What We're Writing Week: Julia Doodles

JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: May was a month of travel, travel, travel for me and not a lot of writing, writing, writing as a result. I was in DC to help my sister with some stuff, in Colorado to celebrate a dear friend's landmark birthday, and, importantly for this post, in East Hampton, where I joined in an artists' retreat at my friend Shari Goddard Shambaugh's house.

Shari is a painter, one of those seemingly effortless hostesses, and someone who draws all sorts of interesting and creative people into her orbit. I was there with Gail Donovan, who writes middle-grade fiction, and artist Meredith Cough, another painter. 

We worked, we ate really well (another one of Shari's talents) we talked for hours every evening and we made a pilgrimage to see the Jackson Pollock/Lee Krasner House, where we got to put on disposable booties and walk ON the floor of Pollock's studio, which was a lot like walking on one of his paintings. 

The visual artists went out for several plein air sessions, while Gail and I wrote. The Shambaughs live in the historic rectory of St. Luke's Church, which was built in the days when the residents were expected to have a half dozen kids and an attic full of servants. There was plenty of room for everyone.

Part of the pleasure of the retreat was hashing out ideas and issues with each other. I had been expressing my frustration at feeling stuck near the very end of the book - the big action set piece and climax of the mystery/thriller plot. These scenes are never easy for me, because moving characters through space and having them do action-y stuff like run, jump, shoot, fight - and keeping it all flowing and easy for the reader to visualize - is tough. (Sometimes I wish I could write 300 pages of my characters just talking. I'd be done in a month.)

This time, it was even more difficult than usual, because the denouement takes place in a real-world location and I've managed to collect six major characters and three side characters, all of whom do things, make decisions, affect the action, etc. Yes, I know I'm an idiot.

Part of the issue, as I explained it to the group, was having TOO much in my head - I had outlined the big strokes of the scene, but breaking that down into the granular moment-by-moment had me snarled and overwhelmed.

Shari suggested I try drawing a rough map of where the action takes place, and, using a different colored dot for each character, move them moment by moment through the scene. I'm not much of an artist (ie, not at all) but I figured I'd give it a try. She handed me a sheaf of sketch paper and a box of colored pencils and off I went to my room.

Reader, it was a breakthrough! I didn't cut out dots (I honestly figured I'd lose them at the first sneeze) and instead used the first letter of the characters names, each with its own color. Within sketching out the first two pages, I realized what had kept me jammed up was holding all the decisions each major player had to make in my head. Drawing the who-what- when-where, instead of thinking or even outlining, enabled me to break down the scene into it's component beats: decision -> action-> results-> next decision-> next action, etc., etc.

I spent all afternoon sketching (badly) and marking up the pages with notes, working my way through the scene and eventually positioning my characters for the second half of the climax, where they get spotlighted in their own individual/couple moments. 

 

When I finished, I felt as if a 500 pound rock has been lifted off my shoulders. Illustrating the events, rough as it was, turned out to be a terrific technique for busting up that mental logjam. I've been using and expanding on the original sketches since then (well, since getting home from Colorado at the end of May,) much to the pleasure of my cat Neko, who really, really likes stretching out on sketching paper. 

Dear readers, have you tried a new way of solving an old problem?

What We're Writing Week: Julia Shows Character

JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: It will surprise no one to hear I've been distracted from writing the past couple of weeks. On the "difficulties" side of the ledger, my Dad's broken hip and resulting cognitive issues means he's not going to be able to go back to his continuing care one-bedroom apartment; I'm heading to Syracuse next week to visit him, tour a possible nursing home, and help my brother pack up the apartment and put most of it into storage. (Why storage? Because this is a difficult adjustment to make, and knowing we're not giving away all his stuff is important to Dad.)

I've been immersed in the world of care-giving/making decisions for an elderly parent, along with my sister and brother, and I've been making the trip to Central NY every other week since the rehab facility he's currently in got the okay from the NYS Department of Health to open - a little. Visitors are restricted to every other day; even or odd, depending on your loved one's room number. And we're still masked - my sister and I ended our joint visit a few weeks ago by knocking on Dad's window and  waving, so he could see our smiles. It's not ideal, in that Barb and I are both seven and six hours away, respectively, but having Dad stay close to his old home means his friends and neighbors can visit him (on odd days, while wearing masks.) And it is giving me a wide knowledge of Airbnb offerings in the greater Syracuse area!

