What Rhys is Supposed to be writing.

 RHYS BOWEN: I've been doing a lot of juggling lately--not with balls or flaming torches, but we various things I'm supposed to be writing. 

1. Clare and I are forging ahead on the next Molly book, called, tentatively A WHIFF OF SCANDAL. It features Vanderbilts, car races, and the moral police.  Clare is doing most of the work and I'm hovering in the background, making occasional suggestions but open to phone calls every evening.

2. I'm about to begin the next Royal Spyness. I was toying with various ideas that might be fun when it suddenly hit me. Duh! It's the Coronation. It has to be about the Coronation to which Georgie and Darcy are invited. And who else might be attending and whether there might be any drama.  No title as yet. If you have any brilliant suggestions to do with being crowned etc, do share them. Unfortunately I used he word Crowned in a title already. 

3. The edits just arrived for the stand alone novel I just turned in. (Called, at this moment FROM SEA TO SKYE). I am always terrified to open that letter in case the editor has said, "While it's a nice story we don't like the main character as a twenty something woman. Could you make her a Russian man of fifty and rewrite the crime in the second half setting it in Chicago?"  Luckily the editors like it, had some really valuable insights into making my character's arc stronger and clearer. So they will be a breeze to work through and the book will be stronger for them. Pfew and thank you editors. 

4. Which means my editor will want to see story suggestions for a new contract (which I hope is forthcoming). So I've been dabbling with several ideas, all quite different. I can't share them now, except one takes place in the present, in 1820 and in 1450. (why do I give myself these impossible challenges when I could write a nice straightforward murder set on Nantucket?)

So I have been, and should be, busy except.... last week I had a horrible fall while I was walking with John on our favorite trail by the Bay. To get to the trail you have to go up a ramp, along a berm or dyke and then down the other side. At the top there is a tiny step onto the ramp... at least it's tiny for most of it but on one side it's deeper where dogs have continually peed against the railing and worn away the soil. I came around the corner, caught my foot on this step and went sprawling down the concrete ramp. Hit my head on the railing and took the skin off both arms and my knee. I am bandaged to look like an audition for the curse of the mummy.  And not finding it easy to sit and work.

At least I tell myself I didn't break anything or get a concussion. So healing vibes would be appreciated, please! I won't post pictures because I'm sure you don't have that strong a stomach.

So let's think positively and come up with some great titles about a coronation, please?

Rhys Bowen on Being an Accidental Expert

 RHYS BOWEN: It's interesting how often in our life we become an accidental expert in a sphere we'd never have expected to. My husband John's airline career saw him as a manager of Air India.This role required that he knew all about India. We toured every part of India, including Kashmir. We cooked Indian food and entertained. When we lived in Houston there was no Indian Consul so John, as regional manager for Air India, had to step up, entertain dignitaries, go to cricket matches and find himself on the board on the Indian dance school. As such we had to attend all their performances. We became knowledgable on South Indian dance.  Who ever expected that?

One of the side products of being an author is having to do research. Unless every book is set in St Mary Mead, or a bake shop, new research will be required for the setting of a new story. For the Molly Murphy series in particular I have been in constant research mode. When Molly stepped ashore in Manhattan in Murphy's Law and I realized I knew nothing about New York in 1901 I accepted I was doomed to research on every page for the rest of my writing life.  This has proved to be true to an extent although I do now know my way very well about Molly's New York City. For those first books I actually walked anywhere that Molly walked around Greenwich Village and Lower Manhattan. I chose a real house for her on Patchin Place. I once said that I could now easily conduct a tour of Molly's New York and watched my publicist's eyes light up. "No, I'm not really volunteering to,' I said hastily.

But since the series began I have taken Molly into the sweat shops of the garment industry, and read the senate depositions after the Triangle Fire, the drawing rooms of the Four Hundred, to the dockyards, to the Catskills and across to Ireland. Since Clare joined me as my co-writer she has been the research whiz.  She reads the New York Times for every day we are going to write about and unearths fascinating little tidbits as well as plot-driving stories. 

Our new book, SILENT AS THE GRAVE, takes Molly inside the fledgling motion picture industry.  In 1909 movies were made in New York with two rival companies-- Edison and Biograph. These two were fierce rivals and were not above sabotage or spying on each other. We did lots of reading and unearthed so many fascinating tidbits about early movies (and great motives for murder). Here are some of them:

1. When movies started to employ actors they refused to put actors' names in the credits, because then they'd have to pay them more. So movies paid a pittance compared with theater.

2. All stunts were done by the actors themselves at considerable risk. They clung onto moving vehicles, they shot scenes on real train tracks with real trains approaching (not knowing a movie was being shot). There were accidents and deaths.

3. Our book features many real figures from the time: Edison (who wasn't a very nice man), DW Griffith, Mary Pickford, the Marvin brothers, slightly fictionalized, and a fabulous woman called Alice Guy, whom we have fictionalized as Alice Mann. She appears on credits as a secretary but she was responsible for many innovations and inventions in movies. She invented the fade in and fade out by placing a cigar box over the lense of the camera and opening or closing it slowly. 

4. Edison's new studio in the Bronx was like a giant greenhouse, thus letting in all available natural light. It also had a swimming pool on the roof so they could shoot water scenes. 

All of these fascinating facts appear in SILENT AS THE GRAVE.  It comes out today! Clare and I are hosting a launch party at the Poisoned Pen in Scottsdale. A fun tea party. It will also be streamed and here is the Facebook link if you'd like to watch: https://www.facebook.com/thepoisonedpenbookstore/videos

Now it's your turn: what is the most surprising subject on which you've become an expert?  I'll send a copy of the new book to my favorite comment!

Rhys is writing and reading.

 RHYS BOWEN: It's December and I'm conscious of deadline pressure. We have to turn in the next Molly Murphy book by January 1. Clare is finishing up the last chapters then I have to go in and do a complete read through to make sure the pieces we've written agree with each other. We don't want a coachman called Ed in one scene and Ned in another. We have to make sure all the dates and times are accurate and that we haven't given anything away that we shouldn't. So the big read through will take several days.  I know the plot will all be right, because we discuss every day what needs to happen next. Clare is writing brilliantly and the book has a really good plot.  It's all about the suffrage moment and the treatment of women within society. (Now how could that be relevant for today, I wonder?). It features a female scientest whose research has to be published under her husband's name.  So I know the story will resonate with all our women readers!

But, being me, at the same time as this I am writing the next Royal Spyness mystery (number 19). It's not due until the end of February but I need to get started on the next stand-alone and I have to give myself more time for that as it's longer and always needs research (and I don't know yet which Idea I'll be writing about).  So I'm trying to forge ahead with the Georgie book, called FROM CRADLE TO THE GRAVE.

As is the case with all the series it has a fun, lighthearted plot running through it. This time it's about nannies. Georgie's sister in law Fig has sent her the nanny from hell. Strict, old fashioned and determined to rule the roost. Georgie is allowed to see her child for an hour at tea time when he's brought down from the nursery. That's the way it's done in the best of houses. Georgie knows this. It's how it's always been done in her own family. But she wants to be more hands-on with her child. She wants to get rid of Nanny, but how? Will she dare to stand up to Fig for once?  She might....

