We All Have One

~ dzchurch ~ 3 Comments

You know what I mean, the one review that just sits in your brain and ferments. It doesn’t even have to be a negative review. In fact, there is almost always a grain of growth in the bad ones, that comment that helps one become a better writer or calls attention to a technique you use that can be annoying. That sort of thing.

Mine is a recommendation, no less. But talk about damning with faint praise. OMG. Yet, that’s not what bothers me about it — well, yes, it is, in part. It seems to me that if you are recommending a read, you might emphasize the good parts, you know, the stuff you liked.

I get that some people think all critiques (reviews) are critical; after all, the word alone conjures criticism. Right! But according to the dictionary people, review means a critical appraisal of a book, play, movie, exhibition, etc., published in a newspaper or magazine or on any number of websites. There is that word critical, again. Interestingly enough, the example is: “She released her debut solo album to rave reviews.”

So, Back To My One

It makes me crazy. Remember, it is a recommendation. Though the reader finds my protagonist silly, it is the rest of the sentence that makes me gnash my teeth, stutter, and obsess. Why? Because of the presumption of it. I tell myself it is okay, because the reviewer didn’t know to make the week in week’s laundry possessive. But it is not. It is because the individual presumed I know nothing about the time and energy required to do a week’s worth of laundry, baking or housecleaning!

I guess I am so very rich from my writing that I have a domestic doing my housework. Not! Here’s the issue: I have used a washing machine with a mangle on it and, yes, gotten wrung. I’ve risen as the sun tinged the horizon to do chores including; feeding chickens, gathering eggs, feeding pigs and hogs, and bringing milk cows in from the pasture. I have hung laundry on a line, ironed sheets, helped bake bread for a week, and cleaned a house from top to bottom. I do know the time and labor it takes.

Why Can’t I Let It Go?

Because it is so unfair. And unmerited. And because of this (from Unbecoming a Lady):

Drawing heated water from the boiler on the stove, she scrubbed using the washboard and her mother’s technique: swipe the bar soap over the item, dip, soap again, scrub, dip, soap, scrub, rinse. Red blotches rose on her hands from the harsh soap and hot water.

When the wicker basket was full of wet, washed clothes, Cora ran the sopping items through a hand-cranked mangle, a nasty piece of business with two rollers to wring the clothes. A barrel positioned under the mangle captured the rinse water from the flattened, wrung-out clothes. Cora would dilute it with some fresh and use it to water the garden.

Her back and arms ached by the time she had the week’s laundry hung out to dry on lines strung from a crossbar nailed to the base of the windmill to a pole with a crossbar fifteen feet away. Cora rested her red, scaly hands on her hips, watching as a soft, warm breeze ruffled the items on the line, swaying them into a kaleidoscope of color, and dreamed of a washing machine like the one advertised in a Chicago Tribune she had thumbed through while waiting for the cashier to total her purchases and debt at Blewett’s Green Grocers on Chestnut Street.

You Decide

Did the reviewer read the book? Don’t you just wonder sometimes? But we learn something from all our reviews; from this one, I learned when writing a review, don’t presume you know anything at all about the background of the author of a book. Just don’t.

visit my website dzchurch.com for more information about all of my books.

EVERY SPARE MINUTE

~ Kimila Kay ~ 6 Comments

Some of you know I lost my son, Derrick, to a sudden heart attack. The seventh anniversary of his death is coming up on May 11th, a day I now dread. Luckily, I have family and friends who invite me to various activities in an attempt to distract me from the heartache of that day.

My favorite distraction since Derrick’s death has been writing and crafting my books. I currently have seven published books between my two series, including the recently published, “Whispering Willows.” By the end of May, I will have published my eighth novel, “Willow’s Woods.” Yes, working with two double W-titles was a tad bit confusing.

While I love my México Mayhem Series, my heart longs to live in Stoneybrook where Derrick is a fictional deputy sheriff. But regardless of whether I’m writing about an exotic adventure in México or creating a mysterious quest from Stoneybrook to the Oregon coast, I can’t wait to see the story flow from my fingertips.

