A SETBACK

When I last wrote for Thursday Night Writes I was drawing to the close of the third major revision of my mystery. Now I’m in a major slump of a setback.

What happened? Too many things. Too many hurdles to leap, too many plot changes, too many revisions that could take me all the way back to the beginning of my novel.

Last year about this time I took an on-line course with Paul Harding, the author of the Pulitzer Prize winning Tinkers. He said that when we stop writing on a scene, a dialog, or the whole book, it’s because it’s hard, and it has become work.

My cozy has always been, if nothing else, fun. Now, with everything I need to do to push it forward, it has become work. I’m starting to sound like Maynard G. Krebs from the old Dobie Gillis show. I know that must date me, but if you don’t recognize the name Maynard G. Krebs, you might have heard of Gilligan’s Island. When Maynard grew up, he became Gilligan, but while he was still Maynard he would cringe at the mere mention of the word ‘work’. As Gilligan, however, he always did his share, or more, of the work he and his fellow cast-aways had to do to survive on their deserted island.

The holidays are coming to my rescue, giving me all the excuses I need NOT TO WORK ON THE BOOK RIGHT NOW. And that’s fine, it happens every year. My thoughts turn to turkey dinners and then on to Christmas and knitting for various lucky people.

However this year my hiatus from writing is because I’m cringing at word work, not because it’s time to shift gears to holiday mode. And therein lies my moral dilemma. I don’t like the idea that I’m a lily-livered, weak-kneed, coward when it comes to re-arranging a few words on a page, a few lines of a scene, a few pages in a chapter, a few chapters in the WHOLE BOOK!

If by January I have not succeeded in getting back into the story then I’ll have to seek professional help. But I know I can do it. It’s grow up time for me and Maynard, and when the holidays are over I’ll welcome getting back to work with a renewed vigor. I hope.

Happy Thanksgiving to all.

I’m hoping to earn a summa cum murder one of these days, so naturally I’m working my way up. Last weekend, I attended the 21^st annual Magna cum Murder conference in Indianapolis. My pocket notebook is bursting with wise tips, potential contacts and off-the-cuff sketches of typical attendees of murder conferences. Face it, people. We’re weird.

We’re also smart and funny and very good company.

On the “smart” front, I call in evidence Cheryl Hollon, formerly an engineer who constructed flight simulators all over the world, now full-time writer of the Webb’s Glass Shop mystery series. Sarah Wisseman was there, too. She’s a former archaeologist, who’s just started her second series of archaeological mysteries, this one starring an art conservator in Siena (Burnt Siena.) My table mates at lunches and dinners included more archaeologists, an anthropologist, a lawyer….

And funny! International guest of honor Simon Brett gave an after-dinner speech that was even better than the chocolatey dessert.

Simon Brett, Michael Dymmoch (hidden by Simon), Monica Ferris, M.E. May and Andrew Welsh-Huggins debate amateur sleuths vs. P.I.s vs. police detectives

I won’t steal too many of his jokes, but here’s a taste:

In a British accent even plummier than his own, he read excerpts from Jane Austen’s only attempt to write a pornographic novel, Sense and Sensuality. (It began, “It is a truth universally acknowledged…” I leave the rest to the reader as an exercise.)

He plundered T. S. Eliot’s business correspondence and came up with a letter to an overdrawn bank customer, beginning, “Dear Mr. Prufrock….”

Dylan Thomas’s Welsh accent sounded from the grave in an excerpt from Under Murder Wood.

We heard some of the latest Scandinavian Noir, The Girl with the Unpronounceable Name, apparently read by the Muppets’ Swedish chef: “The inspector brooded…  …. … Then he brooded some more.”

Brett had a few sharp words for the clichés of our genre, too. My favorite: “Writing about serial killers is a lot easier than making up a proper plot.” The hard-as-nails, gorgeous female pathologist came in for heavy criticism, accompanied by Brett-produced sound effects: a liver squishing and a bone saw.

Monica Ferris, hatted by Angie’s Hats of Minneapolis

What is it about mystery writers and hats? I’ve written here before, with pictures, about the hats worn at Malice Domestic’s closing tea party. At Magna cum Murder, Monica Ferris, author of 18 fabric-arts mysteries, stood out for her millinery. Here she is at the cocktail reception, in the blue confection made especially for her by Angie’s Hats of Minneapolis. Check the lower left corner of the mirror behind her to get the full effect of the white feathers. And below, by permission, is one of Angie’s Kentucky Derby hats.

