A NYTimes rave for our own Julia Spencer-Fleming

HALLIE EPHRON: There's much excitement here at Jungle Red! 

Fireworks! 

Drum roll! 

We're delighted to report that MIDNIGHT COMES THE CRY, Julia's brand new, hot off the presse book, has earned an absolutely glowing review from The New York Times's mystery maven, Sarah Weinman.

We're madly toasting Julia, and happily sharing the news. 

Here's what Ms. Weinman has to say: 

Over 10 books, Spencer-Fleming has examined the joys and ills of small-town life, the limits and tests of faith, and the many ways love can prevail. In AT MIDNIGHT COMES THE CRY (Minotaur, 308 pp., $29), her first book in five years, the longtime Millers Kill, N.Y., police chief Russ Van Alstyne has just resigned. He and his wife, the Rev. Clare Fergusson, have settled in for a quiet holiday season with their 8-month-old son. That is, until a white supremacist group descends upon the town, inciting violence at the annual lighted tractor parade, and Russ gets word from Officer Hadley Knox, the newest member of the Millers Kill police department, that her former partner has vanished after a stint infiltrating local militia groups.

It doesn’t take long for Russ and Hadley to realize that the people they care about are in the cross hairs of malevolence, and that following the procedural playbook won’t keep them alive. Fleming, in her most masterly turn yet, mixes heart-stopping action with deep empathy for her characters.

Goodness! It doesn't get much better than that!

Brava Julia! Russ and Clare can bask. 

It said... vs I read

HALLIE EPHRON: Seems like daily I go down the rabbit hole with a very personal MISreading of a news item. And the mistakes, I am sorry to say, illustrate how much being an aging crime fiction writer has taken over my brain.

A few days ago it said:
"The Volunteer Buglers Giving 24-Note Salutes" 
I read:
The Volunteer Burglers Giving 24-Note Salutes   

A few weeks ago, the news article said: autopay.
I read autopsy.

Then there was the headline that said:
"Even Mediocre Home Baristas Can Make Good Espresso With This Unintimidating Machine"  
I read:
Even Medicare Home Baristas Can Make Good Espresso With This Unintimidating Machine 

An finally, a news bulletin said:
"Japan was violating an agreement to stop dumping semiconductors on the US market at below cost”
I read:
Japan was violating an agreement to stop dumpling semiconductors on the US market at below cost. 

This last misreading, clearly driven by my passion for Chinese soup dumplings.

Do you have a penchant for misreading the news, one that reflects what you really care about or, as in my case, how much your brain is in a state of gradual decay but your sense of humor remains intact?

A trip down phoney-baloney road

HALLIE EPHRON: I live just south of Boston, and whenever we needed to drive through the city and into New Hampshire or Maine, we liked to take Route 1 -- which we referred to as the "phoney-baloney road." With kids in the back seat shouting out every they spotted another wacky beloved landmark.

In addition to shopping malls and fast food restaurants and sketchy looking bars, Route 1 was dotted with literal-minded storefront that earned its name, "phoney-baloney."

At the start, there was the hulking orange T-Rex perched on an overpass beside a miniature golf course. The golf course is now long gone, but the dino remains, watching over his domain.

There was the truly Leaning Tower of Pizza.

The restaurant that looked like an enormous pirate ship that had washed up on suburban Boston.

The Hilltop, a steak restaurant that marked its place with an enormous neon cactus and was surrounded by life-sized cattle "grazing" alongside the always-long line of hungry diners waiting to get in.

And the illustrious Chinese restaurant, The Kowloon, which I am sorry to report is about to undergo demolition to make way for something or another much less interesting. Their all-you-can eat was spectacular and it was surrounded by gardens.

All of these were dear to my heart, probably because I grew up in Southern California just over the canyon from the TailofthePup.

Do you have fond memories of establishments that would have been right at home on our Phoney Baloney Road?

Classics for when you're in the mood for mystery...

Back in 2008, my book "1001 Books for Every Mood" was published. It's out of print now (the publisher went belly up, but copies are amazingly still available on ABEBooks). I often go back to the lists and marvel at my own stamina, and to remind myself of the titles that set the bar for our genre.

These are the books I recommended for WHEN YOU'RE IN THE MOOD TO SIFT CLUES

The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler
A dying millionaire hires Philip Marlowe to deal with his daughter’s blackmailer. This is the book that introduced the world to Marlowe, one of the first hardboiled private dicks. With his “powder-blue suit, with dark blue shirt, tie and display handkerchief, black brogues, black wool socks with dark blue clocks on them,” only the attitude resembles Bogey’s portrayal on the silver screen.

The Black Dahlia by James Ellroy
In postwar LA, burnt-out New York cop and former prizefighter Bucky Bleichert becomes obsessed with a real (and still today) unsolved 1947 Black Dahlia torture-murder case. In this book you get all the gory details of the actual crime. Bleichert cracks the case, but in the process he loses his job and much more. In spare, powerful prose, Ellroy machine guns his story at the reader. In a poignant afterword, he discloses that his own mother was the victim of an unsolved murder.

The Circular Staircase by Mary Roberts Rinehart
The first line says it all: “This is the story of how a middle-aged spinster lost her mind, deserted her domestic gods in the city, took a furnished house for the summer out of town, and found herself involved in one of those mysterious crimes that keep our newspapers and detective agencies happy and prosperous.” Soon our girl’s up to her corset in ghosts, stolen securities, and murder. This 1908 novel was the first from the prolific author and invented the mystery sub-genre “fem jep” in which a heroine is in jeopardy and has to be rescued (in modern versions, she rescues herself).

The Concrete Blonde by Michael Connelly
LAPD detective Hieronymus “Harry” Bosch has killed a man he thinks is a serial killer of prostitutes and porn stars. Then a similar murder occurs. Did Bosch kill an innocent man? Many feel Connelly is our best living American mystery writer, and this is considered one of his best novels.

