What We're Writing: Debs on Cars and Characters

DEBORAH CROMBIE: I want to talk about cars. This is partly because I just bought a new car, the first in 17 YEARS, which some of my fellow REDs will be fed up hearing me talk about!  But also because the very emotionally weighty business of making that choice got me thinking about the cars (or the historical equivalents) we give our fictional characters and what it says about them.

In my very first Kincaid/James book I gave Duncan a classic, if slightly worn, red MG Midget. It looked like this.

This is the car my ex and I owned when we lived in England. I never drove it much, because a) right-hand drive, and b) the driver's seat springs were so sprung that I couldn't see out the windscreen! But it was fun, on a sunny day, driving with the top down along the Cheshire lanes in search of afternoon tea. Not so fun when it rained and the top leaked...

So it was partly familiarity that made me give Duncan this car. I also liked that he is a tall guy and I had an image of him disentangling himself from the little low MG. In the very first scene in the book he is driving through the Yorkshire countryside with the top down on a perfect autumn day, a picture of the romantic detective.

There was, on the other hand, nothing sexy about Gemma's little Ford Escort. This was a budget, single-mom-with-baby car and you could imagine the safety seat in the back and the detritus of spare nappies, teething biscuits, and juice drinks.

In short, Duncan was a cool if slightly eccentric guy, and Gemma was underpaid, overwhelmed, and over worked.

Eventually, their lives joined and moved on. With the advent of dogs and children, the Midget no longer suited and Duncan accepted a hand-me-down from his parents, an elderly green Vauxhall estate car. In American parlance, a station wagon, and about as nerdily uncool as one could get, much to now-teenaged Kit's humiliation. 

When the Astra came to an untimely--or timely, depending on your point of view--end, it was Gemma who got the long-deserved new car, a Land Rover Discovery the same copper color as her hair, and Duncan who was left with the little orchid-colored Ford runabout. I spent a lot of time picking out that fictional new car for Gemma--almost as much as I spent picking out my own! But these cars are more than cars, they are a snapshot of the characters' personalities and of the progress--and balance--of their relationship.

So what does the fact that I drove my green Honda Accord for seventeen years say about me? If I was a character in a book, would I be frugal, dull, totally uninterested in cars, or in my image? Or would it say that I form lasting emotional attachments? None of the first things are entirely true, but the second maybe more so--I did love the Accord. And I do, actually, really like cars, and had been daydreaming about something that was a little sporty as well as practical, and RED, so this is what I bought!

With a "parchment", aka white, interior, just to prove I have a thoroughly impractical streak.

So, darling Reds, do you think about what your characters' cars say about them?

And readers, do you notice what cars fictional characters drive, and do those cars lead you to make assumptions? Do you have favorite cars in books?

(Two of my fictional heroes, Inspector Morse and Thomas Nightingale, drive classic Jaguars!)

PS! The car is a Mazda CX-5 in Soul Red Crystal.

PSS!!! I almost forgot the writing update! Besides car shopping, I have been writing!! I'm about to hit 80,000 words, which may not mean much to readers but fellow writers will recognize as a good progress marker, a good two-thirds of the book. I'm reaching the point where, as  Hank said on Monday, I've passed, "Do I really have enough for a book?" and tipped over into, "Oh my God, how am I ever going to get it all in????"

Next time I will try to find a snippet, and we will hope I'll be closing in on THE END.

A Little Romance (Or the Joys of Secondary Characters)

DEBORAH CROMBIE: All summer, when it was a hundred degrees in north Texas, I was moaning and groaning over trying to imagine myself in London in November and December. Well, miracles occur, it's now December again and I'm STILL writing Kincaid/James #19, so maybe there are a few benefits to being a tortoise.

Here, just to put you in the mood, is my last photo from my very last night in London last year. It was two days before Thanksgiving, and this is Oxford Street with all the Christmas lights up. And that's my favorite department store, John Lewis, which always has the most wonderful Christmas window displays. It was bitterly cold that night and spitting with rain. I nearly froze to death waiting for my bus--which was not the one in the photo!

There might be a different bus, however, on the cover of the book-in-progress. A fabulous photo taken by my London photographer friend has gone to the publisher's art department, and my editor and I are very excited about it. Hopefully, I'll have something to show you soon! Along with the title!

