I Write For Me By Heather Haven

I don’t think any one of us can deny the pure pleasure of writing. And when others read our work, it’s an added joy. Sometimes I forget that despite being a professional writer – in that readers spend money and time on my books – I really don’t write for them. True, I make a contract with the reader in the beginning of the story, usually within the first few paragraphs, that I am going to deliver a mystery of a certain style that will have an overall happy ending. I don’t tie up everything with a pert little bow, but satisfaction of a sort is guaranteed. That’s because I would like nothing better than to tie Life up with a pert little bow. In my writing world I can. Most of the time. Certainly, in my cozies.

My standalone, Murder under the Big Top, is not a cozy, but I’m still trying to figure out what it is. It’s definitely darker than my other novels. Everyone comes on scene with a secret, a secret that has brought on unhappiness. Through the years I have called it a mystery, a noir, a docu-drama, a docu-noir, and I’m still coming up with a term to fit. As this book made its debut in 2014, categorizing it doesn’t look good.

Murder under the Big Top (originally called Death of a Clown) is loosely based on my mother’s short time in Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus of the early 40s. The story and plot are totally made up. But the day-to-day existence of life during the golden age of the “Greatest Show on Earth” was much documented and is the spot-on truth. It was a world unto itself, unique and colorful. If I haven’t mentioned it, my mother began her circus career as a First of May (a novice performer or worker in their first season), and my father was an elephant handler. They met in the circus and married. My mother worked her way up to specialty acts and my father became an elephant trainer. I was actually born during the yearly hiatus of the circus. So, I really felt obligated to give the story – fiction though it may be – full justice.

The novel took me six years to write and was a success of sorts. Despite winning a silver IPPY, it was never a big seller. Some readers think it’s my best work. Others couldn’t even get through it. It was a departure from my other books, and those used to my cozies weren’t happy about that. Maybe I should have called myself H. L. Haven on the cover instead of my usual moniker, as a warning. Maybe I should have turned it into a circus series, as a few fellow writers suggested. But here’s the truth: I couldn’t face writing another book feeling that level of obligation, even though no one put me there but me.

The other standalone, Christmas Trifle, started out as a romance novel. I was dancing around Hallmark, and it was suggested I write a romance novel for them. Come to discover, I don’t give good romance. I found that out at Chapter 8 when I would have preferred to clean out the dryer’s filter or even the county’s prison lavatories than sit down and write. Writing became a drudgery.

Rather than throw-up, I decided to throw in a murder. Wow! The story had a few heartbeats and then came to life. I added a few more deceased members of the human race and was off and away. It all came together. I was happy. Apparently, there’s nothing like a corpse to make my day. Forget romance. Forget writing what I know. Toss in a few dead bodies. That’s the ticket.

The Persephone Cole Vintage Mysteries came about due to a challenge from an editor. Could I create an atypical female protagonist? It couldn’t have come at a better time because I had done tons of research for Murder under the Big Top,  very specifically the year 1942, and wanted to use that knowledge. Time to write a private dick of the 40s. Listening to my editor, I came up with Persephone ‘Percy’ Cole, a five-foot eleven-inch, overweight single mother, thirty-five-years old, with a wicked sense of humor and a right hook akin to that of a heavyweight boxer. A female counterpart to every male shamus of the era, but with an eight-year-old son who gives her life meaning.  

I was with a small publishing house and wrote two of the novels during that time, The Dagger Before Me and Iced Diamonds. I left, became independent, and wrote two more novels, The Chocolate Kiss-Off and Hotshot Shamus. The series was never a big seller, but just mad fun to write. Percy Cole makes her way in a man’s world of seventy-plus years ago during WWII and does it without apology. Who doesn’t like a no s–t lady?

The Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries hit a stride soon after I began writing the series. It is by far my most popular and sells well. That’s “well” by my standards. I don’t think I could ever buy a yacht from the proceeds should the impulse strike me. Maybe a sailboat. Hmmm. No, not a sailboat. Those are pretty pricey. All that canvas, donchaknow. A rowboat. Probably a rowboat. With a hole in it. But I’m not whining, even though I live in wine country (bada-boom).

The truth is, as an adult I don’t do one-on-one with the ocean. Having been born and raised on the coastline of southern Florida, I know only too well what lives in and under all that sparkling salt water. As a kid, I’ve stepped on enough horseshoe crabs, who are not horseshoes nor crabs. Burrowing just under the sand, their spiny exoskeleton has ruined many a lovely day and naked foot. I’ve been stung by enough snarky jellyfish who loved the backseat of my bathing suit. And don’t get me started on sea urchins who seemed to have it out for me. As a youth, I remember splashing about in the Atlantic Ocean, minding my own business, only to be hauled out by lifeguards as a shiver of sharks swam by. They may have been well-fed from their stopover in Ft. Lauderdale, but it was hard to know their hunger deficit by the time they got to Miami, so out of the water we got and waved them on to the Bahamas.

But I digress. I love to write about Lee Alvarez’s escapades and her colorful family. Readers seem smitten with the series, as well, so this is the perfect combo. But keep this under your hat: Lee is not my favorite protagonist. That would be Corliss, from a short story of the same name, from Corliss and Other Award-Winning Stories, my one and only anthology. I love Corliss. I’m not even sure why. She’s my youngest protag, vulnerable and easily pushed around. But she has resilience, and learns life lessons fast and well. When I think of all of the characters I write about, she’s the one who makes the greatest changes in her life yet still remains who she is at her core. Wait a minute. I may have solved why I like her best. But she is done. Completely done. And there’s no reason to go back and write more about a character I am totally satisfied with.

Another of my favorite protagonists is a dog. I wrote Jemma and the Shoe, another short story included in Corliss and Other Award-Winning Stories, as a gift for my dearest heart-sister who lost her beloved Bulldog to old age. I have to say it was more than a labor of love. It became a testament as to why I like to bring people and animals alive again through writing. In this way, my beliefs are similar to that of the ancient Egyptians who carved names of pharaohs and others on the walls of temples, tombs, and pyramids. Say the name, think of the individual, love them, revere them, and they are alive again, if only for that moment. I did this with my own cats, Tugger and then Baba, now characters in the Alvarez Family. This passion is not unique to me, for sure, but I try to practice this ritual every day. The older I get, the more loved ones I have to remember, revere, and miss.

Oh, jeesh. Now I’ve not only digressed, I’ve become maudlin. But we’re back to the truth of things for me. I love to write, whether it’s short stories, articles, posts, plays, ad copy, newspaper columns, or novels. I’m grateful to the readers who enjoy my work, because that is the wondrous byproduct of what I do.

But I write for me. It gets me through the day. It makes me feel alive. It keeps me sane. Okay, saner. And for a time, a fleeting moment, I sometimes feel the touch of a hand or paw from those no longer with me but always in my heart.