Sailing with Friends

Marcia Talley (Guest Blogger)

My husband retired in December. An avid sailor, his idea of a fab retirement trip was to pack up a few “necessities” in a duffle bag the size of a pillowcase, climb aboard our ancient Tartan 37 sailboat and set sail down the Intracoastal waterway from Annapolis to Fort Lauderdale — a distance of 1200 miles — and from there, another hundred miles or so across the Gulf Stream to the Bahamas.

I thought it’d be fun, too. Research, I smiled to myself, envisioning a novel — no! — a whole series of mystery novels, set along that scenic waterway. Assassins in Albemarle. Bodies in Beaufort. Corpses in Charleston. Deaths in Delray Beach. So, I packed up my laptop and went along.

After provisioning, there’s barely enough room for two people on a sailboat — imagine living for six months in a space the size of your average bathroom. A radio, of course, but no TV. And no high speed internet, either, although wireless signals can pop up in the unlikeliest of places. I was sitting cross-legged on deck somewhere in the vicinity of Vero Beach one day, tapping out chapter three of the next Hannah Ives mystery when email suddenly started pinging into my mailbox. “Sail in circles!” I shouted to my husband. “This area’s hot!”

The usual place to get free internet while cruising is an independent coffee shop, or the town’s public library. It was at a public library in Myrtle Beach, NC, in fact, that I learned from my agent of a hardback deal (hurrah!) for Dead Man Dancing and the Hannah mystery after that. By Myrtle Beach, too, I’d read to the bottom of my modest, space-restricted TBR pile, so the mystery section of the library looked enormously inviting. I longed to dive right in, but, alas, what library is going to lend a book to someone who plans to sail into the sunset the following day?

While doing a load of laundry in Charleston, South Carolina, I learned a life-saving fact. Marina laundromats are the lending libraries of the cruising sailor. Here’s the deal: you take one, you leave one. At Charleston City Marina, I left Margaret Maron’s Rituals of the Season on a shelf over the coin-operated dryer and picked up R is for Ricochet, which I’d somehow missed when it first came out in 2004. I left Sue Grafton in Isle of Hope, Georgia where I snagged a copy of Rochelle Krich’s Blues in the Night, which kept me happily engrossed all the way to my next laundry day in Fernandina Beach, Florida. There, Rochelle was traded for a well-thumbed copy of Dead Before Dark by Charlaine Harris. When Elaine Viets wrote High Heels are Murder, I doubt she imagined anyone would be plucking it off a rickety bookshelf on a tropical island in the Bahamas but I did, in Hopetown in the Abacos, leaving Ellen Crosby’s Merlot Murders in its place. And at the marina on nearby Man of War Cay, I picked up a plumply waterlogged copy of Carolyn Hart’s (appropriately titled!) Set Sail for Murder (in hardback!) thinking, “Today’s my lucky day!”

Then I really got lucky. One morning while listening to the Abaco Cruisers’ Net, I heard about Buck a Book. Open Monday-Wednesday-Friday from 10 to 1 and staffed by Mimi Rehor and a string of volunteers, Buck a Book turned out to be a battered, turquoise shipping container plunked down under a palm tree in a muddy parking lot opposite The Conch Inn in Marsh Harbour, capital of the Abacos. Mimi accepts book donations and sells them to sailors like me for a buck each, all to benefit the gravely endangered wild horses of Abaco. (http://www.arkwild.org)

Inside the cramped, dimly-lit space, with a computer screen glowing bluely in one corner and a dissenting fan keeping the stagnant air gently moving from another, I checked out the shelves: Steven King, James Patterson, Michael Critchton, Patricia Cornwell, Nora Roberts and the usual suspects were there, for sure, but I’m happy to report that books written by authors I actually KNOW were more than generously represented on Mimi’s shelves. I greedily stocked up on Denise Swanson, Christopher Fowler, Nancy Martin, Jerrilyn Farmer, Chassie West, Donna Andrews (how on earth had I missed Click Here for Murder?), Andrew Taylor and half a dozen more, paying for them with a twenty dollar bill, and please keep the change, Mimi.

I’ve been home since Saturday, catching up on paperwork and getting reacquainted with my cat, Tommy, who’s presently sulking under the bed, just to punish me. I was away for six months, but in all that time, thanks to my fellow cruisers, I never really felt out of touch with my friends.

Marcia Talley is the Agatha and Anthony-award winning author of Through the Darkness and five previous novels in the Hannah Ives mystery series. Her short stories appear in more than a dozen collections. She is Secretary of Sisters in Crime, and immediate past president of the Chesapeake Chapter.Visit her web site at www.marciatalley.com.