Recently someone asked me, “If it takes John Grisham two to three years to write a book, how can you write two in one year?”

My first thought was, “Wow! She’s comparing me to John Grisham.” Of course, I came to my senses, realizing this person hasn’t read my books so a Grisham comparison would be silly. My next thought was concerning. “Is she’s implying there’s no way I can write one, let alone two, good books in a year.”

Hmmmm???? My reply was …

“Well,” I smiled, “Grisham’s books are usually very intricate legal thrillers, which isn’t what I write.” I sipped some red wine. “I think, despite writing two books in one year, my books are good. Maybe not John Grisham good, but enjoyable according to the positive reviews I’m receiving.”

Her next question was, “How do you find the time?”

I contemplated our exchange so far, then told her the truth. “I don’t know how much time I have left.” Tears pricked my eyes. “If my time on earth ends sooner than I’d like, I’ll have all these untold stories wishing they’d been written. So, I spend every spare minute writing, or editing, or listening, to the book I’m creating.” This time a much larger sip of wine. “After Derrick died I had two choices,” I continued, “I could slide slowly down the rabbit hole of grief, or I could immerse myself in a passion that brings me joy.”

In the seven years since Derrick died, I’ve lost other family and friends. Counseled parents who’ve lost children. Sat with wives whose husbands have passed away. Being a wordsmith, I feel blessed to offer comfort, always finding the right sentiment to share.

As I approach an anniversary I wish had never been created, I also draw closer to my sixty-seventh birthday. Celebrating Derrick on the eleventh will be both difficult and joyful. I love weaving in his autistic idiosyncrasies into his fictional alter ego and often find myself laughing at one of his favorite sayings or smiling at the memory of his famous belly laugh.

While I’d rather be turning “29” again … I’m thankful to be turning sixty-seven. Thankful I get to take another trip around the sun and spend every spare minute writing stories just waiting to be told.

Happy Writing, Ladies!

Guest Blogger ~ Keith Yocum

~ patyjag ~ 3 Comments

This is how I came up with the mystery premise in “A Whisper Came,” book 1 in the Cape Cod Mystery series.

There is something about the ocean that lends itself to mystery. Whether it’s the isolation of deserted beaches or the strange sound of the wind whistling through tall sea grasses, the area lends itself to a sense of uncertainty and mystery.

I live in Chatham, Massachusetts, at the elbow of Cape Cod. It has the distinction of being surrounded on three sides by salt water: Nantucket Sound, Pleasant Bay, and the Atlantic Ocean. It was founded in 1664 and incorporated in 1712. For American towns, this is old.

Along with the passing centuries has come a litany of shipwrecks off Cape Cod—estimated at 3,500—and, of course, legends. Dotting the cape are 14 lighthouses, though many are not operational.

In 2019, I toured the decommissioned lighthouse on Monomoy Island off Chatham. I had driven my boat past the lighthouse many times over the years but never set foot on the island. The Monomoy lighthouse and keeper’s house are used by the US Wildlife Service to study migratory seabird and resident seal populations.

During the tour, I was surprised by the utter isolation of the lighthouse. It took us nearly a half-hour to walk across the deserted island to reach the lighthouse and keeper’s house. We were allowed to climb to the top of the lighthouse, but there was nothing to see but sand, scrub brush, and the ocean. It was beautiful but oddly intimidating because of its isolation.

During the visit, our Wildlife Service guide chuckled when he mentioned that some researchers at the keeper’s house felt the building was haunted.

For a mystery writer, there’s nothing more intriguing than a hint of spectral disturbances in this setting. After returning to the mainland, I researched the history of this area of Monomoy Island and found unsubstantiated rumors of murders that occurred near the lighthouse in the 1860s. Several legends about ghosts on the island also provided a perfect plot twist.

