What We're Writing Week: Julia's Tied Up In Knots

 JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: I had really hoped I'd be posting a video of the Hallelujah Chorus and  telling you all AT MIDNIGHT COMES THE CRY is done, but I've hit two, shall we say, bumps in the road.

The first is: the whole action-packed, (hopefully) thrilling finale, gathering together the entire group of good guys versus the baddies, take place in a very real location in upstate NY.  A place I last visited about a decade ago - and I wasn't thinking of setting the most important part of a novel there. 

Now, I've written about places I haven't been to before, or about places I haven't been for a while. Or I've made up locations based on the same.  But there's a difference when you're using a location for a setting, aka background, and when you're using it to choreograph an action scene. (More than one scene! Practically the whole last act!)

To illustrate the difference, imagine you're setting a book in Boston. Your characters are walking and talking on Boston streets, riding the T, and eating at restaurants. Honestly, if you can recall some of the sounds and smells, or the way the wind blows in the winter, you can get by writing all of those character interactions with a street map and a bunch of Google images saved in a file.

Now imagine a sniper is shooting at your characters, who have to snag a car and careen through the streets to the waterfront. Where can the sniper set up? How far away? What's the angle? Can cars park there, or will your heroes have to run? How fast does the traffic move? One way? (trick question: it's all one way in Boston.) When they get out of a car, what things can they hide behind? Where would the bad guys have set up, anticipating our heroes next move?

Maybe other authors do it differently, but for me, producing a fast-paced, can't-catch-your-breath, slam-bang action sequence depends on meticulous planning and a deep understanding of all the physical elements involved. (This is why I think I would be VERY good at committing elaborate heists, btw.)

Even when I've made up the whole location, I still need a clear mental picture of geography, distances, structures. And it's SO MUCH WORSE when it's a real place. A real place tens of thousands of people see every year. I can already see the torrent of emails and Goodreads reviews taking me to task for my sloppy research.

 

So I'm ushering in the finale by constantly referencing maps, charts, photos, etc. etc. All while trying to write in such a way that the eventual reader has a seamless, emotional, and exciting time once the book is out in the world. Needless to say, it's slowing me to a crawl.

Oh, and the second thing. Stress/bad ergonomics/overwork has given me a burning muscle spasm running from beneath my scapula right up the side of my neck and down to my left bicep. It's been bothering me for a week now, and yesterday I finally took action by downloading Microsoft's free voice-to-text app. I trained on it, and trained it, and my first day's word count using it is... not good.  I can tell this is going to be a steep learning curve for both of us. It doesn't help that it thinks my main characters' names are Ross and layer.

I'd like to get to the point where I can comfortably compose by voice, at which point I'd be willing to invest in Dragon, which everyone seems to agree is the bomb-diggity. I know I can change the way I interact with words and the page: I did it when I trained myself to do an initial draft on the computer keyboard, instead of longhand on paper. Of course, that was back in '86. I guess this is a chance to see just how much my brain has fossilized since then.

 I guess I have two questions for you, dear readers: How do you like your action scenes to flow? Is authenticity important to you?

And I'm welcoming suggestions to get my back muscles to calm down...

What We're Writing--Are We Quirky Enough?

DEBORAH CROMBIE: I've just been working on a fun little Get To Know the Author post for our JRW friend Dru Ann Love's Dru's Book Musings (which will post May 18th, so keep an eye out!) One of the questions was, "What's the quirkiest quirk one of your characters has?"

Well, this one stumped me. I couldn't think of a single thing. My characters have "traits," I suppose, physical details that we identify with them. Duncan is tall and has a habit of running a hand through his hair when he's thinking, but that's not really a quirk, is it? In the earlier books he drives an old rattletrap MG Midget, which he loves, but that's a thing, unless driving an old car is a quirk? 

Gemma loves her piano and her Clarice Cliff teapot, but those are personal preferences.  (And who has time for quirks with three kids AND a demanding job??)

Clarice Cliff's Moonlight pattern

Doug pushes his round wire-rimmed glasses up on his nose. Melody has a thing for cherry-red coats. I'm not seeing any real Sherlockian eccentricities here; no pipe smoking or ten percent solution or deerstalker hats (although I'm not sure which, if any, of these actually appear in the canon.) There are no Poirot-mustaches, no Wolfe-ian orchid growing, no only-a-toothbrush Reacherisms in my books.