But I can share a part of a scene I've had fun with recently. One of the things I love most about writing multiple viewpoint, series novels is having the chance to develop some of the secondary characters. They can hang about, doing their job of moving the plot along in the background, and then suddenly they stick their hands in the air and say, "Look at us! We have stories, too!"

In this case, it's two of the characters from several previous books; Dr. Rashid Kaleem, the dishy Home Office pathologist (unless that's an oxymoron...), and Detective Inspector Jasmine Sidana, the second-ranking and uber professional officer on Duncan's murder squad. They are both in their mid-thirties, and single. But that's about all they have in common. They come from different cultures, different backgrounds, different religious upbringings. Sidana, especially, is a bit of an enigma. She feels she was passed over for Duncan's job, she doesn't like anybody much, and she lives with her parents and her granny. I had to wonder why.

Here's a snippet from a scene with the two of them. Sidana has just attended the post mortem of the murder victim.

Dr. Rashid Kaleem’s office was not what Sidana had expected. It was a windowless room at the end of a long basement corridor, but it wasn’t a clinical cubicle. Colorful graffiti covered any bare expanse of the concrete walls not hidden by bookcases. The piles of books and papers on his desk seemed to be in a pitched battle to oust the large computer monitor. One stack precariously supported an old-fashioned shaded library lamp, the warm pool of its light counterbalancing the overhead florescent fixtures.

Kaleem had slipped a white lab coat over a t-shirt that she thought had said Play safe or I will see you naked, but she couldn’t very well ask him to give her another glimpse. She must have looked askance because he glanced at his chest and shrugged apologetically. “I don’t usually see the paying customers. Pathologist’s humor.”

“I wasn’t—” She stopped, flushing. She couldn’t say she hadn’t been staring.

He nodded toward a coat stand behind the door, where a pale blue button-down shirt hung neatly on a hanger, draped with a suitable conservative red-and-blue dotted tie. “I can look presentable if necessary.”

“I didn’t mean…” Trailing off, she sank into the chair Kaleem offered her. It was, in fact, the only chair other than the one behind his desk, and there was barely room for it in the small space.

He must think her a dreadful stuffed shirt. She knew black humor for the defense mechanism it was, but she’d never been very comfortable with it, even in the police.

Before she could dig herself in any deeper, he said, “Have a coffee to warm you up. It’s the least we can do.” He waved a hand at the counter behind his desk, where a state-of-the-art espresso machine and a jar of coffee pods were nestled in between more stacks of books and some very unpleasant-looking anatomical models. “There’s even milk,” he added, pointing out a tiny fridge below the counter. “I promise I don’t keep specimens in there with it, and I run the mugs through the autoclave.”

“I’d like that. The coffee, I mean.” She snapped her mouth shut before she babbled on. Why did this man make her feel so bloody awkward?

“I was just kidding about the autoclave,” he said as he popped a pod in the machine and retrieved a mug emblazoned with a large red heart between the words ‘I’ and ‘forensics.’ I wash them in the staff room.” The machine rumbled and hissed as the mug filled.

When he’d added a splash of milk to the coffee and handed it to her, she said into the silence, “Dr. Kaleem—”

“Please. Call me Rashid.” He sat behind his desk, looking suddenly less like a rock star and more like the expert he was.

“Rashid,” she said carefully, cradling her mug, “what else can you tell me about Sasha Johnson?”

I'm not sure where this is going, but I might see a way that it can mirror the main plot. However it turns out, I want to know more about these two.

REDS, do you enjoy writing secondary characters? And READERS, do you enjoy glimpses into the lives of characters that aren't the main focus of the story?

What We're Writing--Debs and Garden(s)

DEBORAH CROMBIE: The last time What We're Writing Week rolled around, I was celebrating the birth of my brand new granddaughter (and NOT WRITING, at least for a few days.) Now, I can hardly believe that little Wren will be two months old on Sunday. How time flies with babies!  (She is absolutely adorable, by the way.)

Too bad it doesn't fly for me when I'm writing... But you all know by now that I am the slowest writer in the universe. Well, maybe the second slowest... (poking Julia here, grin.) 

