmit with revisions. She cited an example of something returning a manuscript within a couple of hours with a message indicating that all concerns had been addressed. Not possible!
At lunch, keynote speaker Laura Lipman reiterated this notion of taking time with your manuscript and not to rush into submitting or self-publishing because "you want it now." Her example was of a woman she'd met who spent 3 months working on her book, and two "heartbreaking" months submitting and being rejected. And for that reason she was self-pubbing. It's so important to be sure your manuscript is "ready" for publication, whether traditionally or through self-pubbing, and we all know that takes time, effort, and several objective points of view--which means every manuscript should be critiqued and then edited by at least one other professional editor.
Laura also reminded us that traditional and indy/self-publishing are both viable options, and there is too much squabbling these days between the two camps. In fact there shouldn't be any camps at all, but rather authors seeking out the best options for their careers, whatever that may be. We should be able to come together as colleagues and be supportive of each other. I'd add to that the fact that what works for an author at one time may not be right at another point in his/her career. So we should always keep an open mind.
This was only part of my morning. I also attended the panels on Taboos and Setting, but I'll cover those in my next post. Lest you think it was all work and no play, though, at lunch an author popped out of a giant cake, there was a wild (and wildly funny) auction where, among other things, the gentleman next to me bid $1500 and won a one-on-one session with special guest, author Ace Atkins. (I was afraid to scratch my nose.) Raffle tickets for fabulous baskets were sold by FL MWA members in pink boas (yes, even the guys), and ballots were circulated for "The Most Interesting Man at SleuthFest." But more in my next post.....
At the Editor's Roundtable, we were reminded to make our manuscripts the best it can be before submitting, and to follow each publisher's guidelines, which are always available on their websites. This might sound like common sense, yet each editor could give examples of writers who seemed to believe that little mistakes didn't matter, and who submit under the assumption that if the editor doesn't like something, "she'll fix it for you." So not true! Whether this is about story content, grammar and style, or formatting, even little concerns add up. The last thing you want an editor to think is you either don't have an eye for detail, or you're just not trying hard enough. Editor's want good stories, but they also want authors who are easy to work with--who are accommodating when it comes to house styles and are willing to adjust. And they are just as likely to reject a manuscript with dazzling writing but so-so content as they are to reject a fabulous plot with not-so-great writing.
Most of the editors seemed willing to point out a reason or two when they reject a manuscript, especially if the story showed potential and they might like to see it again. Deni Dietz of Five Star believes that kind of editor feedback is an important tool in helping aspiring authors grow and develop their craft. Shannon Jamieson Vazquez of Berkeley especially doesn't like to see too quick of a turnaround when she sends a rejection with an invitation to resubmit with revisions. She cited an example of something returning a manuscript within a couple of hours with a message indicating that all concerns had been addressed. Not possible!
At lunch, keynote speaker Laura Lipman reiterated this notion of taking time with your manuscript and not to rush into submitting or self-publishing because "you want it now." Her example was of a woman she'd met who spent 3 months working on her book, and two "heartbreaking" months submitting and being rejected. And for that reason she was self-pubbing. It's so important to be sure your manuscript is "ready" for publication, whether traditionally or through self-pubbing, and we all know that takes time, effort, and several objective points of view--which means every manuscript should be critiqued and then edited by at least one other professional editor.
Laura also reminded us that traditional and indy/self-publishing are both viable options, and there is too much squabbling these days between the two camps. In fact there shouldn't be any camps at all, but rather authors seeking out the best options for their careers, whatever that may be. We should be able to come together as colleagues and be supportive of each other. I'd add to that the fact that what works for an author at one time may not be right at another point in his/her career. So we should always keep an open mind.
This was only part of my morning. I also attended the panels on Taboos and Setting, but I'll cover those in my next post. Lest you think it was all work and no play, though, at lunch an author popped out of a giant cake, there was a wild (and wildly funny) auction where, among other things, the gentleman next to me bid $1500 and won a one-on-one session with special guest, author Ace Atkins. (I was afraid to scratch my nose.) Raffle tickets for fabulous baskets were sold by FL MWA members in pink boas (yes, even the guys), and ballots were circulated for "The Most Interesting Man at SleuthFest." But more in my next post.....
March 4, 2014
SleuthFest 2014, Part 1
Whew! I hadn't attended a conference in a long while, so even the one full day I attended SleuthFest felt slightly overwhelming. But in a good way. I always say my number one reason for attending any conference is to come away inspired and recharged, and SleuthFest didn't disappoint. I'm a new mystery author, a new member of the Mystery Writers of America - Florida Chapter, and this was my first SleuthFest. I was amazed at how friendly everyone was and how welcome and comfortable I felt. But even more amazing was how savvy these writers are, while at the same time being incredibly down to earth. So...how did I spend my time, and what did I learn?
The weekend started almost immediately upon my arrival (after a 3-hour drive), with my own panel, History Lesson: Bringing the Past Alive. I was throwing myself into a new situation with authors I'd never met before - Susan Elia MacNeal, Joyce Moore, Joanna Campbell Slan, and moderator Bob Williamson. But I relaxed the moment I sat down, and Bob kept the discussion going with questions like, how much truth must there be in a historical mystery? The answer for most of us, as Joanna aptly phrased it, is that history is our scaffolding, the facts that we build upon as we plot our stories. If we use historical figures, we learn as much as we can about them through contemporary accounts and original sources (like diaries), and remain as true to their characters as we possibly can. We might put fictional words in their mouths, but those words must ring true to that individual as history has painted them.
