DEBORAH CROMBIE: When I first started writing, I devoured anything I could find about how other writers wrote. Computer or paper, morning or evening, outline or no outline. I was sure there was a magic bullet somewhere--a formula you could follow for tackling what sometimes felt like an insurmountable task.
It turns out that there isn't (or at least I haven't discovered it,) other than butt-in-chair, which just so happens to be the hardest thing for me. But I'm still fascinated by the nuts and bolts, how other people do this weird exercise in making things up and turning those things into a finished book, so earlier this week when Hank gave us a peek at her editing process, I was agog. Hank keeps track of her edits!
I am the edit queen, I swear I can edit a page fifty times, but I do not keep track! I don't save drafts, either. Once something is over-written, it is gone forever. Yikes! Contemplating this makes me feel a wee bit insecure, as if I'm writing without a safety net, but I think doing it any other way would totally discombobulate me.
As for what I'm writing that might disappear into the ether, I'm still plodding away at Kincaid/James #20. Is there a prize for tortoise authors, I wonder...
It's hard to find a spoiler-free snippet, but here, edited even as I copy-pasted, Gemma and her sergeant visit a restored barge on the Thames. (This is not the barge described, but a view of the same stretch of the Thames above Teddington Lock.)
They reached the sturdy-looking ramp and Gemma strode up it
ahead of Butler, and onto the deck of the boat. Before she could knock on the
cabin door, it opened and Mabel was jumping and sniffing at Gemma’s legs, the
fan of her tail wagging madly. Gemma crouched to stroke her. “Hello, lovely
girl. Nice to see you again.” She glanced up. “Davey, this is Mabel. We met
yesterday.”
“Mabel, enough,” said John Quillen, now visible inside the
cabin. “Inspector,” he added, then acknowledged Butler with a nod. “Sergeant.” His
t-shirt and cargo shorts made Gemma feel seriously over-dressed, but he looked more haggard than he had the previous day. He was unshaven, his wavy dark
hair disheveled. “Do come in. I take it you didn’t have any trouble finding
us.”
“You might have warned us about the parking,” said Gemma as
they followed him inside, softening the comment with a smile. “Wherever do you
put your van?”
His features relaxed. “Ah. Sorry about that. Sometimes I
get lucky. Otherwise, I have a mate who has a repair garage off the High Street
in Teddington. He lets me leave the van in his yard when he has the space.” The
three of them and the dog made quite a crowd in the barge’s tiny cabin and
Gemma was relieved when Quill motioned towards the open interior doorway. “If
you’ll go down, we can talk in the lounge.” Mabel turned and vanished into the
opening with a bound. After another encouraging gesture from Quill, and with
growing curiosity, Gemma followed the dog. She found herself on ladder-steep stairs
and wondered if it might be easier to go down backwards rather than forwards, but
she was already committed to the forward-facing descent.
At the bottom, she stood, gaping. Somewhere in her subconscious,
she supposed she’d expected dark and dank in a living space that was at least
partly underwater. But the light pouring from portholes and skylights flooded
the long room before her, and her first impression was of colors, reds and
blues and the golden warmth of wood. A drafting table anchored one end of the
living area, and in the other, there was a small sofa, a coffee table, and an
interesting-looking modernist leather chair.
With a pang, she realized it reminded her of the garage
flat where she and Toby had lived before they’d moved into the Notting Hill
house with Duncan and Kit. That tiny space had given her a much-needed sense of
control over her chaotic life as a single, working mother, and she had loved it
passionately.
I want to live on this boat! I wanted to live in Gemma's garage flat, too. Maybe my obsession with small, organized spaces is due to the fact that I live in a big, rambling, messy house.
REDs and writer friends, how do you manage drafts of your work?
And readers, do you like references to previous books in a series?
P.S. Mabel is a liver and white springer spaniel, and I'm sure I'm projecting my spaniel desires, too.
P.S.S. If anyone has discovered that magic bullet, do let me know.
JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: As you're reading this, I'm at New England Crime Bake (along with Hank, Hallie, and many of your fave authors.) This is a kind of prelude to the main event upcoming in my life: the release of AT MIDNIGHT COMES THE CRY on November 18. (Rhys's FROM CRADLE TO GRAVE comes out the same day, so make sure you've pre-ordered!)