But I'm making great progress on Garden of Lamentations, having got past what my quilter friend calls the "ugly quilt" stage. This is where you get a little way into what you thought was going to be the PERFECT book, and you start to think, "This is THE worst idea for a book, ever. It will never work. Why did I think I could write this????" It happens with every book, without fail. I recognize it for what it is, but somehow that doesn't make it any easier to deal with. I also know that the ONLY way to get past it is to WRITE. (Can I make those caps any bigger?) And I do eventually work out those details that seemed completely unmanageable, and then it starts to be fun.

I'm on the downhill now, and having a great time.

One of the things I'm loving about this book is creating my imaginary garden in Notting Hill. This is an enclosed residential garden (remember the garden that Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts climb into in Notting Hill?) but some of my inspiration for the landscape has come from Cannizaro Park in Wimbledon, just south of London. This is a Grade II listed park, small but much grander than my little fictional garden.  But the nice thing about fiction is that you can borrow as much as you like. Oh, and the garden is locked, just to make things more interesting...

Here's a snippet to give you a feel for the garden. Gemma, along with DCI Kerry Boatman, is investigating the death of a young woman, a nanny employed by one of the garden's residents. It's mid-May, so the azaleas and rhododendrons are in full flower.

“I’m getting the crime scene team on this,” Kerry Boatman said when Glenn had left them. “Although I don't think there’s a snowball’s chance in hell that there’s anything left to find.” Putting her phone to her ear, she walked away from Gemma and began to pace up and down on the gravel path as she talked.

Gemma moved into a patch of shade and stood, gazing at the spot where Reagan Keating’s body had lain. Why this spot, at the edge of the glade? Did it have some special significance? Was there any possibility the body had been moved here? Kate Ling hadn’t mentioned lividity. Pulling out the little notebook she still carried in her bag, phone notwithstanding, she jotted a reminder to herself to check.

The tree was beautiful, as perfect as a drawing in a children’s picture book, set against the green sweep of lawn. What was it called in some of the old books Kit read aloud to Toby? Greensward, that was it. It had an Old English sound that made Gemma think of knights and enchantments. Or maybe she was just associating the way the girl had been described—laid out like a sleeping princess. She needed to see the crime scene photos for herself.

The turf showed no evidence of a struggle, although she did find a length of foot-wide parallel indentations at the edge of the path. Gemma thought it likely they had been made by the mortuary gurney, but there was always a possibility that it had been something else—a cart or a wagon, used if the body had been moved. She made another note, then looked up, trying to see how this spot related to the rest of the garden. Was it visible from the nearby houses?

She thought the trees and shrubs would have screened it completely from the houses on the left side of the garden. On the right, the small private gardens were dense with shrubs and flowering plants, although she thought it might be just possible to see the patch of lawn from the upper windows of the nearest houses. That left the approach from the center of the garden.

There, casual beds of azaleas swooped down towards the formal beds in the garden’s center, the riot of color punctuated by clumps of spent tulips and daffodils. Gemma thought a witness would have to have been quite close to have had an unimpeded view. She wondered how much light there had been late on Friday evening. The tall houses themselves would block any illumination from street lamps in the surrounding area.

It had been a very private place to die.

REDS and readers, whether dealing with books or projects, what hints do you having for conquering "ugly quilt" syndrome?

What We're Writing-Debs' Bits and Bobs and a Hint of Heather

DEBORAH CROMBIE: Like Hallie and Hank, I've just finished a short story for an upcoming Sherlock-themed anthology edited by Sherlockian experts Leslie Klinger and Laurie R. King. Need great ideas for the Sherlock fans on your list? Here's the first anthology edited by Les and Laurie, A STUDY IN SHERLOCK

And the second, IN THE COMPANY OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

They are enormously entertaining and inventive, so I was very flattered to be asked to contribute to the third volume, which will be out in September 2016. 

It was a big departure for me. My story, called THE CASE OF THE SPECKLED TROUT, is told in first person, something I don't usually write in the Kincaid/James novels. It reminded me of how I felt when I was just starting out writing, trying different voices to see what worked and felt comfortable. I still don't think I'd do it in a novel (and hats off to all the writers who do it so well, because it's much harder than it seems!) but I had a great time with this story.

It's set in the Scottish Highlands, where the heather is a' bloomin'. (I've been really homesick for Scotland lately...)

