What We're Writing: Julia Closes In on The Finish Line

 JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: I kid you not, dear readers. I'm now in the fourth and shortest act of AT MIDNIGHT COMES THE CRY, and there's just not that much left to go. Well, my heroes have to save the day, and tie up all the loose ends, and we have to see what happens  - or doesn't happen - in the romance department. Honestly, if I hadn't basically taken off the entire month of December (please don't murder me, Hank and Jenn!) it would be done by now.

I'm feeling excited and impatient and more than ready to buckle down and put this baby to bed. We've got our first big snowstorm moving in tonight - six inches to a foot predicted for my area. Sounds like great weather for starting a roaring fire, keeping the tea kettle on, and writing!

 Here's an excerpt from the beginning of that fourth act - Clare, Russ and Hadley are on their (unofficial) way to what may be a hostage situation...

 

 

“Could we please hurry a little more?” Clare looked out the window. “I swear I saw a one-legged man pushing a wheelbarrow pass us.”

“And this is why I'm driving.” The chief resettled his hands in the classic two-and-ten position on the steering wheel.

 

 

A good thing, too, Hadley thought. The last Sunday before Christmas was as busy a day for traffic as they'd see until the Fourth of July holiday. She had heard about Reverend Clare's lead foot, and she had no interest in seeing how fast she could speed through the bag- and package- laden vehicles around them.

“What's the plan?” she asked.

“You and I should go in first.” Clare twisted in her seat to talk to her. “He's never seen you, and you don't look like a cop.”

“So you want to give him two more hostages?” Van Alstyne shook his head.

“Just long enough so I can see if Tiny and the baby are there. Then you and Lyle can come in with guns blazing.”

“Oh, yeah, that would make the set-up even better. You and this woman and an infant caught in a crossfire. And what if March just shoots you on sight?”

“He doesn't want to kill me. At least not right away. He wants to humiliate me. He wants to see me scared and weak.” She turned around again to face Hadley. “Right?”

She sighed. “I know the type. Men who don't feel tall unless they're standing on a woman.”

 

The other exciting news you've been hearing about is our members-only group, Reds and Readers. I have a video up today, taking advantage of the fact that the Feast of the Epiphany is still considered part of Christmas to show off my decor. And yes, there's a prize to be won as well! Please consider joining us.

 

Dear readers, how do you feel when the end of a major project is in sight?

Photos by Pexels and CatCampbell from Freerange Stock

What We're Writing Week - Julia Sets the Scene

JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: One of the things I've known for as a writer is my scenery, which is ironic, since one of the common remarks from my writing group when I was first attempting fiction was, "Great dialog, but it feels like the characters are all standing in a gray fog somewhere." Heck, with that as a baseline, I had nowhere to go but up, right? 

 

I applied myself to learning the fine art of setting the scene. I read books on writing, looking for hints about creating backgrounds that were more, well, foreground. I paid close attention to the little details of nature when I was outside, and to people's homes when inside. That last wasn't a stretch - I'm an interior design junkie. Most importantly, I read other authors, soaking up how they made the worlds their characters moved through come alive. (Two always-green recommendations for writers seeking to do the same? William Kent Krueger and Steve Hamilton.)

 

Finally, I worked on applying what I had read, learned and observed to my own writing. Did I make the grade? Well, this September, I'm teaching a class titled "When The Where is the Why – Taking your scene-setting to the next level" at the Novelists Inc. Conference. Here's the description:

Do you struggle with using setting to reinforce character? Are you confident you're making high-value choices that don't slow the reader down? In this workshop you will learn to use setting to create metaphors, enrich your prose, and create worlds your readers never want to leave.

 And here an example of scene setting from AT MIDNIGHT COMES THE CRY - a section of the book that contains (gasp) only one line of dialog.

 

He glanced back; the edge of the promontory was almost out of sight. He peeled a couple inches of bark from the east and wet sides of an alder and went on.

In this dead season, the undergrowth was more of visual screen than an impediment to hiking through. He looked for any sign of human passage as he went eastward, but this was terrain that didn't yield much, other than deer scat and rabbit pellets and, at one point, several wild turkey feathers where some bird had met his end. They were following the path of least resistance toward Terrance's coordinates, but really, how accurate could the man have been when they were all flipped sideways and under fire? He was starting to wish for the bear to show up again and lead them to their destination when his careful perusal of the ground paid off. Not scat, or feathers, or even a boot print. A tripwire.

