What We're Writing Week: Julia is Plotting and Planning

Go ahead, enlarge the heck out of it.

JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: For everyone who read AT MIDNIGHT COMES THE CRY, noticed there wasn't some life-changing cliffhanger ending, and sent me an email wondering if This Was It for my mystery series, relax. I'm working on a proposal for Clare Fergusson/Russ Van Alstyne #11!

 If you did NOT notice, and you DON'T care, please don't tell me,  I'm sensitive.

So a proposal is basically an outline of the book; here are the characters, here's what's going to happen, and this is how it all turns out.  Some authors are whizzes at this; me - not so much. Part of my problem is I've never had to do this before! 

I have had to submit "proposals" before inking a new contract over the years, but to be honest, they've been more like breathless cover flap copy. I'm pretty sure I ended one with, "Can they find the killer before he strikes again?" I know, I know. I'm wincing, too.

Of course, every other proposal happened when I was still under contract to St. Martin's.  Now, I don't blame my editor or publisher for not re-signing my while I was working on  the last book. I mean, AT MIDNIGHT COMES THE CRY was overdue. By eleven years. If I were them, I'd want some evidence indicating I know what I'm going to write, and that hopefully, the book will be in by ( or before!) the end of the decade. 

Starting with story structure helps.

So, what's my process? I started with two facts, both handed to me by readers during my book tour in November/December. One was about the annual New Year's Day Polar Plunge at Lake George, NY. The other came from a couple who witnessed that polar plunge end in, if not disaster, total chaos, as spectators ignored the warning cones on the lake ice and fell in!

Now, dear readers, doesn't that sound like the perfect set-up to find a body floating in the dark and ice-clotted water?

For every book, I need to figure out what Clare and Russ (and Kevin and Hadley) are doing;  what's driving them, what problems besides the murder are they going to confront and hopefully overcome. But this time, I'm adding two more major characters.  NYDEC Ranger Paul Terrance and newbie lawyer Yixin "Joy" Zhao appeared in the last book, because each had a specific role I needed them to fulfill in order to tell that story. As I wrote forward, their parts got larger and larger, and I have to admit, I fell a little bit in love with them. So, apparently, did readers, because I've gotten countless emails and comments asking to see them again.

Sadly, I didn't plan ahead, because Paul works in the Adirondack High Peaks and Yixin was dead-set on finishing up her job in Albany and moving up the ladder in DC. So now I have a real puzzler - how do I get these two back to Millers Kill?

Walker will probably need some $$ too...

No, I'm not going to tell you, I want you to buy the book once it's out. (Now Youngest has her MSc, she's talking about law school, so I'm going to need every penny I can scratch up.) 

Have you read other authors who introduced new characters you fell for?  And for those of you in Massachusetts or Vermont, I'm appearing with Paula Munier at Odyssey Bookshop in South Hadley in March 3 and at Norwich Bookstore in Norwich on March 5. I'd love to see you there!

Debs: My Love Affair with the Comma

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At the Table in Paris: What Lucy's Writing

 

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

Chapter One: The Paris Recipe

Natalie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rhys on Writing when Life is Difficult

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                “Mummy!” I called.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

room for him?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

What We're Writing? Hank is Juggling and Revealing

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN:   What am I doing? Juggling. Juggling juggling juggling. First, as I write this on Sunday afternoon, I have just scoured the house for batteries, plugged in every computer and phone in the house to charge, and made sure we have a selection of fully charged flashlights. They are predicting a blizzard, yes, a blizzard, and I am always terrified that the power will go out. Which, they are predicting, it will. I only like suspense in my novels, please, not in life.

In other news, Hooray! Look look look, the gorgeous and fabulous cover of MOTHER DAUGHTER SISTER STRANGER  was revealed in People magazine! I still can't get over it, and I have to admit that I look at the article again and again.

Isn't this great? You can read the whole thing here, but here's the header:

 

They asked me where the idea for the book came from, and I told them it was from my childhood. When my mom used to read me stories, and finally say "the end." And I would never accept that. "What happened after that?" I would prod her to tell me. "They lived happily ever after," mom would say. And I would say Ever ever after? But what happened after that?"

I am also fascinated by the stories families tell about their histories and past. And the pictures we see in albums. Those snapshots have stories behind them too, and how will we ever know what really happened? What those people's lives were really like? Even if they themselves told us, who knows they were protecting or concocting. Anyway, that's MOTHER DAUGHTER SISTER STRANGER.