The Daughter of Time by Josephine Tey
Scottish author Tey explores one of the great unsolved mysteries of all time: the murder of Richard III’s two young nephews and heirs to the throne. In this enduring novel written in 1951, a painting of Richard III catches the interest Scotland Yard Inspector Alan Grant while he’s laid up in hospital and bored to tears.: The inspector, something of an expert on faces, “lay a long time looking at that face, at those extraordinary eyes.” He muses, “I can’t remember any murderers, either in my own experience, or in case-histories, who resemble him.” As he tries to solve the murders, Tey provides readers with an enthralling blend of fact and fiction.

The Deep Blue Goodbye by John D. MacDonald
This first Travis McGee novel (there were 21 of them from 1964 to 1985) launched the much beloved salvager of lost causes who lives on the “Busted Flush, a 52-foot houseboat docked in Fort Lauderdale, drives a blue Rolls-turned- truck he calls “Miss Agnes,” and has a soft spot for a desperate woman. In this one, the dame is Cathy Kerr, “a brown-eyed blonde, with the helpless mournful eyes of a basset hound” who seek his help recovering gems belonging to her deceased father.

Devil in a Blue Dress by Walter Mosley
It’s 1948 in a Los Angeles where there’s “still a large stretch of farmland between Los Angeles and Santa Monica.” World War II black army vet Ezekiel “Easy” Rawlins is out of work. He accepts $100 from a white thug to find Daphne Monet, a missing white woman who’s been seen partying in black nightspots. “That girl is the devil, man. She got evil in every pocket,” he says after friends of the missing woman start turning up dead and Rawlins becomes the prime suspect. This first novel won Mosley critical acclaim for the unique voice and post-war setting.

Eight Million Ways to Die by Lawrence Block
Matthew Scudder is not just another hardboiled private investigator, though he certainly fits the mold—an alcoholic ex-cop, divorced and estranged from his family, guilt-ridden by a holdup he couldn’t stop and a little girl’s murder he couldn’t prevent. He’s also one of life’s sardonic observers. A 23-year-old hooker comes to him for help getting out of “the life.” She’s murdered. Scudder is determined to find her killer. Block, one of today’s most prolific and widely read mystery authors, is a writer’s writer who does dark, claustrophobic New York to a T.

The Hard Way by Lee Child
Raymond Chandler meets Hemingway in Child’s spare prose. In this 10th series novel, tough-guy Jack Reacher is in New York at a café, minding his own business, when he sees a man get into a Mercedes Benz and drive off. Turns out he’s witnessed a ransom payoff. Twenty-four hours later, the kidnappers haven’t released millionaire Edward Lane’s wife and daughter, and Reacher gets recruited to find them. Child may be a Brit but he nails American macho.

The Hound of the Baskervilles by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Holmes, Watson, Lestrade, and the legend of a hell hound of Dartmoor. Was Sir Charles Baskerville killed by the infamous Hound of the Baskervilles, a demonic dog believed responsible for killing his ancestor Sir Hugo Baskerville hundreds of years earlier? As Holmes and Watson journey to investigate, they encounter an “enormous coal-black hound, but not such a hound as mortal eyes have ever seen.” If you’ve never read a legendary Holmes book, here’s a good place to start. Read it for pure fun, then read the version annotated by Leslie S. Kilnger for fascinating insights.

The Last Good Kiss by James Crumley
Here’s a tough, ex-army investigator who lives in Montana and has a name you can’t pronounce: C. W. Sughrue, He’s hired to find Abraham Trahearne, a boozing author. When he tracks Trahearne down, he’s “drinking beer with an alcoholic bulldog named Fireball Roberts in a ramshackle joint just outside of Sonoma California, drinking the heart of a fine spring afternoon.” Wow—can this guy channel Chandler or what?

Looking for Rachel Wallace by Robert B. Parker
In this series novel, a man hires PI Spenser to protect a woman author who has rattled a few cages with her tell-all book. She fires him for being too “macho” (he is); but when she’s abducted he comes to the rescue. Parker is a master minimalist. Boston’s his beat, and deadpan dialogue is his winning game. At his best, and he’s at his best in this one, he’s second only to Elmore Leonard.

The Maltese Falcon by Dashiell Hammett
Private investigator Sam Spade is out to avenge the death of his partner, Miles Archer. Sinister Joe Cairo offers Spade $500 to retrieve a black figurine. Beautiful Brigid O’Shaughnessy throws herself at Spade (“I want you to save me—from it all.”) Turns out she wants the statue, too. But tough, ruthless, single-minded Spade is immune to her feminine wiles. Hammett wrote only this one novel featuring Spade, but with it he created the mold for the hardboiled private investigator who follows his own moral compass.

Motherless Brooklyn by Jonathan Lethem (National Book Critics Circle 1999)
Lionel Essrog, the narrator of this hybrid hardboiled crime slash literary fiction, has Tourette syndrome, and his verbal pyrotechnics turn the novel into an extended rap. The murder victim is a small-time mobster who is also Essrog’s mentor and his boss at a car service/detective agency. Essrog, armed with tics and screams, infiltrates Brooklyn’s “secret system” to hunt down the killer. Another neurologically impaired detective? He’s anything but. The genre may be familiar, but the territory Lethem explores with it is unique.

Murder Must Advertise by Dorothy L. Sayers
Dorothy L. Sayers set the standard for Britain’s golden age of mystery with her fourteen novels and a passel of short stories starring wealthy, witty Lord Peter Wimsey. In this one, Peter assumes the name “Death Bredon” and goes undercover at Pym’s Publicity to investigate the mysterious death of a copywriter in their employ. Sayers writes a sharply satirical view of the advertising world which she knew well—she worked for in a London advertising agency for seven years.