On the "joys" side of the ledger: I've recently adopted two Shih Tzus! Well, one Shih Tzu and one Shih-we don't know what else. Some sort of small terrier. Kingsley and Rocky are a bonded pair, rescued in Mississippi and  shipped up here to Maine, where we have a high rate of dog adoption. 

 

Somebody loved this pair a lot, because they are utterly overjoyed to meet everyone, and they are very, very well behaved. Rocky, the smaller of the two, is a total cuddlebug, who loves to lay in the crook of my arm and get belly rubs while I'm watching movies. Kingsley is a bit more typically Shih Tzu like; he wants to be around people but isn't a lap dog. The fostering agency had listed them as 6 year old brothers, but I suspect, after a week of walks, that Kingsley is older and may in fact be Rocky's father. Sire? The Maine Millennial is already planning to get one of those doggy DNA kits.

So what does all this have to do with writing? I'm being reminded, in a visceral way, of how interconnected we all are, and of how many ties we have, with parents, siblings, friends, and yes, our beloved pets. Sometimes, in fiction, it's tempting to simplify these connections, or downplay them, because we don't want to bog the story down or slow up the action. (Jack Reacher is probably the ultimate example of this, and even Reacher had a brother, mother, and old Army friends who pull him into events.) But ultimately we don't read novels to figure out whodunnit or to chills and thrill as the hero survives everything thrown at him - although those are very nice parts of the experience!

We read to connect with the characters - characters who in turn are connected with others in their lives. It is those relationships - Kincaid and his son Kit, Daniel and Molly Sullivan, Nathan Bransford and his dog Ziggy - that make them human, and reading about those fictional people, and identifying with them, makes us, the readers, more human. (I'll add that when Hank and Hallie wrote about writing this week, they wrote about fathers and sisters and husbands.) Everything begins with character, and we reveal our characters when they walk their dogs on a beach and visit their elderly parents.

So, dear readers, am I right? And what are some of your favorite character moments from books you've loved?

What We're Writng Week: Julia's Head is Too Crowded

Better Late Than Never Department: The winner of one of Priscilla Paton's Twin Cities Mysteries is Kathy C23, and the winner of one of Susan McCormick's Fog Ladies Mysteries is Lysa MacKeen! Kathy and Lysa, please email me at juliaspencerfleming at Google's email service, and I'll connect you with your authors!

 

JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: First off, there's not going to be an excerpt today. Why? Because I've reached the stage where I hate everything about the work in progress - the cliched writing, the turgid story lines, the mystery that makes no sense and most of all the swarm of characters cluttering up the page!

Yesterday, Debs wrote about the pleasures of having a deep bench of secondary characters to explore and develop. And it's true, for both the author and the reader, having a large cast can be a joy, as someone who's in the background in one book can step out to be a major player in the next. (For the modern master of this, see Louise Penny.)

But - and here's the place I find myself - the author can spin up SO many secondary and tertiary story lines for these characters that drafting the novel starts to feel like rewriting WAR AND PEACE. (Okay, I confess, I've never actually read WAR AND PEACE. But it does seem as if it must have a LOT of characters running around. The Napoleonic wars didn't happen by themselves, you know.)

In my case, I have my primary sleuths, Russ and Clare, both of whom brought at least one personal issue with them from the 9th book, HID FROM OUR EYES. Then there are my secondary detectives, Hadley and Kevin, who have some major issues to thrash out. I have some cops from Russ's department who have stories that were pretty much MIA in Book 9, not to mention what's going on with the department itself. 

If that wasn't enough, I introduced an old friend for Margy Van Alstyne, Russ's activist mom, and though I really have no need of the pair in the book I'm working on, I like them so much they keep popping up, stopping the action with their cuteness.

