The Artist's Way

DEBORAH CROMBIE: Lately, at a reader's recommendation, I've become hooked (and I mean obsessively) on a YouTube channel called Kris Atomic. Kris and her partner, Andrew, are both professional photographers and she's also an illustrator. At the end of 2022, they left their London flat and bought a narrowboat. The videos are a chronicle of their life aboard their boat, Land's End, with their cat, Matilda.

My fascination with narrowboats and canals goes back a long way, as evidenced in my books. My third book, LEAVE THE GRAVE GREEN, has a body found in a lock. Later on, I had a whole book, WATER LIKE A STONE, set on the Shropshire Union Canal in Cheshire. I read everything I could find on narrowboats as well as visiting the Shropshire Union and even touring a restored working narrowboat at the Canal Museum in London's King's Cross. And of course the upcoming A LONG COLD SLEEP is set partly on the Regent's Canal in London, so you can imagine my delight at this virtual glimpse of life aboard Land's End afforded by Kris Atomic's videos.

Even if you're not particularly interested in narrowboats, I highly recommend Kris and Andrew's videos as a way to lower your blood pressure. Kris and Andrew (and Matilda) are so likeable and charming, the photography is stunning, and the editing is award-worthy. But maybe what's most engaging is the slower pace of life aboard the boat.

Kris draws, paints, and journals, and in recent videos she's been doing the morning pages recommended by Julia Cameron in her book THE ARTIST'S WAY.  This book, a course in unleashing your creativity, was first published in 1992 and is still apparently going strong!! I read it, and did morning pages practice, when I was writing my first novels!! (Writing three pages every morning is one of the two main tenets of the book. The other is what Cameron calls the Artist's Date, two hours set aside every week doing something that nurtures your creative brain.)

I don't know why I stopped, and I have no idea what happened to those journals. Probably just as well as they're not meant to be memorable, rather just a way to get your brain in gear. But watching Kris, and facing the start of a new book, I'm inspired to attempt the old practice. I couldn't find my original copy of Cameron's book, so ordered myself a nice new copy as well as a journal--because we always need more journals, right? (And new pens...) We'll see how I do.

Has anyone else done THE ARTIST'S WAY? If so, what was your experience? And if not, have you found ways to access your creativity?

Kincaid/James Book Report

DEBORAH CROMBIE: You may have notice that I've been very mum about the progress of the latest Duncan and Gemma book (Kincaid/James#20) recently. But I do have NEWS!!

I finally, finally turned in the manuscript on the 2nd of June (a Tuesday--it's marked in huge red letters on my calendar.) I was jublilant, and giddy, and consumed with fingernail-gnawing nerves. Would my editor like it? This book is the first time we've worked together, and although she'd been enthusastic and supportive throughout, would she like the end? Did it all work?

And, yes, she did like it! Not only that, she made a lot of really helpful and insightful suggestions. All of you fellow writers will know how important it is to trust your editor and to have that sort of feedback. 

So I went back to work for another couple of weeks of revision, and then a break before a few last minute tweaks, and now the book has been sent off to production and I am waiting for the copy edit to land in my in-box any day.

Meanwhile, Book #20 has a title, A LONG COLD SLEEP (I got to keep my working title!) and a release date, 4/13/27, and a gorgeous cover.

I'm so thrilled with this!

I'm also happy to announce that the wonderful illustrator Laura Maestro will once again be doing the endpaper map, and that Gerard Doyle will be reading the audio version!

About the book:

When the shocking discovery of a body in the Regent’s Canal interrupts a riverboat tour, Metropolitan Police detectives Gemma James and Duncan Kincaid are called to investigate in the next twisty mystery from New York Times bestselling author Deborah Crombie.

A few months after his beloved wife’s death from cancer, Miles Deering wonders if he’ll ever get used to her absence. Then he discovers papers among her belongings that make him wonder if he ever really knew her at all…

The next day, Detective Inspector Gemma James is called to investigate a body that surfaced during a boat tour on the Regent’s Canal. It’s none other than Miles Deering, and it doesn’t look like he went into the water of his own accord. Still adjusting to her new station after a recent transfer, and mistrustful of her colleagues given the station’s reputation for discriminating against outsiders, Gemma calls on Duncan Kincaid for assistance.

Along with Gemma’s former partner, Melody Talbot, and Duncan’s sergeant, Doug Cullen, they begin to unravel the details of Miles Deering’s life. According to his friends and family, he was a well-off property developer with no obvious enemies. But Gemma can’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t a random killing—which means one of Miles’s nearest and dearest is lying.

Someone is hiding a secret worth killing for, and the detectives are determined to discover who. But as the team gets closer to a real answer, another attack puts the pressure on. To make matters more complicated, Gemma’s new boss seems intent on stymying her investigation. But Gemma, Kincaid, and their colleagues are willing to risk everything, including their careers, if it means catching a killer.