Two areas where we all agreed were 1) it's difficult to ever be 100% accurate because sometimes we just don't know what questions to ask. Which leads to 2) if the opportunity arises to travel to your setting, do it! Because it's often through that firsthand experience that we discover what those elusive questions are. Travel came up again when Bob asked us why we chose our particular setings and time periods. The main answer seemed to be that we had traveled to our settings, fell in love with the area, and became fascinated with its history. We became personally connected. My own reason for loving and writing historicals, and for being interested in history in general, is because our society didn't suddenly spring out of thin air to be the fast-paced, high-tech, modern world we know. Everyone who came before us has shaped us into what we are now, just as we're helping to shape the future. It was the strength and ingenuity and simple chutzpah of our ancestors that took us off horses and into cars, got women voting, sent us hurtling into space, and has me tapping at a keyboard right now so I can speak to all of you. For me, I don't have to "bring" the past alive. It's already alive in each and every one of us. I just like to acknowledge it.
Do I sound enthusiastic? That's because those 50 minutes of sitting on that panel with those wonderful authors inspired me and made me really think about my craft. But my weekend didn't end there. In my next post I'll talk about what I learned the next day...
The weekend started almost immediately upon my arrival (after a 3-hour drive), with my own panel, History Lesson: Bringing the Past Alive. I was throwing myself into a new situation with authors I'd never met before - Susan Elia MacNeal, Joyce Moore, Joanna Campbell Slan, and moderator Bob Williamson. But I relaxed the moment I sat down, and Bob kept the discussion going with questions like, how much truth must there be in a historical mystery? The answer for most of us, as Joanna aptly phrased it, is that history is our scaffolding, the facts that we build upon as we plot our stories. If we use historical figures, we learn as much as we can about them through contemporary accounts and original sources (like diaries), and remain as true to their characters as we possibly can. We might put fictional words in their mouths, but those words must ring true to that individual as history has painted them.
Two areas where we all agreed were 1) it's difficult to ever be 100% accurate because sometimes we just don't know what questions to ask. Which leads to 2) if the opportunity arises to travel to your setting, do it! Because it's often through that firsthand experience that we discover what those elusive questions are. Travel came up again when Bob asked us why we chose our particular setings and time periods. The main answer seemed to be that we had traveled to our settings, fell in love with the area, and became fascinated with its history. We became personally connected. My own reason for loving and writing historicals, and for being interested in history in general, is because our society didn't suddenly spring out of thin air to be the fast-paced, high-tech, modern world we know. Everyone who came before us has shaped us into what we are now, just as we're helping to shape the future. It was the strength and ingenuity and simple chutzpah of our ancestors that took us off horses and into cars, got women voting, sent us hurtling into space, and has me tapping at a keyboard right now so I can speak to all of you. For me, I don't have to "bring" the past alive. It's already alive in each and every one of us. I just like to acknowledge it.
Do I sound enthusiastic? That's because those 50 minutes of sitting on that panel with those wonderful authors inspired me and made me really think about my craft. But my weekend didn't end there. In my next post I'll talk about what I learned the next day...
February 6, 2014
Excerpt: Murder at The Breakers, Chapter One
CHAPTER ONE
Newport, RI, August 1895
She awoke that morning to an angry sea battering the edges of the promontory, and gusting winds that kicked up a spray to rattle against her bedroom windows. She might simply have rolled over, closed her eyes again and sunk pleasantly back into sleep, if not for the—
Here the nib of my pen ran dry and scratched across the paper, threatening to leave a tear. If not for the what? I knew what I wanted to say; this was to be a novel of mystery and danger, but I was having a dickens of a time that morning finding the right words.
As I pondered, my gaze drifted to another page I’d shoved aside last night. Sitting on my desktop inches from my elbow, the words I’d hastily scrawled before going to bed mocked me with their insipidness. Mrs Astor Plants A Rose Garden, the title read. Who could possibly care, I wondered. Yet people apparently did care, or I wouldn’t have been sent by my employer, Mr. Millford of the Newport Observer, to cover the auspicious event. Not that Mrs. Astor actually wielded anything resembling a garden tool, mind you, or chanced pricking her tender fingers on a thorn. No, she’d barked brisk orders at her groundskeepers until the placement of the bushes suited her taste, and then ushered her dozen or so guests onto the terrace for tea.
I sighed, looking up from my desk to stare out my bedroom window. The scene outside perfectly matched the mysterious one I’d just described: a glowering, blustery day that promised intermittent rains and salty winds. The inclement weather heralded ominous tidings for my protagonist, not to mention reeking real-life havoc on the tightest of coiffeurs.
No matter; I had no plans to stray from home until much later in the evening. I dipped my pen in the inkwell and was about to try again when from behind me a hand descended on my shoulder.
With a yelp I sprang from my chair, shoving it away with the backs of my knees. I sucked in a breath and prepared to cry out in earnest, but before I could utter a sound a second hand clamped my mouth.
“Shush! For crying out loud, Em, don’t scream. I thought you heard me. Ouch!”
I’d instinctively bitten one of the fingers pressed against my lips, even as recognition of the familiar voice poured through me and sent my fear draining from my limbs. Still, I had no intentions of apologizing. Wrenching from his grip, I turned and slapped my brother’s hands away.
“Blast it, Brady! What are you doing here? Neither Katie nor Nanny would have let you upstairs without asking me first.”
“The front door was unlocked. I called out but when no one answered I let myself in.” A flick of his head sent a shank of damp, sandy blond hair off his forehead—and assured me he was lying. That particular gesture had accompanied Brady’s fibs for as long as I could remember. The only truth to his statement was that he’d let himself in.
“You sneaked in, didn’t you?” I folded my arms in front of me. Why?”
“I need your help, Em.”
“Oh, Brady, what now?” My arms fell to my sides, and with a sigh that melted into a yawn, I walked to the foot of my bed and reached for my robe. “I suppose you must be in real trouble again, or you’d never be out and about this early.”
“Are you going to The Breakers tonight?” He referred to the ball our relatives were holding that evening.