There's a reappearance from a couple Clare married in a previous book, and we can't forget the baby and Oscar the dog - if they don't have screen time, it looks suspiciously like neglect - and, of course, there are all-new characters showing up for the first time: bad guys and  abused wives and New York State Forest ranger of Mohawk descent and an ambitious state attorney.

Are you keeping track of all this? Because if you are, you're doing a better job than I am. 

Back when I was struggling to get to the end of ONE WAS A SOLDIER, my dear, ever-helpful Ross had a suggestion: "Why not have a meteor crash on Millers Kill and wipe everyone out?" While it's not the best way to keep a series going, I have to admit it's sounding more tempting every day.

Can there be too many characters and subplots, dear readers? Where's the sweet spot? Should I drop a space rock on upstate New York and start all over again by taking a long research trip to Key West? (It was 9F last night and we have a foot of snow on the ground.) And does "Julia's Head is Too Crowded" sound like creative genius, or mental illness?

What We're Writing Week: Threading the Needle on Difficult Subjects

JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: I knew for a long time that Book No. 10 (working title AT MIDNIGHT COMES THE CRY) would have a conflict between the protagonists of my series – plus a few newcomers – and white supremacists. I follow the news closely, and white supremacists have been the number one domestic terror threat for over a decade. Whether they go by the traditional name, Nazis, or dress themselves up as the “alt-right,” they're a dangerous crew, and as a plot driver, they have two things I look for: the potential for a LOT of conflict, and an issue that's plausible for a rural area in upstate New York.

What I didn't expect was that the issue would be so timely. Every time I do more online research on the various ways white supremacists find each other and organize, or on their malignant beliefs, or on the ways violence against women is intertwined with “white pride”/Christian dominionism/mens rights advocacy, I wonder which FBI agent is adding pages to my file.

I find myself repeatedly running up against two challenges while working on this book. The first is: how much info do I give about the ways the alt-right lures disaffected young (mostly) men (mostly) without creating a road map for someone reading the completed novel? Just as no mystery writer wants to give the exact composition and dose that would enable readers to poison their, ah, loved ones, and no thriller author wants to tell the audience precisely how to construct an explosive out of commonly-available materials, I have no desire to give any potentially curious alt-folks a handy users guide to finding their local chapter of Nazis-R-Us.

Secondly: how to I ensure the “bad guys” are authentic, rounded, three dimensional human beings without apologizing for or glossing over their vile beliefs? It's a different thing from making sure my previous villains are recognizably human. A man who sells drugs might love his kids, and someone who kills to keep his business afloat might do it out of understandable desperation. But it's hard to thread that needle when your talking about, you know, Nazis.

Anyhoo. Here's an excerpt from a little further along in the first chapter/prologue, this beginning of which you can read here. One of the men on the White Supremacy float has unveiled a nasty banner, enraging Ron Tucker, one of the guests at the party. He flings himself at the offending sheet (and the man displaying it,) Russ races out to stop the fist fight, and the whole melee, boxed between floats before and behind, careens down the road at a walking pace.

Clare turned and faced her conscripts. “Okay, you two. Get up to the cab and see if you can stabilize that steering wheel.”

Bill looked at the melee with dismay. “What if the driver tries to hit us?”

Hit him back, she didn't say. “Tell him you're trying to help him.”

“He's a Nazi!” Terry protested.

“Then tell him Russ is trying to help him! Go! Now!” Whipped by her command voice, they ran toward the tractor. Clare could hear the whoop-whoop of a squad car signalling pedestrians out of its way, but she couldn't make out its light bar in the blaze and glitter of the floats behind her. Should she help Russ? No, another body would just increase the chance of an accident. Terry and Bill were hanging off the sides of the tractor now, reaching inside, hopefully, dear God, about to straighten its trajectory.

In the middle of the carnival of light and dark and movement, her eye was caught by one still figure. A woman with a large white candy bucket had stopped, staring, as her float arced past, riveted in place by the sight of the men tussling on the back of the tractor. Maybe, like Clare, she was concerned for her husband.