Here's the very beginning:

     My name is Sherry Watson. It’s a crap name, Sherry, I know. But what can you do? It’s not like I had a say in the matter. My parents, to give them credit, were trying to do the right thing—a sentimental gesture I wondered if they were sorry for after. 

 

     They named me after my godfather, who is—or was, before he vanished a year ago—a famous detective. All I have to say is it’s a good thing I wasn’t a boy, or I would really have something to be pissed off with him about.  Actually, he’s responsible for a lot of things I should be pissed off about, my godfather, not the least of which was me standing in a freezing Scottish kitchen, up to my elbows in fish guts...

I'm also working hard on finishing up the new Kincaid/James, GARDEN OF LAMENTATIONS, but I couldn't find a single thing to share that wasn't a spoiler.

So here are some Duncan and Gemma stocking-stuffer suggestions!
For my fave Christmas novel in the series, WATER LIKE A STONE, set at Christmas in the beautiful Cheshire market town of Nantwich. 

Then, for a bit more Scottish atmosphere, NOW MAY YOU WEEP. Gemma and her friend Hazel take a much needed break in the Scottish Highlands, but Hazel's complicated past catches up to her and it takes all of Gemma's and Duncan's effort to save her from a dire fate.

I'll give away a stocking-size copy of each--just put your email in a comment to be entered. 

 

So, REDS and dear readers, where would you spend your fantasy Christmas? I think the Highlands would be fabulous--at least as long as you had plenty of firewood and good Scottish whisky...

 

 

Deb Crombie: Boxers or Briefs?

DEBORAH CROMBIE: First, a big kickoff huzzah to Hank, Hallie, Lucy, and Rhys, who are representing your fabulous REDS this weekend at Malice Domestic in Bethesda, Maryland. Hank is up for two Agatha awards, Best Contemporary Novel (for Truth Be Told) and Best Non-fiction (for Writes of Passage: Adventures on the Writer's Journey. Rhys is nominated for Best Historical Novel (for Queen of Hearts.) Fingers crossed for them both, and for all our JRW friends who are nominated as well.  The REDS are putting on a terrific game show panel, and those of us who are not there will be missing out on a great time. Sigh...

And now on a completely different subject... This is What We're Writing week here on the blog. I am slowly (is there an award for tortoises? If there is, I should win it) working my way forward on the as yet unofficially titled Kincaid/James #17, and I am thinking a lot about how writers build up characters who seem authentic to the reader.

Last Sunday I had the great pleasure of attending the Jane Austen Society of North America North Texas Region's Annual Spring Tea in the French Room at the Adolfus Hotel in downtown Dallas. (Thank you, Ashley Kath-Bilsky!) The speaker was a Regency period re-enactor named Brian Cushing who gives a wonderful talk called Undressing Mr. Darcy. Here's a little video clip to give you an idea. 

I was absolutely fascinated by Brian's talk, and I will never again read a Regency novel in quite the same light. Clothes do indeed make the man, and Brian took us through the Regency gentleman's wardrobe literally from the top (hat, although they weren't called top hats quite yet) down.  I learned, among many other things, that the Regency gentleman's long linen shirt (they reached to just above the knee) served as a one-piece undergarment. I'll let your imagination take it from there... 

I've also been watching (last person on earth here) the adaptation of Diana Gabaldon's Outlander, and have been riveted by the men's clothing. I mean, really, how can you top a Highlander in full kilted plaid? (Speaking of undergarments, ahem...)

All this started me thinking about how I dress the characters in my books. I do pay a good deal of attention to what my characters wear, and each of my main characters has a very specific style.  Gemma, for instance, avoids the stereo-typical female detective's suit at all costs. She wears greens and browns and russets, and never black, unless it's to a funeral.  Melody Talbot, on the other hand, does wear suits, but they are very expensively tailored--part vanity, part armor--and if you see Melody in ragged jeans and an old t-shirt, you know something is up. (Melody, with her dark hair and fair skin, looks terrific in black.)

Doug Cullen's wardrobe I imagine as what I call nerdy/preppy.  He's never without his wire-rimmed glasses, and while he does care about his appearance, he will, if focused on a problem, put on whatever is closest to hand. And yes, he has a cardigan or two, and they are slightly ratty...