Here's another picture of the cover.

 

Isn't it fascinating? I love how the Back Bay brownstone is provocatively blue. And the positioning of it is strange, you have to keep looking at it to figure it out. (Very sticky!) I love the figure in the window. I love the unexpected pink and yellow against that stark black. And I love the slashes through the words. Is that a list that someone is crossing off? Is that a description that someone is giving of themselves?  And of course I adore that cover quote from the brilliant Lisa Scottoline. 

And every one of us who is a woman is or has been every single one of those nouns. Mother daughter sister stranger.

Here’s the back cover copy:  

What if your own family history turns out to be a terrifying lie?

Every family has its story, and this one’s deadly. Two sisters. One secret. And a race against time to find the explosive truth in this twisty and captivating thriller by “master of domestic suspense” and instant USA Today bestselling author Hank Phillippi Ryan.

The sole survivors of the fiery plane crash that killed their parents, Eliza Ramsey and her sister Bea share an unbreakable bond. But now, on the eleventh anniversary of the tragedy, Bea fails to retrieve her pre-teen daughter from a sleepover at Eliza’s.

Eliza knows her sister would never leave her precious Piper behind, and fears the worst. But did Bea plan her own disappearance?

The Ramsey’s lives have already crashed and burned once. Now, Eliza discovers she's the only one who can protect her niece from the horrifying legacy of her family’s sinister history. Together, the two must prevent their lives from going up in in flames once again.

A missing mother. Her frightened daughter. And a sister on a desperate search for a happy ending. But someone knows the deadly key to their shared past, and won’t stop until they’ve written a devastating final chapter.  Mother, daughter, sister—stranger. 

 

Also! I am so thrilled that  ALL THIS COULD BE YOURS is a nominee for the Mary Higgins Clark award! I am completely floating about that. I adored Mary Higgins Clark, she was such a role model, and she was the one who taught me to make sure that every one of my signatures in books is readable.

She once said: "A person spent time and money to buy your book, and to come see you. The least you can do is give them a legible signature." So Mary, I try my best. The other nominees in the category are spectacularly talented, but I am floating my way to New York to the award ceremony at the Edgar banquet.

And finally, in this crazy week, what I am doing is waiting. 

I sent three book proposals to my agent, and we will see what happens next. 

You know that Tom Petty/Linda Ronstadt song The Waiting? I am singing that now, top of my lungs: “the waiting is the hardest part.”

So on this pivotal morning, Reds and readers, answer any question you want:  What do you think of the cover? The title?  Do you ever read People magazine?  What do you think of the back cover copy, does it sound intriguing? Or how is the weather in your neck of the woods?

And PS: Happy Pub Day, dear Jenn!

Hallie, and what she's re-writing

 HALLIE EPHRON: Last week, it was my great pleasure to teach a three-day class on "Writing from Experience" for the Studios of Key West.

As always, I'm intrigued by the many reasons we humans seem to need to revisit our pasts.

Preparing to teach the class took me down the worm hole of my earliest writing. Not the fiction I write now, though surely my memories infuse my fiction. Or the how-to essays that channel me as a teacher. 

But this early essay, written back when I was starting to write thirty years ago, is a painful examination of growing up in a family of writers and the ugly truth about my mother.

At that turning point in my life, my mother was very much on my mind. Because she was a writer. And I was only starting to recover from the belief that I was nothing like her, therefore I COULD NOT be a writer.

Preparing for my Key West class got me diving back into that early piece of writing. Looking at it now, it has me thinking about WHY do people like me write essays like this. Is it for others to read and understand? Or for me to examine what I think? Or is it to excise trauma by putting it on the page and examining it in the cold light of day and with the benefit of hindsight.

Eventually (decades later) I revised this essay and parts of it ended up in an essay I sold O Magazine. But I rather fancy an earlier version that this excerpt is from. 

Here's how it starts...

MIRROR, MIRROR

Since I was a teenager, I have carefully contrived my life so that nothing reminds me of my mother. I have no pictures of her on my piano alongside my children. No letters. The few good pieces of jewelry of hers that I have are stashed in a safe deposit box. I erased her from my mind, from my space, and from my identify. She was a writer by profession. I was not. She lived in Beverly Hills. I lived in a New England suburb.

She had live-in help. I helped myself. She was an alcoholic.