Mysteries as Social Conscience

by Julia Buckley

I think one of the great things about mysteries--especially the really great mysteries--is that they give a writer the opportunity to point out flaws in the world, or in humanity, without preaching about it. It can be woven into the story as a part of a detective's growing perception, a cop's disillusionment, an amateur sleuth's enlightenment.

It can also provide a reader with knowledge. I just finished Barbara D'Amato's Death of a Thousand Cuts, and I think it functioned just this way, giving the reader (me) new perceptions not only about autism, but about the theories of Sigmund Freud and the world of psychology. What D'Amato does, brilliantly, is set up a crime that seems almost impossible to solve: a noted psychiatrist is murdered--horribly, vengefully--at a "reunion" of many of his former patients, in the house where he once incarcerated them. While the public knew him as a benevolent, great man, the detectives, Folkestone and Park, find more and more people who thought he was just the opposite; who thought him, in fact, a monster.

Therefore, Folkestone is presented with a terrible dilemma. Half of her suspects are autistic, the other half noted people in the psychiatric profession--former doctors and aides who worked at Hawthorne House (the institution in question). The autistic characters are practically impossible to interview. Some do not speak at all, others speak unintelligibly, and still others speak logically, but without the affect that a detective needs in order to gauge the nuances of emotion. In this setting D'Amato is able to subtly comment on society's perception of things it doesn't understand--like autism. Even her detectives struggle with their reactions to the autistic former patients and how to deal with them.

In addition, D'Amato sets her story in a very real Chicago during a very hot summer, and along with making this setting authentic for the reader (including the presence of a powerful but flawed mayor), she shows how politics affect every investigation in the Chicago police department.

At the root of the story is the idea that Freud was not only wrong, but that those who followed him may have actually damaged their patients by treating what was not treatable with psychoanalysis. In the case of the autistic patients in Hawthorne House, their affliction is known in the present to be biological, but in the past, in the years that they stayed there, it was considered psychological, and Schermerhorn, the murdered psychiatrist, attributed the ailment to cold parenting--placing special blame on the mothers who already felt great distress about their inability to help their children.

With great sensitivity, D'Amato traces the lives of all of the families affected by the Hawthorne House years--their pain and sadness, and the realities of living with autism. In doing so she makes some strong statements about Freud, the responsibilities of psychiatrists, parents, and anyone with authority over a child.

The novel is written with a smoothness that makes one forget they're reading a book at all. I think some writers become too heavy-handed with their message, but D'Amato's book simply makes me think.

And that should be the goal of any mystery.

We Are What We Write...?

Sandra Parshall

I opened the latest Writer’s Digest and saw this header on the editor’s column: You Are What You Write.

Now there’s a scary thought. Makes me very glad Thomas Harris doesn’t live next door.

But is it true? If someone writes about murder, intrigue and deceit, what does that say about him or her as a person? If you attend a mystery conference, will you find the hallways crowded with weirdos, their eyes glittering maniacally as they contemplate killing off the competition?

Sorry to disappoint you, but no. Mystery writers are some of the friendliest, most down to earth people I’ve ever met, and I wouldn’t be afraid to encounter any of them in a dark alley. The majority of authors at the conferences I’ve attended have been middle-aged (or older) women, nicely dressed, well-groomed, and resoundingly normal in their behavior. When they start talking about their work, though, you realize these aren’t ordinary folks. They can describe myriad ways to kill other human beings. They know what acid will do to your eyes and what insecticide will do to your liver. They can tell you how long it will take for rigor mortis to set in after you die, and how long it will take flies to discover your corpse. They can happily chat about such matters over soup and salad, without the slightest sign of queasiness.

Does this fascination with murder mean the writer is capable of committing the acts she allows her characters to perform? In my own case, at least, the answer is no. I’m such a wimp that I would probably have trouble acting in self-defense, and I can’t imagine killing another person for any reason. I’m basically a pacifist, and I’m always shocked when someone chooses murder over divorce or a lawsuit. I find it mind-boggling that anybody could kill a neighbor over a property line dispute or an estranged spouse over a financial disagreement. I write crime fiction precisely because those extreme actions baffle me. I want to understand the emotions and thoughts of people who overstep the boundaries of accepted behavior even though their problems appear fixable to onlookers. And I like knowing that in the end, whatever the killer’s motive, I can decide what the punishment will be.