At the same time a perplexing case has arrisen. Several of their friends have just been to funerals of young men they knew. All died in what seemed to be accidents. All were heirs to estates, titles or money. Is someone killing off the sons of English peers? Is Darcy next on the list? And how can Georgie leave her child to get away to solve this?  There is a lot of juggling in the writing, making sure we learn tiny snippets here and there that enable Georgie (and the reader) to come to the right conclusion.

Here is a scene where she first meets Nanny:

This story began when I looked out of the blue bedroom window at the front of the house on a brisk March morning to see an ancient taxi cab coming up the driveway. As I watched it disgorged a tall, middle aged woman. She looked around with an expression so haughty and disapproving that I concluded she had to be at least a Russian grand duchess, maybe sent to us by Princess Zamanska, (usually known to her friends as Zou Zou.) I hastily patted my hair into place and smoothed down my skirt, noticing a couple of carrot stains from feeding my baby son James, and hurried down the stairs to greet her myself.

                I opened the front door just as she was about to knock.

                “Hello,” I said.

                The expression became even more disapproving. “Are all the servants in this house allowed to be so familiar with arriving guests and to be dressed in such an inappropriate manner?” she asked in a voice that could cut glass. “I wish to speak to Lady Georgiana. Please go and inform her that I have arrived.”

                I noticed that she was wearing a gray cape over a gray skirt with a gray pill box hat on her head, matching her gray hair and gray face. Only the eyes were a darker shade of steel. Golly, I thought. Was I supposed to know she was coming? Had Darcy or one of the servants forgotten to pass along a message that a person of considerable importance was about to land on my doorstep?

                “I am Lady Georgiana,” I said. “Please do come in.”

                At this she raised an eyebrow. “Your sister-in-law, Her Grace the Duchess, told me that this was a lax household but I had no idea that the lady of the house had to open her own front door.”

                “I just happened to see the cab draw up from the upstairs window so I came down to greet you, I said, So you know Fig, do you?”

                “Her grace, Hilda, Duchess of Rannoch? Yes. I am familiar with her. A wonderful woman. Salt of the Earth.”

                Anyone who could describe Fig as a wonderful woman was immediately suspect in my view. “And may one know your name?”

                The eyebrow arched again. “You mean you were not expecting me? Your sister-in-law, her grace, the duchess, told me she was going to write to you announcing my arrival. Clearly the post office is not what it was, or maybe storms in Scotland have stranded the postal van again. I am your new nanny. Nanny Hardbottle.”

                I think my jaw dropped open and somehow I was unable to close it.

                She was frowning at me now.

                “But there must be some mistake. I didn’t request, I mean I had not hired…”

                “Precisely,” she said. “Her Grace told me that you had been without a proper nanny since the birth of the child and it was about time you had one. So she took it upon herself to save you the trouble and, as luck would have it, she learned that the last of the Aubery-Fulton sons has just gone off to a military academy and that I would now be free.”

                I still couldn’t make my mouth work to say anything.

                “I had considered retiring,” she continued, “and growing begonias in a cottage in the Lake District, but given your obvious need and the way her grace, the duchess, almost got down on her knees to beg me, how could I refuse? The young master is going to be raised to be a leader of the empire, after all.” She paused, examining me with utter disdain. “Now, if you would be good enough to have a member of your staff show me to my quarters? I presume that there is a suitable room for me in the nursery suite, next to the young master?”

                The young master was, at this moment, not in the nursery at all. He was in his cot in my bedroom, since I had been nursing him myself and wasn’t about to go walking around the corridors and up the stairs in the middle of the night. Also I wanted to be close to him if he woke up and cried. I knew, in theory, that I needed a proper nanny. James was being raised, as she said, to be a future leader of the empire, and families like mine expected to employ nannies. But I had put it off, enjoying the closeness and the ability to watch every new achievement, every smile and gurgle. Until now my personal maid, Maisie, had helped me take care of him, doing the less pleasant tasks like his laundry, changing nappies and watching him when I was out. My brain was racing, trying to think of a way to tell this woman that she was the last person on God’s earth that I’d want taking care of my child, but my brain refused to work.

                I opened my mouth to tell her to go away and never come back but instead I heard myself saying, “If you will come into the morning room, I will summon my housekeeper. She will know about nursery arrangements.”

So how will Georgie manage to get rid of this awful person without incurring the wrath of Fig? Will Queenie have a hand in it? You'll have to read to find out....

Everyone seems to have a favorite character in this series. Who is yours?

It's Fiction, Dammit.

RHYS BOWEN:  Like the rest of the Reds I get letters all the time telling me I’ve got something wrong. It seems that readers get great delight from scoring a point against authors, whether it's a typo on page 54 and would you please go back to print, or some fact that they are sure is not right. Much of the time it is they who have got it wrong. Clare and I are just in the middle of copy edits for our next Molly Murphy book and the editor has queried our time line in some of the innovations we mention. However Clare, the most meticulous researcher in the universe, can quote an article in a trade publication or a lawsuit in the NYT that proves we are right.

It's funny because we are writing fiction. We should be able to make up what we like. But if we are writing about a real time and place then accuracy is important, at least it is to me. I want to take my reader to that time and place and make them feel that they are there. For the early Molly books I went to New York and walked every street that Molly would have walked. I got a letter saying “the distance she walked was quite impossible.”  I replied, “I walked it.”

For The Paris Assignment I got a letter from an Australian woman saying that nobody would have flown out from England before 1970. They would have taken a ship. Again I replied, “I did.”

The one thing you absolutely can’t get wrong is guns and trains. People who know about those are fanatics. In one Constable Evans book I had a missing dueling pistol when someone is found dead. I got all these letters saying “those pistols didn’t use bullets. So stupid etc etc” and I replied, “read on.” A chapter or two later a bullet is found and it is decided that the missing pistol has nothing to do with the murder.

But I got a letter from a train buff complaining that the train Molly had taken to San Francisco would not have stopped in Reno because that particular train would have taken the Winnemucca cut. Nothing happened in Reno. The train stopped then went on. No major plot point happened there. But it mattered to this man..

So I do work hard to get things right. IN one of the Constable Evans books Evan has to creep up a steep mountainside and wrestle a rifle away from a man. I asked John to help me figure out how he’d do this and we ended up wrestling on the kitchen floor, muttering "If I grab this, you'd grab that.". Our son (teenager at the time) came in, stared in utter horror, and asked “What are you doing?”  But we got the scene right!

I’m really annoyed when I watch something on TV and they get it wrong. As John will attest, I complain quite often. One pet peeve is when a policeman has to break down a door. I don’t know if you’ve tried this, but you’d dislocate your shoulder long before the door would give, especially if it's a good old British solid oak door. However on TV the policeman is not even seen rubbing the affected shoulder afterward.