It stretched across two tree trunks about ankle-high off the frozen leaf litter. He followed the line around one trunk to see a simple home-made alarm; a clothes pin screwed into the wood, connected to a circuit board small enough to have come out of a garage door opener.

He stood. The others had caught up with him. “It sends a radio signal, which means they're close.”

What are the settings that came alive for you in novels?

What We're Writing Week - Julia Goes Hunting

 JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: I wish I could come up with a theme for what I'm sharing with you today, like Lucy talking about distinguishing characters and Debs on revealing character with interior design. No, this excerpt from AT MIDNIGHT COMES THE CRY is here because, as we can all testify, it gets hard to share pieces of the work-in-progress without giving something away!

This is a piece that comes at the end of the first act, when I've set up the protagonists, and the problem, and sent them on their journey. This is the point in the manuscript where I like to jump out and yell BOO! to my readers. I confess, the desire to have a shocker after several chapters of sedate sleuthing is what leads to my well-known habit of not having any bodies until a hundred pages into the book. 

 

When he saw the two men near a makeshift blind, his first reaction was annoyance. A birder had reported hearing firearms discharge in this area, so he had taken the day to check it out, but honestly, any birder who had trekked this far into the Adirondack Park at the beginning of December to knock a few nuthatches off their list couldn't be all that reliable. Although he had spotted a Golden-crowned kinglet when he disturbed a spruce thicket. That was cool.

No, he was annoyed because he'd been enjoying his so-far perfect day in the woods, and now these two were going to get up his nose when he ticketed them. It was one day past deer season, and there were always sports who couldn't get away from the office on Friday and figured it was no big deal to show up on Saturday afternoon instead. These yahoos didn't even have blaze orange on, and he'd have to write them up for that as well. He liked hunting as much as anyone, but rules were rules for a reason, and letting one day slide became one week, and then you had fools trying to harvest deer in January, and likely getting lost and frostbit to boot.

“Hey, there, fellas.” He emerged from the brush he'd been using to get the lay of the land and waved. He wasn't worried about them bolting – there was no sign of an ATV anywhere, and neither of the pair looked fit enough to make it more'n a few dozen yards at top speed. Even dirt roads were scarce in this part of the High Peaks - he had left his four-wheel drive over a mile away. “Season ended yesterday, and you're not properly dressed. I'm going to have to see your IDs and hunting licenses.”

They turned, and their rifles came up, and he heard a BOOM-crack and a blow like an oak tree splitting and he tilted over and fell into the leaf mold and the long pine needles and saw the birds, more birds than he would have imagined, fleeing and shrieking into the dimming sky.

 

Dear readers, I have two questions: do I need to identify this viewpoint character as a NYS Forest Ranger? And should I give him a name? (He is named later on, when the question of what happened to him becomes relevant.)

What We're Writing: Jenn and the dreaded copyedits.

JENN McKINLAY: I'm plugging away, cranking out ten pages a day on a brand new venture that I'm enjoying immensely  It's been sold and I'm quite thrilled by the enthusiasm of the publisher, but while the contracts are still being drawn up, I can't say anything about it as yet. Bummer, I know.

In the meantime, because writing four books per year is a juggling act, I'm also doing the dreaded copyedits for October's book, The Christmas Keeper. It's a rom-com that features cranky horses, romance writing divas, and ugly Christmas sweaters. What's not to love, right?

A popular phrase in publishing these days is "meet cute", which describes how a heroine and hero meet. This is not the case with these two characters: Joaquin (Quino) Solis and Savannah (Savy) Wilson. In fact, I believe "meet snark" would be more apt, which could be why I love them so. Here's the scene from the perspective of Joaquin's friend Ryder:

Savannah charged into the office, carrying two mugs of coffee. She saw Joaquin standing there but didn’t slow down. She just plowed past him into the room. Ryder caught Quino’s look of surprise and almost laughed.

    “Here you go,” Savannah said. She thrust the mug at Ryder. Then she scowled at him. “What did you say to Maisy?”

    “Nothing, why?” He took the mug and tried to ignore how his pulse jumped at the sound of her name.