As a former journalist, I decided to write a modern story involving a young reporter named Stacie Davis sent to Chatham to cover the story of an unidentified woman’s body found floating off the island of Monomoy. The fact that the woman’s body wore clothing from another era added just the right amount of intrigue.

Stacie, the lead character in “Whisper,” is a young reporter at the low end of her newspaper’s totem pole. As a general-assignment reporter, she is given a variety of stories that test her mettle. She’s not happy to be sent on the 90-mile drive to Chatham from Boston, but she’s also keen to prove she can handle any story.

I work closely with my wife, Denise, when revising a manuscript. Perhaps it’s her training as a psychologist, but she was instrumental in bringing authenticity and toughness to Stacie’s character. We have worked together on ten novels, and I always take her advice on improving character development, plot pacing, and romance (of course).

The reception for “A Whisper Came” was much stronger than I anticipated. Our local bookstore here in Chatham sells quite a few paperbacks, and I’ve just finished “Dead In The Water,” book 2 in the Cape Cod Mystery series with intrepid reporter Stacie Davis.  

I can’t wait to see what trouble Stacie will get into in book 3. She’s one tough cookie.

A Whisper Came

Stacie, a young, ambitious reporter, is sent to Chatham on Cape Cod to follow up on the body of an unidentified woman found floating nearby. Over the centuries, Cape Cod has been the site of thousands of shipwrecks, leaving the sandy shore littered with debris, legends, and ghost stories. Stacie’s editors encourage her to dig into the mix of Chatham’s quirky residents and to write about the mysteries surrounding the old Monomoy Point Lighthouse. On a lark, she makes a nighttime visit to the lighthouse with a young charter boat captain and, in the process, stumbles tragically into a dark mystery that forces her to question her sanity and the truth buried in a legend. 

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B093TJR9QC

B/N: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/a-whisper-came-keith-yocum/1139508965

Ibooks: https://books.apple.com/us/book/id1570048192

Google iPlay: https://play.google.com/store/books/details?id=uvNWEAAAQBAJ&pli=1

Keith Yocum is a former journalist and business executive who has worked for publications including The Boston Globe and The New England Journal of Medicine. He lives on Cape Cod and is the author of ten novels. He welcomes feedback at http://www.keithyocum.com.

https://www.facebook.com/yocum.keith/

    Killing People

    ~ Pamela Beason ~ 3 Comments

    As a mystery author, I think about death much more than the average person. At least I hope I do. I’d hate to think that the family who lives next door to me is always thinking about murder or deadly accidents.

    As my books add up, so do the corpses. It’s actually quite disturbing, and sometimes it haunts me, especially as I’m getting older and some of my elderly friends and relatives kick the bucket. Now there’s a phrase that sounds innocuous but has a gruesome history. If you look up “kick the bucket,” you’ll find that the phrase originated with slaughtering pigs.

    As a former private investigator, I have a hard time writing the cute cozy mystery about someone dying and thus presenting a fascinating puzzle to solve. I sometimes wish I could, because I have read a lot of cozies that I’ve truly enjoyed. Unfortunately, in real life, I’ve investigated a few cases of wrongful death, and I’ve never seen a deceased person that everyone was happy to have dead. There’s always a grieving family or friends left behind, and often a snarled mess of assets and bills to sort out.

    I truly don’t like to kill off my characters, though, because I feel the need to make sure they are fully fleshed out individuals before I do them in (another innocuous-sounding phrase). The character I miss most is Alex Kazaki, a wonderful scuba-diving marine biologist, a husband and a father, with a great physique and playful sense of humor. In my novel Undercurrents, he died in the Galapagos Islands, and his death rippled outwards like a rock had been dropped overboard into the sea, affecting everyone he knew. His dive partner, my protagonist Sam Westin, was impacted by his sudden death, and she was even suspected of smoking him. (Note innocuous phrase number three.) I’m a scuba diver, too, so that hurt. Alex was a handsome, kind man; I still miss him.