Another pet peeve is the number of times people are knocked unconscious in books. If they are knocked out in every single book in a series they are going to have severe brain problems. Concussions are not to be taken lightly, as I can tell you from the latest sports protocols. In a water polo match in which my granddaughter was playing the goalie was taken out after a ball hit her in the head. Not allowed to play for the rest of the game.

So I do understand. It is worth getting every detail right because it will matter to somebody. I’m always so tempted to write back saying “It’s fiction, dammit.”

Do you have any pet peeves about things that books and TV get wrong? And authors, have you had snippy letters telling you that you’ve goofed?

Celebrating the Twentieth Molly Murphy Mystery

 RHYS BOWEN:  Today Clare and I are celebrating the publication of our new Molly Murphy book, IN SUNSHINE OR IN SHADOW. It is the twentieth book in the series, so I'm jumping up and down with joy and amazement. Who would have thought that Molly could not only have survived so long but could have flourished?  In all those books she has had plenty of narrow escapes, been bombed, survived an earthquake, and a factory fire, met Houdini, French Impressionists and now has an adventure in the Catskills.

As you know I now write these books with my daughter Clare Broyles, so I thought I’d tell you a bit about my co-writer.

A year ago we were doing a book signing and someone asked  “How did you two hook up?” and I replied, “I made her.”

Yes, I conceived her because I knew I’d need someone to take over my writing legacy one day. (For those of you who take things literally, I’m just kidding).  If I’d really wanted a co-writer I’d have made her watch and study as I wrote, practice character development and plot twists from the time she could talk. But looking back I can see that she did indeed have a childhood that was helpful to a future writer.

We read to our kids from day one. She grew up in a house full of books. She was a precocious child and was reading The Hobbit in first grade. We had a to have a good talk when she wanted to read “Are you there God, it’s me, Margaret” when she was eight (years before I had planned to have THAT talk).  I never censored what books she brought home from the library and was pleased that she self-censored. “I took that one back,” she’d say. “I didn’t like it.”

There was always a lot of pretend play at our house. Clare would write plays. Dominic, the only boy, would always be the prince with a towel around his shoulders as a cape and a wooden sword. Clare, unfortunately, almost never got to be the heroine. Her two sisters would refuse to take part if they couldn’t be Cinderella etc and Clare wound up as the witch.

Story from when she was 11. She got a boyfriend, a nice boy called Mike. She brought him home. I left them alone in the family room. It became awfully quiet down there. I tiptoed down to spy and found them both lying on the floor… on their stomachs, playing with the Fisher Price castle and the Playmobil little people knights, ladies and dragons.

Clare has always been a true renaissance woman:

As a Freshman in high school she got the part of Anne in the diary of Anne Frank. Imagine how emotional it was for a parent to watch that!  She went to college pre-med, but decided she didn’t want to become a doctor and added an English and Spanish literature major. She did independent biology research into calcium binding proteins (way ahead of its time), was offered a fabulous job with Genentec but instead chose to volunteer at a homeless shelter in Juarez, Mexico. There she met her husband Tim and together they did great work in El Salvador, helping people get their lives back together after the civil war.

On her return she got a degree in Music, specializing in opera, wrote and produced a children’s opera. She has since written background music for the Arizona Theater Company and others, winning an Arizona Tony award. She now teaches music, math and the gifted program at a charter school.

So what’s it like working with Clare? Awful. (just kidding again). We work together so well—she has great ideas, we talk through scenes and spark creativity in each other. It gives us an excuse to chat every day. And we never fight. In fact I don’t think I’ve ever been mad at Clare in her entire life. She is so sweet natured. And we laugh a lot. It’s very therapeutic.

Clare adores research. She reads the New York Times for every day we write about and find great snippets to add to our stories. When we started this book we knew we wanted to feature the early Jewish bungalow communities in the Catskills. Clare found there was a retreat center for professional women nearby(no men allowed),also a new state park and a bluestone quarry, creating a great gash in the earth. Such great motives for murder!

Our aim when we write, as well as telling a compelling whodunit, is to immerse the reader in real history, to transport to a time and place. We hope you’ll enjoy being in the Catskills this time. And if you go to our Reds and Readers Facebook group and comment on the live feed you’ll get a chance for a signed copy of the new book.

What's Rhys writing? Too many things. She's confused

 RHYS BOWEN: This year has not been easy for me to focus on writing. John had weeks of radiation, I had surgery on my knee, then bits frozen off by the dermatologist then a tooth extracted an in implant put in. Not fun!! But I managed to finish the next Royal Spyness book, called WE THREE QUEENS, and sent it off last week.

Today I'm celebrating the publication of the paperback of ALL THAT IS HIDDEN, and then we drive to Arizona in time for the launch of IN SUNSHINE OR IN SHADOW.

Oh, and I have already started on next year's stand-alone novel that has the delicious title of MRS. ENDICOTT'S EXCELLENT ADVENTURE. Middle aged lady escapes her boring life for the south of France...

Whoever imagines the golden years as sitting in a rocking chair, crocheting, has not met me. I barely have time to breathe. But at least I don't have time to be bored!.

I thought I'd share a snippet from the new Royal Spyness book. You'll have to find out who the three queens are... I'm not telling. But poor Georgie. Guess what's about to happen to her.....

“So what is David going to do?” I asked. “The simplest thing would be to keep her as his mistress. Several of my ancestors have lived quite happily with this arrangement—think of Lily Langtry, Alice Keppel.”

                Darcy gave a grunted chuckle. “The last King Edward had more than his share of mistresses, I agree, but he also had a respectable long suffering wife to be at his side on state occasions. You can’t picture Mrs. Simpson receiving foreign heads of state or sitting on an elephant at a durbar.”

                “What a mess,” I said. “I’m sure he won’t give her up.”

                “He won’t,” Darcy said. “He made that quite clear. He’d rather give up the throne than her.”

“Golly.” I tried to swallow back the word too late. My attempts at curtailing my schoolgirl language were not successful in times of crisis.

“He’s absolutely besotted with her.,” Darcy continued. “ She has him completely under her spell.  When we’d got through a bottle of Scotch he kept saying, “You don’t understand, Darcy, old fellow, she’s the most marvelous woman in the world. I couldn’t live without her.”

                “So what does he plan to do?”

                “Allow the newspapers to spill the beans at the right moment, I gather. They’ve been remarkably obedient so far and kept the news of her from the public. But now he wants the public on his side. They adore him and he’s sure that they’ll want him to marry the woman he loves and thus put pressure on their local MPs. The law will be changed and he’ll live happily ever after.”

                “That isn’t likely to happen, is it?”

                “I don’t think so. If it were just civil law then maybe. But you can’t alter the doctrine of the church and he’s the official head of it.”

                “His poor mother,” I said. I had become quite fond of Queen Mary, who had sent me on various assignments for her. She was a stickler for the rules and felt the royal family should be above reproach. She had done everything she could to get her son’s attention away from “that woman” as she called her, but to no avail. His late father, King George, had been remarkably prophetic. “That boy will be the downfall of the monarchy,” he had said not long before he died.  I just prayed this wasn’t going to turn out to be a true prophesy. We had endured one war between king and parliament in our history and it had ended with the king losing his head.  Someone should remind my cousin of this.