I thought, if I can just outlive her, then I can stop worrying about becoming her. But now, as I approach the age at which she died, having for decades denied that even the smallest part of me resembles her, I find myself recognizing her in my body parts. Her stubby feet, red from the hot baths that I, too, love to take; her flat chest and thickening middle; her slim ankles and well turned calves. And her hands -- short, efficient fingers, the nails cut short for typing. To her, long painted nails were the stigmata women who didn't work. When I'd ask her what the wife of one of their friends did, she'd snort and quip, "Her nails."

When I think of my mother, it's not the carefully coiffed and suited screenwriter who, with my father, scripted dozens movies. It's certainly not the tall, slim, stylish young woman who was living the Bohemian lifestyle in the 1930's when my father met her and immediately proposed -- she told him she'd have to read one of his plays before she'd give him her answer.

The person I see is the much diminished matriarch who presided over Thanksgiving dinner in 1970, the year before she died.

That afternoon, my husband and I took the subway and then the cross-town bus to get to the modern East Side apartment building where they'd moved since quitting Los Angeles three years earlier. Even though it was Thanksgiving and we’d been invited, I was apprehensive walking the sixth floor hallway, never sure what we'd find. The door was ajar and the smell of roast turkey wafted from the opening. A good sign.

I knocked. I could hear the sound of a TV from somewhere inside. I knocked again, a little louder. My father’s once brisk, now shuffling footsteps approached. He opened the door, grinning his snaggle-toothed, slightly lopsided grin.

“You’re here!” he said, hugging us both. His jet-black hair was greased into place and he wore a jaunty red cravat at the neck. I caught a flash of matching red socks as he hitched up his trousers and tucked in an escaping shirttail.

“Phoebe, they’re here,” he bellowed.

“How is she,” I whispered.

“Fine, fine. Come in,” he said.

We stepped into the brightly-lit foyer that led to the living room.

“Mom,” I said tentatively. She cleared her throat and coughed.

She was lying on the sofa, almost lost in a billowing gold caftan. One arm, a twig, extended from the wide sleeve. A cigarette trembled from yellow-stained fingertips. Her head wobbled slightly on her long, slim and still proud neck. Gold clip earrings, flowers with a diamond at the center, anchored her jaw in place.

Her hair was cut short and, now thinning, stood out like the puff of a ripe dandelion. She took her free hand and pushed the hair straight up and back from her ear.

Her cheeks, flushed with broken blood vessels, gave the cruel illusion of robust health. Her eyes, once gray and sharp, seemed filled with warm brackish seawater. I leaned over to kiss her and inhaled Palmolive soap, Elizabeth Arden skin cream and Kent cigarettes. And beneath that, scotch whisky.

My mother was disappearing and she knew it. All but her belly which was an enormous hard mound beneath the golden caftan. It was growing while the rest of her was shriveling away to nothing. Water was building up in her abdomen, the doctors told us -- one of the symptoms of liver disease brought on by years of alcohol abuse. I had visions, not of impending death, but of a golden beach ball marooned on the white couch when the rest of her had finished becoming invisible.

I went on from there to talk about her increasing isolation due to hearing loss, compounded by the way women were relegated to observers in the movie making business. Her daytime perfection and nighttime rages.

How determined I was to never be anything like her.

And yet there I was, writing this essay. And here I am thirty years later, reading and revising it and discovering it's not half bad, taken in with the benefit of some distance.

I'm sure I'm not alone, finding that memories that were once too painful to write about and then reread, have become important enough that I want to write about then, and then read what I've written.

Does anyone else find that act of putting pen to paper is a way of exorcising demons?

Happy Release Day: BOOKING FOR TROUBLE!

 

BUY NOW

JENN McKINLAY: BOOKING FOR TROUBLE, my 16th and final (maybe, probably, idk, we'll see) Library Lover's Mystery is out on Tuesday, the 24th! I didn't want to interrupt What We're Writing Week, so I'm sharing my celebratory release day post a couple of days early.

First, I have to acknowledge how gorgeous this cover is! Julia Green has been the artist for this series since book one and I have loved every single cover she has created for this series. I feel truly blessed by the cover gods to have been lucky enough to have her illustrate my world. Thank you, Julia!

Sixteen books ago I introduced librarian Lindsey Norris with a knack for finding bodies and a talent for solving murders in BOOKS CAN BE DECEIVING and somehow that mystery turned into the Library Lover’s series. Sixteen books. Which feels a little like saying I raised a child to driving age and now someone has handed her car keys.