“Ruby” — a Kentucky Derby hat by Angie (already sold, sadly)

And here’s Monica again in the hat (not one of Angie’s) that she wore at the final panel. With her is Michael Dymmoch, author of the John Thinnes/Jack Caleb mystery series, and wearer of dragons.

Michael Dymmoch with dragon and Monica Ferris with hat.

All right, I suppose we should do some work here. Some of the writing and publishing tips I collected at Magna included:

Now that publishers do so little and ask so much of writers, a small publisher with a smaller list may put more resources into getting your book known.

Small-town gossip is always a good way to convey information to a reader, but to judge from audience response at one panel, people enjoy reading it for its own sake. Similarly, most of one Q&A was taken up with anecdotes of interesting overheard remarks.

The last impression made by your final scene is what determines whether the reader will buy the next book in your series.

Sally Wright, author of both the Ben Wright and the Jo Grant series, outlines before she writes…and outlines, and outlines…. Sometimes, she goes on for fifty pages before writing the first sentence of the text.

From Sarah Wisseman: have your protagonist miss a clue because of a crisis in her personal life.

And now I suppose, as Willem Lange says, “I gotta get back to work.”

COZY MYSTERIES are also referred to as ‘cozies’. In England they are called ‘Aga Sagas’ because they are read sitting by the Aga stove on a blustery evening (or afternoon).

I’m drawing to the close of my third complete revision of my cozy. Round of applause, please. It’s been gruesome and exhausting.

One of the members of my writing group had only a vague concept of what a cozy was even after years of critiquing my work. I asked this person to read one that had influenced my choice of fiction, and then he could critique me. After reading twenty-eight pages my fellow writer was completely saccharined-out.

Cozies can have that affect on some people. There are cozies, and there are cozies, just as in any other genre. They run the gamut from Agatha Christie and Dorothy Sayers down to. . . well I won’t say down to whom, but they are out there, complete with misspellings and main character name changes in the middle of the story. One cozy I read misspelled leech throughout the book, and the poor leech was a secondary character.

Usually a cozy takes place in a small community where everyone is known to each other, though not necessarily intimately. It’s a cliquey sort of environment, and emotions can run high for extra tension beyond the tensions the prerequisite murder have caused. If you think of how a movie is rated for S, V, and L, a cozy will come in at a PG. Sex, Violence and Language are virtually absent from the page, only referred to so the reader will know that S and V have occurred in some less savory quarter, or to an unsavory person who uses L.

The protagonists are usually female, as are the readers of cozies. Almost always they are amateurs when it comes to dealing with crime. They continue this charade even if the series runs to ten or a dozen books. It’s an appealing shtick.

The protagonist sometimes has an interesting side-line that can be part of the mystery, or an aside that the followers of that series enjoy reading about. Examples are: innkeeper, caterer, animal breeder, bookbinder, herbalist. The list stretches on.

And the protagonist usually has a friend in the police force who aids her in the search for truth and justice.

I fought against it, but my protagonist has been working with a policeman. He wants to retire, preferably in the arms of the heroine, but that, and anything else un-cozy, will never darken the pages of my story.

Unless there is a sequel.

The weather, the leaves, the wood stove are all busy doing their thing. What thing? The pre-winter thing.

Well, is that a good thing, or a bad thing? F. Scott Fitzgerald said, “Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall”. That sounds like a very good thing to me.  Summer is just too sultry.

Every season has its ups and downs, but I’d say that the pre-winter season, sometimes called fall, is my favorite. Pre-winter, called so because preparing for winter is what the season is basically all about. My houseplants all have to be back from summer vacation in the yard, and in their spots along the south facing windows by Friday of this week. That’s when the first killing frost happens. Wood has been ordered, and when it arrives it has to be stacked. Screens are already off, and windows need to be washed. I’m looking forward to finishing the current revision of my novel, and putting it to rest for a month or two. I want to get out my yarn and knitting needles and create stuff. I want to learn to do Fair Isle knitting. All I know about Fair Isle knitting is that it is not for the weak. Neither is writing. What, all of a sudden I’ve become Super Woman? I don’t think so. I just keep trying.