                A thought now struck me. “Darcy, why did he particularly want you to listen to his lament? He has his own group of friends, doesn’t he, and you were never close to him.”

                “Ah.” Darcy gave a deep breath. “It wasn’t exactly me he wanted. It was our house.”

                “What? What do you mean?”

                “He knows that the moment the news breaks Mrs. Simpson will be hounded by the press. It could break before he’s ready as the American papers are already full of it. He wants to spare her the unpleasantness that could ensue. He wants her safely far from the public eye…”

                It was gradually dawning on me exactly what he was saying.

                “He wants her to come and stay here?”  I heard my voice rising.  

AHA

And Mrs. Simpson isn't the only person who will be invading Georgie and Darcy's life. It's going to get rather complicated very quickly. But you'll have to wait until November to find out more.

Oh well. Back to work. And don't forget that IN SUNSHINE OR IN SHADOW comes out on March 12, and Clare and I will be holding a launch party at the Poisoned Pen in Phoenix the Saturday before, on March 9. If you'd like a copy signed by both of us do get in touch with the store and they can ship you one.

And don't forget to check out Reds and Readers on March 12 when I'll be going live and giving away a signed copy!

Why I Love New York

 RHYS BOWEN: Until I started writing a mystery series set in New York in the year 1901, I never really noticed the city around me. I visited, took taxis, ate, had meetings, saw shows, shopped and left again.

Now that New York is the place I write about, my senses are fine-tuned. In an apparently modern city of skyscrapers and speed, so much of that turn-of-the-century New York still exists. It is exciting to walk along Canal Street into the Lower East Side, and see streets still cobbled with the old granite blocks, tenements that would have housed immigrant families, corners on which gangs would have lurked.

I don’t even need to recreate the past in my mind. It is always recreating itself. Take the Feast of San Genaro, held in mid September on Mulberry Street in Little Italy. San Genaro, you may remember is the patron saint of Naples—the one whose blood liquefies on his feast day every year. Booths line the already narrow street, selling food and trinkets and clothing. There is even a freak show—fifty cents to see the world’s smallest woman or the snake lady! Good smells compete—huge sizzling curled snakes of sausage, frying onions, shrimps and clams, spaghetti and meatballs. The noise level is overwhelming as a tide of pedestrians shuffles forward, talking in all the tongues of the globe while brass bands and singers court the diners at the sidewalk cafes.

This is exactly how it would have been in 1901. My heroine, Molly Murphy, would have fought her way along this street, shopping at the pushcarts and booths, hearing a polyglot of languages spoken around her, watching out for pick pockets and feeling the life of the city energizing her. Perhaps it is a little cleaner underfoot these days. Litter is confined to fast food wrappers--no horse droppings or slops tossed down from tenements.

Since I’ve been an observer of New York, I’ve had a chance to detail what I like about it. Here are my top ten reasons for liking the city:

 

1.         It is a true city where living, working, eating, shopping all take place on the same block. In other cities the commercial areas are dead after working hours. Not so New York. It lives twenty four hours a day.

2.         Life is not confined to buildings. It spills out onto sidewalks and into parks. At the first sign of spring, tables and umbrellas come out onto sidewalks, people take their food into parks. They sit outside the public library playing chess. There are impromptu jazz bands and barbershop quartets in the subway at Grand Central and outdoor concerts in Central Park.

3.         It is a city of artwork. There are mosaics in the subway stations—my favorite is the Alice in Wonderland motif at 50th Street. Look up and you’ll see Egyptian temples, art deco medallions, Greek columns and marble frescos, sometimes eight or ten floors above ground level. For whom were the art deco goddesses and marble pediments intended? Certainly not the pedestrians who walk below and never look up as they hurry to the nearest subway. Not always the inhabitants of buildings opposite as some of them face blank walls. I like to think of them as a little offering to the gods above.

4.         It is a city of good smells. Every block has at least one good aroma wafting out of a café, or from a sidewalk cart—roasting coffee, frying onions, curry, sesame oil, baking bread. Luckily New Yorkers have to walk so much or they’d all be fat.

5.         New York is a city of dogs. They are not much in evidence during the day, unless one encounters a dog walker, being dragged down Fifth Avenue by six or seven of her charges. But early evening, the dogs come out, each with his accompanying human, whom he often resembles in stature and walk. Interestingly enough, there are more big dogs than small. You would have thought that dachshunds and yorkies would have been ideal for city life, but I see more golden retrievers and labs and standard poodles, even Afghan hounds. New Yorkers are well trained too. Not a speck of poop in sight on the sidewalks.

6.         It is a city of cheap eats and cheap shops. There are coffee shops all over where two dollars will buy an egg roll and coffee for breakfast. Even sushi bars offer two for one on weeknights. And T shirts with the famous I love NY slogan on them are now two for ten dollars. Of course I also saw a T shirt for three hundred dollars in Bloomies, so I have to say also that New York is…

7.         …a city of contrasts. On the bus old ladies from the upper East Side wearing tired looking furs and smelling of face powder and moth balls sit next to young men in baggy pants, gang colors and caps worn backward. Sometimes they look at each other and smile.

The hot dog cart on the street is only a few steps away from the most pretentious tea salon in the universe. Their tea menu is twelve pages long. When I ask for a Darjeeling, I am directed to a page full of Darjeelings and a First Flush, Robertson Estate is recommended. I am so tempted to take a sip, look indignant and exclaim, “You’ve brought me a second flush, you imposter!”

8.         It is a city of haste. Everything in New York is done quickly. People leap from sidewalks to snare cabs. They run down subway steps. They inch out into traffic and anticipate the Walk sign by a good two seconds. In  Bryant Park outside the library men play chess at breakneck speed. Knight to bishop two-ding, and the timer bell is slapped, Queen to rook four-ding. The whole game is over in five minutes. A crowd of men stands around, watching.

9.         It is also a city of quiet corners in which time stands still. There is a fair being held in a churchyard with home baked cookies and crocheted potholders. I once got locked, by mistake, in Gramercy park, which is the only private square in the city when I had stayed at the Gramercy Park hotel and gone there to regroup in the calm of nature. In Central Park proud moms and darker skinned nannies watch light skinned children play in the sand or climb the rocks. It is easy to get lost in Central Park, easy to forget that you are in a city at all.

10.  And most surprisingly for one who has visited New York for the past thirty years---it is a city of friendly people. These days people chat as they wait for buses. They see tourists puzzling over maps and ask if they need help. Bus drivers actually call out the name of streets intelligibly and answer questions when asked. A minor miracle has occurred—the one good by-product of a 9/11 that touched every New York life and forged and strengthened it with fire.

I only wish I'd been there to experience the time when my book was on that billboard in Times Square!

 

So are you a fan of New York? What do you like about it? Hate about it?

Molly Murphy's New York

RHYS BOWEN: My daughter Clare and I are getting ready to release a new Molly Murphy book. We're having our launch party at the Poisoned Pen bookstore in Scotsdale on Saturday March 11 (where we'll be serving Irish goodies and will probably have a touch of the Blarney) and the official release date is March 14. So I thought I'd share with you some of my favorite pix from Molly's New York.