A LONG COLD SLEEP is now up for pre-order at all your favorite booksellers!

And of course I hope that everyone will pre-order, as it makes such a difference to the book's success.

Thanks to everyone--and especially my fellow Reds--for bearing with me over the loooooong making of this book. I hope you will find it worth the wait!!

 

And Debs Is...Still Writing

DEBORAH CROMBIE: The last several times What We're Writing has rolled around, I've sworn that Kincaid/James #20 was ALMOST finished and that the next time I checked in, I'd be able to show you a neatly typed THE END.

But, no, alas, I am still writing.

The pages are piling up (yes, I do still print manuscript pages, because I always find mistakes in printed copy that I don't see on the screen, and as a "just in case" because even though I back up regularly, digital catastrophes do happen.) I still use the manuscript format I was taught as a very newbie writer, Courier, double-spaced, twenty-five lines a page, which averages 250 words a page. My current page count is 503, or roughly 125 thousand words, and I am imagining the publisher's horror as they are calculating the cost of paper and printing–this is a very big deal.

And I am not finished.

Actually, this book is not all that long for me. The first draft of A KILLING OF INNOCENTS clocked in at 650 pages, which my then-editor happily slashed by a hundred pages, I'm sure making it a much better book in the process. WATER LIKE A STONE was long, as was NECESSARY AS BLOOD, but GARDEN OF LAMENTATIONS takes the cake–it was so long that my editor said it should have been two books, and it is my longest published book to date.

I suspect this current book has another 50 or so pages to go, and then we'll see what comes out in the wash, so to speak. It's pretty terrifying, I have to admit, working with a new editor and not really knowing what to expect.

It's also scary, so close to the end, to wonder if the finished book will live up to that "Platonic book" I first conceived. I've filled three spiral notebooks with notes, and now I'm wondering what bits of all those ideas I've left out. And there are so many series characters I love that I just couldn't squeeze into this book–not unless I want it to run double that 500 pages!

I am excited to be so close to the end, and frustrated that I can't write it faster. 

And now for some really good news!

Kincaid/James #20 is scheduled for publication in Winter '27! I don't have the exact date yet, but things are moving fast. Cover art is in the works! 

And it looks like my working title is going to stand, so the book is called

 

THE LONG COLD SLEEP

You can see I'm really under the gun! 

Dear Reds and readers, how do you feel about long books? I know you can get away with really long novels in sci-fi and fantasy, and in historical fiction or family sagas, but how do you like your crime novels? I worry that if a book isn't long enough, my readers will feel cheated.

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!

What We're Writing--Debs Draws a Blank

DEBORAH CROMBIE: Happy new year and 2nd day of January, everyone! Time does march on but I am convinced that there are wrinkles in the fabric of the universe that somehow swallow chunks of time without our permission. At least that is what happened to me between Thanksgiving and this week.

The week before Thanksgiving week I was really on a writing roll. I hit my pages per day goals, I had a great conference with my editor, and I could see the end of the book, beckoning to me. Look, in this photo there are more pages in the manuscript pile! (As well as the Christmas cactus that didn't bloom. Sigh.)

And then time did its cute little tesseract thing. As I mentioned in a previous post, a few days before Thanksgiving, our dog got really sick and thus began many, many vet and emergency vet appointments. Also, it was the holidays along with lots of other stuff, including my blog week and two back procedures.

Which brings us to the new year and me staring down the barrel of January only a few pages further along on Duncan/Gemma 20. (I suppose I could tell my editor that the dog ate my homework?) Even the pages of my weekly planner, which normally contain all the color-coded minutae of my life as well as my writing progress are...blank.

This is so frustrating because I know more or less what needs to happen and how the scenes will be blocked out, and I know that the bits I haven't figured out will come to me as I'm writing. (Really, I'm sure they will...won't they?)

My editor (bless her) needs this manuscript finished before the publisher's February sales meeting, which means I have got to buckle down, get a grip on that maverick time, and write the bloody end! 

In the meantime, here is a hopefully not too spoiler-ish snippet for you. I love writing Doug Cullen and Melody Talbot's sometimes cantankerous relationship. They have been on the outs for several months in the gap between books, but now they are in cahoots over helping Gemma with her case. In this scene, Melody is staying in her parents' London townhouse and has invited Doug over for dinner.

“Sorry I’m late,” Doug said as she ushered him in. “And sorry I’m empty handed. I had to stand Kevin a second round and I ran out of time to stop for something on the way.” He smelled a bit beery, but didn’t seem the worse for wear.

“I won’t report you to the etiquette police. Kevin’s your mate?”