Clare ran toward her. The woman, startled, whirled and raised her bucket – whether an offense or a defense, Clare couldn't tell, but she stopped short and spread her open hands. “I'm not here to hurt you.” She gestured up the road, where the siren's sound was more pronounced. “The police are going to be here very soon. If we can stop this fight now, nobody needs to get arrested. Is that your husband?” They both looked at the back of the float. The man in question managed to shove Ron Tucker out of striking distance, but the mechanic wound his fists in the sheet and wrenched it away, flinging it onto the pavement.

“Oh, no!” the woman said. She lurched toward the fallen banner.

“Leave it.” Clare grabbed the woman's coat. “The police are going to confiscate it anyway.”

“They can't do that! We have a right to be heard! We have a first amendment right!”

“Look at me.” Clare pointed to her eyes. “Look at me! You don't have a first amendment right to brawl, and the cops aren't going to care who threw the first punch. My husband is trying to stop it.” She pointed to where Russ clawed at Tucker's jacket. The banner carrier, now deprived of his prize, was in it with two hands, trading blow for blow with the mechanic. “We need to stop it.”

“How?”

Clare hadn't realized how keyed up she was until she felt a downbeat of relief at the woman's question. “If your husband jumps off the float, it'll give mine the chance to grab his assailant.” The woman looked blank. “The other guy.”

JULIA: I'm sure you've read many other books that deal with difficult issues, dear readers. Can you think of novels or movies where it's been handled especially well? And - not that we're going to name names - can you think of cases where the writer(s) got it wrong?

What We're Writing Week - Out of Season with AT MIDNIGHT COMES THE CRY

JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: Happy Independence Day, everyone. It's a strange, sober sort of Fourth for most of us; no BBQs, no parades, no concerts, no block parties, no fireworks. (Or at least, no official fireworks.) One of my family's cherished traditions is watching the movie Independence Day on the afternoon of the Fourth, often between a small-town parade in the morning and a house party at a friend's. I have to admit, it's a little anti-climactic to actually be in a global emergency and discover instead of flying jet fighters toward an alien ship, we need to fight by wearing masks, staying six feet apart, and washing hands.

But the real message of the movie - in addition to "don't forget to regularly update your security software" -  is "No one makes it alone." The characters in the film survive and triumph by joining together, by helping each other, and by working together as a community. Which is how we're going to get past Covid-19.


I've written scenes set on the Fourth of July before, in Fountain Filled With Blood and One Was A Soldier. I wish I had a new one to share with you now, but instead, I'm going way out of season, since my work in progress, At Midnight Comes the Cry, takes place in December. It does, however, start with a parade.

The trouble started, as it so often does, behind the manure spreader. The Greenwich Annual Lighted Tractor parade was in full swing, and this particular spreader, scrubbed until not a molucule of offending odor could cling to its metal, was brilliant with twining, interlaced lights – the publicity for the parade had promised a million, and the owners of the heavy-duty machine were doing their part. The tractor pulling the trailer was equally festooned, and in addition sported a banner, lit by a spotlight, that proclaimed, “Spreading Christmas Cheer!” 

 

“Who needs the Macy's Thanksgiving Parade?” PJ Adams asked. The animal control officer for the nearby town of Millers Kill, PJ held a yearly open house for the Greenwich event. Her 200-year old Georgian home was stuffed with friends, family and fellow municipal employees, some inside keeping company around the groaning buffet board, some warming themselves by a roaring fire pit in the yard, and some, like the Rev. Clare Fergusson and her husband, clustered together on a low side porch lit with hanging paper lanterns. 

 

Russ Van Alstyne huffed a laugh into his mug of hot cider. At his feet, Oscar, their lab mix, made the same sound. At the Adams house, everyone was welcome: kids, cats, dogs and, Clare thought gratefully, unemployed ex-police chiefs. She shifted their seven-month old to her other hip, tugging his hat into place. Ethan's eyes remained fixed on the whirling illumination of the parade passing by. Between the party, the lights, and the Christmas carols booming from the floats Clare figured he'd either be so overstimulated he wouldn't sleep for a week, or he'd conk out the minute they loaded his car seat into the truck.