Which brings us to Duncan. Duncan pays attention to his clothes, as befits a detective superintendent. But no pin-stripes, ever! His suits are well tailored, usually in blues and grays (not black!), and he shops in the menswear department of House of Fraser, just down Victoria Street from New Scotland Yard. On a splurge he might buy a Crombie suit--for obvious reasons I am partial. But I never see him in a waistcoat, and I always like him best in casual clothes--button-down shirt, an Arran pullover, or his scuffed leather jacket. 

All this may seem silly, but it helps me (and, I hope, the reader) to visualize my characters. Even more importantly, what my fictional people wear reveals much about their personalities and backgrounds.

Which brings us to the big question, the one I had never considered until I contemplated Mr. Darcy's one-piece undergarment--does Duncan wear boxers or briefs?

Maybe we'll find out in #17...

Readers, do you pay attention to fictional character's clothes? 

Deborah Crombie--Writing in London

DEBORAH CROMBIE: I’m in London researching (and writing) Kincaid/James Book #17. (I do have a title. I love it, my editor loves it, but until it goes in the publisher’s catalog, I think it’s better not to put it out in the Ethernet…)

I thought about calling this piece “Pubs and Clubs in London” but was afraid that would give the impression that I’m not actually working. Not true! Nothing is more important to a London detective novel than pubs. My characters need places to gather information, to meet and talk, (some of those meetings might be clandestine…), and sometimes to interview “persons of interest” in a setting less formal than the police station. And sometimes, things that happen in pubs can have very bad consequences…

But back to research. I had a pub in mind for a very important scene, and although I’d seen it from the street, I’d never actually been inside. So last Friday my daughter and I met some friends there. Strike one. A very nice pub, but very loud and painfully trendy and absolutely packed, not at all the sort of place I need for this scene. Back to the drawing board on that one. Tonight I’m having dinner with a friend at a place in Bloomsbury that I’m hoping will be somewhere two people could have an unremarkable but very important chat in a quiet corner. See, research is essential!

So, with that in mind, I’ve visited some old favorites in the pub category. There's The Duke of Wellington in Portobello Road, my ritual stop after a long day at the market. Then, The Jolly Gardeners in Putney, which is just across the road from my detective sergeant Doug Cullen’s house. Aren't their little sheds in the front cute? (One of the houses just beyond them is Doug's, but I'm not saying which one...) And there's The Bleeding Heart in Hatton Gardens (below The Scotch Malt Whisky Society, where Duncan is a member.) 

I’ve also discovered a couple of new gems; a place called Koha in Soho, from which one can see the stage doors of TWO famous theaters! (To my disappointment, I didn't recognize anyone going in and out, although I think one guy with a lovely Tudor beard must have been a principal in SHAKESPEARE IN LOVE...) And I popped in The Hansom Cab in Earl’s Court Road, which just happens to be next door to the Kensington Police Station. Hmmm. (I think I know just who is going to meet whom there…)

But not all the book takes place in pubs! Here is a little snippet in an entirely different setting, from somewhere in the first chapter. (I’m writing in Scrivener so things often get moved around.)
                                                                  
                                                                  ****************

Jean Armitage never set an alarm clock. She had awakened at five a.m. every morning of her adult life, winter or summer, rain or shine. She took great pride in this. To her mind, people who weren’t ready to meet the day were somehow lacking.

When her husband had been alive, she’d slipped carefully from the bed, tiptoeing to the bathroom to dress. Now, she enjoyed the freedom of switching on the bedside lamp, of dressing as she pleased, of making the bed with boarding school neatness. On this May morning, she fluffed the pillows and gave the rose-patterned duvet cover a final, satisfied pat. Crossing to the window, she pulled open the drapes and stood for a moment, looking down into the communal garden. The sky was a clear, pale rose and the first rays of the sun were just gilding the tops of the trees.

Her pleasure was marred, however, by the sight of the half-finished extension jutting into the garden proper from the back of her neighbor’s house. Jean frowned and gave a tsk of disapproval. Just because the people had suffered a loss didn’t give them an excuse to encroach on garden land. Notting Hill might not be Belgravia, but its communal gardens were just as important, treasures that must be preserved from the greedy and the careless.

