Debs: My Love Affair with the Comma

DEBORAH CROMBIE: To this I could add "my love affair with long sentences," both of which go against all the things we were taught in writing workshops. Write short, blunt sentences, they said. (See what I did there? A comma!) I am the first to admit that short punchy sentences have their place, and I do use them. (No comma between short and punchy there--we don't need it.) Short sentences move the action along. They express emotion. They add interest to a paragraph or a page of longer sentences, and help keep the reader from getting lost in the prose. But where short really shines is in dialogue, because real people seldom speak in complete sentences.

But pages and pages of short, punchy sentences can become really annoying, and long sentences without commas to clarify them can put the reader to sleep in short order, so I'd like to think I aim for a happy middle ground. (You might guess that I am a diehard proponent of the Oxford comma, and that diagramming sentences was one of the few things that stuck with me from English classes.)

But all of this really is just backup to justify the way my brain works. When I'm writing, I hear the sentences in my head, and they have a certain rhythym. Hence the commas, and if I don't hear that pause, I will leave the comma out. At which point Microsoft Word will usually correct me and I have to choose between the software's grammar police and what I think sounds right. 

I'm really curious to learn how my new editor feels about commas! And then, of course, there's the copy editor, but that's a fraught subject for another day.  (I do know that technically there should be a comma between and and then in the above sentence, but here I made the judgement call to leave it out.)

Readers, do you think about these things? If so, do you fall on the side of more commas, or less?

And now for my progress report! I am steaming along in the last quarter of Kincaid/James #20--it's all downhill from here, I hope! A few more chapters and it will be done--at least until my editor gets her hands on it.

Here's a little snippet of Duncan paying a visit to one of my favorite places, in real life as well as in the books. We haven't seen the Scotch Malt Whisky Society in a couple of books and I was missing it. (You'll have to wait to find out just why he's meeting with his former boss, Denis Childs.)

Kincaid now felt a bit silly for having insisted on the hideaway of the whisky society rather than Denis Childs’ favorite pub, which was considerably nearer Childs’ home in Clerkenwell. But as he pulled open the solid wooden door tucked away behind the Bleeding Heart Tavern in Hatton Garden, he felt the sense of security the place always conjured. Quickly, he climbed the open stairs to the first floor members’ room.

He remembered his surprise on his first visit when he’d found not the dark fustiness he’d associated with members’ clubs, but a high-ceilinged wide-windowed room painted in pale gray, with black leather banquettes and soft furniture covered in jewel tones. Clean-lined photos of whisky distilleries adorned the walls and the mirror over the fireplace reflected the awe inspiring ranks of society whiskys displayed behind the bar. Today the fire wasn’t lit and several of the windows admitted the warm afternoon air. It was still a bit early for the afterwork drinks crush, for which he was grateful, and Denis had not yet arrived.

At the bar, he asked the bartender for a recommendation, having learned that trying to pick a dram from the society’s complicated menu was practically an afternoon’s task.

“We’ve a nice Speyside in the new Outrun,” the bartender answered. “Twelve-year-old, lots of honey notes. Suits such a warm day.”

“Sounds perfect. I’ll have that and a packet of the vinegar crisps.” He’d suddenly realized he was starving, having not taken time for lunch, and it didn’t do to drink neat whisky on an empty stomach.

Claiming his favorite table in the front corner, he slid onto the banquette so that he was facing the door. There were a few business types, men and women still in suits, occupying other tables, but no one close, and no one he recognized.

With a little exhalation of relief, Kincaid raised his glass to his nose and sniffed. Closing his eyes, he took a very small sip, letting the syrupy liquid expand in his mouth. Honey, yes, and was that...pineapple? Then came the burn, with notes of ginger and spice, chocolate and cranberry. He swallowed and felt his shoulders begin to relax.

When he opened his eyes, he saw his friend just entering the room, raising a hand in greeting. 

I hope this makes everyone want to sip a good single malt--or the non-alchoholic equivalent!

And, last thing, as every post should have a picture, I took this one this morning. Spring is coming, and the rosa japonica on the back of our deck is the first thing to bloom.

If there's no hint of spring in your neck of the woods, enjoy ours!