“Janie! Janie!” The woman standing on Russ's other side leaned over the railing and called to her daughter, standing with a group of tweens by the fire. “They're handing out candy! Go get some!” The group behind the manure spreader was, indeed, tossing candy into the crowds along the sidewalk, boosting excitement for their otherwise less-than-impressive float: a single tractor sporting chicken-wire frames winging out on either side. There were plenty of lights, though, wrapped around the chassis and hanging from the frames, although from her angle, Clare couldn't see the design. 

 

“What organization is it?” she asked. There were kids involved, walking along the edge of the street, handing out sheets of paper. The candy-tossers, she could see now, were all women. “A daycare?”

Janie returned, stepping carelessly on the frozen soil of PJ's border garden, and handed one of the papers up to her mother. “Look at this. It's weird.”

“Oh my God.” The woman held it at arm's length for the rest of them to read. In the dim glow from the lanterns, Clare could make out WHITE FAMILIES UNITE! BLOOD AND SOIL ARE OUR HERITAGE! DIVERSITY IS A CODE WORD FOR WHITE GENOCIDE!

I hope it whets your appetite for more in '21, dear readers! And tell us in the comments if you're finding any small, quiet ways to mark our nation's birthday.

What We're Writing Week - a poem by the very late Julia Spencer-Fleming

JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: My apologies to everyone and my profound thanks to Hank, who put up a post this morning because I had completely forgotten it was my day. I had a perfect storm of what we might call Quarantine symptoms - I had a hard time keeping track of what day it was all this past week, I escaped from reality last night with a movie binge with my family, and then had a lengthy bout of insomnia in the middle of the night and didn't wake up until almost noon!

Which I will awkwardly attempt to segue into what I intended to post today -  the Reds were having a discussion about our various hair woes due to the shut down, and also the frustration we were all feeling about everything being the same, day in and day out, forever and ever, amen.

To which Lucy said, "Maybe I'll just dye my hair pink." It reminded me of that (somewhat overused) poem that beings "When I am old, I will wear a red hat," and inspired me to write this. 

When I am old, I will dye my hair pink

And wear inappropriately tight jeans

With orthopedically correct shoes.

I will tell boys they're sweet and kind

And girls they're strong and smart

I will call the surgeon by his first name

But the plumber will always be Mr.

I will tell my girlfriends everything

I will tell my husband what he needs to hear

("I don't care what you read, the doctor says to take it")

When I travel, I will go to Venice and Paris,

London, India, Indiana,

Buy the grandkids indulgent toys

Fill my cart with just organic foods

But watch TV on a twenty-year-old set

(the cat loves to sleep on top.)

When I am old, I will work, and work, and work

And if I stop, it will be for wine or tea and books

I will watch the sunset from beyond the edge of a novel

And at the end read everything I wanted.

Thanks for your patience, dear readers!

What We're Writing - The Play's The Thing

JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: I'm not ready to show anything from UNTITLED CLARE AND RUSS NUMBER 10 (How's that for a catchy title?) It all seems a little too new and tender, and, perhaps more pertinently, I'm still figuring out the structure, so God knows how much of what I've already gotten down will ever make it in the long run. I have in the past written and tossed up to three book openings before settling on a way forward.

Instead, I'm going to share a cool project I've been working on: a stage adaptation of my (one and only) short story, A Collect for Noonday. For the past three years, the Portland Stage Company, our premiere professional theater, has produced an evening of staged readings from local crime fiction writers. This year, they asked several of us to write something original for the performance.  Rather than a ten-minute short story with a narrator, which is what most of the readings have been in the past, I adapted my short story into a stage play titled Small Town.

It was an exciting creative experience, and it's left me very interested in composing something else for the stage - or even trying my hand at a screenplay, which is, as I understand it, another thing altogether. (If I go for the latter, I'm going to ask for advice from my friend Jeff Cohen, who's been teaching writing for the screen for twenty years.) If you're going to be in southern Maine on February 10, please join Gerry Boyle, Brenda Buchanan, Dick Cass, Paul Doiron and me for the Fourth Annual Crime Writers Staged Reading!