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd by Agatha Christie
The apparent suicide of wealthy widow Mrs. Ferrar looks like murder when her fiancé Roger Ackroyd is found dead, too. Hercule Poirot, the diminutive and oh-so-precise Belgian detective, investigates. When Poirot tells the narrator, Dr. Sheppard, that his life’s work is “the study of human nature,” Sheppard concludes that Poirot is a retired hairdresser. Sheppard becomes Poirot’s helpmate in the investigation. There was a great hew and cry about the ending of this novel. No doubt Dame Agatha chuckled all the way to the bank.

The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency by Alexander McCall Smith
Prolific author Alexander McCall Smith struck gold when he conjured Precious Ramotswe, the only lady detective in Botswana. She takes proceeds of the sale of cattle she inherits after her father’s death and sets out to do as he directed: “I want you to have your own business.” She sets up office on the edge of town with a brightly painted sign promising “SATISFACTION GUARANTEED,” brews a pot of red bush tea, and settles in to wait for clients. Hold the noir, hold the violence; this is a wry, delightful mystery series with a wise female sleuth.

The Postman Always Rings Twice by James M. Cain
In this hardboiled/noir classic, young drifter Frank Chambers stops at the Twin Oaks Tavern. He takes one look at the owner’s wife Cora and he’s a goner: “Except for the shape, she really wasn’t any raving beauty, but she had a sulky look to her, and her lips stuck out in a way that made me want to mash them in for her.” Cora talks Frank into helping her kill her husband, but things go awry. Greed, lust, and plenty of kinky moments. The book was banned in Boston.

Presumed Innocent by Scott Turow
Kindle County prosecutor Rusty Sabich is assigned to investigate the rape and murder of a woman colleague. He fails to disclose that he and the victim had had an affair. Compelling physical evidence makes Sabich the prime suspect. This novel defined the legal thriller genre. But it has the kind of characters you expect from a literary novel and an infamous surprise ending that most of us don’t see coming.

A Thief of Time by Tony Hillerman
An anthropologist vanishes. Navajo Tribal Policemen Lt. Joe Leaphorn and Officer Jim Chee investigate the ravaged ancient burial site where she was last seen. One of Hillerman’s best novels, the mystery is woven into a tapestry of earth-tone landscape and shot through with the convincing detail of Native American life.

Whip Hand by Dick Francis (Edgar Award 1981)
Dick Francis was jockey to Queen Elizabeth from 1953 and 1957. Lucky for us, he had to retire from racing after a serious fall and took up writing. His prodigious body of work combines horseracing with action-packed mystery. In this one, ex-jockey and private investigator Sid Halley looks into allegations of foul play at a stable. It has one of Francis’s signature, eye-popping opening lines: “I took the battery out of my arm and fed it into the recharger, and only realized I’d done it when ten seconds later the fingers wouldn’t work.”

The Woman in White by Wilkie Collins
On Hampstead on a moonlit night, drawing teacher Walter Cartwright encounters a “solitary Woman, dressed from head to foot in white garments, her face bent in grave inquiry on mine, her hand pointing to the dark cloud over London, as I faced her.” He helps her, and later discovers that she escaped from a nearby asylum. This complicated tale of murder, madness, and mistaken identity is narrated from multiple viewpoints and was inspired by a true crime. One of the most popular novels of the 19th Century, this is considered the first true mystery novels.


A little quiz: Which book is this opening line from?
“It was about eleven o'clock in the morning, mid October, with the sun not shining and a look of hard wet rain in the clearness...”

AND who is this character?

“I am tall, and I gangle. I look like a loose-jointed, clumsy hundred and eighty…As far as clumsiness and reflexes go, I have never had to use a flyswatter in my life.”

What books would you add to recommend to someone looking to sample THE BEST of what the crime fiction genre has to offer?

TALK TO A PERSON... please

 

HALLIE EPHRON: One day I typed GOOGLE DOCS into the Google search engine and Google's own app (Google Docs) showed up buried under about a half-dozen miscellaneous (but not GOOGLE DOCS) links to what can only be explained as advertisers.

What a huge waste of time. Inconvenience. Experience it over and over again and it's rage-nducing.

I started noticing this a few months ago. And it's just another example of how customer service in general has been decaying. I keep yelling TALK TO A PERSON when I call so-called customer service, but it gets me nowhere.

Computer programs that were supposed to get us the information we needed quickly are, in fact, more and more enraging us at their obtuseness. 

I'm always in the market for new words, and one of this year's best is ENSHITTIFICATION. I found it after months of complaining, kvetching, and griping about how my favorite tools seem to be decaying.

Named Dictionary.com's 2024 word of the year, it describes the gradual decay of a product or service's quality over time. User-friendly benefits disappear at the service of increased corporate profit. The user experience decays.

Doctorow applies it to the decline of online platforms and physical products.Tools and products that start out with user-friendly benefits get replaced by increased corporate profit-seeking, decaying the experience for users.

Am I the only one being constantly reminded that we're in an increasingly enshittified digital world? (Somehow I do not think firing all the civil servants and relying on chatbots to get us what we need is a move in the right direction.)

Am I just a grumpy Gus here, or this something we're all experiencing? What do you think: Are things getting better or worse in the digital world? Could we BRING BACK THE PEOPLE, please.

Villains? Realistic or Cruella-er the better?

We have a winner! Lisa from Long Beach, you are the winner of Heather Webber's THE FORGET-ME-NOT LIBRARY! You can email her at: booksbyheather at gmail dot com.  CONGRATS!!!

HALLIE EPHRON: Many of us who like to read (and write) crime fiction are fascinated by villains. (This lovely young woman is Lizzie Borden.)

Do we think of our villains as criminal masterminds? As misguided mortals under the influence? Delusional maniacs??