At the Table in Paris: What Lucy's Writing

 

LUCY BURDETTE: I haven’t been in Key West over the past couple of months—at least not in my mind. Instead, I’ve been determined to write a real draft of my Paris novel before I need to get started on Key West #17. Writing this book has been on my wish list for several years, and I’ve had to make multiple trips to Paris (for research, of course.) You might remember that this is women’s fiction, about the journey of a young woman finding herself while looking for her biological father, a famous French chef. I’m closing in on 30,000 words and it’s been quite an adventure! The main character has changed, the point of view has changed, the opening scene has changed. I’m sure other things will change too, but I’m enjoying the journey, even though it’s hard. With a mystery, another murder always sparks up a sagging middle. With women’s fiction, it has to be all about the character’s odyssey. Here I give you the opening paragraphs, while warning you not to get too attached to these exact words…

Chapter One: The Paris Recipe

Natalie

Outside the arrivals hall at Charles de Gaulle airport, Natalie showed the Café de Floré’s address to the taxi driver who took her duffle. He grunted as swung the bag into his trunk, and they careened away from the curb, speeding along the superhighways that led to the city. Natalie gasped when she spotted the outline of the lacey wrought iron Eiffel Tower in the distance. The distinctive metal structure towered over the city, much taller than the other buildings that surrounded it like a sea of hungry chicks around a mother hen.

“C’est belle, oui?” the driver asked, smiling in the rearview mirror for the first time.

“Mais oui,” she whispered. “She’s gorgeous.” 

The taxi drove from the ring road that encircled the city—the périphérique exterieur, as her iphone told her—and dove through a series of narrow streets, into the harsh cacophony of the city. As they drew closer, she scraped her dark hair into a messy bun and patted a bit of glossy color on her cheeks and her lips. Even after staggering off a red eye, this city made her want to try a little harder.

The cabbie lurched to a stop in front of a large café across the street from a church. “Voilà,” he said, after dragging her duffle bag from the trunk and accepting the five euro tip she offered. “Bonne chance,” he called as he drove away.

During their one very short conversation, Aurelie, the kitchen-manager-plus-who-knows-what-else, had instructed Natalie to take a cab to Chez Cassan at noon. There she’d give her a quick tour of the restaurant along with the key for the place where she’d be staying. At least that’s what Natalie thought she’d said, as it had transpired in rapid French which was totally different than repeating words and phrases into her phone in the Duolingo app.

“C’est tout provisoire,” Aurelie had added, meaning it’s all temporary. Underneath that, probably meaning: We’ll see. I have my doubts. Maybe even, I did not want to hire you.

Natalie had shaken that off. No stiff, unfriendly French woman was going to ruin her dream before it even got started. The Real Natalie in Paris. Ha! Working in what was surely one of the top twenty restaurants in the city. Ha! Or had been anyway, until Chef Cassan’s ship had lost its rudder. Oof!

What’s the best non-mystery novel you’ve read lately, and what did you like most about the story?

Meanwhile, the final edits have been finished on A DELICIOUS DECEPTION (coming July 14,) as well as the paperback version of THE MANGO MURDERS (July 7.) Pre-orders are always appreciated!

Rhys on Writing when Life is Difficult

 RHYS BOWEN:  The last weeks have been a time of extreme ups and downs for me. Not condusive to the serenity of a writer's life. On Valentine's Day my eldest grandson got married. It was a big event with loads of people coming into Phoenix. We had a rehearsal dinner the evening before, then ceremony and fabulous reception, then brunch and barbecue the next day. Everyone happy, everything going without a hitch. Just perfect, in fact, except that my husband John was not well enough to join in most of it.

Then a few days later John had a spectacular fall. He hit his head on the stone floor. The amount of blood looked like a crime scene. We spent six hours in emergency and now have so many follow up doctor visits that its hard to keep track of them all. It's hard to accept that he is gradually failing... he is 92 after all.  He's sleeping a lot and in constant back pain.

All of this makes writing hard. Not just because I'm now housekeeper and care giver but because it's hard to keep worry at bay. I know that Hallie, Julia and Hank have all been through this with their husbands. I am trying to be positive and caring and frankly it's exhausting!

I have a March 1 deadline on my next Royal Spyness book, called TO CROWN IT ALL and luckily I had finished apart from one final read through. I was about to send it off when I realized I hadn't mentioned the dogs throughout the book. Georgie and Darcy have two labs... naughty teenager labs. But I had failed to include them anywhere in the story. Dog loving readers would notice! And I'm sure that Georgie wouldn't be able to ignore them for a couple of weeks. So now I have to go back and see where they can make an appearance without slowing down the story.

This is one of my most plot-driven books so the writing is tight. It takes place around the coronation of King George VI and Queen Elizabeth in 1937. Various people come to stay with Georgie at her lovely house. Georgie finds herself part of the coronation itself and Darcy is more than occupied trying to prevent hostile elements from spoiling the big day. Then there is Mummy who needs help. Lots going on and quite a lot of danger. 