It did occur to me that I have created a possibly quirky character in the book in progress, and also that we haven't yet had a snippet from Duncan's point of view. Here, we have our first glimpse of the Kincaid/James's new nanny:

It was nearly noon by the time Duncan Kincaid had a moment to follow through on Gemma’s request, Monday mornings being what they were in the CID room in Holborn Police Station. But when he’d worked through the weekend’s case log with the team, he slipped into his office and pulled up Bodie Murphy’s text thread on his mobile.

Gemma tied up at work, may be late, he typed. I should get home, but can you hold the fort just in case?

Their new nanny had been recommended to them by their friend Destiny Howard, who worked in Wardrobe at the Royal Opera in Covent Garden. Bodie worked in costume as well, but she was freelance and floated between the opera companies and West End theatres. She’d needed to supplement her income, and unless she was working a performance, could usually manage to adjust her schedule to the children’s out of school hours.

“Don’t be put off by the, um, look,” Destiny had said before they’d interviewed Bodie. “She’s a love and very dependable. And mum likes her. She’s helped out with the costumes for Carnival.”

Praise from Betty Howard was the gold standard in the Kincaid/James household. Betty’s son Wesley had helped out with the children since they’d first moved to Notting Hill, but Wes was busy with his own life these days, finishing a business course at college and doing freelance photography.

The artistic gifts ran in the family. Betty Howard, a talented seamstress who could turn her needle to anything from millenary to soft furnishings, had for many years made stunning costumes for Notting Hill Carnival. If Bodie Murphy’s work had been up to her standards, it was indeed quite the compliment.

Kincaid had been glad of Destiny’s forewarning, however, when Bodie Murphy had rung the bell of their Notting Hill house a few days later. The young woman on their doorstep had short, bright blue hair, milk-pale skin, and multiple piercings in her ears, eyebrows, and nose. She wore a black hoodie over a black mini-skirt, fishnet tights, and Doc Marten’s.

But when she’d held out her hand and said, “Hi, I’m Bodie,” her round face splitting into a beaming smile, Kincaid had been instantly charmed—as had Gemma and, more importantly, the children.

So, maybe Bodie is a little quirky, at least in her sartorial choices.

Readers, how do you feel about quirks? How would you define them? And do you have favorite quirky characters? Am I missing the boat by NOT giving my characters obvious quirks?

 P.S. (I could get in some serious trouble looking at the Clarice Cliff pottery for sale... someone take away my credit card!!!!)

What We're Writing: Lucy's Thinking About Mothers

LUCY BURDETTE: since Mother’s Day is coming up soon, I thought I’d write about one of my favorite topics, the mother figures in Hayley Snow’s life. She has quite a few of them by this point in the series! She has developed a wonderful relationship with her own mother, and a good solid relationship with her stepmother, and she is even on steady ground with her mother-in-law. (Not an easy feat!) And of course everyone’s favorite mother-character, Miss Gloria, is planted firmly in Hayley’s world.

Hayley’s mom makes her first appearance in the second installment of the series, DEATH IN FOUR COURSES. Hayley is attending the Key West Loves Literature conference in this book—an event that’s fraught because she is dying to become a food writer and critic of note, and all her foodie idols are in attendance. She’s made what she begins to worry is a big mistake: invited her mother to come with her. Janet Snow is a foodie too, but she lacks confidence and direction and focuses her anxiety on her daughter. This scene takes place during the conference’s opening remarks:

“I know you didn’t come all the way to Key West to listen to me,” Dustin was saying from the stage. “So I am thrilled to introduce our keynote speaker, a man who truly needs no introduction.”

“But you’ll give one anyway,” I muttered.

My mother took my hand and pulled it onto her lap. “Oh, sweetie. Let him have his moment.”

She was right—as usual. But still I rolled my eyes and squeezed her fingers back a little harder than I meant to.

“Jonah Barrows has had four major culinary careers in the time most of us have only managed one. His mother once reported that he had a highly sensitive palate right out of the womb—he would only suckle organic goat’s milk.”

The audience tittered. How completely embarrassing, the kind of thing a mother might say. Mine, in fact, was chuckling loudly. “Remember when you’d only eat strained carrots and your skin turned yellow from too much carotene?”

“Mom, stop,” I hissed.

