What We're Writing--Debs on Nuts and Bolts

DEBORAH CROMBIE: When I first started writing, I devoured anything I could find about how other writers wrote. Computer or paper, morning or evening, outline or no outline. I was sure there was a magic bullet somewhere--a formula you could follow for tackling what sometimes felt like an insurmountable task.

It turns out that there isn't (or at least I haven't discovered it,) other than butt-in-chair, which just so happens to be the hardest thing for me. But I'm still fascinated by the nuts and bolts, how other people do this weird exercise in making things up and turning those things into a finished book, so earlier this week when Hank gave us a peek at her editing process, I was agog. Hank keeps track of her edits! 

I am the edit queen, I swear I can edit a page fifty times, but I do not keep track! I don't save drafts, either. Once something is over-written, it is gone forever. Yikes! Contemplating this makes me feel a wee bit insecure, as if I'm writing without a safety net, but I think doing it any other way would totally discombobulate me. 

As for what I'm writing that might disappear into the ether, I'm still plodding away at Kincaid/James #20. Is there a prize for tortoise authors, I wonder...

It's hard to find a spoiler-free snippet, but here, edited even as I copy-pasted, Gemma and her sergeant visit a restored barge on the Thames. (This is not the barge described, but a view of the same stretch of the Thames above Teddington Lock.)

They reached the sturdy-looking ramp and Gemma strode up it ahead of Butler, and onto the deck of the boat. Before she could knock on the cabin door, it opened and Mabel was jumping and sniffing at Gemma’s legs, the fan of her tail wagging madly. Gemma crouched to stroke her. “Hello, lovely girl. Nice to see you again.” She glanced up. “Davey, this is Mabel. We met yesterday.”

“Mabel, enough,” said John Quillen, now visible inside the cabin. “Inspector,” he added, then acknowledged Butler with a nod. “Sergeant.” His t-shirt and cargo shorts made Gemma feel seriously over-dressed, but he looked more haggard than he had the previous day. He was unshaven, his wavy dark hair disheveled. “Do come in. I take it you didn’t have any trouble finding us.”

“You might have warned us about the parking,” said Gemma as they followed him inside, softening the comment with a smile. “Wherever do you put your van?”

His features relaxed. “Ah. Sorry about that. Sometimes I get lucky. Otherwise, I have a mate who has a repair garage off the High Street in Teddington. He lets me leave the van in his yard when he has the space.” The three of them and the dog made quite a crowd in the barge’s tiny cabin and Gemma was relieved when Quill motioned towards the open interior doorway. “If you’ll go down, we can talk in the lounge.” Mabel turned and vanished into the opening with a bound. After another encouraging gesture from Quill, and with growing curiosity, Gemma followed the dog. She found herself on ladder-steep stairs and wondered if it might be easier to go down backwards rather than forwards, but she was already committed to the forward-facing descent.

At the bottom, she stood, gaping. Somewhere in her subconscious, she supposed she’d expected dark and dank in a living space that was at least partly underwater. But the light pouring from portholes and skylights flooded the long room before her, and her first impression was of colors, reds and blues and the golden warmth of wood. A drafting table anchored one end of the living area, and in the other, there was a small sofa, a coffee table, and an interesting-looking modernist leather chair.

With a pang, she realized it reminded her of the garage flat where she and Toby had lived before they’d moved into the Notting Hill house with Duncan and Kit. That tiny space had given her a much-needed sense of control over her chaotic life as a single, working mother, and she had loved it passionately.

I want to live on this boat! I wanted to live in Gemma's garage flat, too. Maybe my obsession with small, organized spaces is due to the fact that I live in a big, rambling, messy house.

REDs and writer friends, how do you manage drafts of your work? 

And readers, do you like references to previous books in a series?

P.S. Mabel is a liver and white springer spaniel, and I'm sure I'm projecting my spaniel desires, too.

P.S.S. If anyone has discovered that magic bullet, do let me know.

Writing/Not Writing from London--Deborah Crombie

DEBORAH CROMBIE: We are batting for naught this week on the writing front--except for Hank, who we hope is turning out those last ten elusive pages! And I am so not adding to the page count on my front. Between the pre-pub promotion for A BITTER FEAST, book tour, Bouchercon, then leaving for three weeks in London, I've barely had time to catch my breath, much less think, for the last couple of months.

I AM researching now, however, tromping around London! Background, setting, atmosphere, characters, for Kincaid/James#19. My process is much like Rhys's. I start with an idea for a setting and a basic story. Then I need to spend time in that place, taking loads of notes and photos, and just see where things take me. Where does an incident happen? Where do the characters live? Who do they live with? Where do they work? How do you get from point A to point B? And of course I want to know what people are eating! Just drool over these pastries from Paul's, the French bakery! There is one right across the road from my tube station, so I am in big trouble!

I know that a good part of the book takes place in central London, in Bloomsbury, Holborn, and Soho, so I have spent hours and hours walking "creatively" i.e. "not lost," just soaking things up.

I spent a good few hours in the British Museum, although I have no idea where or how or even if it might work into the story. But it is so amazing. You could spend weeks there, all day every day, and not see it all. 

I discovered the London Le Cordon Bleu! I think I was admiring the knives here. Hmm.

And next to it, the London Review of Books Shop, which is total book store heaven, and it has a wonderful cafe.

I walked through Russell Square at dusk, potentially the scene of a crime.

I have flashes of the book now. Scenes, locations, scraps of dialogue. The characters are taking on form, like holograms filling in. 

The challenge will be going home next week, right at the beginning of the holidays, and diving in without losing my focus. I promise next time on What We're Writing I will have some actual words to share.

REDs and readers, do you have a process for starting books or big projects?  Please share!