What Hank's Writing: Deadlines and Book Tour

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN: I wish you could see me. Or maybe not. I’m kinda…frazzled.

No matter how organized I try to be, I know that how matter how much I plan, I will be typing typing typing right up till the final manuscript deadline.

Why is it that somehow my writer brains calculates the amount of time remaining to do a certain task, and makes the task last right up to that exact second?

What I am writing/editing is my 15th novel, and… Well, before we get to that:

I have just come back from three fantastic, hilarious, exhilarating, exhausting weeks on book tour, almost in a different city every day.

 When I left Boston in February, the world was slushy and snowy, and the skies were gray. As I arrived back home, weary, but thrilled, our crocuses had arrived, and the soft spring wind was making ripples in our backyard swimming pool. (No ducks yet, though.) And I saw this this squirrel on our back fence, brazenly eating a tulip bulb! 

I unpacked immediately, because that is civilized. And..laundry. You should know that book tour is not the same as a tourist tour. I saw the Liberty Bell through the window of an Uber. And the Washington DC monuments, well, I flew over them.

But so many people came to hear about THE HOUSE GUEST! Here are a few photos...

 

And there were snags, oh yes, indeed. Like when my books were shipped not to Alexandria, Virginia, where the big signing was, but to Arlington, Texas. It’s still a mystery! But it all worked out fine. Eventually.

And look look look, is this not the most hilarious thing you’ve ever seen?

Book clubs and readers are dressing up like the cover of THE HOUSE GUEST! I laugh and laugh when I see these, and some of these cover faces, you might even recognize. But I am endlessly delighted by them.

This entire book club, look! Dressed up like the cover. Got to adore that. SO many darling friends here!

You know THE HOUSE GUEST went into a second printing after six days, and that is absolutely thrilling. ( If you care about having a first edition, just saying, this might be the time to snag it. Oh, and also parenthetically, if you are Kindle Unlimited, HER PERFECT LIFE is now free! I’m not sure for how long, but if you have not read that, and you are KU, now is definitely the time. )

So onward, onward, and the reason I am frazzled is that the edits of the first draft of my new novel were due yesterday at… Well, yesterday.

I was tempted to pretend I am on California time, thereby giving me three more hours until close of business. (I mean, I might live in California, right?)

But no time zone finessing was necessary, and at 6:09 PM Monday, I hit “ send” on the new book. I cut– drum roll-- 8924 words.  And it was so much fun.

Part of the joy of writing  for me is after I get that first draft done, then being able to tweak and polish and edit and streamline and see the book I meant to write. And, crossing fingers, I think that has happened. Here is a sample page. You can kinda see how much was deleted.

Too hard to read? Rats. I am too tired to figure out how to make this work. Any ideas? 

But soon, if all goes as planned, there'll be the real thing. And now I sit at my desk, frazzled and frumpled with hair askew, proud of myself for making my deadline, hooray! But knowing, now, I need another idea. Oh dear. I need another idea.

Do you always work right up to your deadline, Reds and Readers? Or are you so organized that you send things in early?

What We're Writing--Debs Confronts the Doorstop

DEBORAH CROMBIE: I have news!! I finally got to type the two most satisfying words in the English language, at least for me: THE END

A KILLING OF INNOCENTS, Kincaid/James #19, is finally, finally finished!! Trumpets, please!

That's the good news. 

The bad news is that the finished manuscript is 550 pages long, about 126,00 words, so yes, I confess that I'm Red A from Hallie's Behind the Scenes at the Sausage Factory post on Monday. That is a doorstop of a book.

My wonderful and very patient editor was happy with the family thread and the crime (relief on both fronts!), but thinks the book needs to be 100 to 150 pages shorter. That's a lot of pages and a pretty daunting prospect, especially on a really tight production schedule. 

I confess that I am (obviously) an over-writer. I put in too much detail, and I am perpetually guilty of telling not showing, one of the cardinal writing sins. And I love putting in directions, which makes my editor want to tear her hair out. Readers don't really want to know where your character turned left or right and which street leads to into what street, or which bus they take. I realize this is my way of putting myself into a scene, but it should definitely be a case of less is more. 