    “Liar,” Savannah said. “She’s with her kitten right now and she’s—,”

    “Crying?” Ryder asked in alarm.

    “Singing.” Savannah gave him a dark look.

    Oh, singing was bad, very bad, for a variety of reasons. “Over the Rainbow?”

    “Worse, Tura Lura Lural,” she said.

    “The Irish lullaby?” Quino asked. “What’s wrong with that?”

    Savannah and Ryder shared a look and then Savy said, “I’m sorry, this is your business why?”

    “Because Ryder is my friend,” he said.

    “Well, Maisy is mine,” she countered.

    Ryder glanced between them. If ever there were two people who should not be in the same room together, it was these two. Both were fiercely independent, stubborn, and frankly, mouthy.

     “Here’s a thought, if you don’t want me knowing your friend’s business, maybe you shouldn’t talk about it in front of me,” Quino said. He crossed his arms over his chest, doing a fair imitation of a wall.

    “If you had any manners, you wouldn’t have listened in on what was obviously a private conversation,” Savy said. She ended it with a hair toss and Ryder saw his friend’s pupils dilate. Quino had always had a thing for gingers.

    “Steady, you two,” Ryder said. “We’re all friends here.” He cast a glance at Savy. “At least, I hope we are. Joaquin Solis, this is Savannah Wilson. There you’ve been introduced, now play nice.”

    Quino’s eyes moved over Savannah’s tall, curvy frame. She was dressed for success today in a skirt and blouse with spiky heels. Her long red curls were loose and framed her face becomingly while her green eyes blazed provocatively. Ryder would have felt sorry for his friend if he wasn’t all consumed by his own female based misery right now. 

    “You’re a city girl, aren’t you?” Quino asked.

    “Woman. I am a woman, not a girl,” Savannah said. “And, yes, I’m from Manhattan, or as we like to call it, civilization.”

     A slow smile spread across Quino’s lips. Ruh roh. Ryder knew that look. It practically shouted “challenge accepted”.

    “Well, woman, since we’ve established that I lack manners, I’m going to say exactly what I’m thinking,” he said.

     “That should be a short sentence,” she retorted.

    This time Quino laughed and it hit the room like a sonic boom of warmth. Ryder noticed that even Savannah responded to it by relaxing her posture a bit. She turned to face him and Quino moved forward until they were an arm’s length apart.

     “I think you should go on a date with me,” he said. Tall and muscular, with movie star good looks and a friendly personality, it had long been established that Quino could have any woman he wanted. In fact, in all the years Ryder had known him no woman had ever refused a date with him.

    “That is never going to happen,” Savannah said. “But thanks for the offer.”

    Ryder was pretty sure his jaw hit the ground. He tried to cover it up by taking a long sip of coffee, but seriously -- Holy Shit! – no one ever said no to Joaquin Solis. He thought his friend might be embarrassed to have crashed and burned in front of him. 

    Nope. Quite the opposite. Quino looked at him as if to say Her. I’ll take her. Ryder had the abrupt epiphany that his world had just gotten infinitely more complicated. This had to be nipped. Immediately!

October 2019

So, how about it, Reds and Readers, how do you prefer your meets between characters - cute, snarky, or other?

The Good Ones! Release Day for Jenn!

JENN McKINLAY: It's always so exciting when a new book is released! The Good Ones launches a brand new romantic comedy series for me, which is set (oh, my heart) in a romance bookstore  tucked away in the mountains of North Carolina. I've always wanted to own a bookstore - more in theory than reality - so this was perfect for me. It has everything I love in it, books, kittens, books, cowboys, books, comedy, books...well, you get the idea. I've been very fortunate to garner some amazing reviews and even a starred review from Booklist for which I am very grateful.

And now, just because I can, I thought I'd share an excerpt with you, because it's my book birthday and why the heck not?

Excerpt: The Good Ones

When Jake took off his cowboy hat and pulled her close, Claire wrapped her arms around him and the two became one. When they kissed she knew they were making each other a promise for today, tomorrow, and forever. Clare sighed. For the first time in her life, she knew that no matter what happened this man, who was her partner and her best friend, would be by her side. For all time.

