What We're Writing Week: Julia Adjusts to Advent

JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: Like Rhys, I'm also writing a book set in the Christmas season, or, to be more precise, during Advent, the four weeks preceding Christmas. Advent is a rather solemn counterpoint to the orgy of food, lights and decoration that takes place between Thanksgiving and December 25. The nice thing is, if you observe Advent, Christmas lasts from that day until January 6th - and this year, most of us are likely to be home for the whole time to enjoy it.

AT MIDNIGHT COMES THE CRY will not, sadly, have plum pudding, but I am enjoying weaving in the rituals of the season as practiced in a contemporary small American town and in a contemporary small Episcopal church. In today's scene, Russ Van Alstyne (in charge of baby Ethan) bumps into Officer Hadley Knox, whose two kids sing in the St. Alban's children's choir. They sit in a pew with a couple mugs of coffee to watch the rehearsal.

“How was Thanksgiving?” 

Knox blew on her coffee. “Quiet. Grandad's sick. I'm hoping it's not the flu.” She looked toward the ceiling, as if asking for strength. “He refused to get his flu shot or the pneumonia shot this fall. Said it's all a con by the pharmaceutical companies.” She shook her head. “He doesn't even have to pay for them, for crying out loud.” 

Considering her grandfather was in his late seventies, diabetic, and had survived a massive heart attack a few years back, Russ could see why she was so frustrated. She took a sip. “How about you? How are you doing? With...” her vague sweeping gesture encompassed him, the baby, and the church. 

“Not bad."

“Are you,” she sounded hesitant, “job hunting yet?” 

“Nope. Thought it would be good to cool off for a bit. Take my bearings and figure out what I really want to do between now and retirement. I started working as an MP when I was what, twenty? Twenty-one? I've been a cop ever since.” 

“Do you miss it?” He smiled, showing his eyeteeth. “No more than I'd miss my foot if it were lopped off.” 

 

She took another drink of coffee. “Ah.” The children in the choir pews began singing. Ethan shifted forward, mouth open, and started crawling up the aisle. Russ figured he didn't need to grab him just yet – the first step up to the altar rail would stop him. “How about you? How are things at work?” What the hell, she brought it up first. 

She see-sawed her hand. “MacAuley's doing fine as interim chief. You know how he is – very organized and methodical. He was always good at scheduling and stuff like that.” That Russ's deputy chief had been less good at personnel and conflict resolution went unsaid. “Eric's back working full time, but we're still shorthanded, and the board of aldermen isn't showing any sign of opening up their pockets for another officer.” 

 

Russ hummed agreement. “We were understaffed even before Kevin left. I should have replaced him immediately, instead of letting the board get used to a skinnier budget for us. For the department.” Kevin Flynn, the youngest member of the MKPD, had taken a job at the Syracuse Police Department not quite a year ago. Russ could see now, as he hadn't then, that he'd been unconsciously hoping the kid would return to Millers Kill. “You heard anything from him?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. I've left a couple messages on his cell and on Facebook, but...” 

“Have you tried calling Syracuse again?” Three weeks ago, he had done just that, to be told Kevin had taken a leave of absence for family business. Except Knox had called the Flynns, and they had no idea where their son was. 

“No, I don't want to be stalker-y.” She made a sound of frustration. 

“Look, working undercover was hard on him. He's probably taking his bearings and figuring out what he wants to do next.” 

“You think so?” Knox sounded dubious. 

“Kevin was thrown into the deep end for several months and then got yanked from the investigation before anything was finished. So yeah, I think it's entirely likely he's trying to decide if he wants to continue being a cop, if he wants to go someplace else, if he just wants to stay at home and raise his kid.” Ethan had reached the first wide step up to the altar area and, as predicted, was stumped. 

Knox looked at him sideways. “I don't need to point out Flynn doesn't have any kids, right?” 

“You know what I mean.” He took another drink of coffee to avoid sighing like a sad sack. “It's a tough field. People leave for something else all the time.”

“Kevin once told me all he ever wanted to do was be a cop. He said he got hired as soon as he turned twenty-one.” 

Russ laughed. “Oh, God, yes. I remember that. He was all arms and legs and red hair, hadn't even finished growing into himself. It was like having an Irish setter puppy running around in the shop. The radar gun was exciting. Traffic duty was exciting. We had a homicide that year and he helped at the scene. I had to tell him to stop grinning and commenting how cool it all was.” 

 

The kids had paused the song, and Betsy Young was going over their two parts, soprano and treble. 

“I can believe it. He'd calmed down a little by the time I came onto the force, but still. Do you see that guy wallowing in some sort of existential crisis about his future?” 

Russ breathed in. “No.” 

 

JULIA:  Poor Russ, he wants to be moving on, but he certainly seems to be stuck in the job he left (about a month ago in book-time.) Have any of you ever had a job that was hard to leave behind?

 

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?

Fusion Food and Dialog

RHYS BOWEN: It's Sunday and we usually reserve today for writing tips or blogs about food. I'm going to combine both today. My son recently went to a restaurant called, if I remember correctly, Chopsticks and Chapattis. He thought that Chinese/Indian fusion food might be an interesting experiment.  He looked at the menu and decided on the Cumin Lamb. His dialog with the waitress went like this:
Son: This cumin lamb sounds good. Tell me about it.
Waitress: Well. It is lamb.  With cumin.
Son: So how exactly is it prepared?
Waitress: You take the lamb... and put some cumin on it.
Son: And?
Waitress: And then you cook it.

That would make a terrific scene in a funny movie, wouldn 't it?
But I'm trying to prove a point here. I want to show what real life dialog is like. We don't speak in long, expressive sentences. One of the mistakes that new writers make (and some old writers too) is making the dialog unrealistically eloquent. In the real world we break apart sentences, interrupt, stop to think. Of course we can't make speech exactly true to life... or it would be full of fillers like "like" and "y-know", but it should give the impression of real life.

Another pointer that this dialog illustrates is: make sure we know who is talking. Too often, especially in opening chapters, we have characters chatting away madly and we really don't know who we are listening to. (or should that be to whom we are listening?)

In this dialog the waitress has a distinctive voice and also an Indian accent, but I can only hint at that by the way she breaks up her sentences, but you get a good impression of her from these few lines of speech. So close your eyes. Have someone read dialog out loud and see if you get a feel for each person speaking. Also notice from that small speech how conversation flows back and forth, like a tennis match. One person does not hold the stage for long speeches.

I set my mysteries in the past and dialog is a great tool to take us back to a place and time. My characters really do express themselves in long, eloquent sentences. People in those days had more time and much bigger vocabularies. I base Molly Murphy's speech on that of my great aunts who read extensively and didn't hesitate to use big words in their every day speech (they were, after all, from a generation who gave us words like Perambulator for a baby buggy and Omnibus for that big red thing.) Also they considered words like damn and hell swearing. A man would apologize if he used such words in a lady's presence.

I don't know how we got from Asian fusion to Edwardian novels If anyone has tried good Chinese/Indian fusion, do let me know.
But a last word of warning... if a restaurant is called anything like Chopsticks and Chapattis, run away as fast as you can.