Let’s be honest: series fatigue is real. There comes a moment when you look at your beloved fictional town and think, “What fresh havoc can I possibly wreak upon you?” I’ve hunted for treasure, hosted book sales, planned weddings, solved cold cases, and, yes, discovered more bodies than any self-respecting small town should statistically allow. 

And yet.

Leaving this world feels less like typing “The End” and more like packing up a house to leave a town you’ve lived in for years. I know which floorboards creak. I know which of my neighbors is a busy body. I know exactly how the light falls through the windows in autumn. Walking away is practical. It’s smart. It’s probably overdue.

It's also heartbreaking.

These characters have been my daily companions. They’ve surprised me, comforted me, and occasionally refused to cooperate (looking at you, character who refused to be murdered). Saying goodbye feels like moving away from home—necessary for growth, but oh, the ache.

Still, every good series deserves a final chapter. And if I’ve learned anything from my years as a librarian, it’s this: when one story ends, another is waiting on the shelf.

Thank you, Readers, for joining me on this journey. I've loved every second of it. And who knows, maybe there'll be another...I never say never.

Reds and Readers, how do you feel when a beloved series ends? 

Plot Twists I'd Never...

JENN McKINLAY: Hub and I were chatting the other day about plot twists -- oh, do we love a good plot twist! -- and then we were laughing about some of the worst plot twists. So, here is my short list of plot twists I promise to never use...

1. It Was All a Dream

Three hundred pages of clues… and then the sleuth wakes up.
No. I am not gaslighting my readers.

2. The Evil Twin

Oh look, the identical sibling no one mentioned until Chapter 28. Bonus groan points if they have a scar.

3. The Cat Did It

I love cats. I write about cats.
But unless the cat hired a hitman and falsified a will, the feline is innocent.

4. The Murder Was an Accident (And Therefore Nobody Is Responsible)

A carefully planted mystery that ends with “Oops.”
If I promise you murder, I mean murder.

5. The Sleuth Was the Killer All Along

Unless the book is explicitly psychological noir, I am not betraying the reader I’ve asked to trust the narrator for 300 pages. That’s not a twist. That’s a divorce. 

6. It Was Aliens

Unless I’ve clearly written science fiction from page one, little green men do not get to swoop in and take credit for the body in the library.

 7. Everyone Faked Their Death and Moved to Aruba

If half the cast turns out to be alive, tanned, and sipping rum punches, I have failed you. Also, I am jealous.

Reds and Readers, what do you think of these? Did I miss any? What are some of the worst plot twists you've ever read or seen in a movie? Please be generic so we don't give any spoilers.

Lifelong Learning by Jenn McKinlay

JENN McKINLAY: Picking up on Monday's discussion of languages, I'm realizing that while I was not a stellar student in school (if I wasn't interested in the subject, I was not motivated to study), I have always been a lifelong learner.

Over the years I have picked up classes and courses in whatever interested me at the time. From pottery to investing to master gardening, if there was a class that matched my current field of interest, I took it. 

I was knocked out the other day when Hooligan 1 stopped by the house to announce he'd signed up for a college class in photography - we're talking old timey film photography - just because he wanted to learn about it. "I think I'm a lifelong learner, Mom." This is mostly shocking to me because he just graduated college last May and I was certain he'd take a longer break than nine months. Apparently, not. 

It also cracked me up as I'm currently taking a class in Tai Chi (so much harder than I thought!) and I've joined a women's investment group because I've always been intimidated by investing but now I want to understand it down to the nuts and bolts. So, I think the constant quest for knowledge is hard wired into our DNA.

So, how about you, Reds, what adult education classes have you taken over the years? 

HALLIE EPHRON: For me, early on, I took adult ed classes in cooking and conversational Spanish (I was an elementary school teacher and lots of my kiddoes had parents were non-English Spanish-speaking.)

Since then, it’s been all about writing - finally succumbing to it. First I went to the Provincetown Fine Arts Work Center for a week-long summer class on writing fiction. I was in the middle of writing my first unpublished novel. It was there that I learned all about the power of VERBS!

Then for several semesters, I took a weekly creative writing seminar at Racliffe Seminars in Cambridge with Arthur Edelstein. He was a brilliant teacher. That’s where I honed my first published novel.  

RHYS BOWEN:  I have been a lifelong learner/striver in art. Over the years I’ve taken courses in life drawing, pastels, oils and watercolor.  I have finally made some headway in the latter and paint quite often. I find it’s a great way to de-stress. When you are painting you can’t think about anything else.