“Of course. But—”
“I need you to do something for me.” He threw himself into the chintz overstuffed chair beside the hearth. I remained standing, glaring down at him, braced for the inevitable. “I, uh…I did something I shouldn’t have…”
“Really? What else is new?” Several scenarios sprang to mind. A brawl. A drunken tirade. Cheating at cards. An affair with yet another wife of an irate husband bent on revenge. One simply never knew what antics my half brother, Stuart Braden Gale IV, might stir up on any given day. Or night. Despite hailing from two of Newport’s oldest and most respected families—on both our mother’s and his father’s sides—Brady had seen the inside of the Newport jail nearly as often as the town’s most unsavory rapscallions. And on many a morning, I’d paid the bailiff on his behalf more times than I, or my purse, cared to count.
“I want to make it right,” he hurried on. “The Breakers will be mobbed later and I’ll be able to sneak in, but I’ll need your help.”
“I don’t like the sound of this one bit, Brady. Whatever it is, you know you should just come clean. You can’t hide from Uncle Cornelius for long.”
Before he could reply, a pounding echoed from the hall below. I heard a tread on the staircase and moments later there came a rap at my bedroom door. With an imploring look, Brady shook his head and put a finger to his lips. He jumped up from the chair and moved to the corner of the room where my armoire would hide him from view. A sense of foreboding had me dragging my feet as I went to the door.
“Good mornin’, Miss Emma.” Katie, my young housemaid, peered in at me and tucked an errant red curl under the cap she’d obviously donned in haste. Her soft brogue plunged to a murmur. “Sorry to disturb you so early, miss, but Mr. Neily’s below. Shall I tell him you ain’t receivin’ yet?”
“Neily?” A burst of wind rattled the windows sent a chill down my back. “On a morning like this?” My maid didn’t answer, and I managed to refrain from angling a glance into the shadows cloaking my brother. “Thank you, Katie. Tell him I’ll be down in a few minutes. Show him into the morning room, please, and bring in coffee.”
“Aye, miss.” The girl hesitated and then bobbed an awkward curtsy. I closed the door.
“You won’t tell him I’m here, will you, Em?”
With pursed lips I met my brother’s eager blue gaze. “He’s looking for you, is he?”
“One would assume.”
Going to my dressing table, I pinned my braided hair into a coil at my nape, secured the sash of my robe into a secure knot, and slipped my feet into a pair of tattered satin slippers. In the bathroom my great aunt Sadie had installed before she died, I turned the creaky faucet and splashed cold water onto my face.
Ordinarily I wouldn’t dream of greeting company in such a state of dishabille, but this was my cousin Neily, here on a blustery August morning hours before he typically showed his face beyond the gates of his family’s summer home.
Would I keep my brother’s secret? Blindly lend him the help he asked for?
I sighed once more. Didn’t I always?
When I stepped back into the bedroom, Brady was nowhere to be seen, though I thought I heard the telltale click of the attic door closing.
Downstairs, I paused in the morning room doorway. A coffee pot and two cups waited on the table; fruit, muffins, and a tureen of steaming oatmeal occupied the sideboard. Under any other circumstances, my stomach would have rumbled. Not today.
It didn’t appear as if my cousin had brought an appetite either, as he hadn’t helped himself to any of the repast. I pasted on a smile and stepped into the room. “Good morning, Neily. What brings you here so early, and in such weather? Not that it isn’t always good to see you.” Could he hear the hesitation in my tone? “Will you join me in some coffee?”
He had been standing with his broad back to me, staring out at the ocean, his dark hair boyishly tousled in the way that had become fashionable among the sporting young gentlemen here for the summer season. He turned, his somber expression framed by the tossing gray waves and the ragged clouds scuttling past like ripped, wind-born sheets.
“Good morning, Emmaline,” he said curtly, a civility to be gotten over quickly so he could come to the point of his visit. He held his black bowler between his hands. “Is Brady here?”
I blinked and clutched the ruffled neckline of my robe. For once I didn’t bother correcting Neily on my name. I preferred Emma, but my more illustrious relatives insisted on using my full name, as they did with all the girls in the family.
“Brady,” I repeated. I paused, hating to lie, but for now I’d do what I could to protect my brother, at least until I knew more.
I discreetly crossed two fingers. “You know Brady’s never up this early. Is something wrong?”
“He’s up today and yes, something’s wrong.” His overcoat billowing behind him, he came toward me so quickly I almost backed up a step, but managed to hold my ground. “If I were to look around, are you sure I wouldn’t find him?”
Only if you looked in the attic. But please don’t. Then again, by now Brady might be somewhere on the first floor, perhaps in the adjoining service hallway, listening to every word.
Aloud I said, “Look all you like.” I was sure Neily could hear my heart pounding. “Did you check around town?”
“He’s not at his digs, and he’s not sleeping it off at any of his usual haunts. This is important, Emmaline, and I need your help. So does Brady, as a matter of fact.”
Good heavens, did he think I hadn’t figured that out for myself? But I raised my eyebrows in a show of ignorance.
Neily’s grip on his hat tightened, leaving fingerprints on the rain-dampened felt. “If you happen to see him, if he shows up here…”
“Yes, I’ll tell him you’re looking for him. Now, about that coffee…” I started toward the table, but Neily’s next words stopped me cold.
“No. Don’t tell Brady anything. Call the house. Immediately. Ask for me. Tell no one else anything. No one. Not even Father.”
That reference to Cornelius Vanderbilt II held just enough emphasis to send a lump of dread sinking to the pit of my belly. “You’re scaring me, Neily. What exactly has Brady done?”
In a rare occurrence, Cornelius Vanderbilt III, heir to a fortune that had surpassed the $200 million mark a generation ago, shifted both his feet and his gaze, obviously no longer able to meet my eye. “I…I don’t like to say, Emmaline, not just now. It could all just be a…a misunderstanding.”