At this point in my current WIP, Key West food critic mystery #15, Hayley’s relationship with her mom has evolved into something comfortable and healthy. They share a lot in common, but not in a competitive way. Here’s a little snippet that I hope shows a bit of that. The two women were both passengers on the boat that blew up off Mallory Square in the book’s opening:

The ringing came from the landline that Nathan suggested we keep in case the cell towers went down someday. He always wanted to be prepared for future disaster. I snatched up the receiver. My mother’s number scrolled over the small screen, and I punched accept.

“Are you OK?” I asked. At the same time, she said, “how do you feel?” We both laughed.

“Shocked,” she said, “horrified. Disappointed but grateful. I’m physically fine and Sam is too.” She lowered her voice as if someone would listen in. “The cops were here. Asking all kinds of questions. I get the feeling they think we are at the center of what might have been the crime of the year in Key West.” 

“Same,” I said. “I got the bigwigs, my husband, the chief, and Steve Torrence. Looking back, do you think you saw anybody doing anything suspicious?”

“I was so focused on getting the food out and making sure everyone was having a lovely time with something to nibble on and full champagne glasses. I wasn’t watching for criminals.” Her voice sounded sad. This promised to be a showcase for her business as well as my ezine.

“Yes,” I said, “I’m sorry. It was going to be such a lovely party. Plus, you’ve lost a lot of your catering equipment.”

“Insurance will cover it,” she said. “We’re alive and well, that’s all that matters. Did you come up with any leads for them?”

“I mentioned that there were a lot of people from the local food world, and that some of them would not have been happy about my reviews. Nathan made fun of that, and we had a little mini spat.”

“Tension is almost inevitable in a crisis,” she said. “He adores you and he respects what you do. But he feels responsible for a lot of trouble right now, and I know he worries about all of us.” She paused, and I could hear the click of her fingernail on her phone. “I wonder if it would be worth us doing some informal interviews with some folks in the foodie world. People that the police might not necessarily reach out to. Even if they did, they might not ask the right questions because they can never truly understand what drives our passion.”

Lucy again. I adore having had the chance to write about the relationship of Hayley and Janet, to observe it grow and mature. I prefer reading series to standalones because I love following the character development that occurs in the best of these. How about you Reds, series or standalones?

PS: If you haven't yet joined the Jungle Reds private Facebook group called Reds and Readers—launched January 1st—there are live chats, giveaways, and so much more! Join now so you don’t miss out... Leave a comment over at Reds and Readers to be entered in the drawing for DEATH IN FOUR COURSES.

Rhys is enjoying the south of France.

 RHYS BOWEN:  I believe I've shared the beginning of my latest opus, called (for now) Mrs. Endicott's Excellent Adventure.  It's about a respectable middle aged woman whose life is turned upside down when her husband says he wants a divorce to marry a younger woman.  He expects her to go away quietly, live in a cottage with knitting and cats. She surprises him by taking his beloved Bentley and setting off for the south of France, a place she had loved as a girl but never been back to since. (Lionel hates abroad. He's says its full of garlic and flies.)

She doesn't go alone. The bossy elderly spinster who runs the village charities appears at her door and begs to come with her. She only has months to live and longs to see the blue Mediterranean. Ellie can't say no. Then she rescues her cleaning lady from an abusive husband, persuading her to come too. The three of them set out on the adventure winding up in a small seaside town near Marseille.

I know that whole coast well. I've rented an apartment twice in the area near Nice. We've driven all along the coast and the scenery is absolutely amazing. I'm basing this book on the town of Cassis, as it would have been before tourism hit--a small harbor, some pastel houses. What I love about writing this book is that I can be there, all day, at my computer. I smell the flowers and the salt air of the sea. I watch the yachts passing and taste the delicious food.

The piece I am sharing is after the ladies have moved in to a villa on a hilltop (how they get this is a part of the plot so you just have to know they are there).

One morning She came upon Dora, sitting on the terrace, staring out to sea. At first she thought Dora was lost in contemplation but then noticed one hand was on her wrist. She was taking her pulse.

                “Are you in pain?” she asked, going over to sit beside her.

                Dora looked up, startled at being interrupted from her reverie. “Oh no. No pain. It’s my heart, you see. Congestive heart failure. It’s funny but for a while I’d forgotten that I was supposed to be dead by now. All the excitement of coming here, finding this place. I’d really forgotten. And it was only now that I noticed how quickly I became out of breath and how weak my pulse had become.

“Should we take you to a doctor?” Ellie asked in concern.