I also tried ceramics once.  Not a success. Some big lumpy pots are all I have to show for it, and I didn’t really enjoy it. 

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN:  Well, as I was trying to write my first book. I took a two-day course in… mystery writing! From our very own Hallie Ephron. Talk about a game changer!  That became Prime time, and TRIH. And since then, I’ve participated in many many writing classes–but I have to say, almost always mostly teaching. But I always learn something when I teach!

I am deep into DuoLingo, does that count?  I took Tai Chi and Chi Gung for many years, and still love it. Oh, and let’s not forget that some years ago I decided to go back to ballet. TOTAL DISASTER. My brain knew exactly what to do, but my body was having none of it.

DEBORAH CROMBIE: After I graduated from college, I took some post grad courses in English lit, including medieval English literature, intending to work towards a masters degree. All that was upended by moving to Scotland and I never got back to it. I had already read most of the texts due to a teenage obsession with Arthurian legend and history. I also took non credit courses in French and in Creative Writing–that last one was a total bust as the instructor said I had zero talent.

It took a few years for my ego to recover, but eventually I started taking courses in novel writing and mystery writing, and research projects for different books have kept me pretty well occupied since.

JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: Back when I was a young wife and mother, I took SO many adult ed homemaking courses. Sewing (beginner to advanced) vegetable gardening, canning and preserving… honestly, high schools need MORE home economics classes, not less!

But my formal learning bug was satisfied (or maybe burned out) with getting a masters and a Juris Doctor, so I haven’t done many “take a class activities,” other than the Stone Coast Writing Workshop after my first book sold. I’m more of a lifetime auto-didact; I love nonfiction, and the podcasts I listen to are about current events, economics, history and other interesting, educational topics. I want to feel like I’m learning something new while I’m washing dishes or walking the dogs.

LUCY BURDETTE: Besides French, which you’ve all heard about, I took many writing classes while writing my first mystery. I still like taking them because I learn something new every time. But my latest classes were in the fine points of beginner pickleball. This game is lots of fun, but it has many arcane rules about scoring and when you’re allowed to hit a volley (not in the kitchen, which is a marked off area closest to the net.) Did you happen to see the article in the NY Times about the big brawl over pickleball that happened in a retirement community in Florida recently? I definitely sense a mystery in the making…

JENN: There's a romcom series by Ilana Long called PICKLEBALLERS. Super cute!

How about you, Readers, what adult education classes have you signed up for and how did it go?

Solo Protagonist vs. the Squad

JENN McKINLAY: I'm currently working on my next contemporary romance, entitled IF SUMMER NEVER ENDS, and I'm in the "dead marsh" which for me is and always will be...the middle. If this was a mystery, there would 100% be a dead body to move the plot along, alas, it is not, so we are saddled with a donkey named Maybellene who can tell when people are lying. *Jenn shrugs*

All that to say, as I was toiling away on this saggy middle, I couldn't figure out why the book wasn't coming together for me and then I realized I hadn't crafted my squad. Doh! *Jenn smacks forehead* 

I am a pack animal. I always travel in a squad or a posse or a crew, whatever you want to call it. I’m not sure how it started but I think it goes back to when I was nine years old and my family moved across the state of Connecticut from Kent to Niantic, ripping me away from my best friend and the social status I had carved out for myself as one of the cool kids. Oh, the drama! The move was not easy. I went from a school where we called the bathroom a “bathroom” to a place where it was referred to as a “lav” as in lavatory. What? It melted my nine-year-old brain.

Then, of course, came the big trauma. I'd been at the new school for just a few weeks. I'd approached a few kids but I was freakishly tall in the fourth grade so I was regarded with suspicion at best and contempt at worst. The cool kids were already well established and there was no way I could break in, being a tomboy in a town where Barbie reigned supreme.

One of the only pics of Jenn in a dress in existence before the age of 16.

Naturally, I tried to fit in, clocking the other kids' slang, fashion, and social cues, as all newbies do, and I started wearing (kill me) dresses. But the thing is, you can stick a tomboy in a dress but you can't make her girly. For example, I was one of those kids who liked to tip her chair back in class, titling it on the back two legs and riding it like the horses I rode after school. Now in jeans a spill was no big deal, I'd simply pop back up to my feet and shake it off. But in a dress, yeah, not as easy to pop anywhere, especially when you're blinded by the skirt that is wrapped around your head and the entire class is dead quiet and then roaring with laughter while they check out your Underoos, mine were Wonder Woman, natch.