I don't want to give away the most dramatic elements in the plot so I'll include a snippet that isn't too much of a spoiler:

My mother was standing in the middle of the foyer, looking around her with obvious satisfaction, while behind her stood a tall young man, his arms full of bags and cases. As I arrived Phipps staggered in with a large trunk.

                “Mummy!” I called.

                She opened her arms and rushed toward me. “My darling child. How wonderful to hold you in my arms again. You don’t know how much I’ve longed for this moment. Dreamed of it.”

                I found myself wondering if in fact my mother had changed her personality and had turned into a warm, effusive and motherly person.

                “it’s so lovely to see you too,” I said.

                “I’m so glad they let me come ahead of the rest of the delegation,” she said in a breathy voice.  “I pleaded that I had to see you and of course they agreed. And they very kindly sent Herr Grossauer to take care of me and make sure I got here safely.”

                My gaze turned to the man standing there. His expression was so cold, so arrogant, that it was quite clear he wasn’t any kind of servant or assistant.  He had been sent to keep an eye on my mother. She had a minder with her from the German government again, most probably from the secret police.

                “Oh, how nice,” I said. I went over to him and extended my hand. “Welcome, Herr Grossauer. I am Lady Georgiana.”

He put down the various encumberments, clicked his heels and gave a curt little bow. “How do you do,” he said in clipped English.

“It was very kind of you to accompany my mother,’ I went on, hearing myself sounding a little too enthusiastic. “I’m so glad you speak English?  My German is not too good.  If you’d like to say for a meal before you get back to London, you’d be most welcome.”

“Nein. I do not go back to London,” he said. “I am commanded to stay wiz your muzzer. This lady is a special friend of our Fuhrer and a very important person. She deserves to be escorted. I am sure when she was a duchess in your country she went everywhere with servants, nicht?”

I gave a merry little laugh. “But we have servants here and she will be well looked after until we bring her back to London. We don’t need to trouble you. I’m sure you’d be more comfortable at your embassy.’

“I stay wiz her,” he said firmly. “I am commanded to do zis and I obey.”

“Of course. Very commendable,” I replied. “I’m afraid we have rather a large number of visitors ready for the coronation so I don’t quite know where we are going to put you, but I’m sure there’s an extra bedroom in Sir Hubert’s own wing. I have the servants make up a bed for you.”   

He didn’t look exactly thrilled. He clicked his heels again. “I would prefer that my room is close to that of the duchess,” he said. ‘In case she needs me during the night. I am assigned to keep her from harm.”

I frowned at him. “In England we have a wing in the house for unmarried gentlemen, as is only right and proper. I can assure you that no harm will come to my mother in my own house in the middle of the English countryside.”

I turned back to Mummy, taking her hand. “I’ve got your favorite room ready for you. Would you like to come up to see it or would you prefer to come and say hello to everybody?”

“Oh, perhaps see my room first,” she said. “One does need to powder one’s nose after a long and tiresome journey.”

“You go on up,” I said. “You know which room you like.”

As she started up the stairs Herr Grossauer went to follow her. I stopped him. “Please wait here. I’ll ring for my housekeeper.” 

He stood there glaring at me, or to be honest I couldn’t tell if he was glaring because his haughty expression didn’t change. Mrs. Holbrook came hurrying up. “Your ladyship?” she asked, eyeing the strange man in the foyer.

“My mother has arrived, Mrs. Holbrook. Please make sure she is well looked after.” “With pleasure, my lady.” Mrs. Holbrook beamed at my mother and dropped her alittle curtsey.

“And this gentleman has accompanied her from Germany. Can you find a spare

room for him?”

“On the servant’s floor, my lady?” she asked, eyeing him nervously.

“Oh no. Herr Grossauer represents the German government. We should treat him according to his rank. I think the only suitable bedrooms still available are in Sir Hubert’s wing, with the other bachelor?”

“Of course, my lady. I’ll have a room prepared.” Her expression didn’t waver but I could tell she got my meaning. Keep him as far away as possible.

“I’m sure Herr Grossauer would also like to freshen up after his journey. Please take him up and show him a bathroom he can use.”

“Follow me, mein herr,” she said, eyeing him suspiciously.

He glanced back at me. I couldn’t tell if the glance was angry or not, but he went after her.  I ran straight up after Mummy and found her sitting on the bed in her room. “Oh darling.” She held out her arms to me and I hugged her, something we had not done very often in our lives.  “Has he gone?” she whispered.