When I first started writing the series I used to go to New York and walk every yard that Molly walked so I could get a feel for the place. What could she see? Smell? Experience? Did the wind blow straight off the Hudson here? Could you hear tugs on the East River from here? I've sat in Pete's Tavern, although Molly would not have been allowed in. Now I know my way around well and could give you a lovely guided tour of Molly's New York. (My publisher jumped at this idea, but no thank you!)

Every time I go to New York I visit Molly's neck of the woods--Greenwich Village--just to remind myself of where she lives.  It's nice to imagine coming out of Molly's front door and going across the street to visit Sid and Gus. Or to push Liam in his stroller to Washington Square.I am lucky that it is pretty much unchanged. Her little backwater of Patchin Place is exactly as it was, although it's now quite upscale and I'm sure the houses cost a fortune! 

Sid and Gus's house is just across the street:

And here is Molly's house. I got an email from the man who lives there now. He sent me pictures of the interior and the garden. 

This is the Jefferson Market, across the street from Patchin Place. It was once the market building, as well as the police station and jail. Now it has housed a library until recently (it's closed at the moment or was when I was there last.)

And this is the last existing gas lamp in New York City and it's in Patchin Place.

This is Molly's pharmacy, just around the corner. Still going since eighteen eighties!

And Washington Square where Molly takes her little son to play.

And lastly, here is the house on Fifth Avenue where Molly finds herself moving in the new book, ALL THAT IS HIDDEN. It's a lovely house, a step up in the world, but at what price? How can Daniel have become involved in Tammany Hall politics? No good can come of it!

Aren't I lucky to be writing historical novels about a place I can still visit and experience? Tomorrow I'll share what I love most about New York.

But it's nice to imagine coming out of Molly's front door and going across the street to visit Sid and Gus. Or to push Liam in his stroller to Washington Square.

One Perfect Sentence

RHYS:

I saw this on Facebook the other day, and I found myself thinking “Have I ever created a perfect sentence? One that makes the reader say “wow. How amazingly beautiful.” I’m afraid one didn’t come readily to mind. I am not a literary novelist. I do not toy with words as if I were trying to find the perfect spot to place a tile in a mosaic. I see myself as a story teller. I want to tell a good story. I want to take the reader to a time and place and make them feel they are there. Those are my objectives.

One of the nicest reviews I ever had said, “I wasn’t conscious of the words on the page.”  Thank you. Exactly what I wanted to achieve. But along the way it would have been nice to have created a perfect sentence or two. I’m thinking of my books that got Edgar nominations. (3 so far but no wins!) Did the judges find a perfect sentence in one of them? Or did they simply say “She tells a good story?” I rather think it’s the latter.  I do think I achieved a few good descriptions like this one from the beginning of The Venice Sketchbook. “The sky was a perfect pale blue and the sound of bells echoed over the whole city. Swallows darted and swooped across the sky like tiny Maltese crosses, while seagulls screeched, and below, in the courtyard, pigeons strutted. “A city of bells and birds,” I said with satisfaction.

I suppose I could have used more imagery and compared the blue sky to something, but I’m not good at that.  I just want to paint a picture, simply.

I’m sure some of the other Reds have created a perfect sentence. Julia’s It was a hell of a night to throw away a baby is about as perfect an opening as you can find.  I am satisfied with the opening of The Tuscan Child: “He knew he was going to die. That was quite obvious.”

But perhaps my favorites are the opening of the first Royal Spyness book. “There are two disadvantages to being a minor royal.” And Murphy’s Law: That mouth of yours will be getting you into big trouble one day.”  Neither is poetic or evocative but both let you instantly know the character who is talking. Both came instantly to me in first chapters that I didn’t have to revise one word.

So I’ve come to accept that the works of Rhys Bowen will never be part of the high school English studies. Nobody will have to write an essay on The Use of Imagery in the Molly Murphy books, and no PHD student will mull over the themes in the Royal Spyness books.  But if someone said, “I wasn’t conscious of the words on the page,” and my fans write to me the day after a book is published, demanding “when is the next book coming out?” And I reply telling them that a new book came out yesterday, and they reply “I’ve already read that one”.  Then I feel good! That is enough.

But I came across this quote from Kristin Hannah and it did make me stare and savor it. Well done. 

So Reds, do you have any perfect sentences to share? Have you ever written one or two that you feel especially proud of? Or do you have a writer whose prose makes you gasp with admiration? I think Pat Conroy did that for me.

What We Are Writing: Rhys keeps it cozy

 RHYS BOWEN: This week there was an article in the British Daily Express about Richard Osman and how he had "invented" the cozy genre. I was delighted that one of the indignant commenters asked, "What about Rhys Bowen and Constable Evans?"

Thank you, kind commenter. I didn't invent the genre either, although Constable Evans came out 25 years ago now. I think we can give credit for that to Agatha and her contemporaries. But I admit to being cozy by nature. The world is divided, isn't it? Either you are cozy and see the universe as a place of order and safety, which a crime disrupts, or you are noir and you see the universe as a place of chaos. You can solve a crime but you can't heal the universe. I am glad I am the former.  I've tried writing darker (and I'm sure you'll notice that my stand-alones do veer toward dark sometimes. Definitely the next one will) but my series mysteries remain on the cozier side.

Molly Murphy does sometimes get quite dark but it doesn't stay there, thanks to Molly's cheerful nature and her ability to see humor--just like my own.  I'm delighted that my new co-writer, my daughter Clare Broyles, shares this sense of humor. I believe this scene in the book we are just finishing (currently called IN SUNSHINE AND IN SHADOW) shows that we see the humor in most things.

Molly has gone to stay with her friends Sid and Gus at a women's artist colony in the Catskill mountains, close to Sid's family who have a bungalow colony up there. Both Sid and Gus are involved in a play that the women are producing and Molly goes to a rehearsal. Here's a snippet:

The building was very dark as we came in from outside. As my eyes adjusted I saw that there were figures on stage and quite a number of people in the audience. I found a seat away from the others as I didn’t want to disturb them.

                The strange figures were lit by hanging oil lamps on the stage. They were wearing long flowing sleeveless garments that reminded me of night shifts and revealed bare feet and ankles. Colorful scarves draped from their arms. Brilliant feathers were stuck into giant bird heads with long curved beaks. They raised their arms high and made screeching noises then rushed forward. They cried out in unison, but I couldn’t make out the words.

                “Louder,” a woman’s voice called out from the center front of the audience. “I can’t hear a goddamn word you are saying.” Nobody, except me,  seemed to have been shocked by the woman's profanity. The bird-like creatures walked back and repeated the scene.  The muffled chorus of voices grew louder and the movement of the scarves more intense but still not a word could be understood. One of these strange creatures, with some struggle, managed to pull the unwieldy mask off, revealing cropped hair and a rather sweaty face.

