One Writer's Secret: Thank Goodness For Twizzlers

Hank Phillippi Ryan: Hear that sound? It’s the wail of the poor pantser, who, even after several books, has forgotten–maybe like childbirth–the utter pain of having to think of a new character/theme/setting/plot/everything. And write 95,000 or so as-yet imaginary words.

Now, you know Tracy Clark. And you know she always manages to make it fabulous. (and her newest book HIDE was a massive bestseller--more about that below!) But she does have…throes of uncertainty. Thing is, she also has a secret!

Thank goodness for Twizzlers!
By Tracy Clark

Prepping for a new book series is a little like getting ready for the first day at a new school. You’re excited that you’re starting something new, of course, but also a little nervous. You don’t know these new people. Your friends, the ones you’ve known since first grade, are back at the old place. What if you can’t find your way to the cafeteria? What if no one talks to you? What if your locker door won’t open?

Out with the old, in with the new is all well and good, but what if you liked the old? What if the old was working for you? Tough nuts. Fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly. Keep it moving.

So, with a little excitement and a little nervousness, I quieted the old characters in my head (even though some of them didn’t want to be quieted) and searched around for new voices. I needed new book people, a new world, a new vibe, a new everything. Do you know how daunting it is to know you need a new everything?

The new series couldn’t be a carbon copy of the old series. I would have to move from my sweet spot of PI fiction and my snarky PI, Cass Raines, to something different, someone different. That someone different couldn’t be all the things Cass was, so, how different could I make my new main bestie? 

I got out my Twizzlers. They always help me think my way out of tough writing spots. I think it's the chewing action. It takes time to polish off a Twizzler. Thinking time. M&M’s go down too quickly. But I digress.

Well, first off, I needed a name. I already knew my protagonist would be female. I knew she would be strong, independent, flawed, smart. I knew she would be African American. But who was she? Who was she?

It took forever to settle on the name Harriet Foster. Det. Harriet Foster. Homicide cop. Chicago Police Department. Sounded good, but before I decided on it, I had tried so many name combinations. Nothing felt right, until Harriet, for Tubman, who followed the North Star to freedom, and Foster because it was succinct and strong, fit her. Say it aloud. Foster. Foster. The nickname Harri came quicker. Harri, not Hari. Something about the double R’s appealed to me.

OK. Now I had a framework, a main character, a name, a subgenre—police procedural. Cops. (I decided to walk on the wild side and see how the other half lived.) I swapped my much-loved (by me) independent operative with a penchant for picking locks, climbing into other peoples’ places, snooping into bad guy’s files, basically, Nancy Drew if Nancy Drew were a 36-year-old African American female ex-cop turned PI infamous for a biting retort and a dogged determination to pursue justice, for a 43-year-old African-American female homicide detective, who couldn’t pick anything, climb through anything, or snoop at anything, or else she’d lose her good city job and pension. Oh, the constraints. Oh, the writing hours wasted wrestling with those constraints. Warrants? Cass didn’t need no stinkin’ warrants! But Harriet did. Harriet had to follow the law. Heck, Harriet was the law. Back to the Twizzlers.

Now I needed a plot, a case that Harriet could sink her teeth into. You know that antsy feeling you get when a train is late, and you stare down the tracks checking for lights and the sound of whistles as the minutes tick by? You need that train. You’re going to be late for the opening curtain of Hadestown, or whatever. But the train ain’t coming; the tracks are silent. You paid $200 for that Hadestown ticket. You begin to pace on the platform. You’re gonna miss that curtain. Magnify that by ten.

But funny thing about writers, it doesn’t take much to spark the imagination. Characters and stories, like trains, eventually come, as it did for me and Harriet. This story, Harriet’s debut, even came with a title HIDE. The title carries a double meaning, which is also kind of neat. I like to keep things witchy.

So, I was off to the races.

But the writing was slow-going and tough. Harriet wasn’t Cass. Her vibe was different. Her backstory wasn’t easy to craft. Harriet was older, more flawed, solemn, wounded, brilliant on the job, a mess off duty, and I had to dig for her like a miner 49er had to dig for gold dust. Still do.