When I was writing my first mystery series (the Dr. Peter Zak mysteries) and coauthoring them with a real-life forensic neuropsychologist, I asked him (Donald Davidoff) about the defendants he evaluated and testified on behalf of in court.

He said that, based on his experience, the average criminal defendant is a "poor schlub," not a criminal mastermind. In out of their depth. Wrong place, wrong time...

Last week's news about the heist of crown jewels at the Louvre seems to bear that out. Reporting in the New York Times called the thieves "sloppy" after pulling off what seemed like a well-planned robbery in one of the world’s most famous museums in broad daylight."

Apparently in beating their hasty retreat, they left behind a mountain of incriminating evidence. A glove. A jeweled crown that they dropped on their way out. The truck that they tried unsuccessfully to set on fire. All told, the evidence yelded 150 forensic samples.

All of that led to arrests of suspects whose DNA was already on file because of their criminal histories.

Today's question: How do you think of your villains – as brilliant and evil, fatally flawed, or poor schlubs?

RHYS BOWEN: I think the villain is often the most interesting character. I rarely create evil people, true villains. I’m more interested in what would make an ordinary person, you or me, be backed into a corner so desperately that killing is the only way out. 

I often feel sorry for them and regret when they are caught at the end of the book.

I’ve never written a true criminal master mind, the sort who delights in evil, like we have learned about some of the Nazis in WWII, smiling as they operate without anesthetic. 

I’m actually trying to remember if I’ve ever written a truly bad person. I’d say it was fear more than anything that makes my villains kill. Fear of being found out. Or sometimes a warped sense of entitlement. 

But no Doctor Evils for me. Although a caper with some inept jewel thieves would be delicious to write!

JENN McKINLAY: Great question, Hallie. I tend to focus on my victims. They’re not characters that I’m sad to see go. 

The villain, however, is usually as Rhys mentioned someone who’s ordinary but in a situation where they think murder is the only way out. 

Of course, that makes them as bad as the person they murdered, so… I do think most criminals are dumb. That’s why they get caught.

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN: I never know who the bad guy is at the beginning, I just see who evolves based on what they want, and how far they will go to get it, and what will happen if they fail. Are they “bad’? No, they just want something, and think it’s the right and good and fair thing for them to want.

Some guy who robs a bank because it’s an easy way to get money is gonna get caught. And my villains don’t do things like that. So my villains are not schlubs, they are smart people who think the rules don't apply to them. And that they deserve to have what the want. Because they have been wronged somehow. That the world has been unfair to them, and now it’s their turn.

Are they criminal masterminds? Never. I’m trying to think if there really is such a thing, outside of the comics.

Possibly in the corporate world?

LUCY BURDETTE: What Rhys said about wondering what drives a person to the most extreme act hit home for me. 

I don’t start with a villain, but I do start with the inciting event that launches the story–and that of course leads to the villain. Villains are my writing weakness, so I’m always working on filling them out. Why? Why? Why?

Hank’s comments led me to thinking about politics today, how polarized we are, and how certain each side is that their view is right. I think we can take a lesson for our villains from that!

DEBORAH CROMBIE: When my hubby worked in law enforcement he always said that most of the criminals they dealt with were really stupid. I suspect we don't know much about the ones who aren't stupid, because they don't get caught.

I don't generally write villains as evil masterminds. They can be caught up in an obsession, or unable to see any other way out of a predicament–usually of their own making.

HALLIE: I think the one thing we have in common is we agree with that old saw, "The villain is the hero of their own story." What they do has to make some kind of SENSE to them, and grow out of something in their past that they're trying to "get right this time." (Just like our protagonists.) 

But the truth is, writing the villain as an ordinary guy just isn't that compelling.

Do you like to read villains that are realistically drawn, or larger than life and scary?

What We're Writing: First drafts

 JENN McKINLAY: It's always weird to me that whenever I have a book come out the next book in the series is always due, which guarantees that the manuscript won't have my full attention and neither will the work in progress. 

As I'm promoting WITCHES OF DUBIOUS ORIGIN (on sale now for 27% off at Amazon -- just sayin'), I'm madly trying to finish the second in the series WITCHES OF QUESTIONABLE INTENT(out next October!). It makes for some rather exhausting days and sometimes I forget which witch book I'm talking about. 

I have been having a grand time, immersing myself in the fantasy world. It's taken a little getting used to as there are no rules -- other than to tell a compelling story, obvy -- and when I get stuck I realize I have to look at whatever plot issue I'm having from a magical standpoint. 

Here's a snippet from my work in progress to show you what I mean. In this scene, the staff of the Books of Dubious Origin department are checking their vault for an item they believe has been stolen.

     The vault was another surprise. It was not a dank, musty cave with piles of treasured books, magical artifacts, or gold. No, it looked exactly like the safe deposit boxes in a bank vault, with one distinct difference. Instead of locks that required keys or passcodes, these drawers all had a single eye where normally a handle would be. And at the moment, all the eyes were watching us. In other words, nightmare fuel.

     “Steady, love,” Jasper whispered in my ear. “They can’t harm you.”

     “My psyche begs to differ,” I muttered. The eyes swiveled in my direction and then blinked as one. I felt my knees go slack.

     Miles moved across the room and gently placed his hand over one of the drawers, closing its eye. All the eyes faded into the flat metal front of their drawers except the one Miles had touched, which popped open when he removed his hand.

     A rush of air exited my lungs. Maybe it was my own discomfort at being the center of attention but having so many eyes on me was creepy and I could see how it would be a deterrent for would be criminals.

     “Open.” The eye closed and the drawer slowly opened as he’d commanded. Miles glanced inside and went still. “It’s not here.”