“Um, yeah.” Doug was peering into the ground floor rooms, eyes wide. “I know I’ve seen the country house, but this…”

“Yeah, I suppose it is a bit much.” Melody nodded towards the dining room with its table for twelve and the sitting room with its deep emerald green wallpaper traced with golden vines and birds. “But normally they don’t use these rooms much. Come on, I’ll show you where the real action is.” She led him to the back hall and down the bare Portland stone stairs into the basement kitchen/sitting room. Unlike the formal rooms above, these areas were designed for comfort. And utility, as her dad, especially, liked to cook. Even though her parents could certainly afford to have a daily chef, they preferred to organize their own meals or to go out.

Her mum, with her usual genius for color, had painted the walls in a soft color that was somewhere between taupe and mauve, with the cupboards and the base of the island in a deep aubergine. The soft furniture was done in pale neutrals, with scatter cushions and paintings providing splashes of color. When her parents were in residence stacks of newspapers and books would proliferate and that only added to the room’s hominess.

The French doors to the garden were open and the outdoor lighting had begun to come on, illuminating the clean contemporary landscaping. “Wow,” said Doug, going to the doors to look out. “The garden’s nothing like the country house, either.”

“No mixed borders here, and no roses,” Melody agreed. “But it works. I think Dad finds a calmer garden restful after the chaos of the paper.”

Having attempted her dad’s famous whitefish dip as an appetizer, she busied herself putting thin slices of baguette in the oven to toast.  She’d bought only one bottle of wine, a crisp white Bordeaux, and now she poured them each a half glass. Doug wasn’t a big wine aficionado, and she meant not to over-indulge.

Doug ran a hand over the veined marble top of the kitchen island. “This is bigger than my entire kitchen.”

“It doubles as a table.” Melody gestured to the well-padded barstools. “Have a seat. Cheers.” She clinked her glass against his. When the timer dinged on the toasts, she took them from the oven and slid them onto a platter, then removed the dip from the fridge and placed both before Doug.

“Wow,” he said again, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “I wasn’t expecting anything so fancy.”

“You should know better than to underestimate me, Doug Cullen,” Melody retorted, but she realized she was actually nervous. When he'd taken a bite, she said, “So, do you like it?”

Doug responded by piling a second baguette slice with dip. “It’s terrible. I’m forcing myself here.” He rolled his eyes. “Seriously, it’s delicious. Are you sure you didn’t buy it?” Then he grinned and if she’d had anything handy, she’s have smacked him.

Darling REDs and readers, does anyone else suffer from "time derailment syndrome," especially between Thanksgiving and Christmas?

P.S. Jasmine says to tell you that she is doing much better, and that she doesn't have to visit her pals at the vet for a whole week!! Her neck is finally healing, and maybe next Monday the vet will put in the last staples to completely close the wound. We are all crossing our paws and fingers! (She adds that it's nice to be out enjoying the return of some nice weather, even if she does have to wear a silly collar.)

P.S.S. Speaking of time derailments and tesseracts, is anyone else watching the last season of STRANGER THINGS? We have a couple of episodes to go (so no spoilers, please,) but I have loved all the references to A WRINKLE IN TIME in this series. This was such a momentous book in my reading (and eventually, writing) life, and I have to assume it was for the writers of the show as well.  But I also wonder if the references make sense to viewers who didn't grow up with the novel. What do you think, dear Reddies?

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.

Debs On What I'm Writing--Or Not Writing

DEBORAH CROMBIE:  This (see below) is beginning to look like a book, but it doesn't quack like a book quite yet.

I was making such progress on my poor benighted Kincaid/James #20, the end, if not in sight, was at least just over the horizon. Then, the past month I have been derailed by a number of things, including tax stuff and an excruciating repetitive stress issue in my left shoulder.

Thankfully, the taxes are done, the shoulder is finally better, and now I have got to dig back into my book and make my tortoise-like way towards the finish line.

It is so difficult finding little snippets in a crime novel that don't give away some part of the plot, but here is another little domestic scene for you:

Gemma woke with a start. The space beside her in the bed was empty and cold—Duncan must have been up for a while. Even Geordie was gone from the foot of the bed. Squinting, she groped for her alarm and saw that it had been turned off. Sounds began to filter in from the rest of the house, the children’s raised voices, a bark from Tess. The smell of coffee drifted up the stairs. “Bugger,” she whispered. She was late. Duncan should never have let her sleep.

Slipping out of bed, she showered hurriedly, then dressed once more in her new navy suit. She didn’t wear black, so navy was the closest thing she had to a power suit if she was going to beard Pine in his office first thing.