                “It’s no use swearing at us, Clara,” said the woman tartly, “We can’t make ourselves heard through these stupid things.” I knew that voice and took a second look. It was Sid. The other actors took their masks off as well, not without difficulty. 

                “We just can’t use these things.” A heftier older woman with a deep voice spoke. “I always thought masks were a bad idea.” There was a huffing sound from a woman in the front row. “They are lovely, Doris,” the speaker said apologetically. “Could we put them on sticks and carry them with us?”

                “But that would look like headless birds. It would destroy the symmetry of the movement,” Sid spoke up. She repeated the rushing movement with the mask in her hand and it did look strange.

                “Can we cut air holes in the bottom of the masks so that they can project the words?” the woman Sid had called Clara suggested.

                “They will fall apart,” the huffing woman said gloomily. “The beaks are integral to the construction.”

                “Without the masks we just look like women in scarves,” one of the actors complained. “We need to represent the birds chorus.”

                “For now, let’s try this,” Clara said, clearly wanting to move on, “Before each block of speech add, ‘We are the birds’. It’s in keeping with Greek chorus tradition and will leave no doubt that you are the bird chorus. We must distinguish you from the humans and the gods. Put those masks down and let’s try it again.”

                The scarved women lined up across the stage. Sid was in the middle. They raised their hands over their heads.

                “We are the birds!” they chorused, “Ka-kaw, ka-kaw, Eee-ooo, Eee-ooo.” They rushed forward, scarves waving from their hands. “Forward to the attack, throw yourselves upon the foe, spill his blood; take to your wings and surround them on all sides.” The line of birds parted and flew around the stage, scarves wafting behind them, attacking two other characters who defended themselves with what looked like pots and pans.

                I must confess I didn’t understand the rest of the play. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to laugh. The actors said the funniest lines but with incredible seriousness. After a great many repetitions of scenes, a woman with a flute came on and began to play. The leader of the birds came out and said in time with the music,

                “At the beginning there was only Chaos, Night, dark Erebus, and deep Tartarus. Earth, the air and heaven had no existence.” Gus came out, dressed entirely in what looked like a black undergarment. She carried a giant wooden egg-shaped ball.

                “Firstly, black-winged Night laid a germless egg in the bosom of the infinite deeps of Erebus,” said the speaker. Gus jumped up onto a box that had been placed at center stage and pantomimed laying the egg onto to the box.

                “And from this, after the revolution of long ages, sprang the graceful Eros with his glittering golden wings, swift as the whirlwinds of the tempest,” the speaker intoned as the flute melody went higher and higher. Another dancer jumped out from behind the box, presumably having been hatched out of the egg. This dancer was in the white version of Gus’ clothing but with golden wings attached. She chased Gus around the stage with a golden bow in her hand. After this all sorts of Greek figures came onto the stage and proceeded to create the universe. I admit I enjoyed that part. So, I could truthfully say that I had enjoyed the production when Sid and Gus finally emerged from the theater, Sid in her usual silk pajama pants and Gus back in her rational dress.

                “It’s such an important political statement,” Gus said earnestly as we walked through the dirt lane toward what I hoped was our lodging for the evening. “You do see that don’t you?”

                “Umm,” I wasn’t sure what to say but luckily, she went on.

                “The birds represent the unartistic souls, giving way to convention and trying to tear down the gods of beauty and expression.”

So Molly is not highbrow in her tastes. I bet we've all been through a theater production that is so high brow we're not sure whether we're supposed to laugh or not. I remember going to see a play in London once and as we came out I heard a woman's voice behind me saying loudly, "I suppose that was all meant to be quite significant."  I knew how she felt.

This is one small light-hearted moment in a murder mystery, and therefore a serious book. My gravedigger's scene from Hamlet, perhaps.  Do you enjoy these lighter moments in books? Do you read both light and dark?  I know I do, unless it gets violent and graphic.

And a news flash: Yesterday I celebrated the publication of the paperback of GOD REST YE ROYAL GENTLEMEN: It's a month until the new hardcover, PERIL IN PARIS, comes out.

Rhys muses on the tranquil life of a writer.

 RHYS BOWEN: We all know what the writer's life is like, don't we? After a leisurely breakfast I mount the stairs to my office, admire the view then sit and stare out of the window until the muse flutters to my shoulder and I type a few meaningful words before stopping for coffee and a stroll in the garden.

Right?

If anyone believes a writer does not need stamina I suggest you look at the life of the Reds. Last week we celebrated the launch of WILD IRISH ROSE with a Zoom event and then on Saturday a live event at Poisoned Pen, which was also streamed and has had over 2200 views to date! Brilliant.

But also over the weekend Clare and I had to do the edits on the next Molly book, tentatively called ALL THAT IS HIDDEN.  They went off to the editor today AND I completed an interview I had promised

AND

I wrote the five pages of my current work that I have to do in order to finish to my deadline. Only this time they are extremely hard pages to write. When I'm in Royal Spyness mode I skip merrily along, chuckling as my characters say witty and silly things. This is the most harrowing book I have written: It's also set in WWII and involves a woman who loses husband and child and volunteers to. be dropped into enemy-occupied France as a courier. (In actuality the survival rate of a courier was twenty five percent) She has to deliver messages between the resistance and a British radio operator under the nose of the Germans and of course she's going to be betrayed and it's going to get really awful... I'm putting off that part because I know how awful it's going to get. 

But just coming downstairs to unwind after writing some of those intense and harrowing scenes--well, it's not easy. I know it's going to be a really good story and I know I can do it, but just getting through this middle part of the book is emotionally draining.

It's called ISLAND OF LOST BOYS, because... well, one of the characters is a lost boy, but I can't tell you more. Oh, and it involves Australia, after the war, but again I can't tell you more about it.

Can I give you a little feel for it?

okay

Later that week Madeleine was sound asleep in the middle of the night when she was woken with a crash. Bright light shone in her face. Shadowy figures stood over her.

                “Aufwachen! Aufstehen!. Raus mit dir!” screamed a voice as she was dragged to her feet. Men in Nazi uniform grabbed her and dragged her down the hall, shoving her into what seemed to be a cupboard. The light continued to shine in her face. “Name?” a voice barked.

“What is your name?” He repeated in French.

“M—Minette Giron,” Madeleine realized how she had almost given herself away.

“Do you speak German?”

“No, Monsieur.”

“What about English?”

“No, Monsieur, only French.”

“And what are you doing here? Why did you come to this town?”

“My husband was killed. I was afraid to be in Paris alone,” she said. “I used to have a relative here so I know this place. It seemed safe. I thought I could get a job here.”

“As what?”

“I used to work in a bookshop, but now I deliver shoes for the shoe-mender.”

“And sometimes you deliver other things too?”

“Yes, monsieur. Sometimes I deliver flowers,  or even pastries a couple of times.”

“You know what I mean. I mean messages. From the enemy.”

“No, monsieur. Not true. I am a simple woman. I just want to be left alone, that’s all.”