When I originally sat down to write it, I thought to myself what would be something that would freak me out in a vault? Eyeballs came to mind, no idea why, but I ran with it. This has become my method for writing the fantasy novels. I try to stretch myself as far as I can and see what happens. We'll see what my editor thinks of this scene and hopefully it will make it into the final version.

Also, after I wrote it, I discovered there are drawer pulls that are eyeballs so maybe I'm not that weird? LOL.

What about you, Reds and Readers, what are things that would creep you out in a story? Would you keep reading? Or slam the book shut and run?

What I'm Writing: Emails, To-Do Lists and Comments

 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!)

 

It is a truth universally acknowledged that an author with a new release is in need of a book tour. My last release day was April 4, 2020. Do any of you remember what you were doing on April 4, 2020? Were you going to a library or a bookstore to hear me speak? No, you were not. You were home tearing old t-shirts into toilet paper and washing the groceries.

 

So it's been a while. I'm booked for a shorter tour this time - I'm only flying to Scottsdale (PHX) and Houston (IAH.) Fortunately, there isn't any nation-wide, record-breaking problem that might interfere with my travels... 

I'm not saying I'm causing these things to happen, you understand. I'm just saying - maybe stop hoping I'll put out a book each year. 

 

After I get back home (please, God, please) I'm touring around New England and upstate New York, staying with friends and, you know, just enjoying the vacation paradise that is upstate New York in late November. 

 

 So the writing I'm doing? Emails - emails to confirm, to make changes, to find out when my REAL ID is going to arrive (that's a whole other story.) To-Do lists: packing, what I need to do to get things ready for the pet sitter, finishing touches on the new website, keeping up with my college students (yes, still teaching two sections this fall!) And commenting as everything ramps up; on Facebook, here, on the aforementioned students' papers. (Most frequent advice to students: proofread.)

 

If you're going to be around and about (assuming this time, like, a meteor won't strike the earth,) here's where I'll be:

 

Tues, Nov 18 - Poisoned Pen, Scottsdale, 7pm - with Rhys and Jenn!

Wed, Nov 19 - Murder By the Book, Houston, 6:30pm

Thurs, Nov 20 - PRINT, Portland, ME, 7pm

Fri, Nov 21 - Book House at Stuyvesant Plaza, Albany, NY, 6p,

Sun, Nov 23 - Battenkill Books, Cambridge, NY, 2pm 

Tues, Dec 2 - Baxter Memorial Library, Gorham, ME, 6pm

Thurs, Dec 4 - Wellesley Books, Wellesley, MA, 7pm - with Paula Munier!

 

I hope to see some of you in person, dear readers!

What We're Writing--Debs on Nuts and Bolts

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.

What I’m writing by Lucy Burdette plus a Cover Reveal!

LUCY BURDETTE: It’s been a busy stretch, what with making the transition from Connecticut to Key West, finishing the first round of edits on my book 16 (coming next July), working on a short story, working on a murder mystery for the Friends of the Library, and so on.

I can’t tell you too much about the new book without spoilers – for some reason this seems more challenging than with other books. But I remember talking about the inciting event in an earlier essay. This involved Hayley Snow going along on a safe custody exchange, which I know some of you worried about. I think I’ve fixed the book so that is addressed—we’ll see.

Here is a bit of the opening again, but this time with a note from my editor. There are a lot of notes like this sprinkled throughout the book, which can feel impossible when they first arrive. But I’ve learned that addressing them always, always makes a book stronger. The trick is to read all the feedback a couple of times and let it sink in over a couple of days—the answers will come! In summary, I’m very lucky to have this editor! I’m also grateful to have my long-standing writers group pals Ang and Chris to bounce things off.

Next, the manuscript will be sent off to the copyeditor. She or he will look for grammar and spelling mistakes, errors in the timeline, and general consistency. Over the course of 26 books, I’ve hardly had the same copyeditor two times in a row, so this process can be a little more fraught. Keep your fingers crossed for me please. Meanwhile, as we were driving, the cover arrived! (You can preorder here.)

What do you think? My only complaint is I wish some of that fruit was plates of cake and cookies:). But I'm thrilled to get a little mental rest from the book and work on some other things. (Although I'm rediscovering that short stories are hard!)

How do you celebrate the end of a big project? or do you just move on to the next item on your list?

**Meanwhile, here are some deals for you. The ebook edition of A DISH TO DIE FOR is on sale this month for $1.99! 

**The audio editions of THE KEY LIME CRIME and DEATH WITH ALL THE TRIMMINGS are both on sale for $1.99! (Not sure how long this one will last...)

**Finally, after a several month delay, the audio edition of THE MANGO MURDERS is finally available!

Rhys on Leaving Clues.

 RHYS BOWEN: I have been extra busy recently, firstly with the edits for my next stand alone, then helping Clare plot the next Molly book, then come up with a story suggestion for next year's stand alone while at the same time writing the twentieth Royal Spyness book.

One of the things I'm passionate about is playing fair with the reader. That means dropping subtle and appropriate clues. I've noticed that not all writers do this. Agatha Christie, for all her brilliance, did not always play fair.  Poirot says "I happen to know that she was once wardress of a prison."  Okay. We didn't know that! And the books in which the first person narrator is the killer. I have to say in Roger Ackroyd she was pretty good about leaving subtle hints, but in another, which I won't name in case it's a spoiler for those who haven't read it, the narrator says near the end that he's been getting funny black turns when he doesn't quite know what he's doing.  We did not know that before!

So what kind of clues do you appreciate? Which authors do them well?

This Royal Spyness book, that I am calling TO CROWN IT ALL, takes place at the coronation of King George and Queen Elizabeth in 1937. a group of Georgie's friends and relatives are staying at her house before the coronation, plus a German man who has escorted Mummy from Germany. Oh, and there's a village fair going on outside the house. So it's quite a challenge to drop clues without being over obvious.  I'm not normally the spent match type of cluemaker. It's usually what somebody says, or doesn't say, or reacts to a statement by someone else. 