I strode closer to him. Realizing I was clutching my robe again, I dropped my hands to my sides and squared my shoulders. “What could be a misunderstanding, Neily? Stop being mysterious. If Brady’s in trouble I have a right to know.”
“It’s railroad business.” A faint blush stained those prominent cheekbones of his, raising my curiosity tenfold and making me wonder, Brady’s present crisis aside, what business machinations the family had gotten up to now. “Please, Emmaline, that’s all I can tell you.”
I knew I wouldn’t get any more from him. “All right. If I see Brady or hear from him, I’ll call. He was invited for tonight, wasn’t he?”
Tonight’s ball was to be both a coming out party for my cousin Gertrude and a housewarming event for Alice and Cornelius Vanderbilt’s newly rebuilt summer “cottage”—an affair that promised to be the most extravagant Newport had ever seen.
“He’s invited, but it’s doubtful he’ll show.” Neily started past me, then hesitated, staring down at the patent leather toecaps of his costly boots. “I couldn’t help but notice that…that Katie isn’t…”
Ah. Earlier that spring, a few weeks after the family had come up from New York to supervise the final touches on The Breakers, a young maid in their employ had shown up at my door, distraught and with nowhere else to turn. Katie Dillon had told me little more than what was obvious, but I’d surmised the rest. I’d been furious with Neily, and vastly disappointed with the cousin I’d known all my life and had come to admire.
“No, Katie isn’t,” I said coldly. I tugged my robe tighter around me and pushed away images of that awful night of blood and pain and tears. Katie had been in her third month, had hardly begun to show yet. “Not any longer. The child died and nearly took Katie with it.”
For the briefest moment Neily hung his head, quite a show of remorse for a Vanderbilt. “But she is…she’s…”
“Fine now, thank you for inquiring.” My tone rang of dismissal. I had far more important concerns than soothing his conscience.
Neily lingered a moment longer as if searching for words. Then he was gone, leaving me staring past the foggy windows to the waves pluming over the rocks that marked the end of the spit of land on which my house, Gull Manor, perched boldly above the Atlantic Ocean.
A half an hour earlier I’d been imagining mysterious happenings, but suddenly I’d entered a very real mystery of my own. Who was the villain? Who the victim?
A step behind me broke my troubled trance. I didn’t bother turning around. I knew my brother’s skulking footsteps when I heard them. “Right now Neily only suspects I did what I did,” he said softly. “If I undo it, there’ll be nothing to hide. All I need for you to do is be my lookout later.”
I walked to the window and reached out, pressing my palm to the cool pane. “Brady, I don’t see why I should help you if you won’t trust me enough to tell me what you did.”
“Of course I trust you. But it’s better you don’t know too much. I don’t want you implicated.”
I whirled, true fear for Brady knotting my throat. His clothes and hair had dried, but his rumpled appearance lent him a vulnerable, lost air that tugged at my heartstrings. “Oh, Brady. If you don’t change your ways, someday you’ll be beyond anyone’s help.”
He held up a hand, palm up. “Just keep an eye on the old man, Em. That’s all. Right before midnight. Everyone should be in that cavernous hall of theirs toasting cousin Gertrude before the midnight supper. But if you see Uncle Cornelius edging toward the staircase at any time between eleven forty-five and midnight, do something, anything, to stop him. All right, Em? Can you do that for me?”
I regarded his trim, compact frame, his fine, even features, and the smudges of sleeplessness beneath his eyes. Brady was my elder brother by four years. Our parents were alive and well but living in Paris among all the other expatriated artists searching for inspiration, many of whom had once, in a simpler time, called Newport home.
Arthur Cross, my father, was a painter and yes, a Vanderbilt, but a poor one, descended from one of the daughters of the first Cornelius. Brady wasn’t a Vanderbilt at all but Mother’s son from her first marriage. His father had died before he was born, a Newport dandy with a penchant for spending rather than earning and who had been presumed dead in a yachting accident, though his body was never found.
With no available parents, somehow I had become the guiding force in Brady’s life. Even at twenty-one I was the steadier of the two of us, the more practical, the one who remembered that food and clothing and a roof over one’s head couldn’t be won at poker or dicing. But when I couldn’t guide him, I picked him up, dusted him off, gave him a lecture and fed him honey cakes and tea. Why that last? Because despite his many failings—and they were numerous—there remained some endearing quality about Brady that brought out my motherly instincts. What can I say? I loved my brother. And I would do what I could to keep him on the straight and narrow.
“Promise me your intentions are honorable,” I demanded in a whisper.
“I swear it, Em.”
With a nod and an audible breath I agreed to help him. I just prayed I wouldn’t regret it.
***
Newport, RI, August 1895
She awoke that morning to an angry sea battering the edges of the promontory, and gusting winds that kicked up a spray to rattle against her bedroom windows. She might simply have rolled over, closed her eyes again and sunk pleasantly back into sleep, if not for the—
Here the nib of my pen ran dry and scratched across the paper, threatening to leave a tear. If not for the what? I knew what I wanted to say; this was to be a novel of mystery and danger, but I was having a dickens of a time that morning finding the right words.
As I pondered, my gaze drifted to another page I’d shoved aside last night. Sitting on my desktop inches from my elbow, the words I’d hastily scrawled before going to bed mocked me with their insipidness. Mrs Astor Plants A Rose Garden, the title read. Who could possibly care, I wondered. Yet people apparently did care, or I wouldn’t have been sent by my employer, Mr. Millford of the Newport Observer, to cover the auspicious event. Not that Mrs. Astor actually wielded anything resembling a garden tool, mind you, or chanced pricking her tender fingers on a thorn. No, she’d barked brisk orders at her groundskeepers until the placement of the bushes suited her taste, and then ushered her dozen or so guests onto the terrace for tea.
