What We're Writing Week - Julia looks for disasters

JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: Like Debs, I'm also traveling today; not, sadly, to the UK, but to Washington DC to help out my sister. I was originally going to lend a hand to her booth at a street fair tomorrow; Barb is a Realtor and will be offering passers-by free photos of your dog with Snoopy. My sister is the sort of woman who owns a full sized Snoopy costume, as well as a Minion and a Gingy (from Shrek) costume. (She is, no lie, one of the most fun people on the planet.)

However, I'm also staying because her family has been under some sort of voodoo curse. Two weeks ago, Barb fell at a Ravens game she was attending with her oldest boy, badly bruised her face, broke two teeth (!) and concussed herself. Then, a week later, her middle son fell and busted his wrist in two places. So along with handing out real estate into and signing folks up for her mailing list, I'm going to be helping with housework and holding down the fort while her son is in surgery Monday.

This Series of Unfortunate Events - you'd hardly believe it in a novel - got me thinking about the role of disaster in fiction. One of the things I always do while planning elements of my next book is to ask myself, "What's the worst thing that can happen to this character?" Some times it's physical - a character breaks a leg in the middle of a murder investigation, or becomes addicted to amphetamines and sleeping pills. Some times, it's emotional - two people who can't be together fall in love. Some times it's taking a character who is perfectly competent in her sphere and dropping her into an environment she's utterly unprepared for. That's what I've done to Officer Hadley Knox, former California girl, in this excerpt from AT MIDNIGHT COMES THE CRY.

 

The next blaze was different; a straight peeled strip with a bit of bark dug out on either side, roughly cross-shaped. What did that mean? She bent over, shielding her face for a moment from the relentless snow, trying to slow her racing brain enough to picture the chief making the marks. It's the first one he made. They had come up the long, steep slope of giant pines and climbed over a stone lip. Van Alstyne had said something about marking the trail while Paul was writing directions on her arm. Which meant the edge was right in front of her, a stone's throw away.

She strode forward. If she could just get over that bluff and start heading down the mountain, the militia would have at least two directions they'd have to search. When she got to the bottom and turned onto the old creek bed, they'd have to split their search again. Every turning would force more choices for them, and less chance of being caught for her. Of course, there was the matter of her being able to tell east from west when she couldn't see more than a couple feet--

She stepping onto air.

She screamed, cartwheeling wildly, tipped forward and went down, back leg dragging behind her, thudding, rolling, pounding. She hit a massive tree with the force of a woodsman's axe, all the breath exploding out of her lungs. She lay there for a time, sucking in air and crying and hurting all over.

Eventually, she rolled to her stomach, got her knees and hands beneath her, and clambered to her feet. Her hat had flown off somewhere along the way, and when she carefully shrugged free of her backpack, saw she'd the two side pockets were empty. Her water bottle and the gun, gone.

Shit.

Dear readers, what are the in-novel disasters that stick out in your mind? 

 

What We're Writing Week: Russ and Hadley and Joy and Harrison

 JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: You know why I love Science Fiction? Because I'm clearly a space case. I had an unusual Friday, and the change of routine was enough to make me completely forget, duh, Saturday is coming, and with it, my turn at What We're Writing Week! With no further ado, a scene set further along during Russ Van Alstyne and Hadley Knox's visit to the state attorney general's building in Albany.

“Did Flynn leave any work hanging at the end of the operation? Anything he might have been coming back to work on?” After the security routine she and the chief had gone through, Hadley knew Flynn's trips to Albany, if he'd been returning to this building, must have been logged.

“Nothing related to his investigation.” Harrison allowed himself a small smile. “We have a baby ADA who was shadowing the domestic terrorism team. Joy Zhào. I think they were a bit of a thing. He may have stopped by the office to pick her up for a date. Or whatever young people are calling it these days.”

Hadley felt frozen to her seat. A date. Some attorney. Oh, God, what if he'd been shacking up here in Albany the whole time, avoiding his large, nosy clan?

The chief was asking if they could talk to her and Harrison was pressing an phone button and talking, but all Hadley could think of was what an idiot she was going to look like if he had been ducking--

Wait. Flynn might, possibly, ghost his family for a while. She knew from experience how overwhelming that scrimmage of Irishmen could be. But when it came to work, Flynn was conscientious to a fault. Could he have taken personal leave if he'd fallen – more ice in the bottom of her stomach – for another girl? Sure. He was insanely romantic. Could she imagine him blowing off the Syracuse PD and going no-contact with his superiors? No. Never.

“Knox?”

The chief had asked her something. She faked a yawn. “Sorry. The kids kept me up late last night.”

He frowned, but whatever he might have said got swallowed by a knock on the door.

“C'mon in,” Harrison said.

“You wanted to see me?” The girl – and that was the word for her, she was at least ten years younger than Hadley – stepped into the office.

“Joy, come on in. These are some folks from where Kevin Flynn used to work, the, um...”

“Millers Kill Police Department.” The chief rose and shook the girls hand. “Russ van Alstyne. This is officer Hadley Knox.”

Joy Zhào was model-gorgeous, even in her 2-for-1 sale JC Penny suit. Flawless skin, shining dark hair, huge brown eyes with lashes that had to be extensions, except she wasn't wearing any makeup, and who paid for fancy fake lashes and didn't glam up the rest of her face? Plus, you know, college and law school, which would make her a much better match for Flynn, a guy who had kept books stacked everywhere in his apartment.

It's an extra-long excerpt because I feel extra guilty making you wait. One of the reasons I made Joy Chinese-American is because the area I write about is pretty darn whitebread, and I try to add diversity to my cast of characters whenever feasible, so they look more like, you know, real life, and less like a 1950s sitcom. 

I hope you like it!