But this time I am using fingerprints. But what if they show the wrong person? What if one of Georgie's family actually seems to be the main suspect? 

It's quite a complicated plot: one thread involving Mummy, another involving security for the coronation and the crown jewels and yet another involving poor Georgie:  here are a few tell-tale lines about that plot. Georgie has been worrying about what to wear to the coronation. Since her husband has is only Mr. O'Mara she can't wear her peeress's robes if she's to sit with him. And she has no fabulous outfits. 

Then this happens:

At that very moment I heard a telephone ringing in the front foyer. I froze.  Mrs. Holbrook appeared, looking scared. “You’re wanted on the telephone, my lady,” she said in an awed voice. “It’s the palace.”

                      I couldn’t stop my heart from racing as I went down the hallway. Was it good news or bad? What if the secretary said he was sorry but could do nothing for my mother. What then? Then I would go over and bring her back myself, I decided. It didn’t matter what Darcy or anybody said. She was my mother.

                      “Hello?” I said into the receiver, hearing my voice shake a little.

                      “Lady Georgiana?”  It was a woman’s voice, a brisk efficient sort of voice.

                      “Yes,” I said. “This is she.”

                      “I’m sorry to disturb you but this is Lady Pierpoint, telephoning on behalf of Her Majesty. We’ve had a last minute set back for the coronation ceremony. Do you happen to know Lady Veronica Featherstone-Smythe? Lord Blanchley’s daughter?”

                      “I believe we’ve met,” I said, hesitantly, wondering what on earth this had to do with me.

                      “Horse mad, of course. Rode in a point to point and broke her ankle, stupid girl.”

                      I was still completely in the dark.

                      “She was to be one of the maids of honor for the queen at the ceremony,” Lady Pierpoint went on. “ Naturally carrying a train is quite out of the question and her majesty suggested that you would be a most suitable replacement.”

                      “Me?” The word came out as a squeak.  “You want me to carry the queen’s train?”

                      “My dear, you are an obvious selection. Closely related to his majesty and both their majesties report being extremely fond of you. You were mentioned at the very start but it was considered that the words maids of honor should primarily include unmarried girls. 

But given the circumstance and the late hour it was decided you would fit the bill perfectly.”

                      I was glad she couldn’t see me blushing. “Golly,” I said. “Well, I’d be honored.”

                      “Splendid. I’ll tell their majesties.  We shall need you up in London right away for a dress fitting.  I think you’re about the same size as Lady Veronica, which is most fortunate, but small alterations will need to be made.  Then you will be required to attend several rehearsals, the first at the palace, learning the correct way to walk with the train, then in the abbey knowing the procedure of where to stand. You are free to come when summoned, I presume?”

                      “Yes, yes of course,” I said.

                      “Jolly good. Well done. Then I look forward to meeting you. Good evening.”

                      I put down the telephone and stared at the marble staircase, curving upward into darkness. What had I just agreed to? Carrying a train up steps, through the vast nave of the abbey with the whole world watching. Not dropping it, tripping up, tripping someone else. Oh golly, I said.

                      A wave of panic swept over me. I tried to remember her name. Lady Point to point?  I had to stop myself from calling the palace and telling them that I had changed my mind. But the king and queen had asked for me.  And it was a huge honor. I could hardly turn them down, could I?

Poor Georgie. You know she tends to be accident prone. Nothing could go wrong, could it?

And while we're on the subject of Royal Spyness books, then next one, FROM CRADLE TO GRAVE is published in just six days from now. I'll be holding a launch event at the POISONED PEN IN SCOTTSDALE with two other Jungle Reds, Julia, whose book is out the same day, and Jenn, whose book was out a couple of weeks ago.  It's November 18th.  Who will come to support us?

What Hank's Writing--A Sneak peek! And on the Lookout for Typos

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN: The new book is IN. YAY!

It's in production, which means they are making the bound manuscripts for early early blurbers, and then they will make the advance reader copies--not yet proofread, and not yet copyedited,  to distribute to reviewers. 

Meanwhile,  the copy editor is at work on the manuscript, to fix all (we hope) the dropped words and repeated words and errors and mistakes and stuff you cannot even imagine that's happened in the 617,852 (that's the real number) of characters and spaces in the manuscript.  

In two weeks or so, I'll get that copyedited version back, and make (I hope) all the corrections. And, as always, find even more errors. I have rally found some doozies in those copyedited versions--once when a character went to a place in an Uber, and then departed in her own car. AHHHHH.

It's always amazing to me, once I struggle and slog through that first draft (imagine Jenn climbing those boulders, that's exactly how it feels) how many changes get made in a book

Here's a page from the novel --on this particular day, the document was titled  "NEWEST Trying no phone 5-8." (My file titles are always hilarious. Like: "New New USE THIS ONE  6-6 no steps." There must be a better way, but I have not discovered it. This is page 10. LOOK at all those changes!

Here's another page.  Page 42. SO many changes! 

When I look back, I see why I did the things--the sentence structure was awkward, or with the wrong emphasis. It was not a tight as it should be. Not as dramatic. Not as thematic. It was repetitive (one of my pitfalls) or overly internal.

(And looking at these pages, right now, I can still see several things I will change in the copy edits.)

I adore the editing process. It's my favorite part. It's when I take that unwieldy first draft and try to wrangle it into  being the story I meant to write. I always find something new, and I always discover a theme I hadn't known was there.

And I am always always shocked and supremely thrilled when I get that final email from my editor--she'll say: "Pencils down! We're done!"

For this book--and you are the first people in the universe to see pages from it--we have no title that I can tell you now. And we will have no cover for a month or so.