I sighed, looking up from my desk to stare out my bedroom window. The scene outside perfectly matched the mysterious one I’d just described: a glowering, blustery day that promised intermittent rains and salty winds. The inclement weather heralded ominous tidings for my protagonist, not to mention reeking real-life havoc on the tightest of coiffeurs.
No matter; I had no plans to stray from home until much later in the evening. I dipped my pen in the inkwell and was about to try again when from behind me a hand descended on my shoulder.
With a yelp I sprang from my chair, shoving it away with the backs of my knees. I sucked in a breath and prepared to cry out in earnest, but before I could utter a sound a second hand clamped my mouth.
“Shush! For crying out loud, Em, don’t scream. I thought you heard me. Ouch!”
I’d instinctively bitten one of the fingers pressed against my lips, even as recognition of the familiar voice poured through me and sent my fear draining from my limbs. Still, I had no intentions of apologizing. Wrenching from his grip, I turned and slapped my brother’s hands away.
“Blast it, Brady! What are you doing here? Neither Katie nor Nanny would have let you upstairs without asking me first.”
“The front door was unlocked. I called out but when no one answered I let myself in.” A flick of his head sent a shank of damp, sandy blond hair off his forehead—and assured me he was lying. That particular gesture had accompanied Brady’s fibs for as long as I could remember. The only truth to his statement was that he’d let himself in.
“You sneaked in, didn’t you?” I folded my arms in front of me. Why?”
“I need your help, Em.”
“Oh, Brady, what now?” My arms fell to my sides, and with a sigh that melted into a yawn, I walked to the foot of my bed and reached for my robe. “I suppose you must be in real trouble again, or you’d never be out and about this early.”
“Are you going to The Breakers tonight?” He referred to the ball our relatives were holding that evening.
“Of course. But—”
“I need you to do something for me.” He threw himself into the chintz overstuffed chair beside the hearth. I remained standing, glaring down at him, braced for the inevitable. “I, uh…I did something I shouldn’t have…”
“Really? What else is new?” Several scenarios sprang to mind. A brawl. A drunken tirade. Cheating at cards. An affair with yet another wife of an irate husband bent on revenge. One simply never knew what antics my half brother, Stuart Braden Gale IV, might stir up on any given day. Or night. Despite hailing from two of Newport’s oldest and most respected families—on both our mother’s and his father’s sides—Brady had seen the inside of the Newport jail nearly as often as the town’s most unsavory rapscallions. And on many a morning, I’d paid the bailiff on his behalf more times than I, or my purse, cared to count.
“I want to make it right,” he hurried on. “The Breakers will be mobbed later and I’ll be able to sneak in, but I’ll need your help.”
“I don’t like the sound of this one bit, Brady. Whatever it is, you know you should just come clean. You can’t hide from Uncle Cornelius for long.”
Before he could reply, a pounding echoed from the hall below. I heard a tread on the staircase and moments later there came a rap at my bedroom door. With an imploring look, Brady shook his head and put a finger to his lips. He jumped up from the chair and moved to the corner of the room where my armoire would hide him from view. A sense of foreboding had me dragging my feet as I went to the door.
“Good mornin’, Miss Emma.” Katie, my young housemaid, peered in at me and tucked an errant red curl under the cap she’d obviously donned in haste. Her soft brogue plunged to a murmur. “Sorry to disturb you so early, miss, but Mr. Neily’s below. Shall I tell him you ain’t receivin’ yet?”
“Neily?” A burst of wind rattled the windows sent a chill down my back. “On a morning like this?” My maid didn’t answer, and I managed to refrain from angling a glance into the shadows cloaking my brother. “Thank you, Katie. Tell him I’ll be down in a few minutes. Show him into the morning room, please, and bring in coffee.”
“Aye, miss.” The girl hesitated and then bobbed an awkward curtsy. I closed the door.
“You won’t tell him I’m here, will you, Em?”
With pursed lips I met my brother’s eager blue gaze. “He’s looking for you, is he?”
“One would assume.”
Going to my dressing table, I pinned my braided hair into a coil at my nape, secured the sash of my robe into a secure knot, and slipped my feet into a pair of tattered satin slippers. In the bathroom my great aunt Sadie had installed before she died, I turned the creaky faucet and splashed cold water onto my face.
Ordinarily I wouldn’t dream of greeting company in such a state of dishabille, but this was my cousin Neily, here on a blustery August morning hours before he typically showed his face beyond the gates of his family’s summer home.
Would I keep my brother’s secret? Blindly lend him the help he asked for?
I sighed once more. Didn’t I always?
When I stepped back into the bedroom, Brady was nowhere to be seen, though I thought I heard the telltale click of the attic door closing.
Downstairs, I paused in the morning room doorway. A coffee pot and two cups waited on the table; fruit, muffins, and a tureen of steaming oatmeal occupied the sideboard. Under any other circumstances, my stomach would have rumbled. Not today.
It didn’t appear as if my cousin had brought an appetite either, as he hadn’t helped himself to any of the repast. I pasted on a smile and stepped into the room. “Good morning, Neily. What brings you here so early, and in such weather? Not that it isn’t always good to see you.” Could he hear the hesitation in my tone? “Will you join me in some coffee?”
He had been standing with his broad back to me, staring out at the ocean, his dark hair boyishly tousled in the way that had become fashionable among the sporting young gentlemen here for the summer season. He turned, his somber expression framed by the tossing gray waves and the ragged clouds scuttling past like ripped, wind-born sheets.
“Good morning, Emmaline,” he said curtly, a civility to be gotten over quickly so he could come to the point of his visit. He held his black bowler between his hands. “Is Brady here?”