But that’s really my process for every writing project. I’m a pantser, which means I approach a new book without a firmly developed plan. I have ideas. I have thoughts. I just don’t have a roadmap written down. I craft that as I go, line by line, page by page.

I’m firmly in the new series now. I think I’ve finally got a good handle on Harriet. She’s aloof, methodical, intuitive. She thinks more than she speaks. Cass is still there waiting for her next turn up at bat, but, meanwhile, I’m finding Harriet an interesting nut to crack. I’ve even given her an eclectic investigative team with stories of their own to tell.

 I’ve found the new voices and have built a new world with a great vibe. I kind of knew I would, but writers always worry. Right now, the new school is working out. I’ve found the cafeteria and my locker works just fine.

I keep the Twizzlers close, though. Pantsers never have an easy time of it.

HANK: SO true! But I have to agree, Twizzlers are the BEST. (And I love the name Harriet, too…. :-) And congratulations, Tracy, on your wild success!

What about you, reds and readers? Twizzlers fan? How about the not-red ones? The fake ones? The little ones? Let’s twist again! And do you have a go-to snack when you’re reading or writing?

Tracy Clark, a native Chicagoan, is the author of the Cass Raines Chicago Mystery series, featuring ex-cop turned PI Cassandra Raines. A multi-nominated Anthony, Lefty, Edgar and Shamus Award finalist, Tracy is also the 2020 and 2022 winner of the G.P. Putnam’s Sons Sue Grafton Memorial Award. She was also nominated for the 2022 Edgar for Best Short Story for “Lucky Thirteen,” which was included in the crime fiction anthology “Midnight Hour.” She is a proud member of Crime Writers of Color, Mystery Writers of America and Sisters in Crime and serves on the boards of Bouchercon National and the Midwest Mystery Conference. Her latest book, RUNNER, was released in June 2021. Her debut novel, BROKEN PLACES, has been optioned by Sony Pictures Television. Her next book, HIDE, featuring Det. Harriet Foster, releases in January 2023.

HIDE by Tracy Clark

When a young red-haired woman is found brutally murdered in downtown Chicago, one detail stands out: the red lipstick encircling her wrists and ankles.

Detective Harriet Foster is on the case, even though she’s still grieving the sudden death of her partner. As a Black woman in a male-dominated department, Foster anticipates a rocky road ahead acclimating to a new team―and building trust with her new partner isn’t coming easily.

After another victim turns up with the same lipstick markings, Foster suspects she’s looking for a serial killer. Through a tip from a psychiatrist, Foster learns about Bodie Morgan: a troubled man with a twisted past and a penchant for pretty young redheads with the bluest eyes. As Foster wades into Morgan’s sinister history, the killer continues their gruesome assault on Chicago’s streets.

In her desperate race to catch the murderer before they strike again, Foster will have to confront the darkest of secrets―including her own.

Tracy Clark--It Only Takes One Person to Believe In You

DEBORAH CROMBIE: Sometimes the perfect post comes along at the perfect time. I was feeling in need of a little (or a lot) of a boost in writers' mojo, and when I read today's piece from the wonderful Tracy Clark, I was inspired. Such wonderful advice, and such a moving tribute to Eleanor Taylor Bland.

IT ONLY TAKES ONE PERSON TO BELIEVE IN YOU

by

TRACY CLARK

Writing is a lonely endeavor. There’s not a soul in that writing room with you as you stare at that blank computer screen, its cheeky cursor blinking at you as if to say, “okay, (insert air quotes here) F. Scott, whatcha got?”

On good days, you’ve got lots. On bad ones, yikes. Knowing you’re a part of a writing community helps on those bad days. You have friends, pals, who know that lonely room, they’ve seen that cursor blinking. They feel your pain because it’s their pain too.

For writers, I think, there is a constant worry that what we’re writing isn’t good enough, that we’re not getting all we can out of a character or a plot line or a chapter. That even after a few books we have no idea how to write the next one. That writing is a knack or a fairy gift that will dry up and blow away at the stroke of midnight … on your birthday.