Downstairs, she found Duncan and all three children in the kitchen, the children in their school uniforms and eating the last of toast and soft boiled eggs, Duncan with a mug of coffee in one hand and a hairbrush in the other as he tried to manage Charlotte’s curls. “Here, let me,” she said, taking the brush and the hair elastic from him. “You shouldn’t have let me sleep.”

“I thought you needed it. You looked exhausted last night. And I’ll do the school run, don’t worry.” He wrapped an arm round her shoulder and kissed her on the forehead. “You can have some toast and coffee in peace when we’re gone.”

Wrinkling her nose, Gemma said, “Ugh, no. I’ll grab something later. I need to go.” Finishing Charlotte’s hair, she leaned down to give her a kiss. “There you go, lovey. You look like a princess.”

“I’m not a princess, I’m a unicorn,” Charlotte told her, a frown creasing her small face.

Gemma had half expected Charlotte to protest her not taking the school run, but instead Charlotte said, “Papa, we need to go. Miss Jane has a surprise this morning and Oliver said we should be first.” Oliver was her best friend and considered himself the leader of their daring duo.

“Okay. I’ll see you later.” Gemma stooped and tried to give Charlotte a cuddle, but Charlotte jiggled impatiently. The boys were already heading for the door, rucksacks swinging from their hands.

“Bye, Mum,” called Toby. “Are you taking me to ballet?”

“I’ll try,” said Gemma, knowing full well that it was unlikely. “If I can’t, Bodie will take you.”

“Bye, Gem,” echoed Kit.

“I’ll ring you if we turn up anything.” Duncan waved at her as he scooped up Charlotte’s backpack, and then they were gone.

It seemed like only yesterday that Gemma had had to carry a weeping, protesting Charlotte up to the door of her of school so that Miss Jane, the headmistress, could take her from her arms. She should be glad to see Charlotte so independent—she was glad, she was glad to see all the children so grown up and self-sufficient. But something in her felt it as a loss, too, and tears pricked beneath her eyelids.

She shook her head in annoyance and blew her nose with a sheet from the kitchen roll. Something about this case was making her feel unusually emotional and that was a weakness she couldn’t afford.

As you can see from the photo, I still print a paper copy of my manuscript in progress, usually a chapter at a time. I find I catch a lot more mistakes on paper than I ever do on the screen--and there are always things that spell check doesn't catch.

And, also, I have to admit, seeing that growing stack of pages is both satisfying and encouraging. IT WILL BE A BOOK, it really will!

Fellow REDs and writer pals, do you still print paper drafts of your work in progress?

And readers, are there things that you find still work best on paper?

Debs Wobbles Nearer to the End

DEBORAH CROMBIE: We talk a lot in writing/reading circles about panster vs. plotter, as if these two approaches to writing were entirely separate. "Panster" meaning you have no idea what a book is going to be about when you start to write, "plotter" meaning you have a structured outline for everything that's going to happen before you put a word on the page.

But I strongly suspect that for most of us, however we describe ourselves, it's much more of an evolving spectrum. I may call myself a "plotter" but that mostly means I like to have a little "basic capsule," "who-why-when-where," for the actual crime. That gives me something to contruct the rest of the story around.

Then, for example, I begin to add ideas, as in the book-in-progress, Kincaid/James #20:

"Gemma has a challenging new job at a troubled police station" +

"I don't know much about London's canals but wouldn't it be fun to set a book there/Little Venice," +

"The Thames west of London/history/houseboats," +

"Family stuff/new nanny, etc.," +

"Melody plotline," +

"Backstory plotline," +

Etc., etc.

(Houseboat moored on the Thames above Teddington Lock.)

Those were some of the initial building blocks. But those concepts don't tell me how they are all going to fit together, and especially not how my detectives are going to figure it all out by the end. From there I usually do a very rough scene-by-scene outline of a few chapters at a time. Any more than that and I know that what I thought was going to happen will have squirmed all out of shape.

Also, none of this "planning" stuff means that a new thing can't suddenly appear and whack me upside the head, which has happened over the course of the last half a dozen chapters!

My math tells me that this book is now almost 90,000 words, which means I had better figure out what happens between here and THE END. ASAP. And that means back to the outline drawing board.

And in case you're wondering where Duncan is in all this, he's very much in help and support mode, and has his own connection to the case.

Here's a little snippet I wrote earlier this week of (spoiler-free) Duncan and Gemma, in a little interlude at home.

Having finally settled the little ones, Gemma came back downstairs to find the kitchen and the sitting room dark. Puzzled, she checked the study but it was dark, too. Then a movement outside the patio French doors caught her eye. Duncan stood just on the other side, his back to the house. At first, she thought he was taking the dog out, but Geordie lay on his back on the sofa, paws in the air and the lighter fur on his belly gleaming in the dim illumination from the small lamp on the bookshelf. Tess and the cats were upstairs with the children.