I blinked and clutched the ruffled neckline of my robe. For once I didn’t bother correcting Neily on my name. I preferred Emma, but my more illustrious relatives insisted on using my full name, as they did with all the girls in the family.
“Brady,” I repeated. I paused, hating to lie, but for now I’d do what I could to protect my brother, at least until I knew more.
I discreetly crossed two fingers. “You know Brady’s never up this early. Is something wrong?”
“He’s up today and yes, something’s wrong.” His overcoat billowing behind him, he came toward me so quickly I almost backed up a step, but managed to hold my ground. “If I were to look around, are you sure I wouldn’t find him?”
Only if you looked in the attic. But please don’t. Then again, by now Brady might be somewhere on the first floor, perhaps in the adjoining service hallway, listening to every word.
Aloud I said, “Look all you like.” I was sure Neily could hear my heart pounding. “Did you check around town?”
“He’s not at his digs, and he’s not sleeping it off at any of his usual haunts. This is important, Emmaline, and I need your help. So does Brady, as a matter of fact.”
Good heavens, did he think I hadn’t figured that out for myself? But I raised my eyebrows in a show of ignorance.
Neily’s grip on his hat tightened, leaving fingerprints on the rain-dampened felt. “If you happen to see him, if he shows up here…”
“Yes, I’ll tell him you’re looking for him. Now, about that coffee…” I started toward the table, but Neily’s next words stopped me cold.
“No. Don’t tell Brady anything. Call the house. Immediately. Ask for me. Tell no one else anything. No one. Not even Father.”
That reference to Cornelius Vanderbilt II held just enough emphasis to send a lump of dread sinking to the pit of my belly. “You’re scaring me, Neily. What exactly has Brady done?”
In a rare occurrence, Cornelius Vanderbilt III, heir to a fortune that had surpassed the $200 million mark a generation ago, shifted both his feet and his gaze, obviously no longer able to meet my eye. “I…I don’t like to say, Emmaline, not just now. It could all just be a…a misunderstanding.”
I strode closer to him. Realizing I was clutching my robe again, I dropped my hands to my sides and squared my shoulders. “What could be a misunderstanding, Neily? Stop being mysterious. If Brady’s in trouble I have a right to know.”
“It’s railroad business.” A faint blush stained those prominent cheekbones of his, raising my curiosity tenfold and making me wonder, Brady’s present crisis aside, what business machinations the family had gotten up to now. “Please, Emmaline, that’s all I can tell you.”
I knew I wouldn’t get any more from him. “All right. If I see Brady or hear from him, I’ll call. He was invited for tonight, wasn’t he?”
Tonight’s ball was to be both a coming out party for my cousin Gertrude and a housewarming event for Alice and Cornelius Vanderbilt’s newly rebuilt summer “cottage”—an affair that promised to be the most extravagant Newport had ever seen.
“He’s invited, but it’s doubtful he’ll show.” Neily started past me, then hesitated, staring down at the patent leather toecaps of his costly boots. “I couldn’t help but notice that…that Katie isn’t…”
Ah. Earlier that spring, a few weeks after the family had come up from New York to supervise the final touches on The Breakers, a young maid in their employ had shown up at my door, distraught and with nowhere else to turn. Katie Dillon had told me little more than what was obvious, but I’d surmised the rest. I’d been furious with Neily, and vastly disappointed with the cousin I’d known all my life and had come to admire.
“No, Katie isn’t,” I said coldly. I tugged my robe tighter around me and pushed away images of that awful night of blood and pain and tears. Katie had been in her third month, had hardly begun to show yet. “Not any longer. The child died and nearly took Katie with it.”
For the briefest moment Neily hung his head, quite a show of remorse for a Vanderbilt. “But she is…she’s…”
“Fine now, thank you for inquiring.” My tone rang of dismissal. I had far more important concerns than soothing his conscience.
Neily lingered a moment longer as if searching for words. Then he was gone, leaving me staring past the foggy windows to the waves pluming over the rocks that marked the end of the spit of land on which my house, Gull Manor, perched boldly above the Atlantic Ocean.
A half an hour earlier I’d been imagining mysterious happenings, but suddenly I’d entered a very real mystery of my own. Who was the villain? Who the victim?
A step behind me broke my troubled trance. I didn’t bother turning around. I knew my brother’s skulking footsteps when I heard them. “Right now Neily only suspects I did what I did,” he said softly. “If I undo it, there’ll be nothing to hide. All I need for you to do is be my lookout later.”
I walked to the window and reached out, pressing my palm to the cool pane. “Brady, I don’t see why I should help you if you won’t trust me enough to tell me what you did.”
“Of course I trust you. But it’s better you don’t know too much. I don’t want you implicated.”
I whirled, true fear for Brady knotting my throat. His clothes and hair had dried, but his rumpled appearance lent him a vulnerable, lost air that tugged at my heartstrings. “Oh, Brady. If you don’t change your ways, someday you’ll be beyond anyone’s help.”
He held up a hand, palm up. “Just keep an eye on the old man, Em. That’s all. Right before midnight. Everyone should be in that cavernous hall of theirs toasting cousin Gertrude before the midnight supper. But if you see Uncle Cornelius edging toward the staircase at any time between eleven forty-five and midnight, do something, anything, to stop him. All right, Em? Can you do that for me?”
I regarded his trim, compact frame, his fine, even features, and the smudges of sleeplessness beneath his eyes. Brady was my elder brother by four years. Our parents were alive and well but living in Paris among all the other expatriated artists searching for inspiration, many of whom had once, in a simpler time, called Newport home.
Arthur Cross, my father, was a painter and yes, a Vanderbilt, but a poor one, descended from one of the daughters of the first Cornelius. Brady wasn’t a Vanderbilt at all but Mother’s son from her first marriage. His father had died before he was born, a Newport dandy with a penchant for spending rather than earning and who had been presumed dead in a yachting accident, though his body was never found.