But it's about a mysterious place crash. A missing influencer.  Her frightened pre-teen daughter. And a writer who is searching for happy endings.  

And it is almost done!

And now, Reds and Readers, I need a good idea for the next book. 

You DO know that advance reader copies are NOT copyedited or proofread, right? They are for savvy readers who know how to read around the errors, and understand they are not reading a final version.

 A while ago I was hearing a lot about typos in final books, though. Are those still as prevalent as they were at one point? 

Reds and readers, are you finding typos in books? Do you tell the authors when you find them?

Authors, do you want to know?

What she wrote: An insane survival move

HALLIE EPHRON: Jenn's post on Saturday about her insane bout of BOULDERING (what WAS she thinking??) and her question: what have you don't lately that had you questioning your sanity, or words to that effect... got me remembering the  research I did in order for Ivy, my massively pregnant main character in NEVER TELL A LIE, to escape from a locked attic in a Victorian house. 

(Fortunately I consulted experts in rope climbing and did NOT attempt it myself.)

To make it work, I had to give the Victorian house a dumbwaiter and research what kind of cables would still remain today. Then I had to give Ivy a back story: competitive rope climbing in high school. Then figure out how she'd use her rope climbing expertise to escape. (Oh, and I also needed a straitjacket to show up earlier in the novel. In fact, there already was one.)

Just researching rope climbing was terrifying.

Here's a part of the scene where Ivy repurposes that ancient straitjacket, harnesses her rope climbing skills, and makes it out alive. 

At last Ivy felt a vibration as the front door to the house closed. A little later the car door slammed. The engine turned over.

Now was her chance—her only chance. She had to get moving.

She scooped the straitjacket off the floor, held it out in front of her and rolled up the body, leaving the arms and dangling straps sticking out at either end. Then she raised the panel to the dumbwaiter. Draped the rolled-up straitjacket over the edge of the opening.

She sat on the dumbwaiter sill and swung her legs over, inside the shaft. Staring straight ahead, she braced her sneakers against the side walls.

Was she insane? She was thirty-three years old and massively pregnant. Still, her arms and legs were strong. And her other options were nil.

The baby shifted inside her, and Ivy felt a rippling arc across her belly like a shooting star. It could work. It had to. She would do whatever it took to keep this baby safe.

Don’t think. Just do!

Ivy grabbed the rolled-up straitjacket and leaned forward, fighting off a wave of dizziness and anchoring her senses on the steady patter of rain.

Don’t look down.

She wrapped the center of the thick canvas roll like a candy cane’s stripe around the cable—once, twice, three times—then pulled the spiral taut. Last, she buckled the straps at the ends of the sleeves together.

There would be no coach or teammates at the ready to climb up and rescue her, no mattresses piled up at the bottom if she fell—just a thirty-foot drop through pitch black to the packed-earth floor of the basement.

Visualize.

She took hold of the canvas-wrapped cable with both hands and slowly transferred her weight to her feet, resting them on the edges of two-by-fours on either side of the shaft.

It’s nothing more than a high curb, she told herself as she hooked one leg and then the other inside the strap sling and set her feet back on the ledges. She lowered her behind slowly into the buckled straps, bending at the knees, pushing down and feeling the spiral of canvas gradually tighten.

So far, so good. She ignored the fear that licked like flames at her insides.

She shifted more of her weight into the sling, feeling for two-by-fours farther down, just in case the spiral of canvas failed to generate enough friction to grip the cable. The cable rasped and groaned, but it held fast as the spiral of canvas kinked.

It was working. Now to descend.

Ivy transferred weight to her feet, easing up on the strap sling. The canvas spiral loosened. She tugged it down.

Would Melinda be arriving at the police lab already? Parking the car? How many more feet before Ivy reached the second-floor opening. Nine? Eight? In three-inch increments, that was going take… The math was discouraging. Hopefully, she had that long.

Ivy felt for a lower foothold, then inched the canvas spiral down. She could barely see her hands in front of her face. Above her, growing dimmer, was the rectangle light where the panel to the attic remained open.

She repeated the sequence again, and again, and again—bracing her feet against the shaft to loosen the canvas spiral and shift downward, then lowering herself into the sling, tightening the canvas roll, lowering her feet to the next foothold. She tried not to think about the darkness closing around her. Her every move echoed in the shaft.

Peristalsis. Eleven letters. She said the word, then spelled it as she continued inching her way down the cable, proceeding entirely by feel, imagining that the dumbwaiter was a snake and she was prey, slowly working her way through its digestive tract.

Arms and legs trembling with fatigue, Ivy kept going. Just as she was lowering her behind into the sling again for what felt like the hundredth time, the phone started ringing. The sound was reverberated in the shaft.

Ivy tried to ignore it. She felt for a lower foothold. Found it. The phone rang again.

She transferred her weight to her feet.

The answering machine clicked on. The canvas spiral loosened and she tugged it down a few more inches. Found a fresh foothold. The new voice message played, assuring the word that yes, she was just fine and still waiting.

“Ivy, where the hell are you?” It was Jody, screaming at the answering machine. “You know this makes me completely crazy. Are you screening this call?” A long pause. “Damn you!”

In the background, Ivy could hear Riker’s shrill cry: “Da-oo”

“If my son grows into a juvenile delinquent, it’ll be your fault. Would you pick up the frickin’ phone?”

I’m here! Ivy wanted to scream back.

“Honest to God, you can be such a pain,” Jody said, and hung up.

Focus. Concentrate.

Ivy’s clenched hands felt sweaty, slippery like they used to get during rope drills for Coach Reiner, especially when she reached the top of the rope and looked down.

She could imagine Melinda, chatting up the receptionist and flashing Ivy’s driver’s license. Banking on her disguise to fool the technician.