     Maisy Kelly closed the book and pressed it to her chest and sighed. Jake Sinclair, the perfect man, why did he reside only in the pages of a book? It wasn’t fair. She was twenty-nine and none of the men she’d ever dated had been even remotely as caring or charming as Jake Sinclair.

     Knock knock knock.

     Maisy blinked. Someone was at the door. No, no, no. She had a book hangover and she didn’t want to deal with the world right now. 

     Knock knock knock. 

    They weren’t going away.Maisy rose from where she’d been seated on the bottom step of the stairs. In theory, she was supposed to be cleaning out her Great Aunt Eloise’s house, in reality she was binge reading Auntie El’s hoarder’s trove of romance novels. It wasn’t making the task, which was heartbreaking to begin with, any easier.

     Knock knock knock.

     “All right, all right,” Maisy grumbled. “I’m coming.”

     She strode to the door and yanked it open. Probably, if she had bothered to glance through the peep hole she would have been prepared, but she hadn’t and she wasn’t.

     Standing on her front step, looking impossibly handsome and imposing, was a cowboy. Maisy glanced down at her book. On the cover was the artist’s rendering of Jake Sinclair, in jeans and a white shirt, leaning against a split rail fence, with a brown cowboy hat tipped carelessly over his brow. Maisy could practically hear the cows mooing in the background. 

     She glanced back up. Jeans, white shirt, and a cowboy hat. This guy had it all going on, except where the artist had left Jake’s face in shadow and not clearly defined, this guy was a full on 3D HD of hotness, with full lips, faint stubble on his chin, and quite possibly the bluest eyes Maisy had ever seen this side of the sky. She had a sudden urge to poke him with her pointer finger to see if he was real.

     “Mornin’, Miss,” the man drawled, drawled!

    Miss? Huh, she hadn’t been called “Miss” since she’d started teaching at Fairdale University. Why would he…she glanced down.

     She was wearing her favorite floral Converse All-stars, ripped up denim shorts, and her old Fairdale University sweatshirt, the one with the sleeves that hung down past her hands, oh, and she had on no makeup and her hair was held back by an enormous pink headband. She probably looked like one of her college students, possibly a freshman.

     In that brief shining moment, she was certain if it was possible to die of embarrassment, she would expire in three…two…one. She gave it a second. Nope, still standing. Damn it.

     “Listen, I’m sorry, sir, but whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested—,” she began but he cut her off.

     “Oh, I’m not selling anything,” he said. He looked confused. “This is three-twenty-three Willow Lane, right?”

     “Yes, it is. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back--,” she let her voice trail off, hoping he’d get the hint. He didn’t.
     “I have an appointment with a Ms. Kelly about turning this place into a bookstore,” he said. “Or Mrs. Kelly, I’m not sure.”

     Maisy knew she didn’t have any appointments today. That was why she’d indulged herself in a good long reading sesh. This guy was probably a hustler, trying to con her to buy some property insurance or new windows. Ever since she’d inherited this monster of a house from Auntie El she’d had all sorts of scammers climbing out of the cracks in the sidewalk, trying to get her to refinance or buy a security system. It was exhausting.

     The man met her squinty stare with one of his own. He shrinkled up one eye and mimicked her look of disbelief right down to the small lip curl. The nerve! Then she saw the twinkle in his one open eye, and Maisy couldn’t hold it. She burst out laughing. 

     He grinned at her and her ire diminished as she noted the cowboy had a sense of humor. Okay, she decided to give him a break and at least take his name and number. 

     “I’m sorry,” she said. “What was your appointment with Ms. Kelly about?”

     “It’s about the house, actually,” he said. “My name’s Ryder Copeland. I’m a restoration architect, and you are?”

     “Ryder Copeland?” Maisy’s eyes went wide. “But our appointment isn’t until tomorrow, you know, Tuesday.”

     “Today is Tuesday,” he said. 

     “No, it isn’t,” she said. “It’s Monday.”

     “Sorry, it really is Tuesday. Wait,” he said. “Our appointment? You’re Maisy Kelly?”     

JENN: I have to say that one of the best parts about writing this series has been being able to share all of the authors and books in the romance game - yes, starting with Jane Austen - that I have loved over the years. 

                      

So, Reds and Readers, have you ever wanted to own a bookstore? If so, what type? 