Dora shook her head. “Oh no, my dear. Doctors can’t do anything. One day it will just stop beating and that will be that. It shouldn’t be a messy death for you.”

Ellie looked at her with tenderness. “Are you afraid to die?”

“Afraid?” Dora shook her head fiercely. “No, I’m not afraid. Only annoyed.”

“Annoyed?” Ellie had to smile.

“Yes, at all the things I never managed to do. I never climbed the Himalayas. I never rode with the Bedouins across the desert. I never wrote a novel or found a drug that might cure cancer. I leave no legacy, no proof that I was ever here.”

“I’m sure you were missed in the village,” Ellie said kindly.

“Missed, yes. But not beloved. That fussy old woman. That bossy old woman. That’s the height of my achievement in life, I suppose. Properly ironed altar cloths and perfect flowers for the church. They’ll miss the flowers, but not me.”

“I’ll miss you,” Ellie said. “Let’s just see if we can keep you around a little longer, eh? Buck you up with some good food.”

Dora smiled at her. “You’ve been a good friend, Ellie. One of the only true friends I’ve had. I’ll be sorry to leave this place.” She turned away, staring out to sea again. Today the Mediterranean sparkled under a cloudless sky. A sleek yacht passed, far out to sea. The breeze was scented with blossom.

This should be a book about a woman finding a whole new life and blossoming as a person. The only complication is that they arrive in this little town at the end of 1938. Their world is about to change and how they handle it becomes a main part of the story.

ONe of my great pleasures when I read is to be taken to another time and place, to savor the smells and tastes. This is why I loved Tony Hillerman. I love Kate Morton, Louise Penny, Cara Black and my fellow Reds because I can go to London or Paris or Ireland or Key West or freeze in Upstate New York

So what about you? Do you love to travel vicariously when you read? Favorite authors who take you somewhere?

What We're Writing: Hank is CUTTING!

HANK  PHILLIPPI RYAN:  Jonathan and I went to a black tie event the other night–a gorgeous fundraiser for the Boston Public Library. (Speakers included Heather Cox Richardson, Alison Bechtel, Stacy Schiff. Ooh.) Don't we look happy? 

I am especially happy because I–maybe–am ALMOST  finished with this round of edits.

My book is due in exactly 7 days. I sent in the first draft last month, at, ahem, 121,446 words.

 

That, darling ones, is, as they say in the biz: too long.

 

Well, they say a lot more than that, but ‘too long’ is the point. I do remember, back in the day, when I wrote my very first novel. The first draft of PRIME TIME was 723 pages. How many words is that? Calculating now.

 

Hey Siri, what is 250 times 723?

 

SIRI:  250 times 723 is 180,750.

 

HANK: Well that's pretty hilarious. And I remember, back then, 2005 it was, realizing that I had to cut 400 pages. And it was the most extraordinarily educational thing I've ever done. I cut everything that was repetitive, derivative, cliched, tangential, stuff where I was trying to be funny, and a lot of things where I was trying to be writerly. (That is always the kiss of death.)

 

But killing your darlings is a great thing. If those darlings are clogging my pacing, and keeping readers from the story, they are not my darlings, and I cut cut cut with mad passionate glee.

 

In writing a novel, though, I don't know what to cut until I've written the whole thing.

 

So, that’s what I've been doing for the past two weeks. Going through every word, every sentence, every paragraph, every scene, and asking myself: what work is this doing? Why do I have this? Is this advancing the story? Why would this make you turn the page? Why do you care?

 

As has been announced in Publishers Lunch, my new book is called ALL THIS COULD BE YOURS. It stars Tessa Callaway, a debut novelist with a surprise best-selling book. She's been sent on book tour by her happy publishers, only to discover she's being stalked by... someone. Someone who is out to ruin her career and destroy the family she's left back home --and it's all a result of a faustian bargain she didn't realize she'd made.

 

Great story, huh? When I wrote that little synopsis, I thought so too. Then all I had to do was figure out what it was.

 

Who is after Tessa, and why? Is there something wrong with her family? Her past, her book? Her publisher? Is it arrival author? A rabid fan?

 

Why do you think they call them fans? someone asks her. It comes from fanatic.

Ohh, Tessa says. I thought it was from fantastic.

 

It's very meta, as you can imagine, and quite hilarious to be on book tour while I was writing this. And anyone who's ever traveled, on book tour or not,  will certainly relate to some of the situations Tessa encounters. Anyone who's ever flown, or raced through an airport, or battled with hotel air conditioning. And, most importantly, anyone who's ever been to an author event at a bookstore, or done research in a library.