Soon Ivy had to reach the second-floor dumbwaiter opening. How much farther? She found herself staring down into inky blackness. She gasped and shuddered, panic rising inside her. One foot slipped off its perch. Then her other foot slipped. She fell with a lurch, and a moment later she was dangling from the straps by her armpits. Her legs bashed against the rough plaster wall, and her own screams echoed around her. The tough leather cut into her underarms.

But the canvas spiral had tightened and held fast. She flailed for another foothold, and at last she felt an exposed two-by-four on one side and a wider ledge on the opposite side to anchor her feet against. She rested for a moment, panting and catching her breath.

The wider ledge—Ivy looked down and saw a sliver of lighter gray, seeping through at just that spot. She steadied herself, sweat trickling into her eyes, legs shaking. All she had to do now was raise the panel and climb out. She envisioned her fingers uncurling, her hand reaching out and pushing the panel up.

Three, two one…let go! With a clean swipe, she reached out in the dark, felt for where she knew the lower panel had to be, and pushed. Then she grabbed back onto the canvas-wrapped cable.

The cable shimmied and creaked, but the panel hadn’t budged. Or… Was it her imagination, or did the band of gray light seem just a bit wider?

A shadow moved across it, and for a moment Ivy froze. Then she recognized the sound of Phoebe's claws on the wood floor just beyond.

She reached out again and gave the panel a harder push. The band of light widened to a quarter inch.

She wedged her toe in the opening, and it rose an inch more.

There was Phoebe, just on the other side. The dog put her paws up on the sill, sniffed at Ivy’s sneaker, and woofed.

“Shoo,” Ivy said, as she pressed with her foot, raising the panel halfway. The dog rested her white-whiskered muzzle on the sill. “Go away!” Phoebe’s back end wiggled in ecstasy. “Phoebe, sit!”

The dog obeyed.

“Stay!”

She lowered its head onto her paws. Amazing.

Little by little, Ivy managed to raise the panel the rest of the way. When it was open as wide as it would go, she planted her feet on exposed two-by-fours on either side of the shaft, grabbed onto both sides of the dumbwaiter opening, and shifted her weight.

The straitjacket loosened. Ivy held her breath as it slithered away into the darkness below.

I do not remember how the movie makers who turned my book into a Lifetime Movie Network movie ("And Baby Will Fall") filmed this scene, but it's THE one that readers often say kept them up.

I hope Jenn will use her experience bouldering in one of her novels. Combined with fantasy? Why not!

Is there a scene in a book or movie (Dorothy drenches the wicked witch? Tunneling to freedom in THE GREAT ESCAPE??) that's stuck with you where a character risks life and limb to get untrapped?

The Fish Bowl by Heather Webber

JENN McKINLAY: I'm thrilled to have a long time friend Heather Webber join us today to talk about her latest book THE FORGET-ME-NOT LIBRARY. I've been a fan of Heather's work forever and particularly enjoy her magical realism novels, with her latest being particularly poignant. Here she is to tell us more about what inspired her.

HEATHER WEBBER:

On a shelf in my office sits a fish bowl.

It doesn’t contain fish.

It holds memories.

I’ve been dealing with memory issues for a long time now. Most of my childhood memories are gone, with only a handful remaining. My teen years are slipping away as well. All my medical tests are fine, so I figure my brain can only hold so much. If something new comes in, something has to go out. Decluttering at its worst.

Fortunately, every once in a while, a long-lost memory returns to me, sparked by a song, a scent, a photo, a dream, a conversation.

I consider those memories as gifts.

Treasures, really.

The warm, wonderful feeling that comes with a returned memory is what inspired the idea for The Forget-Me-Not Library, my newest novel, due to be released this week. The story takes place in a small Alabama library where long-forgotten, treasured memories are hidden within the books. Memories that bring about peace and comfort and happiness.

Oh, how I wish it were a real place.

I’m doing everything I can to hold on to the memories I’ve been able to keep, which is where the fish bowl comes in. It holds mementos that I’ve been collecting for the past thirty years or so. Bits of my life that have been important to me for one reason or another.

Along with many other things, in that bowl are the first library cards of my children (who are now in their 30s!). The kids were each five years old when they signed up for their cards and had to print their names on them. Seeing those cards with those carefully-crafted, shaky letters always brings a smile and helps me to remember how excited they were to check out as many books as their tiny arms could hold.

Definitely memories to treasure.

Do you have a way of holding on to memories? Or recall your first trip to a library? I’d love to hear about it. One commenter will win a copy of The Forget-Me-Not Library.

ORDER NOW

A detour. A chance encounter. Two women who alter the pages of each other’s story.

Juliet Nightingale is lucky to be alive. Months after a freak accident involving lightning, she’s fully recovered but is left feeling that something is missing from her life. Something big. Impulsively, she decides to take a solo summer road trip, hoping that the journey will lead her down a path that will help her discover exactly what it is that she’s searching for.

Newly single mom Tallulah Byrd Mayfield is hanging by a thread after her neat, tidy world was completely undone when her husband decided that their marriage was over. In the aftermath of the breakup, she and her two daughters move in with her eighty-year-old grandfather. Tallulah starts a new job at the Forget-Me-Not Library, where old, treasured memories can be found within the books―and where Lu must learn to adapt to the many changes thrown her way.

When a road detour leads Juliet to Forget-Me-Not, Alabama, and straight into Tallulah’s life, the two women soon discover there’s magic in between the pages of where you’ve been and where you still need to go. And that happiness, even when lost, can always be found again.

HEATHER WEBBER is a national bestselling author known for crafting stories that celebrate the power of family, friendship, and community. Her novels, including Midnight at the Blackbird Café and At the Coffee Shop of Curiosities offer comforting tales of love, hope, and personal redemption. Heather loves to spend time with her family, read, drink too much coffee and tea, bird-watch, crochet, and bake. She currently resides in southwest Ohio.