But writing’s not at all magical. It’s craft, it’s talent, it’s a vocation for which you can become increasingly proficient through hard work, persistence and downright stubbornness.

Keep writing.

A lot of writers are shy and introverted. I’m shy. I spent part of my first Bouchercon sitting behind a potted palm in a St. Petersburg hotel. Not all day, I’m not a complete hermit, just in 10-to-15-minute spurts, just long enough to recharge before diving back into the fray. Some of you might have seen me at the palm. I named it Stanley. I sat on author panels there and sweated. I met people. I liked it. I was exhausted at the end of the four days.

Keep writing.

I knew I wanted to write early on, and so I took advantage of every writing course I came across starting freshman year in high school and running all the way through my thesis presentation. If there was a writing workshop available in my area, I took that too. I gobbled up knowledge on pacing, dialogue, character building, world building, setting, voice, point of view, all of it, stuffing it all into my memory bank. At these workshops, I would stare at all the published authors leading the sessions thinking they were just the smartest things walking. I wanted to be like them, to know what they knew, and I was determined to get there if it took me a thousand years and a valued limb.

I met Eleanor Taylor Bland at one of those all-day workshops. I was still in college, still struggling with my writing, still not getting “it.” She was a force of nature. I watched in awe as she moved through the room with such confidence and determination. She knew everyone and everyone knew her. I sat in on her sessions, taking copious notes. I sat in the back, too shy to sit in the front where she might see me. She had no idea I had the latest Marti MacAllister novel in my bag and that I was too shy to ask her to sign it.

But she saw me. How could she not? I was the only other Black woman in the room. In fact, for a few years, I only saw a handful of Black women (one man) at the entire workshop. Eleanor approached first. She wanted to know who I was and what I was writing. I stammered, began to sweat. I think I was speaking English.

“Good,” she said. “Follow me.”

Eleanor latched on and led me along with her. She pointed out the sessions I should sit in. “Go to that one. She’s good. You need that information.” So I went. And Eleanor was right. She introduced me to people (published writers) I never would have approached on my own.

One year, I came back with manuscript pages. Eleanor was there. She did the same thing as the year before; this time there was one more Black writer there. We followed behind her as she worked the rooms like a pro. She called us her little chickens. She was our Pied Piper.

Eleanor read my manuscript pages one year. While she read, I agonized, finding a spot on the wall to focus on, nervous about what she might say. She was a real writer. Real writers know junk when they read it. The Eleanor Taylor Bland was reading my junk! I wanted to crawl into a ball and die.

     She finished. Her head popped up. She looked at me for a half-second, then said. “Good. This is good.” She said some other stuff, but I didn’t get most of it. I got hung up on the “good” part. She said it was good? I would have danced on the ceiling, if I could have reached it. Then she said it. The two words that I hear in my head today and every day when things are going well, but particularly when they aren’t. Keep writing. Keep writing. Keep writing.

Those two words got me through more than twenty years of rejection letters. They got me through getting an agent early on and losing him two years later when he could find no takers for the early version of my first Cass Raines novel that would eventually become “Broken Places.” The two words get me out of countless muddled middles now. Whenever I get stuck – it’s keep writing. Whenever I feel I’ve gotten to the end of what I can do – it’s keep writing. Whenever I’ve spent an entire day writing and I know in my bones I’ve just spent an entire day writing crap I cannot use – it’s keep writing.

Keep writing.

I finally got my Marti MacAllister book signed. I also got Eleanor’s phone number and email address after that first manuscript critique. She wanted to check on my progress, see how my story was coming along. She offered her help when and if I ever needed it. I needed it. We talked on the phone on occasion, but she was far too busy for chitchat, so we mostly emailed back and forth until she got too sick to do it. It was a good day when I had an Eleanor email waiting in my inbox. I’ve saved those emails.

She called me at work once and left a message on my voicemail. She called my writing “impressive.” I saved that voicemail too until the job changed phone systems and the message got deleted. I would play that message every morning when I sat down at my desk. It motivated me and kept me on track. If Eleanor believed I could write, it was easier for me to believe it too. I wish I had that message back.