Maybe all that sounds too high-minded. Maybe it doesn’t explain how I can become immersed in a book or article about the different ways a human body decomposes under various conditions. Not all mystery writers can stomach the graphic stuff, and when they write about corpses they use vague, general terms that won’t turn anybody’s stomach, including their own. Many writers are aiming for an audience that enjoys the puzzle but doesn’t want to dwell on the physical act of killing and its aftermath. To me, though, murder is a serious business, and I want the reader to feel the reality of it, to see the victim as an individual whose life has been wrongly taken. Sometimes that requires describing the sights and smells of death.

I do have a morbid side -- my friend Alex Sokoloff flattered me by calling it my “simmering dark streak” -- and that side is reflected in my writing. But a writer’s nature, like anyone else’s, has many facets. I would describe myself, first of all, as someone who loves nature and animals, so I do have that much in common with one of my characters, veterinarian Rachel Goddard. My life isn't filled with high drama and intrigue, however, and I don't want it to be. I would have been happy living in a forest with only animals around me. But as it turned out, I’ve spent my life primarily in the company of humans, and I’ve chosen to write about the worst acts humans can commit. That isn’t me, though. I am not what I write.

WHAT IF??? The difference between readers and writers...

By Lonnie Cruse

What if? It's an interesting question.

Whenever I attend the Love Is Murder conference in Chicago, the most interesting things seem to happen in the elevator. This year that happening was a quick discussion with someone between the first and second floors who introduced herself to me as "just a reader." There were three or four of us writers in the elevator and as many readers riding between floors. I'd checked this lady's name tag, in order to say "hello," and that's when she made the "I'm just a reader" statement. We writers quickly assured her that we couldn't do our job of writing unless she did her job of reading what we wrote. "Just readers" are extremely important to us "just writers." Although, I have to say I've never heard a writer confess to anyone, "I'm just a writer." Ego? Confidence? Whatever.

For me, it isn't about talent or lack thereof (which may be what readers are saying about themselves when they use the "just" word, that they don't believe they have the talent to write, but maybe they do? Where was I?) I believe it's the "What if?" question that sets the two groups apart.

"Just readers" see an item in the newspaper or on television, or overhear a snatch of conversation in public and think it's interesting, then they quickly move on with their lives.

"Just writers" see or hear the same thing and screech to a halt, fumbling for notebooks or napkins to jot an idea or phrase down, all the while asking themselves, "What if?" What if that wasn't an accident, but a murder? What if that young couple is faking a public marital spat while they check out the store for a possible robbery? What if? It's what makes us writers tick. It's that, ahem, weird imagination that allows us to take something ordinary and everyday and transform it into a whole new story. A story, hopefully, that "just readers" will want to read.

But "What if?" is really a two edged sword for an awful lot of writers. Not only is it a necessary question in order to keep us looking for new ideas, plot lines, scenarios, etc. but it can bring us to a grinding halt, staring at a blank page, as if hypnotized. As in:

What if I can't come up with an idea to write about?
What if I have the idea for the beginning and ending of the novel, but I can't fill in that awful saggy, baggy middle? (Which, by the way is MY very own, very personal "What if" bugaboo.)
What if I can't come up with another idea good enough to write a sequel to the last book?
What if my latest book doesn't sell well enough and my publisher drops me while I'm in the middle of writing the next one?
What if I die in mid-manuscript and the world never gets to read my current work of genius? (Which is bound to happen to an awful lot of writers, since we're nearly always in the middle of writing a new manuscript.)

These "What ifs" are a writer's worst nightmares. Not to mention daymares. Lack of self-confidence, an internal "editor," difficult to turn off, that constantly whispers in our ears, "This stinks," "You can't do this," Nobody is ever going to want to read this." Helpful little phrases like that. Then, of course, there are the guilt "What ifs":

Should I be spending all this time tied to my desk, writing about characters who don't really exist when I have a family who need me, a job to do at the office, a house to clean, groceries to buy, etc. ???

Writers are plagued with self-doubts, and "What if" is often the gateway to those doubts. We have to find a way to shut them off and concentrate on the "What if" of the story. How we can entice you lovely "just readers" to read our stuff.

If you've ever introduced yourself to a writer as "just a reader," please, let me encourage you to leave off the "J" word in the future. You ARE our bread and butter. And remember, it isn't any easier on our side of the desk than it is on yours.

Now, "what if" I get busy on a new story line slithering through my head?

Be Careful, by Lonnie Cruse

BE CAREFUL!