So how do you go about cutting that many pages? You snip a sentence here, a paragraph there, an entire scene if it's not advancing the plot, and all those little tweaks add up. Or at least that's the idea! I'm down 70 pages now, at a bit more than halfway through the book, and I promise you won't miss them.

Readers, do you think about length when you choose a book? Do you have preferences, depending of the type of book? I might expect, for instance, a fantasy novel to be longer than a mystery, or a multiple viewpoint story to be longer than one told from first person. I want a book to be long enough to be satisfying, but not so long that I think I need a vacation to read it--unless I actually have a vacation to read it in!

A KILLING OF INNOCENTS is available for pre-order from all your favorite booksellers.

What We're Writing: In which Hank Rejoices (but not for long)

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN: What we’re writing week—I’m usually happy that alphabetically that makes me second in line to reveal the latest. But this week, I wish my name began with a later letter.

I’m juggling! And it’s terrific and fun and ca-razy.  Three things:

One: Whoo-do-doo-hoo. I finished the final final manuscript of SAY NO MORE. Not just kind of finished, or sort of finished, or someone else still has to look at it finished. But I’m talkin’ 12,000 (yes 12,000) word cutting, “at least” and “of course” deleting, em-dash deleting (thank you Ramona Long), plot-twist realizing and epiphany-hitting finished. Remind me of this when I am freaking out later, okay?  I really really really love it.

Here’s a tiny bit of SAY NO MORE—from a new character named Isabel Russo (whose name used to be Natalie Ruggerio, but somehow that didn’t work and now this new name is perfect.)

                                                        

                                                                      *****

Nothing had happened to “him,” of course. She’d never say his name again. Never even think it. Never poison her mind with it. She’d make him a no one, a nobody, exactly as he’d done to her.

She looked up, glanced around as if someone could be watching. It always felt as if someone were, which was ridic. But Dame Callas’s darkly disapproving eyes seemed to stare right at her, and Mirella’s sweet expression had turned to pity. Isabel blinked, dismissing her fantasy. They’re only posters. She looked at her watch. 6:30.  Gormay on the Way would arrive in an hour.

She had time.

She clicked into Facebook, hit the bookmark for his profile.  Smiling, smiling, smiling. It was like this every day. Why did she keep looking?  She went to Instagram, checked his IG photos. She’d watched as his friend list grew, saw him amass endless “likes” with his stupid sports and silly pop concert tickets and dumb jokes. He’d gotten a new car, she saw, scanning the newest photos. Another new girlfriend. She was smiling, too, even kind of seemed familiar. She clicked away from the heart-twisting, stomach-turning site. Enough. 

Her next stop was always the “help” sites. Somehow, not being alone in her grief was reassuring. Even though it should have been chilling. But she had to look, once a day, every day.

Sexually assaulted on campus? We want to hear your story.

            The headline on the Facebook WE CAN HELP home page was so shocking, so surprising, so unexpected, she blinked at it, willing her eyes to go back into focus. The postage-stamp-sized icon was of a scale of justice.  Maybe you can prevent this from happening to someone else, the article began. Make a difference, it said. Take back the power.

Click here, it said.

She looked up again. It really felt as if someone was watching. The back of her neck prickled, and she could hear the silence.

Click? She could not do it. Why should she? All these hours she’d spent, making this place her refuge. Give that up with a click? No. She’d created a tiny bit of peace out of her shambles of a life. No way would she ever relive or talk about it again.

Click?

But how could it hurt just to see? “Prevent this from happening to someone else,” it said. She’d never wish her burden on anyone. Could she help instead? She touched her forefinger to the silver mouse. And pushed.

She steeled herself, waiting, not sure what to expect. Could they trace this? Know who she was? Should she close the computer, forget about it, fade to black? Maybe this was the biggest mistake she’d ever made.

            She leaned her head back against the top rail of her kitchen chair, crossed her arms, felt the warmth of her bare skin. Briefly closed her eyes.  No. The biggest mistake she’d ever made was going to that party. She shook her head, wondering.  It was an odd relief, maybe, to understand that nothing worse could ever happen to her. Maybe that was her power.