I’m looking ahead to those quiet hours spent INDOORS reading, knitting and writing. Those are good things. Of course that means that there will also be more time for things like paper work (not related to writing), cleaning out closets, drawers, and constantly stoking the wood stove instead of only sporadically, as we are now. Those are not my favorite things. Eh, you have to take the good with the bad.

Enjoy your pre-winter now, whether you like it or not, because winter is coming!

ANOTHER SLAM

This past weekend saw another 48 Hour Film Slam in Bradford, Vermont. It was the 6^th Annual Film Slam to be sponsored by the Cohase Chamber of Commerce. Cohase being the region here in upper New Hampshire and Vermont.

Friday evening the competing film teams drew their genres from a hat. They were then given a list of required ‘musts’ they must embed into the film.

This year’s physical requirements were a sap bucket, and a product placement (advertisement piece); a plastic cup with a sponsors name written on it. Woodsville Guarantee Savings Bank, in this case. Also a location; the Newbury Village Store, and a line of dialog; “I don’t know, Herman. Something about you just pisses me off”.

The teams retired to come up with what they hoped was a great story. They built props, checked out locations, prepared costumes. They had already composed their cast and crew, checked their equipment, and lined up a caterer. Then they acted, filmed, edited and wrote music.

Because my son heads a film team I’ve seen some of the nitty gritty aspects that go on behind the scenes. Cast and crew catching cat-naps wherever they can, whenever they can. Fake blood production in the kitchen, clean-up of fake blood where its been liberally used. People eating in shifts, sometimes in the middle of the night while they are still working. Trucking equipment here and there, trucking cast and crew hither and yon, and shooting till there’s no light left to see. I’ve seen hopes raised, dashed, and materialized when the seven minute films are judged.

This year only five teams competed. Few compared to other years and venues, but still serious business. Never let your guard down, never let yourself think that you have this film sewn up and tied with a bow, because you never know what the judges and audience will think. It has to be the best you can do in 48 hours, even if it means no sleep and working with perpetual jet-lag.

The team members love it. These competitions get their blood flowing – that’s real blood, in real veins.

In past years my home has been a set and I’ve been caterer. I’ve housed cast and/or crew, and have been a general dogs-body. This year I was invited to sit in on the two hour story marathon where everyone involved speed wrote and pitched their story.There was a vote and the most popular choices were then reviewed by the directors. I was totally surprised when my story was picked because I thought that other stories were more exciting. Exciting isn’t necessarily what is looked for. There’s audience appeal, feasibility, and comprehension. Even in a Monster movie.

We wrote a screenplay from my narrative and I went home and crawled into bed at 2 AM. Not to sleep, though. Too many thoughts ran through my head all night.

The next morning I checked my email for the screenplay only to find that all sorts of things had been changed overnight. Should I fuss about it? Naw, it’s out of my hands now. When I got the call later to say I was needed to play a character even more things had changed.

Shooting my scene happened at midnight, after which I went home and crawled into bed, again not to sleep. Too much adrenalin coursed through my veins.

Early the next morning shooting was wrapped up in the woods behind my house. Later we all prepared for the big event that evening. Our film was turned in one minute before the deadline. Harrowing!

We won. So happy. Celebratory festivities.

I crawled into bed that night, but sleep again eluded me. Just too much excitement for an old lady I guess.

The film making process is fun, but definitely exhausting. Am sleep deprived as I write this.

Will include a link to the film hopefully the next time I post. Now to sleep.

I am lying in bed. Everything is turned off. The excited chatter of the evening’s dinner has finally stopped echoing in my head. And yet, true silence is elusive. The noises are now unfamiliar. Was that a rustle of the sheets, or a footfall on the stair? The wind knocking at the window, or someone’s fingers slipping off the screen?

At night, little creaks are piercing, the refrigerator hum deafening. My racing heart is at war with the sleeping pill I took, and the dripping sink sings me awake awake awake. Then as I start to drift off, a party somewhere down the street breaks apart messily.

I wait for the last hoot of laughter, the rumble of the last car pulling away. . . . And I start again to parse the grunts and groans of the old bones of this house, the patter of mice in the rafters, suddenly becoming aware of the fan, it’s blades slicing the air.

9:07 AM,

09:07 Hours

9/5/2015

21^st Century

Have you ever noticed how many numbers we use just to get through the day? I’m not a big fan of numbers, but when they’re used, as above, without requiring me to manipulate them in some way to prove a point, then I can deal. Those manipulation processes, which purport to figure out everything in the universe and then some, left me cold way back in elementary school.