    But before Alex, I killed off Lisa Glass, a worker on a trail crew in Olympic National Park. She died in my novel called Bear Bait, along with a female game warden. Truthfully, I never knew the game warden, but I’m sure she was great. But Lisa was an innocent, and that wasn’t even her real name. She was young and desperate and just associating with the wrong people, as desperate young people too often do.

    In my next novel, Backcountry, two of Sam’s close friends were murdered. How could I do that? Was I becoming inured to death by that fourth book in the series? I fear so, because in my fifth novel, Borderland, I killed another character I truly admired: Jade Silva, a Latina wildlife photographer. She was a gutsy gal who would do anything to save a wild animal. I’ll never forget her.

    And then in the sixth novel, Cascade, I bumped off (innocuous phrase number four) a whole slew of characters in an avalanche. It was an act of nature; not really my fault, and I really didn’t know any of them, at least not until Sam met the families of two teens that died.

    I’m apparently getting more dangerous with every book that I write. Several people have already died in the mystery I’m writing now, If Only. And I haven’t even counted up the dead characters from my Neema Mysteries or my Run for Your Life trilogy.

    When I think about the total body count I’ve left behind, it concerns me, especially because I don’t kill off the bad guys, but only good, decent people. I don’t think I meet the criteria for a serial killer, though, because a fair percentage of my fictional victims died in accidents, and they are, after all, fictional. For my own mental health, though, I should probably switch to writing sweet romances for a while.

    Picking Up Steam by Karen Shughart

    ~ kshughart47 ~ 3 Comments

    I recently received an email from someone who has read all the cozies I’ve written. She said that while she enjoyed each of the books in my Edmund DeCleryk series, she thought the most recent one, Murder at Freedom Hill, was the best; with each book my writing skills have evolved, with layers added to each story. I appreciated her candor, and she probably was correct. My writing has in many ways been like a train, metaphorically picking up steam, and adding railroad cars as necessary to accommodate a growing number of passengers seeking to get to their destination.

    With the first book in the Edmund DeCleryk cozy mystery series, Murder in the Museum, I wrote a prologue that introduced a historical backstory that provided clues to why the present-day murder occurred. As the mystery unfolded, the backstory, spanning the late 1700s to the mid-1800s, continued with artifacts found in the basement of the museum and discovery of a memoir written by a man who, in his youth, had made terrible mistakes but who redeemed himself in adulthood. It was a short story within the book.

    I continued with the historical backstory concept in my second book, Murder in the Cemetery, after deciding it would always be part of my cozies. But this time after the prologue, I conveyed it with the discovery of an artifact at the cemetery where the victim was killed, and a series of letters a lonely wife wrote to her sister while on a quest to find her husband, who had been transported to England as a prisoner of war during the War of 1812. Instead of one prologue I wrote two, the first introducing the backstory, and the second giving the reader the seasonal setting for the present day murder.

    In the third book, Murder at Freedom Hill, I continued with the two prologues and the backstory-a narration for an exhibit at the historical society about the victim’s ancestors, both Black and White-who were involved in the Underground Railroad and Abolitionist Movement. Then I added a subplot that was separate from, but intricately woven into, the main story.

    Now I’m working on book four, Murder at Chimney Bluffs. In this one, I continue with techniques I used before: the two prologues, the historical backstory -now rumrunning and the Prohibition era -but the backstory will also be the subplot. And I’ve added a second mystery, a cold case from decades ago that may lead the investigators to the killer.

    I’m happy with the progression of these books, it keeps me interested and stretches my brain, but I confess that the writing is taking me a bit longer with each one. Now I’m compiling more notes and have added a timeline and a list of characters, many of whom are recurring; some new. As I continue to write the series I, too, am picking up steam, which will, hopefully, make each book better than the one before.

    Karen Shughart is the author of the award-winning Edmund DeCleryk cozy mystery series, published by Cozy Cat Press. She has also co-written two additional mysteries with Cozy Cat authors, and two non-fiction books. A member of CWA, North America Chapter, and F.L.A.R.E., she lives with her husband, Lyle, on the south shore of Lake Ontario in New York state.