Duncan must have heard her because he turned and eased the door open as she came up to it. “Shh,” he said. “Don’t let the dog out.”

Gemma slipped out to stand beside him. “Wait,” he whispered, his breath tickling her ear. So, she stood, barely breathing, and he slipped his fingers through hers.

A low iron railing separated their small flagged patio from the expanse of the communal garden, where its rolling grass, kept cut short, was dotted with large trees. The moon was almost full and as her eyes adjusted, the unshaded grass looked silvery against the deep, dark patches beneath the trees.

And then she saw it, movement, a flitting shape, and then another. Cats? No, their bodies were too large, she realized, the muzzles too long, the ears too big. The tails were wrong as well, too bushy for cats.

They were foxes, and they were playing, chasing one another, then rolling and tumbling in the grass, then jumping back up to start all over again.

Watching, enchanted, Gemma thought suddenly of Karo Fox’s little cottage and the array of fox prints on the sitting room’s walls. Were there foxes on Eel Pie Island, she wondered? And would they know they’d be welcomed in Karo Fox’s garden?

She gave a shiver as the cooler night air began to penetrate the thin fabric of her t-shirt and Duncan let go her hand to put his arm round her.

“Come on,” he said softly. “Let’s leave them to it, shall we?”

Speaking of London's secretive communal gardens, here's another chance to enjoy a fictional visit!

GARDEN OF LAMENTATIONS, Kincaid/James #17, is on sale on all e-book platforms for $1.99!

In which Gemma investigates a death in an exclusive Notting Hill communal garden, while Duncan delves into wrongdoing in the highest echelons of the Met, in a case that could cost him his career, if not his life.

AND the audio version is also on sale on CHIRP for $3.99!

Dear readers, are you a planner or a pantster in real life, or do you wobble somewhere in between?

What We're Writing: Debs Says Sometimes Authors Just Gotta Have Fun

DEBORAH CROMBIE: I have been amusing myself in the latest scene in Kincaid/James #20. I finally have moved (inched) the plot along to scenes I have always intended to set in Richmond. I had been drawn to this western part of Greater London (Richmond, Twickenham, Teddington Lock,)  along the course of the Thames, since before the huge popularity of streaming series Ted Lasso. No, I haven't actually been working on this dratted book since 2020! But we didn't have Apple TV then and I don't think we watched the first season of Ted Lasso until maybe summer of 2022, by which time the book was definitely percolating.

For those who haven't seen the series, an American football coach is hired to coach a failing English soccer team called the Richmond Greyhounds, and while not all the purported Richmond scenes were filmed in Richmond (several of the exterior locations were actually filmed in Notting Hill) some of the real Richmond locations became iconic. 

Ted's fictional flat is in the little alleyway that Gemma walks through in the scene below. The pub known as The Crown and Anchor in the series is actually The Prince's Head, below.

Richmond Green, and these iconic red phone boxes, were used repeatedly in all three seasons.

Of course, since the series, The Prince's Head has become a fan destination--and the pub has made the most of it!

Here I am in the "Ted Lasso corner."

Having just eaten what looks like a massive plate of triple-fried chips and something--fish, maybe? Some fellow Ted Lasso fans (from Australia!) took the pic.

In this snippet, Gemma samples the chips. She's following leads in Richmond with her new detective sergeant, Davey Butler, who she suspects might not be all he appears to be.

They found a spot in a multi-story carpark in Richmond town center and walked towards the Green. “There are a couple of pubs to choose from,” Davey Butler told Gemma. Once out of the car, he seemed more relaxed, almost jaunty as he led the way around a small church and then through narrow paved alleys with little shops and boutiques.

“I don’t know Richmond,” said Gemma. “Bit on the far side of London for me, growing up.”

“I came here a good bit. Night out with the lads, impress a date. Bit pricey for drinking, though,” Butler added, and Gemma liked that he’d had to consider the cost. The sun felt warm on her shoulders and the whole place had a festive feel, with the colored pennants strung across the alleyway moving gently in the breeze. They came to the alleyway’s end and suddenly the Green was before them.

“Oh!” Gemma exclaimed. “How lovely!” They stood at the edge of a wide paved area, bordered by a narrow street, and beyond that, huge trees marked the edge of the wide, grassy expanse of the Green. People sat on benches or lay on blankets in the grass, and in the distance, Gemma saw a group playing a desultory lunchtime game of football.

“There’s The Prince’s Head, just here, and The Cricketers a bit further along,” said Butler, and Gemma realized they had come out of the alleyway right at the first pub.

“This looks fine, don’t you think?” The shadowy interior looked cool after the warmth of the sun, and Gemma realized suddenly that she was starving.