Phone numbers, the remembrance of, especially when rattled off as though the person’s life depended on it, or, so the rattler can conclude that one is a person of little intellect when one can’t rattle them back, that’s another bete noir of mine.

Highway numbers. Oy vey. I’ve lived up here in the frozen north for over twenty years and still couldn’t tell you which state, New Hampshire or Vermont, has I-93, and which has I-91. I’ve driven them both many times, but I still have to say, ‘the one in New Hampshire’, or ‘the one in Vermont’, if I’m informing someone of my travel plans. In N.Y. we had the Grand Central Parkway and the Long Island Expressway. Names make so much more sense than numbers.

Yes, I concluded a long time ago that I had a real problem with numbers

So, last week I was asked to do a writing exercise. I had written a scene in 1^st person. The exercise was to re-write it in 3^rd person. I had to re-circuit that information to the language section of my brain and remember that 3^rd person equaled he, she, it. Or maybe it doesn’t anymore, but that’s not my problem, my problem is with numbers, not genders. I find it hard to fathom that people can, with facility, transpose numbers and words at the drop of a hat. I had to immediately stop thinking 3^rd person once I made the connection and only think of my character as a she, and not as an I. True, it wasn’t as hard as I’ve made it sound, I’ve learned to compensate for numerical deficiencies. I can ask to have the question repeated, I can cough, I can pretend I was thinking, in an attempt to gain the nano-second more time I need to process a spoken number and have the question re-routed.

Oliver Sacks, who passed away last week at the age of 82, was a neurologist, and a best-selling author. His research involved studying his patient’s disorders and learning how they coped with their conditions. Sacks wrote The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat, an article which later appeared in a book of case histories with the same title. The man in question suffered from prosopagnosia, the inability to see facial features,a condition Sacks himself had.

Sacks’ condition didn’t stop him from writing, in fact it gave him the old grist for the mill. I see no reason to stop either, and any numbers I use in my stories will probably be the kind that appear at the bottoms of the pages.

1

PERENNIAL READING

Doesn’t everyone have a ‘to-be-read-again’ list of books that equal, or exceed, in length a list of books that still need to be read? Maybe it’s a written list, maybe it’s one held in your mind as a vague and various bunch of books that were exceptionally good reads. Maybe it’s a sub-liminal list from which books only spring to mind when triggered by a word, scent, sight, or even a song heard long ago while reading that book. Then you get that all-over, tingly, mystical frisson that sends a message to your brain saying, oh,yeah, I should read that again, soon. Maybe now. And somehow you manage to get hold of that book from off a dusty shelf, from your mother’s house, out of an unpacked box of books from your move twenty years ago. Or you just happen to see it in a yard sale for five cents. That’s kismet.

My to-be-read-again list is unwritten. I’m not sure what’s actually on that list, but I’m darn sure there is a list, and I think it’s the sub-liminal kind.

I looked up sub-liminal and discovered it’s equally acceptable spelled with or without the hyphen. That’s interesting. Another interesting thing is my discovery of WICTIONARY. I looked further and discovered that Wictionary is a Wiki-based Open Content dictionary. I kept looking and probing and maybe never would have gotten back on track with this post if I hadn’t glanced at the clock. I stopped in the middle of reading all about Beowulf Clusters. At this hour enough is enough. (Ten PM.)

Sub(-)liminal still means what I thought it meant, and then a little extra:“Below the threshold of conscious perceptions, especially if still able to produce a response.”!

Ok. I take those bold italics to mean that I might not get that frisson if the subliminal message to read a specific book:

a. is past it’s expiration date, meaning I’ve moved on past that book to bigger and better books, or;

b. I’ve actually just re-read that book and the message fell on a satiated sense, or;

c. the last time I re-read that book I hated it and the message fell on a repugnant sense.

I looked up repugnant in Wiktionary just to make sure that at ten:eighteen I was still conscious.

It’s from the Old French, (borrowed from the Latin, pugnare – to fight). Repugnant means, “to oppose, to fight against.” If I hated a book that much I suppose I would fight against it, no matter how many subliminal messages I received to the contrary.

I’d love to hear about lists that don’t wreak havoc on the sub_concious.

I’d love to hear what books are on those lists!