“ We will search your room and if we find anything, it will be very bad for you. But I can make it easy on you, if you just tell us what we want to know…”

“I have nothing to tell, monsieur. On my honor, I have nothing…”

“Enough,” said one of the men in English now. He took off the German cap. “Well done, Minette. You handled it well. But I presume you realized we were only acting.”

“Not at first. I wasn’t fully awake. But then I did realize… That didn’t make it any less frightening.”

“No. So stay alert. Practice bracing yourself mentally. What will you say if this happens? Think of ways to wriggle out of it. Practice saying them, over and over. Because the next time it will be real.”

Still shaking, Madeleine went back to bed.

And this is one of the easier scenes. Why did I ever think this story was a good idea?

And in the coming week I have several other Zoom interviews/talks all of which take effort. Wine is needed, I think. 

What do you do to unwind when you've been caught up in something so emotionally intense?

Rhys Revisits New York

 RHYS BOWEN:  Today's post has a New York theme!. 

Before I show you what I’m writing I have had some amazing things happen to me recently. But the most amazing thing is happening right now. THE VENICE SKETCHBOOK  is on a billboard in Times Square. Can you believe it? When I was a teenager I dreamed of being an actress and would have loved my name in lights on Broadway. Well… finally! Who’d have thought it?

Anyway, now back to reality and work. I am currently busy writing my second Molly Murphy book with my daughter Clare. She came to stay for a couple of weeks and then we spent a week together in San Diego while we plotted and now we’re about 100 pages into the story. Clare’s a little worried because nobody has died yet, but I tell her that I’ve written several books in which nobody dies in the first hundred pages. Other dramatic things happen, and we’re leading up to a big murder scene, so all is well.

I thought I’d share a little about how the book begins. Poor Molly--just when she seems settled and all is going well, I do like to throw that curveball at her!  Here is a snippet from the start of the book. Daniel takes Molly out for a walk and springs a big surprise on her (not going to tell you what it is), then this follows:

We walked down the right side of the street on the wide sidewalk past the 5th Avenue brownstones. On the other side of Ninth Street Daniel stopped at an impressive flight of marble steps with a wrought iron railing leading up to a white door framed with a decorated arch.

“Let’s pay a call, shall we?” Daniel lifted Liam out of the pram and into my arms then climbed the steps and rang the bell.

“Wait, Daniel,” I called after him. “Who are we visiting? You should have warned me. I’m not suitably dressed. A stroll, you said.”

Daniel looked back and smiled. “You look fine,” he said. “Don’t worry.

“I came up with steps to stand  beside him and stood rather nervously on the stoop. Really, I like a surprise but this was going too far. Was Sheriff that high a position that Daniel would now know people who lived in 5th Avenue houses like this?  Had we been invited to tea and here was I in my usual two piece costume and not a tea dress. It had probably never occurred to Daniel that women like to know in advance what to wear for every occasion. Honestly, men can be infuriating. But it was too late to turn back now.

The door was answered by a maid who didn’t show any surprise at seeing us. “You must be Captain and Mrs. Sullivan,” she said, giving us a shy smile as she dropped a curtsey. “You are expected, please come in. I’m Mary.” We walked into the front hall and Daniel took off his hat and hung it on the hat stand, then helped me off with my cloak and hung it up as well. The marble floor echoed as I set Liam down and he stomped his foot experimentally and headed toward the staircase in front of us.

“Shh. Liam come here.” I hurriedly took his coat off as well and lifted him up again. The maid waited and then indicated we should follow her through a curtained doorway. “The parlor is through here, sir.”

I walked in with a bright smile on my face expecting to be introduced to the man or lady of the house, but the parlor was empty. A fire burned in the marble fireplace. A table in the center of the room under the electric chandelier held a priceless looking vase and ornate shelves just across from me were full of decorative plates, cups and figurines. I instinctively clutched Liam a little tighter, making sure his hands were safely out of the way and decided that putting him down here was not a good idea.

“The family drawing room is back here, sir.” She led us through another silk curtained doorway and into a comfortable looking drawing room. The room was crowded with delicate embroidered sofas and chairs and carved mahogany tables in many sizes. There was a beautiful Persian rug on the floor and a large tapestry on the far wall. But still no people. My mind spun. Had Daniel brought me to a murder scene? Hardly an outing to bring your son along to. Were the owners of the house very shy?

“The dining room is at the back of the house and bedrooms are upstairs, sir if you will follow me.” Mary continued after a pause as we looked around the empty drawing room. The bedrooms?

“Daniel,” I turned to him in exasperation. “Why are we seeing the bedrooms? Is the owner an invalid?’

“No,” he replied, already heading toward the stairs.

“Daniel!” I called after him. “What is going on? Whose house is this.”

He turned to me with a big smile. “Yours.” He put his arms around both Liam and me. “Ours. Welcome home, Mrs. Sullivan!”

RHYS: How have they managed to move into this big and beautiful house? Has Daniel become a crooked cop? Is he taking bribes?  You'll have to read the book to find out. Our working title is   ALL THAT IS HIDDEN.

So, dear Reds and readers, would you be thrilled if your husband suddenly sprang a lovely new house on you?

Rhys Might Ramble...

RHYS BOWEN: Dear friends I'm writing this post with one eye on the TV set on election day. Frankly it's hard to concentrate, so if I am writing nonsense please forgive me. I don't know about you but I haven't managed to breathe properly for ages.I can't wait for it to be over (with the right outcome. I'd better not say which that is or I'll get hate mail).

As for what I'm writing, I have just finished the first draft of next year's Molly book. It's a Christmas book that will come out next November. The title is THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS PAST. It's one of the few books I've written that I have pitched on a premise. The problem with that is that you have to deliver. I had this intriguing idea: what if a small child walked out of a house into the snow years ago and simply disappears. No other footprints but hers. Never seen again. Her body never found.

It was intriguing all right and I looked forward to writing it. However, when I started to write it I realized what a challenge I had given myself. What did happen to the child that was plausible? So my story brings Molly and Daniel to a mansion on the Hudson for Christmas. There is a definite atmosphere of tension in that house. Somebody there knows what happened to that child--or thinks that they know, and for good reason cannot tell.

Molly has her own agenda. She's battling her own demons (and I can't tell you about that part) so it becomes doubly important to her to find out what happened to that child. Well, I've finished it and I'm really pleased with the way the story turned out. But I was holding my breath about that as well... not sure I could bring off the story until I finally did.

Here's a small snippet when Molly learns a hint of the family's story at a party (which, incidentally is given by Carrie Chapman Catt, leader of the suffrage movement!!!).

“So are you staying near here?” I was asked.

            “She’s staying at Greenbriars,” Sid said. “You know, that estate we can see from our windows?”

            Two of the women had moved over to make room for me on the sofa. I sat and was handed a cup of hot wine punch. The warmth of the punch, the warmth of the fire, and the warmth of the reception sent a glow through me. I felt the tensions in my body ease away.

            “Greenbriars?”  The tall, rather severe-looking one called Josephine said, frowning as she stared out past us across the room as if she was thinking. “Isn’t that the Van Aiken place?”

            “That’s right,” I said.

            “And she’s finding it rather gloomy and tense from what one gathers,” Sid said.