Eleanor called me on a Saturday morning once and told me to get dressed and meet her downtown. Walter Mosley was doing a signing at the bookstore on State Street. Words cannot adequately describe the panic that call sent through me. It had taken me two years to talk to Eleanor without fainting dead away and now she wanted to introduce me to Walter Mosley? Walter. Mosley. I went. Of course, I went. You did not say no to Eleanor. I had my picture taken with Walter Mosley that day. Eleanor took the photo, and I could see her grinning behind the camera. Eleanor and I had lunch afterward, but I have no idea where or what I ate. A week or so later, she mailed me a copy of that photograph. Walter Mosley had signed it. I looked like a deer caught in headlights. I still have that photo.

I got my first writing credit through Eleanor. She asked me to write a short story (my first) for an anthology of Black mystery writers she was putting together titled “Shades of Black: Crime and Mystery Stories by African-American Authors.” Penny Mickelbury was in that anthology, so were Walter Mosley, Hugh Holton, Chris Chambers, Frankie Y. Bailey, Grace Edwards, Gary Phillips. What was she thinking? No way was I good enough to be in that kind of company! But there I am. If you check out the book cover, you’ll see me. I’m listed as “and others,” and I’ll gladly take it any day all day.

 Tracy as a Best First Novel nominee, the Lefty Awards in Vancouver

Sometimes angels appear right when you need them.

Writing is a lonely endeavor. It’s just you in a room with a blinking cursor until someone, some force of nature, plucks you out and shoves you toward community. I pray every new writer out there finds such a mentor, such a friend. I miss Eleanor’s emails. I miss her voice. I wish she could see what I’m doing now and know that she played a tremendous role in it. I think she’d be happy about it.

So, if you’re a new writer out there and you’re finding the road rough and full of obstacles, I’ll tell you what Eleanor told me – KEEP WRITING.

If you’ve been writing for years and are in a position to impart some wisdom or keep a new writer going, reach back and make that connection. I honor Eleanor’s belief in me, her friendship, by paying it forward.

 Tracy (left) and friends in Vancouver

None of that means you won’t find me skulking behind a potted palm at some big conference, though. Still shy, but, by all means, say hello. I’m friendly. But if you’re also shy, you’ll have to find your own palm. Stanley’s mine.

 

Tracy Clark is the author of RUNNER: A Chicago Mystery (June 29, 2021; Kensington) and three additional novels in the Cassandra Raines series. She is the winner of the 2019 Sue Grafton Memorial Award, an Anthony and Lefty Award finalist, and her books have been shortlisted for the American Library Association's RUSA Reading List, named a CrimeReads Best New PI Book of 2018, a Midwest Connections Pick, and a Library Journal Best Books of the Year selection. A native of Chicago, she works as an editor in the newspaper industry and roots for the Cubs, Sox, Bulls, Bears, and Blackhawks equally. She is a board member-at-large of Sisters in Crime, Chicagoland, a member of International Thriller Writers, and a Mystery Writers of America Midwest board member. She is currently a finalist for both the Agatha and Shamus Awards for Best Mystery of the Year. You can visit Tracy online at tracyclarkbooks.com

 

More about RUNNER:

Chicago in the dead of winter can be brutal, especially when you’re scouring the frigid streets for a missing girl. Fifteen-year-old Ramona Titus has run away from her foster home. Her biological mother, Leesa Evans, is a recovering addict who admits she failed Ramona often in the past. But now she’s clean. And she’s determined to make up for her mistakes–if Cass can only help her find her daughter.

Cass visits Ramona’s foster mother, Deloris Poole, who is also desperate to bring the girl home. Ramona came to Deloris six months ago, angry and distrustful, but was slowly opening up. The police are on the search, but Cass has sources closer to the streets, and a network of savvy allies. Yet it seems Ramona doesn’t want to be found. And Cass soon begins to understand why.

Ramona is holding secrets dark enough to kill for, and anyone who helps her may be fair game. And if Ramona can’t run fast enough and hide well enough to keep the truth safe, she and Cass may both be out of time. 

DEBS: What a fabulous story! REDS and readers, has there been someone who's encouraged you the way Eleanor encouraged Tracy?