 

And anyone who has ever tried to juggle a career and a personal life. Tessa realizes she's trying to be a mom to her kids via zoom. And she knows, because of her laptop discussions with her husband, that Henry has control of the zoom screen, and only allowing her to see the specific slivers of the world he wants her to see.

I finally figured out the story! Now. Cut cut cut.

 

And I have discovered kind of a secret for this last stage of editing. As I write, I begin to realize that I am using the same words again and again.

 

Tiny little words like... tiny. At least. Of course and you know and actually and certainly. And wow, people are pausing and smiling and shrugging and grinning like crazy. So I keep track of them, as I notice them, in a notebook.

 

Then, at the end of my draft, I have a page of those pet words. And it's so much fun to go through and do an edit-find for them, and cut cut cut.

 

But the cool part is that not only do I cut those words, but that every time I extract one, the entire sentence it was in gets rearranged. How do I say it in a cooler smarter better way, I ask myself. And sometimes the cooler smarter better way is to take out the sentence entirely.

 

I will confess to you I had said ‘of course’ 64 times. I mean, you know? (Oops. I had 32 ‘I means’ and 15 ‘you knows.’)  When you are writing 1000 words a day or so, you forget the words you used the day before. And I don't worry about it as I go,  I just write write write and have faith that I will take out the right words at the right time.

 

And sometimes, when the book turns to mush in my head, I just pick one of those pet words and search for it. And somehow (21) the Zen of the search gets me back into the book.

But it's the fun part, right? (I haven't counted the’ rights’ yet) . This is the time I get to carve away everything that isn't the book, and the book I meant to write is revealed.

 

Now I'm down to 100, 437 words. Yay me. And a week to go.

 

Do you notice, readers, when an author has repeated a word? There was one book I read, years ago, when the author used the word façade about 50 million times. Didn't anyone catch that, I wondered? I once got a note from an editor saying ‘please be aware of the use of the word flickered.’ Sure enough, I did an edit -find and everything was flickering: eyes, birds, monitors, video screens, digital clocks. Flicker flicker flicker.

 

Writers, do you have words that you constantly use? Whether they are things you don't even notice like just, or some word you've heard that you love, like... lattice, or convoluted, or imbroglio.

 

Tell us the words you notice in your own books, or in the ones you read.

 

And now I'm off to cut cut cut. I mean: cut.

 

(And because you will understand this: YAY. ONE WRONG WORD hardcover went into second printing, did I tell you? Yay.  AND so did THE HOUSE GUEST trade paperback. And HER PERFECT LIFE trade paperback went into third printing! And yes, all because I cut cut cut.)

What she wrote: Still loving getting older?

 HALLIE EPHRON: Welcome once again to WHAT WE'RE WRITING week! I wrote a magazine piece years back, about getting older, written from the perspective of middle age. It's one of the many efforts I've exhumed from my computer's depths and am revising. Here's the opening: 

I'm sitting at my computer trying to read the title of this piece, the letters swimming on the screen – "I Love Getting Odder"? Make that "Older." I try to remember where I left my glasses. In the bedroom? I go upstairs, pause on the landing. Why did I come up here? When I scratch my head, that’s where I find them.

Yes, middle age can be a series of bad jokes. Failing eyesight, forgetfulness, not to mention a drooping eyelid that reminds me of Columbo (who’s that actor – Peter something with an F?) whenever I look at myself in the magnifying mirror.

On the upside: not having to wear panty hose, shave my armpits, or blow-dry my hair.

Would I trade aging for youth? Not a chance. I was a pathologically self-conscious teenager for whom life was a constant source of humiliation. I slouched through high school with my shoulders hunched, school books hugged to my front like a plate of armor.

Every new place had its unwritten rules that everyone knew but me. When I walked down the street I was sure everyone was staring at me because I had on the wrong clothes, the wrong shoes, the wrong haircut, and walked like a duck. When I got lost I was too embarrassed to ask directions.

When I was 15 I begged my parents for modeling lessons which of course they refused, saying it was a ridiculous waste of money. For weeks I practiced walking with a book balanced on my head. I posed the way I thought models posed – one arm bent, my hand floating in front of me, the fingers delicately arranged. Holding that position, I pushed my hips forward, trying to imitate the way those sylph-like creatures slide down the runway, pause, pivot, and then retrace their steps, eyes trained on some invisible vanishing point at the horizon.