Isabel paused, fingers poised over her keyboard. Thinking about the phone number now on the screen. Should she call? The atmosphere of the room changed, a flicker of shadow through the maple tree outside, and then a single shaft of light glinted a rainbow on her keyboard, the spectrum of colors changing, dancing, playing across her fingers. Smiling in spite of herself, she looked up to see her little window crystal twisting in the resolute sunshine. 

                                           *****

                         

Two: PRIME TIME  is coming back. I mean—no pressure, but pre-order now!

You know the absolutely unbelievable journey of PRIME TIME, right?  The first book in the fun and funny Charlotte McNally mystery series came out from NEXT, in 2007.  And it won the AGATHA!   Then came FACE TIME, a Booksense Notable book. Then the Next imprint was pulled, and I thought I was doomed.

But rejoice!  The fabulous MIRA picked up the series, reissued PRIME TIME and FACE TIME in mass market size with gorgeous new covers, and went on to AIR TIME AND DRIVE TIME ,both of which were nominated for the Agatha and Anthony.

Then I had the idea for THE OTHER WOMAN, and got a new publisher, the amazing Forge. (All wonderful, and you all know the Jane Ryland story.)

But rejoice!

FORGE loves Charlie McNally, and they are re-issuing the whole series, one every other month this year, in trade paperback and hardcover.

WHOO HOO!

If you like Jane Ryland, I do hope you will meet Charlotte McNally, her just-a-bit-older older  (and more-that-a-bit funnier) reporter predecessor.  

Here’s a tiny bit of PRIME TIME:

It may be that Angela Nevins doesn’t hate me. It may be she hates everybody. But here she is at my door.

“Charlie, Franklin, good morning. Great Job on the newsbreak, Charlie. Thanks for bailing us out.”

Angela has apparently read in one of her management manuals that it’s productive to begin potentially contentious conversations

by using some sort of a compliment. Softens up the peons for what’s to come.

I don’t dare glance at Franklin because one of us is sure to roll our eyes and make the other laugh. Plus I can never forget that even though on paper Angela’s my boss, she’s at least five years younger than I am. Maybe six. That she’s allowed to tell me what

to do is unrelenting torture.

Angela turns her back as if Franklin doesn’t exist and picks up where she left off with me, “We need you to handle an interview we’ve arranged with the wife.”

Am I supposed to know what she’s talking about?

“What wife?” I say out loud.

I get one of those “I can’t believe you reporters are so dense”looks.

“The accident victim’s wife.” Angela looks down at her clipboard, taps on it with her pencil. “Bradley Foreman? Aztratech? He’s dead. Car accident. His wife told the assignment desk she’d talk. But we’ve got to move quickly, before some lawyer shows up and orders her to keep quiet. So, Charlie, you’re the only reporter here at the station. If we wait for the next one to arrive, we may lose the story.”

This is simply unfair. She’s assigning me vulture patrol. I loathe vulture patrol. I paid my on- the- street dues for years, trying to convince the brokenhearted and miserable there was some noble

reason they should go on camera. I’m supposed to be done with all that now.

But because I’m here early, I’m the only reporter who’s available. And as a result, I’m the one who’s nailed.

Course they don’t teach in J- school: The Early Bird Gets the Work.

If you haven’t read the Charlie books, tell me in the comments! And one lucky commenter will get one as a gift.

SO happy about this! But hmm, wondering. Question for you all:  How do I market and promote? Any ideas?

Our back yard last week!

Three:  Ah. Hmm. I have a new book to write. It’s called OUT COLD.  And it comes out in October 2017.

And, sisters, that’s all I got. Not a word written, NOT. ONE. WORD. It is due in 11  months.

Ahhhh.  

So I sit, and ponder, and wait for a good idea. I trust it will arrive when it should. Which I’m thinking had better be soon. I have blizzard, and cold cases. And wills. And knockouts.   Hey—any one you have any good ideas—or any ideas for that matter-what OUT COLD can be?

And one lucky commenter gets a copy of the all-new edition of PRIME TIME!