Month: June 2025

Guest Blogger ~Joanne McLaughlin

~ patyjag ~ 2 Comments

Repeat That Name, Please  

            Identity is a big deal in my novels. Maybe it has something to do with all the Superman comic books I read in the barbershop while my dad was having his hair cut. Lots of identity stuff in those stories, secret and otherwise. Midwestern farm boy or big-city newspaper reporter? Mild-mannered, bespectacled guy or visitor from another planet able to leap tall buildings in a single bound?  

            Names—specifically, who we are versus the person we allow the world to see—are a common thread in my first four published novels, three darkly romantic vampire tales and a thriller. Vampires reinvent themselves from century to century; the rest of us sometimes do, though over shorter lifetimes. And, of course, in literature and in life, often all we know of a person at first is the name presented to us.

            In my fifth novel, A Poetic Puzzle, one name sets my protagonist, M. Irene “Mimi” Jones—an under-recognized, under-employed poet/English literature professor—on a mission. It’s the name she shares with internationally acclaimed poet Mary Irene Jones, who has vanished, but not before sending Mimi a cache of her heretofore unpublished manuscripts. Is the timing of these two events a coincidence? Are the manuscripts clues of some sort? And if so, why entrust them to Mimi, of all people? The same-name thing must be significant, right?

            I should mention here that the house Mimi lives in is one she inherited from yet another Mary Irene Jones, the paternal grandmother for whom she was named.

            About that: The name Mary Irene Jones is what prompted me to write A Poetic Puzzle.

            You see, my own father’s mother was a Mary Irene Jones, too, before she married my grandfather. She didn’t disappear, per se, but I never got to know her. My dad scarcely did—he was only nine years old when she died in 1931 of what was apparently characterized as “women’s trouble.” My mother suspected that meant some sort of reproductive or breast cancer. I’m not sure anyone now living would know. My father was the family’s youngest child; he, his older brother, and his two older sisters are gone now.

            I look like my father, as does my son. Both of them more closely resemble George McLaughlin, Mary Irene’s husband, my paternal grandfather. But in the lone photograph I have of her, I can see myself.

            That photo, actually a picture of a photograph, may be the only one that still exists. I don’t know whether she had siblings whose children or grandchildren might have family photo albums. I have never had close ties to my McLaughlin relatives, let alone any Jones descendants who might be her family. Judging from her husband’s birth year, I think this Mary Irene was born in the United States in the late 19th century, but I don’t know when or where. I know she married a man from northeastern Pennsylvania and ended up living in Philadelphia, but I don’t know the circumstances. Except for the year, I don’t know the date of her death or where she was buried.

            That sepia-tone image of my grandmother sits next to my laptop as I write this. I’ve studied it endlessly, searching for clues beyond the obvious. In it, she has dark hair, brown, I suppose, since my father and I and at least one of his sisters had dark brown hair. She has a long face not unlike mine—my late Aunt Vera, whom I resemble a bit, had the same long face.

            Pince-nez eyeglasses sit on my grandmother’s nose—maybe she was near-sighted the way I am. Her light-colored, lacy long-sleeved dress is cinched at the waist with a bow. And she is standing outdoors, with trees in the background. Holding her left hand is a small boy, maybe sandy-haired, maybe five years old. He is dressed for warm weather. My mother told me that she had been told that the boy was not my dad, but who offered that information, I don’t know.

            Were my grandmother and this boy, presumably her other son, standing in their backyard? Were they having a picnic in a park? Were her daughters—one older than the boy, one younger—playing away from the camera’s lens? Was my father an infant napping nearby?

            How my mother came to give me this photo, I don’t recall. Did my uncle’s wife, a distant cousin of Dad’s who married his brother, give it to my parents? My mother always suggested that particular aunt-by-marriage was the source of whatever McLaughlin family history we were aware of. Ancestry.com shows any number of second and third and more distant cousins with whom I share a bit of DNA, but because I have no details about my grandmother’s forebears, I can’t readily know which of these many cousins, if any, sprang from the same branch of the family tree she and I came from. Answers might lie at the bottom of a deep and daunting rabbit hole, to add another garden metaphor, or it might be a fruitless search.

            Truly, Mary Irene Jones McLaughlin is a mystery to me.

            Which got me thinking back in spring 2022: What if I immortalized her (sort of) in a mystery? What if, given that I knew little more than her name, that’s where my story began?

            I dropped her married name from the plot line, lest someone think this book was nonfiction. Also because, as names go, Mary and Jones are definitely common ones.

            As A Poetic Puzzle opens, the reader learns that the two Mary Irene Joneses not only have the same name, but also the same occupation, and are affiliated with the same small college in suburban Philadelphia. It soon becomes apparent, however, that what’s in a name is a confounding, confusing bit of business.

            Mimi Jones discovers much as she scrutinizes the pieces of A Poetic Puzzle, not the least of which is this:

            How well do we really know anyone?  