When I sprained my pinky finger for the third time ramming it into a door jamb as I tried to pass through, my mother gently suggested that I give it a rest.

At least now I don’t worry about how I walk and I know strangers aren’t looking at me – in fact, I’m not even on their radar. As an older woman with graying hair and a blurring middle, I am wonderfully invisible. Best of all, I’ve discovered that I can pretty much do whatever I please because there are no rules. There never were any. Other people are just as clueless as I am. ...  

So today's question: So how's it going for you? Are you embracing the years or fighting like hell to turn back the clock?

Pick Your Poison by Barbara Ross

 Jenn McKinlay: I'm delighted to be hosting one of Jungle Red Writers' favorite guests, the brilliant Barbara Ross, here to tell us all about her latest release. Take it away, Barb! 

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Barbara Ross: Torn Asunder, the twelfth book in my Maine Clambake Mystery series, releases on Tuesday. I am so happy to be there with the Reds to celebrate! The Reds supported me for the release of my first book, The Death of an Ambitious Woman, and for Clammed Up, the first book in this series. It’s kind of amazing that we are still all here together.

To celebrate the release, I’m giving away signed copies of Torn Asunder to two lucky commenters below.

Readers often ask me if I outline or “just write.” The answer I always give is, “A bit of both. I have to send a synopsis to my editor for approval before I begin writing so I have a general idea of where the book will go. But in truth, the synopsis is a hand wave. Once I’m actually drafting there are still so many decisions to be made, each one affecting the other.”

For example, a six-to-eight-page, single-spaced synopsis might refer to a character called, “the son-in-law.” But what is his name? What does he look like? How long have he and the daughter character been married, which will surely affect his relationships with her and the other relatives? Most of all, what kind of person is he? I know generally how he will move through the story, but not how he will react to the situations unfolding around him.

Another example is a synopsis that says, “So-and-so drinks a glass of brandy that has been poisoned.” You see the issues. What poison? How did it get in the brandy? Who had access to the glass and when? It’s a mystery so multiple characters must have been able to do the deed. And, always a tricky one, how did the poisoner make sure the target drank the poison instead of some other person? You get the picture.

I haven’t used poison much as a weapon in my cozy, culinary mysteries. There’s a cliché about poison being a woman’s weapon and a cliché about it being a cozy murder weapon. Those twin beliefs have kept me away from it, in a sort of reactive, rejection mode. Up until Torn Asunder, I had only used poison once, and that was in non-fatal way.

I don’t know exactly why I decided on poison as my murder weapon in Torn Asunder. It may have been because in the first eleven books I had never had someone die from a massive allergic reaction to shellfish, something someone who runs a clambake like my protagonist, Julia Snowden, would worry about all the time. But this was a murder, so I needed a poison that would look like an allergic reaction but would not be one and would not respond to treatment for one.

As I wrote, other conditions emerged. How would the poison be administered? How long would it take for symptoms to show? How long to die? As the portrait of the killer emerged, I had to figure out how a person in those circumstances would have gotten ahold of the poison.

Audio Edition

Luckily for me, I had a resource at hand, Luci Zahray, renowned in the mystery community as the Poison Lady. In a series of emails, I described the circumstances of my murder. Luci made suggestions. Through the first draft and revisions, more detailed questions emerged. I wrote more emails and go more answers. Luci was a fan of my series which made it fun for me and I hope fun for her. Others have sung Luci’s praises here. Truly, she is a wonderful resource. It takes a village to write a cozy mystery.

I’m sure I still got things wrong. If you have murder in mind, please don’t follow the directions in Torn Asunder. Your results will certainly vary. But gaining an understanding of my poison gave me confidence. And confidence is what makes good writing possible.

Readers: How do you feel about poison as a weapon? Over-done or not-nearly-done enough? Do you want the descriptions and uses of poison in a work of fiction to be accurate or is near enough, good enough to suspend disbelief? Answer the question below or just say hi to be entered to win the giveaway.

Barbara Ross is the author of twelve Maine Clambake Mystery novels and six novellas. Her books have been nominated for multiple Agatha Awards for Best Contemporary Novel and have won the Maine Literary Award for Crime Fiction. Barbara lives in Portland, Maine. Readers can visit her website at www.maineclambakemysteries.com 

About the book:

A short boat ride from Busman’s Harbor, Maine, Morrow Island is a perfect spot for a wedding—and a Snowden Family Clambake. Julia Snowden is busy organizing both—until a mysterious wedding crasher drops dead amid the festivities . . .

