Five New Year’s Confessions

I’ve been scurrying around preparing for the January 15 launch of A Confluence of Enemies, the second book in my Wanee series. The fact that I’m scrambling doesn’t bode well for 2024.

And that’s not good since 2023 was a stinker. I think the earth has tilted too far, it seems darker at night than it used to and warmer outside, and oh, heck, what a mess. Resolutions for 2024, hardly. Instead, here are five things I confess need my attention:

Too Many People: I have a very crowded brain. I live in Wanee in my head and know all the preachers, teachers, and shopkeepers. And their children and grandchildren. I want my readers to know them, too. They’re great people, with their own foibles and dreams. But I need to be firm with them. You can’t be in this book! Maybe the next one — as the dead body — if you keep pestering me for your fifteen pages of fame. On the other hand, if you’re building a world for your readers, shouldn’t you populate it with characters readers want to watch grow? Sheesh.

Everyone’s name does not start with E. Note to self, just stop it. I carefully curate the names of my main characters, villains included, culturing their names like pearls. It is the rest of the folks that present problems. While reading the first draft of Of Waterworks and Sin, the future fourth book in the Wanee Mysteries, I discovered that all the female second banana’s names started with E. This makes some sense, since a century and a half ago the prairie was full of Ellies, Emmas, Ellas, Eleanors, and Elizabeths. As this is not the first time a letter has inhabited my mind, I need an alphabetical list of common first names for the era by my side as I write. Need, being the operative word.

The rhythm of the written word: I make sure the words used in my historical mysteries were in common usage when the books take place. And I attempt to follow the language constructs of the period, which were more formal and precise, leading to a deleterious effect on the simplest of descriptions. My first drafts are a hell of: the hat on the head of the lawman. Instead of the lawman’s hat, or better a black Stetson. The handle on the door. The roof over the porch. On a positive note, tending to these oddities results in more fulsome, precise descriptions. Or, so, I choose to believe.

Giant chapters. We’re talking humongous – up to twenty-two pages. I plot in days, not events. Days. Midnight to midnight. And since I’m writing historical mysteries, communication are slow … everyone is walking, talking, gossiping, visiting, leaving notes, clanking pots, making signs. None of this driving over in the car, dialing up the cellphone or texting the news. Wanee has a paper boy who delivers the daily paper. A telegraph office for news of the world. The local gossips at the dry goods store. Everything happens in person. That’s my excuse, dialog, getting to and from, moving through the labor of the day. In truth, I need to break my days up if for no other reason than to give my readers time to text someone about how much they are enjoying the book.