With no available parents, somehow I had become the guiding force in Brady’s life. Even at twenty-one I was the steadier of the two of us, the more practical, the one who remembered that food and clothing and a roof over one’s head couldn’t be won at poker or dicing. But when I couldn’t guide him, I picked him up, dusted him off, gave him a lecture and fed him honey cakes and tea. Why that last? Because despite his many failings—and they were numerous—there remained some endearing quality about Brady that brought out my motherly instincts. What can I say? I loved my brother. And I would do what I could to keep him on the straight and narrow.
“Promise me your intentions are honorable,” I demanded in a whisper.
“I swear it, Em.”
With a nod and an audible breath I agreed to help him. I just prayed I wouldn’t regret it.
***
February 1, 2014
Why Historicals?
I know that whether it's mystery or romance, contemporary stories sell better than historicals. I know that, but I choose to write historicals anyway. Am I a glutton for punishment? Afraid of success? Just plain stubborn?
The answer to that last one is probably a resounding "yes!" but the real reason I write historicals is because I can't NOT write them. Seriously. Now, I'm a modern woman with modern beliefs and values - I think women should follow their dreams and be given their deserved credit - and adequate monetary compensation - for their achievements. I prefer comfy, casual clothes, drive a car, and yes, I can find my way around a computer just fine. Oh, and no, I would not under any circumstances give up modern plumbing. But whenever I sit down at a keyboard, all of sudden I'm all about petticoats and silk hats, horse-driven carriages, and all the rest. Most of all, what fascinates me and excites me as a writer are the challenges people faced a hundred-plus years ago.
How does one solve a crime without modern forensics like fingerprints, DNA testing, etc? That to me presents a twisting, turning, and, in my mind, three-dimensional puzzle that I can't wait to get my hands on. I take my cues from Sherlock Holmes (classic, not the new Sherlock, although I'm a huge fan of that, too), and look at a crime scene from a very basic, observant viewpoint: footprints and anything that might have been tracked in by the killer, shape and size of the wound, signs of a stuggle, etc. I have my sleuth piece the evidence together to see what it all has in common, and what might be missing. As in the pursuit of science, each piece of the puzzle should lead to more questions about what hasn't been discovered yet. Poor Emma Cross, my sleuth, can end up criss-crossing Newport several times in a day as she questions suspects and traces clues.
Then there are the social restrictions. It was not easy to be female at the turn of the 20th Century, so I enjoy looking at the challenges women faced and figuring out how a spirited, smart, independent-minded young woman would have overcome those challenges. Wait, you say, aren't those modern attributes? Isn't the notion of being independent-minded an anachronism? I believe assumptions like that are incorrect, not to mention stereotypical. There have ALWAYS been women who've refused to be limited by the rules of their society. Eleanor of Acquitaine? Queen Elizabeth I? Or let's take an example from the time period I'm writing in: Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton, nineteenth century leaders of the suffragette movement, or Nelly Bly, female reporter who searched out hard news (in sometimes dangerous situations) and traveled around the world by herself in under 73 days. It's Nelly who most directly inspired Emma Cross's character.
I'm not suggesting historical heroines should be feminists in the modern sense. But, within the context of their society, education, and economic means, a young woman could endeavor to stand out, be extraordinary, and achieve something special - something to be remembered long after she left the world, and she would have done so in spite of, and in direct defiance of, social convention and probably most members of her own family. Now that's courage!
Not to mention that I always keep in mind that I'm writing for modern readers. And when we read fiction, do we want ordinary characters leading ho hum lives, or characters who lift us out of our daily grind, take us on adventures, and leave us cheering? Now, I ask you.....
The answer to that last one is probably a resounding "yes!" but the real reason I write historicals is because I can't NOT write them. Seriously. Now, I'm a modern woman with modern beliefs and values - I think women should follow their dreams and be given their deserved credit - and adequate monetary compensation - for their achievements. I prefer comfy, casual clothes, drive a car, and yes, I can find my way around a computer just fine. Oh, and no, I would not under any circumstances give up modern plumbing. But whenever I sit down at a keyboard, all of sudden I'm all about petticoats and silk hats, horse-driven carriages, and all the rest. Most of all, what fascinates me and excites me as a writer are the challenges people faced a hundred-plus years ago.
How does one solve a crime without modern forensics like fingerprints, DNA testing, etc? That to me presents a twisting, turning, and, in my mind, three-dimensional puzzle that I can't wait to get my hands on. I take my cues from Sherlock Holmes (classic, not the new Sherlock, although I'm a huge fan of that, too), and look at a crime scene from a very basic, observant viewpoint: footprints and anything that might have been tracked in by the killer, shape and size of the wound, signs of a stuggle, etc. I have my sleuth piece the evidence together to see what it all has in common, and what might be missing. As in the pursuit of science, each piece of the puzzle should lead to more questions about what hasn't been discovered yet. Poor Emma Cross, my sleuth, can end up criss-crossing Newport several times in a day as she questions suspects and traces clues.
Then there are the social restrictions. It was not easy to be female at the turn of the 20th Century, so I enjoy looking at the challenges women faced and figuring out how a spirited, smart, independent-minded young woman would have overcome those challenges. Wait, you say, aren't those modern attributes? Isn't the notion of being independent-minded an anachronism? I believe assumptions like that are incorrect, not to mention stereotypical. There have ALWAYS been women who've refused to be limited by the rules of their society. Eleanor of Acquitaine? Queen Elizabeth I? Or let's take an example from the time period I'm writing in: Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton, nineteenth century leaders of the suffragette movement, or Nelly Bly, female reporter who searched out hard news (in sometimes dangerous situations) and traveled around the world by herself in under 73 days. It's Nelly who most directly inspired Emma Cross's character.