Julia’s best friend and business partner, Zoey, is about to marry her policeman boyfriend. Of course, a gorgeous white wedding dress shouldn’t be within fifty yards of a plate of buttery lobster—so that treat is reserved for the rehearsal dinner. Julia is a little worried about the timing, though, as she works around a predicted storm.

When a guest falls to the floor dead, it turns out that no one seems to know who he is, despite the fact that he’s been actively mingling and handing out business cards. And when an injection mark is spotted on his neck, it’s clear this wasn’t caused by a shellfish allergy. Now, as the weather deteriorates and a small group is stranded on the island with the body—and the killer—Julia starts interrogating staff, family members, and Zoey’s artist friends to find out who turned the clambake into a crime scene . . . 

Live Music and Rock Concerts by Jenn McKinlay

 JENN McKINLAY: Hub and I love going to concerts. He's a musician so it makes sense. Also, we're children of the 70's and 80's when concerts were events! Going to the show, getting the shirt, and wearing it to school the next day was a big freaking deal. Thus, my need to buy Springsteen's T-shirt a few weeks ago when we were lucky enough to catch him on his latest tour.

What do I love about concerts? The performance, for sure, but it's more than that. As Hub and I sat in our cheap two-kids-in college-seats, I chatted it up with the people around us--as you do. There were people in attendance who had seen the Boss over thirty times and they were now there with their grown children, making it a generational experience. I get the generational thing. My mom is a serious live music lover and concert goer and has seen everyone. I will likely never catch up to her.

There were also people from other states and even far away countries (Australia) who were following Springsteen on tour so after they caught him in Phoenix, they were following him to San Diego. No two shows are ever exactly the same, so I get it. 

Jenn and Hub (waving to our friend Paige Shelton who took this pic from the floor)

Steve Van Zant and Bruce Springsteen

One of the best concerts I ever attended was U2's Joshua Tree tour in the Hartford Coliseum with all of my college roommates. The crowd left the arena singing "And I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For" all together and it was so powerful it made the hair on my arms stand up straight. 

Recently, Hub and I have seen Brian Setzer (Stray Cats) and the Gin Blossoms (Hub is in another band - Honeygirl - with one of them) and we had tickets to see Jimmie Vaughn but he had to postpone. This is mostly why we've been filling our empty nest days with concerts. It occurred to us that we're getting up there and our musical icons are, too. If we don't see them now, we might not get the chance.

We were lucky enough to see the Rolling Stones before Charlie Watts passed away, and it meant a lot to us to bring the Hooligans to that show as well as many others over the years -- such as ZZ Top at the Arizona State Fair (their first rock concert), Dead & Co (several times) and Guns N' Roses for H2's birthday when the band reunited. Also, I was delighted when they recently went to see Post Malone and had to buy the T-shirt. 

Full disclosure: I'm writing this on Wednesday, but on the day this posts, I will have just seen Phish in the Sphere in Las Vegas, assuming all goes well :) I'll be sure to report back in! 

So, what about you, Reds and Readers, are you a concert goer? What show made a lasting impression upon you? If you could see any rock band or musical artist (living or dead) in concert, who would it be? 

P.S. Okay, it's Friday and the Phish concert is tonight. This is the view of the Sphere from our room! Wild, huh?

The Shanghai Connection By Libby Fischer Hellmann

Libby Fischer Hellman: Hi, Reds. Wonderful to be back with you! Thanks for including me.

MAX’s WAR: The Story of a Ritchie Boy is my just-released historical thriller about a true but little known story from World War Two: the Ritchie Boys. They were a group of 2300 German Jews who escaped Hitler’s Germany, emigrated to the US, and joined the Army to fight the Nazis. 

As you can probably surmise, I did intense research on the time period. While doing so, I discovered even more stories that haven’t been widely told. One of those stories, which I included in the novel, follows. 

You know that during the Holocaust the Nazis tightened restrictions on Jews. Many Jewish families were desperate to flee Germany and the Occupied countries. But as restrictions for them at home mounted, so did restrictions in the countries willing to accept them. Quotas limited the number of immigrants Europe and America would accept. America was especially stingy. In 1938-1939, over 400,000 Jews applied to emigrate to America. Only 27,000 received visas. 