What we wrote: @HallieEphron costuming for invisibility

 
HALLIE EPHRON: I'm writing, yes I am. Really I am. But I'm not ready to share. So instead here's one of my favorite passages from NIGHT NIGHT, SLEEP TIGHT.

SETUP: Deirdre Unger, a young woman whose semi-famous father has just been murdered, has to go to Beverly Hills City Hall but she doesn't want the press to recognize her. So, glamorous movie star Bunny Nichol (think: Joan Collins) who is also Deirdre's best friend's mother, dresses her for invisibility.

(BTW I set this scene in my mother's dressing room which had mirrors on facing walls and little crystal sconces and smelled of orange blossoms from her Elizabeth Arden skin cream. Her closets were filled with full-skirted shirtwaists, boxy suits, and chiffon cocktail cocktail dresses. And rows of high-heeled shoes.)

***

Bunny swept her arms like a conductor silencing the instruments. “Magic,” she said, gazing out in front of her, eyes unfocused, as if watching the word hover before her. “It’s all about misdirection. Make the audience attend to what you want them to see. What will be compelling enough to divert their attention or, in our case, make them tune out—that is the trick.”

Delicately Bunny tapped her chin with long red fingernails and stared at Deirdre in the mirror. She opened one closet door, then another, and another, finally emerging with a half-dozen garments slung over her arm. None of them were cocktail dresses. “Stand up straight. And, please, would you take off that appalling top. It’s making my teeth itch.”

Obediently Deirdre pulled off Henry’s Harley T-shirt and stood there in her bra and drawstring pants.

“Hmmm.” Bunny held up what looked like a gray cotton mechanic’s jumpsuit and squinted. She pursed her lips in disapproval and dropped it on the floor. A pale purple sweatshirt minidress with a hood met the same fate. A black-and-gold floor-length African dashiki joined the pile. Next she held up what looked like a stewardess uniform—navy pencil skirt and tailored jacket. “Maybe,” she said, and set it aside.

Finally Bunny considered a simple shirtwaist dress, starched and pressed gray cotton with an A-line skirt, white snaps up the front, a white collar, and short white-cuffed sleeves. She held the dress under Deirdre’s chin, narrowing her eyes as she gazed into the mirror. Then she broke into a smile. “Perfect, don’t you think?” She didn’t wait for an answer.

Fifteen minutes later Deirdre was seated at the makeup table, wearing the dress with a pair of saggy white opaque tights and orthopedic nurse’s shoes. She’d stuffed the toe of one shoe with Kleenex to keep it from falling off her smaller foot. Bunny tucked Deirdre’s hair into a hairnet and secured it with a hairpin. She applied a foundation much darker than Deirdre’s natural skin tone and brushed powder over it, then created hollows beneath Deirdre’s eyes with dark eye shadow. Finally she gave Deirdre a pair of glasses with black plastic frames.

Deirdre put the glasses on. The lenses were clear.

“Up,” Bunny commanded.

Deirdre leaned on her crutch and rose to her feet.

“Stoop,” Bunny said.

Deirdre hunched over.

“Not that much. Just kind of roll your shoulders stick your head out. Think turtle.”

Deirdre adjusted her stance. The mousy woman gazing back at her from the mirror looked like a Latina version of Ruth Buzzi’s bag lady from Laugh-In. She started to laugh. “This is ridiculous. It will never work.”

“Hey, what’s going on?” a man’s voice called from Bunny’s bedroom.

“You don’t think it’s going to work?” Bunny said to Deirdre. “Watch this.” She handed Deirdre her crutch and led her into the bedroom, then threw open the door to the hall. Out on the landing stood the young man Deirdre had seen earlier. He was barefoot and wearing jeans and a stretched-out black T-shirt.

“What’s up with you?” Joelen said.

“I . . . what? Why are you two looking at me like I did something?” he said.

“It’s not what you did. It’s what you’re not doing,” Joelen said, pushing past Deirdre.

“What are you talking about?” The man looked from Joelen to Bunny.

“See?” Bunny said, turning to Deirdre. “Not a single glance your way. It’s as if you’re wallpaper. I’d say the disguise is working.”

So think like a mystery writer! How would you dress a character to HIDE IN PLAIN SIGHT!