Since they were on the late side of lunch, they easily found a table in a front window where they could look out over the Green. Gemma perused the menu while Butler fetched drinks from the bar. When he returned, she took an unladylike gulp of her fizzy water with lime. The sun and too much coffee had ganged up to give her a terrible thirst and the beginnings of a headache.

“Non-alcoholic. Cheers,” said Butler, raising a half pint of beer to her. “It’s much better than it used to be.”

 “I’ll take your word for it,” Gemma told him. “Not much of a beer drinker.”

When they’d both ordered food at the bar, Gemma settled back into her seat and admired the view. “This is nice. Have you been here often?”

“Occasional nights out with the lads. A few dates. It’s a bit off my usual manor as well.”

“I should bring my husband here for a dinner date some night, assuming we ever manage to have a date.” Gemma sighed.

“It must be challenging. Both of you in the job, and three kids, you said?” Butler’s expression was open, friendly, and if he was digging, she’d given him the opening.

“We’re a blended bunch. His son, my son, and our foster daughter. We’ve finally given in and hired a part-time nanny, but I feel like a bloody yummy mummy even admitting to such a thing,” she added with a grin.

“Sounds right bougie,” Butler agreed, and they laughed. “You can just say ‘child minder.’ That removes a bit of the stigma.”

“Just don’t spread the ‘nanny’ word around at the nick,” Gemma said easily, thinking that she’d know soon enough if he did. She’d made her overture, but she wasn’t about to tell him any more of their personal details.

Butler nodded. “Right, boss.” After a moment’s hesitation, he began, “Your foster daughter—” but just then their food arrived and the moment was lost.

I haven't actually mentioned Ted Lasso, because it won't mean anything to non series fans, and also because I hope people will still be reading my books in some distant future when Ted Lasso will have faded into no more than a cultural footnote. (There was this show about ethics and kindness and good sportsmanship...)  But the references made me smile.

Readers, do you have favorite Easter eggs in books?

And in a totally unrelated question, how do you feel about exclamation points? I was taught in writing classes that you should never use them, but I think that's silly. Of course they can be overdone, but why waste a perfectly good punctuation mark? In this snippet, it seemed weird to end Gemma's exclamations with periods.

Oh, and a progress report: a couple of weeks ago I passed the 50,000 word mark in this manuscript, so I can now at least say that I am on the downslope!

P.S. By weird coincidence, I'd just started re-listening for the umpteenth time (don't judge, these books are my comfort listens) to the first Ben Aaronovitch Rivers of London book, published in 2011 although I didn't read it until a couple of years later. And there, at the beginning of Chapter 4, is my introduction to Richmond and Eel Pie Island. :-)

What We're Writing--Debs is Seasonally Confused

DEBORAH CROMBIE: I am happy to report that I am at last making some progress on Kincaid/James #20, as I am creeping up on 50,000 words, which should be at least half a book (I tend to write long--otherwise I would say MORE than half a book.)

Partly, this is because, after my back surgery in the summer, I am finally able to sit at my desk for a decent amount of time as long as I remember to take breaks at least every half hour. I never thought I would be so thankful for sitting, something I took so for granted! (A little aside here--why did no one, not the surgeon, not PT, suggest that I try a gel pad? It just occurred to me one day, so I looked online, and yes you can get just a simple gel chair pad for about $30! This has made so much difference, I can't tell you!)  

And partly my progress is due to our Hank and Roberta helping me stay focused and accountable for what I accomplish every day. (See our recent post on focus here.)

But I am, however, suffering from a case of seasonal disfunction! I know this must happen to most writers, even if they write books set where they live, unless, or course, they write entire novels in two to three months (which some among us do!) and they write them in the appropriate season! 

My book takes place in London in mid-April, and I am constantly reminding myself to put in seasonal cues! But which ones? What exactly is blooming in London in mid-April? What plants will you find in the garden center (a scene I am working on now!) This is one of the reasons I keep past issues of magazines like the UK edition of Country Living--so helpful. And, fortunately, spring in the south of England is not that different from spring in north Texas. Although London is much farther north, the lovely jet stream keeps it temperate--in fact, we are more prone to really hard freezes here in north Texas. (The recent snow in London was quite bizarre for this time of year!)

So while the leaves are falling in my back garden, I'm imagining fruit trees in bloom (are the ornamental cherries finished? Is it too early for wisteria?) and the trees cloaked in verdant spring green.

While I don't have anything particularly spring-y to share, I thought you might enjoy meeting a character I really like. She's not quite a new character, as some of you may remember her as the uniformed constable Kincaid encounters in Soho Square in A KILLING OF INNOCENTS. She has now been promoted to detective constable and is part of Gemma's team in Gemma's new posting.