In MAX'S WAR Max’s German girlfriend, Renée, and her family were lucky. They capitalized on one of the only paths open to Jews—if they were prepared for a dramatic change. They emigrated to Shanghai, China.

Shanghai 1920's

Why escape to the other side of the world? The exodus was in large part made possible by a heroic Chinese diplomat in Austria, Feng-Shan Ho. Often called the “Chinese Schindler,” he risked his job by issuing thousands of visas to German and Austrian Jews.

The other stroke of luck for Jews was Shanghai’s reputation as an "open city." Much of it was controlled not by the Chinese but by foreign powers – including France, Britain, and the United States. Customs officials were “tolerant” of Europeans who flocked to the city, and often “neglected” to check passengers’ papers carefully. Altogether about 20,000 Jews fled to Shanghai, and most of them survived the war. 

Shanghai in the 1930s was the most sophisticated city in China, but life in the Far East was still a shock, as Renée “reports” in a letter to Max.

There are tall skyscrapers everywhere, and the harbor lies directly in front of them. But once you get ashore, there are hordes of people packed into small spaces. Rickshaws operated by young men pull people all over town. You can see the veins on their legs popping out. There is also a glut of bicycles but only a few autos. 

From a distance it looks very Western, with electric signs and buildings and trolley cars. But up close, I noticed that the streets are not well maintained, and the odor is insufferable. I gather there is little indoor plumbing unless one lives in an affluent neighborhood. There are a proliferation of stalls selling food and drink, but we wouldn’t think of eating anything off the street. 

Even so, they tell me Shanghai is truly an international city, the largest in China. It is responsible for over half the country’s imports and exports, and everyone here is in the business of making money. They call Shanghai the “Paris of the East, the New York of the West” because aside from legitimate trading, Shanghai is notorious as the center of criminal activity in China. Opium is a huge export, and some of the wealthiest Europeans here run those businesses.

While most Jews recognize the difference between Ashkenazi (Western European Jews) and Sephardic Jews (from the Middle East, Spain & Portugal), Renée discovers a branch of Sephardic Jews in Shanghai who were new to her.

A few weeks ago we were invited to Shabbos dinner by the Sassoons, who are probably the most prominent Jewish family here. They are Bagdadi Jews, a branch of Judaism I confess is new to me. They come mostly from Iraq, Basra, and Aleppo, and other Arabic-speaking parts of the Middle East. They’ve been in Shanghai for decades, and are extremely wealthy. The family does most of their trading with Britain, and they all speak English. They are so central to Shanghai’s wealth that no one would dare to impose any antisemitic decrees. So different than Germany. 

Renée’s father was a successful jeweler, and her parents found a home in the upscale neighborhood of Jefferson Park. They assimilated into Jewish life—Shanghai had its own synagogue, Ohel Mosheh. Later there was a school and an active life for young Jews. Renée found the Chinese people generally friendly and supportive.

Jewish Refugee Museum

However, there was an existential threat to immigrant Jews: the Japanese. Again Renée “writes” to Max:

Did you know the Japanese bombed Shanghai in 1932? They occupied Manchuria but Chinese students protested (as they should), so the Japanese broke up the protests with bombs. They are so aggressive they almost make the Nazis look pacifist.

In 1937 the Japanese captured Shanghai. For the most part, they left the Jews alone. But after the Americans entered the war in 1941, things changed. They were, after all, allies with Nazi Germany.

They forced us to move into the ghetto in Hongkou, which is a horrid slum. They also treated the Chinese—well—as badly as the Nazis treated Jews. They had big plans. They thought they would conquer the world. 

Girls of the Shanghai Ghetto

Over 10,000 Jews were crammed into space for half that number. There was no indoor plumbing, heat, stoves, or garbage collection. The conditions were barely tolerable. Illness swept through the ghetto, and many died. Still, there was no incarceration or torture of Jews by the Japanese. The Japanese treatment of the Chinese was a different matter. 

After the war, not many Jews returned to Europe. Many went to Israel and the US. What about Renée and her family? Did they move back? Did she and Max ever see each other again? 

The answers are in MAX'S WAR.

Reds and Readers, did you know about the exodus of Austrian and German Jews to Shanghai? 

Jenn: I didn't. Thank you for sharing this story with us, Libby. I am looking forward to reading Max's War!