She’d complained to the Council, as had some of the other residents on the garden, but so far no action had been taken. Well, she’d never been one to back down from a challenge. It was past time someone did something about it.

A few minutes later, armed with coffee, she let herself through the iron gate that separated her small private garden from the communal space. In fine weather, she liked to stroll the path that wound round the garden’s perimeter, sipping her coffee and taking stock. The perfectly raked pea gravel crunched under her feet and she caught the heady scent of the blooming Cecile Brunner roses. Clive Glenn, the gardener, had surpassed himself this year. The hedges were perfectly clipped, the trees were in full leaf, and the late spring flowers were in full glory. The garden had never looked more perfect.

She tugged her cardigan a bit more firmly over her shoulders as she walked. A slight chill lingered in the air, but the day promised warm and sunny. Perhaps it would give her a good chance to canvas some of the other residents for support. Jean Armitage was not given to sighs of contentment, but she couldn’t prevent a small expulsion of breath as she paused, gazing at the brilliant green swath of lawn that meandered through the garden’s center.

Then she frowned. Something white was bundled under a plane tree in the heavily wooded area she thought of as the grove. Those Polish builders working on the extension, she thought, leaving rubbish where it could blow about. Or had there been a burglary, she wondered, her heart quickening. Whatever the object was, it lay in the grass not far from the garden shed, and there had recently been a rash of break-ins in London’s communal garden sheds.

Any burglars would be long gone, she chided herself, setting off across the dew-damp grass with renewed purpose. She slowed as she drew nearer. What had looked like a large white bundle of plastic or paper had begun to resolve into a human shape. It was, Jean realized, a girl. A girl in a white dress, stretched out beneath the great branches of a plane tree.

The girl lay on her back, her face turned slightly away, but Jean recognized her profile and the dark shoulder-length hair. It was the nanny from two houses away, on the Ladbroke Road side of the garden. What sort of a prank was this? Sleeping in a private garden after a night on the town? Taking a breath, she readied herself to scold as she charged forwards. Such behavior was not to be tolerated in Cornwall Gardens, not among civilized people. She would have a thing or two to say to the girl’s employer.

Suddenly, the sun climbed over the tips of the treetops, the light falling across the green grass, the white dress, and the girl's outstretched arm in a tableau that might have been a Pre-Raphaelite painting. Jean stopped, her shoes squeaking on the wet grass, clutching her chest as what she saw registered more clearly. There was something not quite natural about the girl’s position. And she was still, so still. A sparrow swooped down, almost brushing the girl’s dark hair, and yet she did not stir.
The girl was not sleeping at all.

                                                                        ***************



So, REDS and readers, who do you think will investigate this case?  And what can you tell me about Jean Armitage? (Other than that a visit to the pub would do her a world of good...)

Deborah Crombie's To Dwell in Darkness: A stunner!

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HALLIE EPHRON: FANFARE!! Our very own Deborah Crombie's new Duncan Kincaid and Gemma James novel, TO DWELL IN DARKNESS, is out today(!) and it's a stunner. I read the last page and just sat there, literally gasping for breath. And came away loaded with questions for Debs to answer.

Starting with... At the start of this book, almost every one of your returning characters is out of his (or her) element and profoundly uncomfortable or in scary new situations. Especially Duncan Kincaid. Challenging for you, having to create a whole new setting and supporting cast, but also fertile ground, yes?

DEBORAH CROMBIE: Yes, very challenging, but fun. I particularly liked getting to create a new team for Duncan at Camden’s Holborn Police Station.

HALLIE: Duncan Kincaid has a new foil, DI Jasmine Sidana — 35, single, smart, fiercely ambitious, prickly, starched, judgmental, complex… a teetotaler (do Brits use that word?)--if not the un-Duncan, certainly the un-Gemma. She is an inspired choice, so I’m wondering what inspired you to create her?

 DEBS: Ah, Jasmine. Duncan has always been a bit of a charmer. He’s used to everyone liking him. And as I wanted to throw him even more off balance, I thought why not give him a prickly female colleague who not only resents him taking what she thinks should have been her job, but just plain doesn’t like him, and see how he responds to that? And I liked the idea of a smart, ambitious female officer who didn’t fit into the “one of the blokes” mold. I don’t usually physically model my book characters on real people, but with Jasmine I was thinking of the British actress Parminder Nagra. Oh, I would love to see her play Jasmine Sidana!