            “Just today because the hostess has not been too well,” I said hastily. I glanced around uneasily to see if Miss Lind was within hearing distance. I didn’t want her to think that I had been running down her family’s hospitality.

            “Well, no wonder it’s gloomy and tense,” Josephine went on.

            “Why do you say that?” Gus asked.

            “Well, that was where it happened, wasn’t it?” Josephine said. “Greenbriars. Don’t you remember? Everyone was talking about it. And it was at Christmas too.”

            “Oh yes,” the chubby one—Annie, I believe—agreed. “Of course. The Van Aiken child. I’d forgotten all about it.”

            “A child?” I asked. “The Van Aikens had a child?”

            Josephine nodded and I noticed that the group of women had drawn closer together, as one does when sharing a secret. “A little girl.” Josephine had lowered her voice. “She wandered out into the snow right before Christmas and was never seen again.”

Now I'm getting back to the TV set and may do some pacing and nail biting in the next few hours. 

What We're writing--Rhys on Dialog (or is it dialogue?)

RHYS BOWEN: At the moment you are reading this I'll be heading to the airport on my way to the Bouchercon mystery convention where I'm looking forward to seeing fellow Reds Hank, Debs and Susan. I'm on a panel on Saturday with Hank and Deborah--it's about our tales from the road: mishaps, misadventures and outright fun during our book tours and speeches. I hope there are going to be some stunning reveals. I know I have plenty of good stories. I may share some with you when it's my next turn to host JRW.

But in the meantime I'm juggling two books: I have finished the first draft of the next Georgie Book, called ON HER MAJESTY'S FRIGHTFULLY SECRET SERVICE, I've started on the final polish, and I'm just starting to write the next Molly book, called THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS PAST. This is a much more somber affair so I'm having to juggle the two a little and switch moods between jolly and depressing!

I've been reading a lot of books lately and one thing that strikes me about beginning writers is that they don't know how to handle dialog.(or is it dialogue? I spend my time writing half in British English and half in American English, hence perpetually confused!)

 When people start to talk we have one line of speech after another, like staccato bullets. In real life people don't speak like that. They speak in broken sentences, they gesture, their body language matches their mood, outside things happen like planes flying over, dogs rushing in. AND we need to be reminded where we are. If the dialog scene takes place on a train station we need to hear an announcement or toot of a train whistle to remind us.

I've been told that my dialog is one of the things readers enjoy most about my books, so I thought I'd share a scene in which we have action, dialog, character and setting all playing a part: This is from the Georgie book I am working on. We are in Stresa, Italy, on Lake Maggiori:

            As I approached the villa I spotted a group of people, sitting on a terrace beneath an arbor of wisteria. I felt suddenly shy and awkward. Why had I not asked the driver to take me to the villa? I must look pathetic, staggering up the drive carrying my own suitcase and dressed in my unfashionable tweed suit. And what if the letter still hadn’t arrived and here I was with my suitcase?  Had the queen actually suggested that I join the house party, or merely that I should be welcomed for a drink if I showed up? Why on earth hadn’t I left the suitcase at Belinda’s house and pretended I had just dropped by to pay my respects? Then, when they suggested I should stay I could have acted as if I was surprised and they would have sent someone to pick up my belongings. But now I was committed. I couldn’t retreat without being noticed. It was only a matter of time before one of them looked up and…

            I was startled by a great scream. “Georgie!”

            I was even more startled to see that the scream came from my mother. She had risen to her feet and was running toward me, her arms open. “Georgie, my darling!” she exclaimed in that voice that had filled London theaters. “What a lovely, lovely surprise. I had no idea you were coming to join us. Why didn’t somebody tell me?”

            She flung her arms around me , something she was not in the habit of doing. Then she turned back to the others. “Which of you arranged to bring my daughter to me? Was it you, Max, who suggested it? You knew I was pining for her, didn’t you?”

            I had prudently put down the suitcase before she attacked me. Now she took my hand and dragged me forward. “Everybody, this is my darling child, Georgie, whom I haven’t seen for ages and ages. And I had no idea she was coming to join us. ” She gazed at me adoringly. “And now you’re here. It seems like a miracle.”

            I noticed she had failed to mention that she had bumped into a few days ago and at that time there had been no talk of inviting me to join her. Nor had she seemed overjoyed to see me. As I smiled back at her I wondered what she was up to.

            Several other members of the party had also risen to their feet as she led me up steps to the arbor. Among them I recognized Miss Cami-Knickers herself. She looked older, perfectly groomed, incredibly chic as she stepped down from the terrace and approached me.

            “Georgiana. How delightful to see you again after all this time. I was so pleased to receive a note from the queen herself suggesting that you join our party.”

            I shook the hand that was offered. “I do hope this has not inconvenienced you in any way, Camilla,” I said. “When I told her majesty that I’d be staying nearby I really had no idea she’d invite me to be part of your house party. But she was insistent that I pay my respects to my cousin, the Prince of Wales.”

            “But not at all,” Camilla laughed. I remembered she had always had a horsy sort of laugh. Her horsy looks had definitely been improved with impeccable grooming and expensive clothes but the laugh was unchanged. “Actually we’re horribly short on women at the party, so you are a godsend at evening up the numbers.  Come and meet my husband and the other guests.”

            I followed her up to the terrace where several men were now standing to greet me. One of them I recognized immediately as Paolo, Belinda’s former love. I saw from his face that he also remembered me but I also saw the warning sign flash in his eyes. “Pretend you don’t know me,” could not have been more clear if he had shouted the words.

            “My husband Paolo, Count of Marola and Martini,” she said proudly.

            “My dear Lady Georgiana, you are most welcome, especially since my wife tells me you and she were old friends from your school days.” He took my hand and kissed it.

            “How do you do, Count,” I said, inclining my head formally.  “But please let us dispense with formality. Why don’t you call me Georgie?”

            ‘Georgie. How charming.” He smiled. I had forgotten how incredibly handsome he was. I could see why Belinda had been quite smitten at the time.

            Camilla took my arm and moved me on. “And of course you already know Herr von Strohheim?”

            My mother’s beau Max clicked his heels and said, “Georgie. I am pleased to see you again,” in his stilted, staccato English. At least it was better than when he first met my mother and spoke only occasional monosyllables.

“Max, how are you?” I said, shaking his hand. He too looked handsome in a blonde and Germanic way and I was reminded of my encounter on the train with….

            “And this is Count Rudolf von Rosskopf,” Camilla said, and I found myself face to face with my would-be seducer.

            He too took my hand and drew it to his lips. “We meet again, Lady Georgiana,” he said. “What a delightful surprise. And I had no idea that we would run into each other again so soon. It must be fate, drawing us together.” He looked rather pleased with himself and his eyes flirted with me.

            “Behave yourself, Rudi,” my mother snapped. “This is my young daughter, you know.”

            “Not too young,” Rudi said. “Ripe and ready for adventure, I think.”

RHYS: I rather fear that seduction will be the least of Georgie's worries as the story progresses!

So do share: what do you look for in good dialog?