The humiliation dogged me for weeks. The mean kids mocked, derided and picked on me mercilessly. Good times! Sadly, my mother staunchly refused to let me drop out of the fourth grade. Darn it! I had it all planned. I was going to show them! I'd run off and be a jockey and win the Kentucky Derby, never mind that I was already too tall. With that dream squashed and with no other viable options in sight, I knew if I was going to survive this situation, I was going to have to form my own squad.

Did you ever see that episode of I Love Lucy where Lucy joins a rag tag group called the “Friends of the Friendless”? Yeah, that was me. Every classroom I entered I found the kid who looked as out of place as I felt and befriended them. Being a friend to others is not as difficult as people think. You smile and you ask them their origin story and then you listen and decide whether you click or not (i.e. does their crazy match your crazy?) and BOOM you have a squad or at the very least people to share Jell-O with at lunch. This skill set has served me well over the years and is one of the reasons I became a Red. Squad up with awesome writers? Yes, please!

It has also influenced my writing. While I mostly write my stories in the third person from the perspective of the main protagonist, they are never on a solitary journey. My characters all operate on the buddy system whether it's a bakery squad, library peeps, the Maine crew, a hat shop posse, or a clutch of neighbors on the OBX (Outer Banks).

Needless to say, with my crew formed in the new book the writing has taken off! Woo hoo!

Tell me, Reds and Readers, do you prefer a solo protagonist or one with a squad? Or does it not matter so long as the story is a page turner?

The Great Photo Purge (Send Snacks)

Jenn McKinlay: Recently (last year, the year before, I have no idea), I listened to The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning by Margareta Magnusson. It is exactly what it sounds like, a book about cleaning out your possessions before you die so that the people you leave behind don't have to. 

My best friend is Swedish and we talked quite a bit about the book while I was listening to it. My friend confirmed that this is how most Swedes are - thoughtful about not leaving behind problems for others. I can vouch that this is true because she and I are the same height and weight and every time we visit, she gives me shoes or clothes because she's also 12 years older than me and in constant death clean mode. I'm okay with this because she has excellent taste and takes care of her things so it's a win win.

What I loved about Magnusson's book was that she made the death cleaning easy and straightforward and then you get to the final chapters and she talks about the one thing that makes even death cleaners stumble -- photographs. 

Well, I was determined not to falter. Armed with a trash bag, a shredder, and the misplaced confidence of someone who has watched exactly one episode of a home organization show, I opened our storage unit.

You know the one. The Indiana Jones warehouse of my past where between the Ark of the Covenant and the Holy Grail were seventeen boxes labeled “PHOTOS—IMPORTANT!!!” (Apparently, I felt very strongly about that in 2009.)

Here’s the thing about old photos. You don’t simply “go through” them. You time travel. One minute you’re tossing duplicates, the next you’re misty over a blurry snapshot of a long-gone dog who, in that photo, is mid-zoomie and eternal.

I found hairstyles that should have come with warning labels. Seriously, I think my bangs in the 80's are solely responsible for the hole in the ozone layer. Outfits that were clearly chosen during a period of temporary insanity, I mean, were shoulder pads that doubled as pillows really necessary? Entire vacations documented before smartphones, when I took 24 photos and 19 of them featured my thumb or a sunset that looked beige.

And yet.

There were the Hooligans dressed up as toilet paper mummies. The Hub's grandparents dancing at our wedding. Friends tailgating at the college game where the keg was featured but we're all there in our  day-glo highlighter hued clothing, holding red Solo cups.

I’ll confess: the shredder remained tragically underfed.

Yes, I mailed a decade of photos to an ex so he could remember what he looked like in the 90's. Yes, I let go of the mysterious landscapes that simply didn't translate their awesomeness to a faded 4 X 6 inch print. Yes, I bravely discarded photos of people I absolutely couldn't identify. Who are you, sir, and more importantly why are we hugging?

Still, knowing that my Hooligans (bless their hearts) are never going to care about the 20,000 photos that document their Dad's and my lifetimes, a solid dent was made. Many giant boxes have been distilled into several much smaller ones with their contents to be digitized at a future date. The rest? Well, progress is best measured by hefty bags and I have many to go before I sleep (nod to Robert Frost).

How about you, Reds and Readers, what do your photo archives look like?