HALLIE: The plot has some fantastic twists that I will not reveal, multiple narrators, and yet you manage to play fair with the reader. Do you know all the twists in advance, or do you come upon them as you write, and does that mean you have to go back and revise all the time (the way I do!)

DEBS: I did know most of the twists from the beginning, but I wasn’t sure how I could make them work. But instead of doing a lot of revising, I wrote REALLY SLOWLY, trying to figure out how to structure things.

 HALLIE: What was the hardest thing about this book to pull off… what was the easiest?

DEBS: The family scenes are always fun to write. I think there were too many difficult things to list! I had given Gemma a case with the idea that she would be able to make a parallel between the personality of the murderer in her case and the murderer in Duncan’s case, even though the crimes were quite different. And then I realized she actually had to solve what seemed an unsolvable case!

The compressed timeline was a monster, too. Most of my books take place in a fairly short time period, but I realized once I got into this book that this one was going to be very short. Everything happens over four days, which meant that every single scene had to count.  In the final revision I cut about forty pages, the most I’ve ever had to axe.

And then there was the continuing crime storyline—the one that is NOT resolved in this book—which is giving me fits as I’m working on the next book…

HALLIE: There’s a lovely subplot in the book about a cat and kittens that Duncan’s and Gemma’s children rescue. And knowing what an animal lover you are, I’m wondering if this echoes anything that happened to you in real life?

DEBS: Yes, actually, something like this happened to us in real life, but it didn’t have a happy ending. We had a female cat turn up on our front porch, literally starving. But she was very tame and very, very sweet, so we brought her in (isolated from the dogs and other cats) fed her and looked after her.

After a few days we decided we should have her checked over by our vet. He scanned her and she was chipped. The owner lived a few blocks from us. We had to surrender the cat to the vet for the owner to reclaim. We were devastated, but happy that she was back with her family. Then we learned a few weeks later that they’d let her out again and she’d been hit by a car and killed.

So I wrote a happy ending for Xena—and yes, I had named the real cat Xena.

HALLIE: I am dying to know, did you know how the novel would end when you started, and if not, where in the process of writing the book did you find it, because it’s a stunner?

DEBS: I did know from the very beginning. I knew, in fact, when I was writing the previous book how this book would end.  Sometimes I write the end of books part way through, if it comes to me. But this time, even though I knew what was going to happen, I wouldn’t let the scene play out in my head until I actually got to it. And then I wrote it almost without stopping to breathe, and I didn’t change a word.

HALLIE: Wow. I love this picture of Debs because she's got that mischievous look, like she knows something we don't. Like she's got more plot twists already up her sleeve.

So now we'll open it up for questions... Cats, kittens, continuing timelines, prickly sidekicks, and taking your characters OUT of their elements. Let 'er rip!

What We're #Writing: @deborahcrombie On Tour

DEBORAH CROMBIE: Okay, confession time. I am NOT writing. Or at least at the moment I am only writing in my head, snitches and fragments of scenes and dialogue, but I'm not managing to put things on paper, because--

My new book, TO DWELL IN DARKNESS, comes out next Tuesday, 9/23/14. But the kick-off to the five-week-plus book tour is today, with an appearance on our Dallas/Fort Worth morning TV show, Good Morning Texas. 

Then Sunday I take to the skies, although there will be sporadic returns home for signings and the occasional "rest" day (um, make that laundry, chores, restocking travel stuff...)

So this is what I'm doing.

And this.

And answering emails and doing blog posts and social media and making scheduling decisions--and trying to remember what on earth my book is about so that I can talk to people about it.  

Earlier this week I was so frazzled I gave one poor dog both dogs' dose of anti-itch medication. Major panic, dog thankfully okay.  So to make myself feel a little less stressed I treated myself to some pre-book-tour roses from the supermarket.  

And a lovely dinner with my daughter last night in downtown Dallas, with this gorgeous view of the skyline (above.)

I will set off on Sunday, hopefully well-packed and organized, with my laptop and my notebook, hoping for hotel and airport writing time on Kincaid/James #17.

So, dear REDS and readers, how do you manage to juggle too many things at one time?