EARLA is in the diner. CLARE FERGUSSON and RUSS VAN ALSTYNE enter.

EARLA: There you two are. I was beginning to worry.

CLARE: Worry? Why?

EARLA: It's Wednesday, in't it? If I don't have the chief of police and the Episcopal minister in my diner for lunch Wednesday, I figure there's trouble going on somewheres in town. Here, sit down, I saved your table.

RUSS ushers CLARE to their seats.

EARLA: How's Mrs. Van Alstyne?

RUSS: Fine, Earla. Busy. Thanks for asking.

EARLA (to the audience): If the reverend was my daughter, I'd tell her you’re too pretty and too smart to be settling for once-a-week lunch with a man who won’t never leave his wife, dear.

EARLA: I’ll go fetch your coffees. EARLA exits

JIM CAMERON enters

CAMERON: Reverend Fergusson. How are you? (CAMERON drops a file folder on the table.)

CLARE: Mayor Cameron?

CAMERON: I won’t interrupt your meal. I just need to touch base with Russ. How is everything at St. Alban’s? Any more Sunday parking problems?

CLARE: No, it’s fine. You’re here to see Chief Van Alstyne?

EARLA enters

CAMERON: It’s Wednesday. (to EARLA) Can I get a Coke? (to CLARE) Easier to catch him here than to try to track him down on while he’s patrolling. (EARLA sets two coffee cups and three menus by RUSS) Oh, I’m not staying. (He picks up a menu and begins reading)

RUSS (hands CLARE a coffee cup) Reverend Fergusson.

CLARE: Thank you, Chief Van Alstyne.

CAMERON (to the audience): For godsakes, why can't they just call each other by their first names? Everyone knows what's going on.

PAUL FOUBERT enters

FOUBERT: There you are, m’dear! I was going over to the church and then I realized, she’s not going to be there on a Wednesday afternoon.

CLARE: Does someone need me at the nursing home?

FOUBERT: No, no, no. I want to float an idea past you. (to EARLA) Cup of tea, please. No, make it a pot. I can still get a pot, can’t I?

EARLA: You sure can.

EARLA exits

RUSS: Jim. What are you doing here? Do you know Paul Foubert?

CAMERON: Of course I do. Half the nursing home budget comes from town taxes. (to RUSS) Look, the roadworks building’s been broken into and vandalized again.

RUSS: When?

CAMERON: Emory McFarland called me an hour ago.

RUSS: He’s supposed to call us, not you. Last time the damn fool washed away any possible evidence before we ever got there.

CLARE: This happened before?

RUSS: About a month ago.

EARLA enters. She distributes tea FOUBERT and a soda to CAMERON, then takes out her order pad.

EARLA: You folks know what you want?

RUSS nods toward CLARE

CLARE: Chili and fries.

FOUBERT: That sounds good. Make it two.

RUSS: The usual.

EARLA: Mr. Mayor?

CAMERON (buries his face in the menu.) I hadn’t really planned on staying.

FOUBERT (to CLARE) I wanted to ask if you would consider--

CLARE is shaking a huge amount of sugar into her mug.

 FOUBERT: Good Lord. Why don’t you just order a bottle of Karo syrup?

CLARE: No caffeine.

RUSS, amused, reaches for the sugar himself as she puts it back. Their fingers touch. They jerk away.

CLARE: If I would consider...?

FOUBERT: Consider doing an ecumenical service for the nursing home residents.

CLARE: You mean, separate from my individual visits?

FOUBERT: Exactly. I’ve read a fascinating study on the health benefits of community worship. I’ve seen how people respond after a visit from you, or from Rev. Inman or Dr. McFeely. I’d like to get something started that our patients who don’t have a prior church connection can participate in. As a group.

CLARE: Huh. An ecumenical service. I have to admit I like the idea...

RUSS: And you have so much spare time to devote to it, too.

CLARE makes a face at him.

 What do you think, dear readers? Do you like live theater? And have you ever been energized by trying a new sort of creative endeavor?