Before leaving for Warwick Avenue, Emily Hawkins had taken a moment to freshen up in the ladies’ toilet at the station. Hair pulled back into a neat knot at the nape of her neck, but still ginger, unfortunately. Makeup, minimal. With her milk-pale complexion, she looked like a clown if she wore more than a dab.

What was appropriate dress for an acting family liaison officer? That hadn’t been covered in the training course. As if deciding what was appropriate attire for a newly promoted detective constable hadn’t been challenging enough. In plain clothes for the first time with her promotion to CID, she hadn’t wanted to go full-on trouser suits, afraid she’d look like she was aping the senior ranking female officers like DI James—and she’d known her mates still in uniform would be the first to take the piss. But neither was she doing the telly detective look. It seemed like all the women in the cop shows wore jeans, t-shirts, and leather jackets. Maybe you could get away with that if you were undercover, but she’d just look a prat, and would lose any bit of authority in the bargain.

Today, at least, she was glad of her choices—chocolate trousers, smart oatmeal-colored blazer, a pale blue silk t-shirt. Presentable but not too starchy, or so she hoped.

Now, having found a spot to park the pool car she’d driven from the station, she climbed out, gave her jacket one last tug, and walked back towards the address she’d passed, trying not to feel intimidated by the posh terraced houses. Money would do nothing to alleviate grief, she reminded herself as she descended to the basement flat.

Fellow REDS, do you struggle with writing out of season? And readers, how much do you notice the seasonal cues in books?

What We're Writing--Debs Does Interior Design

DEBORAH CROMBIE: Rhys's post this week on researching the details of her book-in-progress got me thinking about what I need to see in real life versus what I make up out of whole cloth, or a combination thereof. Since I write about actual places, I usually stick pretty close to the real thing when I'm describing exterior settings, and I do my best to see the settings in person. I'm a big proponent of boots-on-the-ground.

But interiors are a different story! There is so much freedom there! I love writing about rooms, and I've often said that my fantasy job is to be a set designer for films or TV--what fun to bring characters and time periods to life through their spaces and belongings. Think about the new version of All Creatures Great and Small, for instance--I would watch that just to see the rooms in Skeldale House. They are so perfect, and they tell us so much about the people living there. 

We had parts of a movie shot in our house once and that was such an interesting experience. The film was low budget so I'm not sure they had an actual set designer, but whoever was in charge of sets brought in odds and ends of things, which they mixed with our stuff. In one scene in our living room, the actors drink tea from our Blue Calico porcelain, which I thought rather an odd choice for these particular characters, and it was bizarre to see our living room not looking quite like our living room! Our guest room became a teenage boy's room--amazing the transformation wrought by a few bits of sports memorabilia.

Some of my interiors are based on places I have been in person. The B&B in Now May You Weep, for example, with its over abundance of purple tartans, was based on a place I stayed (alas, now closed) in the village of Boat of Garten in the Scottish Highlands.

I'm addicted to British home magazines and I get ideas for rooms and houses from the feature spreads and even the ads. I wish I could show you the room that served as the inspiration for the gorgeous blue and pink sitting room in A Bitter Feast's Beck House, but I'm afraid I might get us in trouble for copyright violation.  (Also, I can't find the magazine!)

Sometimes, there's a fun inspiration within an inspiration. This is the corner of our sunporch. The poster features artist Stephanie Woolley, whose lovely work I attributed (with her permission) to artist Julia Swann in Leave the Grave Green. But it's also a nod to the sucession of gray tabbies in our lives--we seem to be magnets for them. (And please excuse my sad plant--that one is not doing the poster justice!)

And sometimes I just have a room in my mind, a place I've never been or seen in a photo, but that seems so real I can't believe it doesn't exist. Here's a very rough snippet from a scene in the book-in-progress (Kincaid/James #20) where we find Melody Talbot waking from a sleep in Hazel Cavendish's sitting room.

Hours later, it was sound that began to filter into her awareness first. There was the soft murmur of a radio, BB4, she thought, which made her think of her dad. Was she in the Kensington townhouse? No, the gentle clink of crockery brought it back. She was in Hazel’s bungalow, and there was the scent of something delicious baking—was it bread? And beneath that, something savory, perhaps a soup or casserole, that smelled of garlic and unfamiliar spices.

Tendrils of some pleasant dream still flickered at the edge of her consciousness, and her body felt heavy and languorous in a way she had almost forgotten. With an effort, she forced her eyes to open a fraction. The light in the room had changed, golden now rather than green-tinted as it had been in the morning, when it had been filtered by the potted lemon trees in the courtyard.

God, how long had she slept? What time was it? Was that the evening news on the radio? As her heart began its familiar racing, she struggled to sit up. Hazel had covered her with a red tartan throw blanket and the black cat had moved to the far end of the rose-patterned sofa, where he slept half on her feet. Tentatively, Melody extricated her right foot and flexed it—numb. No wonder it had felt so odd.