I'm not suggesting historical heroines should be feminists in the modern sense. But, within the context of their society, education, and economic means, a young woman could endeavor to stand out, be extraordinary, and achieve something special - something to be remembered long after she left the world, and she would have done so in spite of, and in direct defiance of, social convention and probably most members of her own family. Now that's courage!
Not to mention that I always keep in mind that I'm writing for modern readers. And when we read fiction, do we want ordinary characters leading ho hum lives, or characters who lift us out of our daily grind, take us on adventures, and leave us cheering? Now, I ask you.....
January 14, 2014
A Conversation with a Reader
My daughter left yesterday to return to school in NJ, where she's studying to get her PhD. It made me sad to see her leave, but before she went we had a discussion about a book. My book! She had just read one of my ARCs of Murder at The Breakers, and to my great surprise and delight, she didn't guess who the murderer was until the evil villain was unveiled. Now, this is a child (ok, she's 25), who often within the first 15 mintues of a movie will tell you exactly what's going on - and she'll be right! It's infuriating how often she's able to pick up on clues that sail right over my head. Even her friends have forbidden her to voice her suspicions whenever they're watching something together. So score one for Mom!
We also had fun discussing the various secondary characters who are based on her own ancestors - great and great-great grandparents, for instance, because I've inserted references for the benefit of my husband's Newport family, who should get a real kick out of finding certain names in the story.
Then she pinned me down with some tough questions about why and how, and I really had to stop and think, and a time or two she almost stumped me about my own book! Smarty pants. But then again, this book was two manuscripts ago. The facts become a litte blurred, not to mention confused with newer plotlines. Still, it was fun having to think about why I chose such and such plot device, etc.
But that's not all our talk meant to me - in fact that was really the least of it. What struck me as so special was that she and I were having, basically, a literary discussion about characters and clues and motives in a book I wrote. Me! And she not only enjoyed it, it sparked her imagination and curiosity. I doubt very much she gave it much thought, but to me it felt like we connected on a level we'd never connected on before, and that, as a parent, I'd gained that elusive approval we don't typically expect to get from our kids. After all, we're just the parents, right?
I hope to have many more conversations with readers about The Gilded Newport Mysteries, but I can truly say that one will always stand out as special - as having made me feel special and that I'd really achieved something.
We also had fun discussing the various secondary characters who are based on her own ancestors - great and great-great grandparents, for instance, because I've inserted references for the benefit of my husband's Newport family, who should get a real kick out of finding certain names in the story.
Then she pinned me down with some tough questions about why and how, and I really had to stop and think, and a time or two she almost stumped me about my own book! Smarty pants. But then again, this book was two manuscripts ago. The facts become a litte blurred, not to mention confused with newer plotlines. Still, it was fun having to think about why I chose such and such plot device, etc.
But that's not all our talk meant to me - in fact that was really the least of it. What struck me as so special was that she and I were having, basically, a literary discussion about characters and clues and motives in a book I wrote. Me! And she not only enjoyed it, it sparked her imagination and curiosity. I doubt very much she gave it much thought, but to me it felt like we connected on a level we'd never connected on before, and that, as a parent, I'd gained that elusive approval we don't typically expect to get from our kids. After all, we're just the parents, right?
I hope to have many more conversations with readers about The Gilded Newport Mysteries, but I can truly say that one will always stand out as special - as having made me feel special and that I'd really achieved something.
December 29, 2013
2014 Starts Now!
New Years Day might not be until Wednesday, but I've decided to get a big head start on 2014 tomorrow. If each new year brings us a whole new opportunity to be better at what we do and who we are in general, why wait? It's no surprise that the holidays can seriously interfere with a writer's schedule, and for several weeks now I've been plagued with that inevitable writer's guilt of not producing enough - of not being where I want to be in my latest WIP, MURDER AT BEECHWOOD (book 3 of The Gilded Newport Mysteries). Not to mention that I have an idea for yet another series I'd like to propose to my publisher. Could I handle two at once? The thought makes me both nervous and excited! I'd love to try - and in a writer's world, "trying" actually means you're willing to sacrifice on other parts of your life in order to get the job done. It also means from now on I can't let distractions get the better of me, and I need to view each day as an opportunity to push ahead with my goals.
So for me, 2014 starts tomorrow, at least in spirit. Hmm...I'd better get to bed early tonight so I'll be well-rested, because there's quite a lot I want to accomplish on the first day of my new year.
What do you hope to accomplish in the coming year?
So for me, 2014 starts tomorrow, at least in spirit. Hmm...I'd better get to bed early tonight so I'll be well-rested, because there's quite a lot I want to accomplish on the first day of my new year.
What do you hope to accomplish in the coming year?
December 12, 2013
My Stars
For my first ever Goodreads blog post, I think I should explain something. If you look over the books I've read, you'll see a pattern. I only give 4 and 5 star ratings. Does that mean I love every book I read? Of course not. It means I only post about books I've enjoyed. As an author, I just don't feel it's my place to ever criticize another author. We can't all write for everyone all the time - there will always be readers who love, loathe, or are indifferent to our work. Maybe I don't care for a particular story, but that doesn't mean it's without its merits, or that someone else won't love it. Who am I to discourage a reader from picking up any particular book?
You might say I'm shirking my literary responsibilities, but I'd rather take a supportive stance. I'd rather encourage than discourage. There's enough criticism out there - we writers need to stick together and celebrate the positive in this business. Do you agree?
You might say I'm shirking my literary responsibilities, but I'd rather take a supportive stance. I'd rather encourage than discourage. There's enough criticism out there - we writers need to stick together and celebrate the positive in this business. Do you agree?