How often do you hear those familiar words from your friends and/or loved ones? Our family says them to each other practically every single time we part. So much so, that our oldest son—and might I just mention that he’s our most easy-going of the litter—once went ballistic after I said that familiar phrase to him as he picked up his car keys. Within seconds his father entered the room, noticed he was leaving the house, and repeated the phrase to him, in all innocence. Joe instantly demanded to know why we always told him to be careful. Didn’t we know he was a careful driver? (Never mind that the laminate was still warm on his driver’s license.) Did we really think he was going to purposely go out and have an accident? Of course we didn’t, we, um, just wanted him to be careful. Right?

“Be careful” has certainly become a cliché’ over time as friends and loved ones say the words so frequently to each other from habit or on purpose each and every time someone else takes their leave. "Have a safe trip," "drive carefully," "be careful," they all mean the same thing. And if you look deeper, what the person is really saying is: I care about you, and I don’t want anything bad to happen to you. Nice sentiment. But truthfully, we all realize that “be careful” isn’t ever totally under our control, and no matter how skillful we may be at driving, (or whatever else we’re being warned to be careful about) someone else can quickly make an error in judgment that can injure or kill us. Which, of course, is the real concern.

So what’s my point here? Why am I going on about the “c” word? Because in writing a novel, writers are advised (a) not to use cliché’s, and (b) not to repeat themselves whenever possible. Well, I decided to break both rules in my next book in the Metropolis Mystery Series, MALICE IN METROPOLIS, (due out from NaDaC publishing in April) and use the words “be careful” as sort of a punch line as often as I could sneak them in. The twist I used was to begin the book by having my protagonist know he’s being hunted down by a determined killer bent on revenge, so the characters could say the phrase to each other frequently and in all sincerity. Then midway of the book, the suspected killer says the phrase to my hero, and he knows it’s an implied threat. He also knows there is not a thing he can do about it except, well, be careful.

I had a lot of fun dropping those overused words into the manuscript here and there, then formulating each of the recipients’ reactions to the speaker. Of course, I had to try not to overuse the phrase and spark a ballistic reaction in my readers. Snicker.

Thanks for stopping by, and hey . . . be careful out there, will you?

Who Writes Mysteries?

Elizabeth Zelvin

Mystery Writers of America issues a national newsletter, The 3rd Degree, ten times a year. I usually read all of it from front to back (no covers), searching for tips about the craft and business of writing and the names of people I know in the chapter and conference news. Until recently, I scanned the fine print for the names of publishers big and small that might be open to first-novel submissions. But my favorite feature, catchily titled Fresh Blood, is the list of new members, and more particularly, not the active members--published crime fiction writers who have just joined MWA--but the affiliate members—writers whose work has yet to click with that elusive editor (one is all you need!) but who dream of becoming published mystery writers and, in many cases, have reams of well-worked manuscript to prove it.

Writing a mystery, like opening a restaurant or winning the lottery, is one of those great dreams that flourish perennially in the collective unconscious. MWA identifies affiliates by chapter (NY, SOCAL etc.) and occupation as stated, presumably, on the membership application. The most recent issue listed the usual suspects—journalist, technical editor, English professor, copywriter, retired police officer, attorney, screenwriter. A few other professions—including mine, psychotherapist, and marketing consultant—crop up regularly. In addition, this month a caterer, a truck driver, a retired airline pilot, and a yoga instructor were knocking on the gates of crime fiction authorship. Last month’s batch included a musician, a beadmaker, a flight attendant, a race car rental entrepreneur, the COO of a hedge fund, and a licensed evangelist missionary.

Why do I write? I only know I’ve been a writer since I first read Emily of New Moon by Canadian author L.M. Montgomery, better known for Anne of Green Gables, at the age of 7 or 8. Emily wrote because she had to, as did Jo in Little Women, whose acquaintance I made a few years later. It was a drive, not a choice, for them and I suppose for me. Why mysteries? Because that’s the reading I most enjoy. A good mystery satisfies my sense of structure, plot, and character and allows the writer (me or the authors whose books I read) enormous freedom to mount any hobby we fancy and, in Stephen Leacock’s great phrase, gallop away in all directions. My psychotherapist “hat” suggests the themes of recovery and personal growth that I’ve woven into my forthcoming Death Will Get You Sober and its projected sequels. The musician may write about music, the beadmaker about beads—or not. I think the bottom line is that the writer’s life experience enriches what is written. I certainly didn’t plan to publish my first novel in my 60s—my 20s was more what I had in mind. But I am absolutely certain that I couldn’t have written the work that will appear next year—of which I’m very proud—without having first been all those other things: not only therapist, in my case, but teacher and poet and performer and daughter and mother and friend and wife and lover and traveler—a first-time mystery author, but a well-seasoned storyteller and human being.