Edging free of cat and blanket, she swung her legs down and felt the rough texture of sisal matting beneath her bare feet. When had she taken off her shoes? Blinking her sticky eyes, she took in more of her surroundings. She saw now that Hazel had placed large potted plants either side of the tiny blue-tiled fireplace, a touch that made the bungalow feel as if the garden had been transported inside.

As if alerted by some sixth sense, Hazel came into the room. “Ah, you’re awake. I’ve just put the kettle on.”

Hazel's rose-patterned sofa I saw ages ago in an Ikea catalogue (most of Hazel's furniture came from Ikea) but the rest is purely from the depths of my subconscious.

Fellow writers, where do you get the ideas for the interiors you describe?

Readers, do you pay attention to these details? Do you feel they give you a sense of the characters?

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

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

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

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

Clarice Cliff's Moonlight pattern

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What We're Writing--Debs Practices the Jump Start

DEBORAH CROMBIE: Every time I finish a chapter, or a chunk of chapters, I have to regroup. I wouldn't exactly call it "writer's block," more a "take a deep breath and regroup." I think there is always a bit of resistance to plunging into an imaginary world, maybe because it can be so scarily absorbing once you've dipped a toe in.

So here I am, plugging away on Kincaid/James #20, with all my writing prompts and boosters; the cup of tea, the journals, the pens, a couple of British home magazines for setting inspiration, but still, the dreaded BLANK PAGE stares back at me!

So what to do??

This is where the jump start comes in. I talk to myself (not out loud, although sometimes I do wander around the house muttering when I'm working out a really thorny plot point...) or maybe I should say I talk to the book. Maybe you could call this self-brainstorming? 

Sometimes I do this with some messy journaling in the running notebook I keep for the book-in-progress, but this technique actually works better on the computer. I'm a pretty fast touch typist and this lets me toss things out as fast as I can think them. Because I'm normally such a persnickety writer, this seems to  help bypass my constant mental editor--and that is hugely liberating.

It might go like this:

--Okay, so where's Gemma? Has she checked in with Duncan and the kids? Did she ever get a sandwich? Maybe she stops at Pret again--she's going to turn into a Pret sandwich at this rate. Will she go home or does she have time to visit the crime scene again before dark?

--Must get back to Melody? Her vp?

--Hawkins waiting for Max's return from mortuary, very nervous, has only done FLO in training course.

--Duncan, home, speaks to Kit about the phone call.

--Quill leaves Karo at the flat, he will drop her bike on the island, she can get train home later. Sets up pub meeting where?

All of these little snippets would go on in much greater detail. Before I know it, the characters start talking, bits of dialogue are creeping in, and suddenly I have the blocking for a chapter's worth of scenes, in some sort of logical order, and I've broken the blank page curse.

Here's a non-spoiler-y bit of the scene where Gemma does get her sandwich, jumping in as she's in the car with her new detective sergeant, Davey Butler, on the way back to her new police station.

Gemma nodded. “We can only hope.” She glanced at the time on the car display. “People should be getting home from work soon. When we get back to station, get a door-to-door started in those flats overlooking the canal. And let’s have a word with the residents in the end of that estate in Aberdeen Place, and with the staff of the pub that overlooks the access to the canal. What was it called?”

“Crocker’s Folly,” I think.

Gemma gave a snort. “That must have a story.”

“I think they have Indian food,” Butler said, his expression dreamy.

“Oh, don’t torture me.” Looking out, Gemma saw that they were passing the Savoy. She made a quick decision. “Let me out, will you, before you put the car in the garage. I’m going to grab a sandwich before I come up. Want me to pick you up something?”

“I had a bite in the London’s canteen. Not bad. Nigerian food today.”

“You’re a brave soul,” she said, raising an eyebrow at his pre-postmortem fortitude. Maybe he hadn’t been joking about the crime scene burger and chips.

A few minutes later, Gemma snagged the last cheddar and pickle sandwich from the cold case at Pret a Manger. She ate it slowly at one of café’s tables, then sat, nursing a cup of tea and taking a moment to marshal her thoughts.

When she’d jotted some notes, she tossed sandwich box and paper cup into the bin and stepped out into the street. Patches of blue had appeared in the early evening sky, and to the west, sunlight glinted from the rooftops of the National Portrait Gallery. Across the street, people were starting to gather outside the Chandos pub for afterwork drinks, a signal to Gemma that her opportunities for that day’s actions were fast fading—and that she’d better make certain the home fires were still burning.

I'd love to know if my fellow writers suffer from Blank Page Syndrome, and if so, do you use jump-starting techniques to loosen up?

Readers, do you have any little tricks to get going on projects that can seem daunting?