A Poetic Puzzle

Internationally acclaimed poet Mary Irene Jones has vanished—calls and texts unacknowledged, bank accounts emptied, car abandoned. But before she disappeared, she mailed never-published manuscripts to a lesser-known namesake poet, M. Irene “Mimi” Jones. Are the manuscripts clues only Mimi can decipher? And what about the handsome Philadelphia cop assigned to the case? He seems as intrigued by Mimi as by the missing celebrity poet. Talk about a person of interest…

Amazon.com: A Poetic Puzzle: A Mystery in 32 Pieces: 9781951967130: McLaughlin, Joanne: Books
A Poetic Puzzle – Kindle edition by McLaughlin, Joanne. Romance Kindle eBooks @ Amazon.com.

Joanne McLaughlin began telling stories in second grade, creating superhero fan fiction in the Philadelphia rowhouse where she grew up. She has worked for public media and newspapers in Philadelphia, upstate New York, and northeastern Ohio, involved in award-winning coverage of topics from politics and public health to fashion and financial markets, as well as Pulitzer Prize-finalist architecture criticism and a Peabody Award-nominated podcast. For several years, she also served as vice president of a firm that managed and booked blues musicians. Her novels include the romantic mystery A Poetic Puzzle; Chasing Ashes, a crime thriller; and Never Before Noon, Never Until Now, and Never More Human, a vampire trilogy. Her latest short fiction appears in Ruth and Ann’s Guide to Time Travel, Volume 1; the short stories Peppina’s Sweetheart and Grass and Granite are available on Amazon. Joanne is inspired by strong women like the ones who raised her, determined to meet challenges head on. Joannemclaughlin.net

Social media:
https://facebook.com/joannemclaugh

https:Instagram.com/joannemclaugh

@joannemclaughlin.bsky.social

Joanne McLaughlin (@joannemclaugh) / X

Joanne McLaughlin | LinkedIn

Guest Blogger ~ Liz Alterman

~ patyjag ~ 3 Comments

A big thank you to Liz for getting a post for me in time to fill in for Heather Haven, who asked me to find someone to fill her Thursday this month.

Why I write psychological suspense:

During my teen years, my favorite way to spend the weekend involved sitting in the eerie darkness of a movie theater, sharing a bucket of popcorn with friends, waiting to be scared—not by zombies, dinosaurs, or tornados but by the nanny who wasn’t as kind as she appeared, the handsome husband leading a double life, or the woman posing as an author’s biggest fan who will ultimately hold him hostage.

That fear, the feeling of goosebumps sprouting, hair rising on the back of my neck, was such an enthralling sensation, almost like those chilling moments when a roller coaster inches up that steep incline, I couldn’t get enough.

Since the afternoons when my mom read to me as a child, I’d always wanted to write a book. While my first was a memoir, when I turned to fiction, I longed to try to evoke the same tension and anxiety I fell in love with in the fourth grade while reading Lois Duncan’s Ransom and, later, in other novels by authors like Megan Abbott and Patricia Highsmith, and, of course, in those frightening films.

I’ve now written several thrillers and while I’m in the thick of plotting each story, I worry that it won’t come together in the end. (Another source of fear!) That said, I love the way the process can feel akin to putting together a puzzle. You’re working toward a complete picture, your brain turning around the pieces until they lock into place. When they do and you can surprise yourself—and, hopefully, your readers—it’s magical.

Reading and writing thrillers, suspense, and mystery also gives you a healthy sense of wariness. When you’re dialed into the possibility of darkness lurking around every corner, it keeps you on guard. One morning when I was in my twenties and walking through a parking lot, a man approached me and asked if I wanted to see the puppies he had in his van. I almost said, “Are you kidding? I’ve seen Silence of the Lambs three times! There’s no way I’m getting near your van!”

Writers have rich imaginations, which is both a blessing and a curse. I joke that once you start writing thrillers, suspense, or mysteries, that becomes the lens through which you view the world. Last fall, I attended a short writing retreat. Beyond my window lay a field, a dense fog muting the colors of the autumn landscape. My gaze shifted to a pair of dogs sniffing around but always returning to the same patch. Were bodies buried out there? I couldn’t help but muse. 

I often wonder if romance writers are similarly afflicted. When they see a couple, do they create an elaborate backstory for them? A meet-cute? A conflict involving a former love interest that leads to a break-up and eventually a happily-ever-after? Is all this imagining an occupational hazard? Either way, it’s often a delightful escape from reality.

Writing thrillers has also been a wonderful way to work through pent up feelings of frustration and even revenge fantasies. Murder a busybody neighbor? No problem. Put snarky dialogue in the mouth of your protagonist as she outwits a villain? Done. Leave all your animosity on the page.

Though I love writing personal essays and humor pieces, suspense is a genre I always return to for the chance to bask in the unsettling appeal of impending doom.

You Shouldn’t Have Done That

Jane Whitaker and Ivy Chapman have been best friends for twenty years – ever since their sons Cal and Brad attended the same preschool.

But their close bond is severely tested when their now adult sons go skiing together in Wyoming and only one returns.

Where is Cal Whitaker and why didn’t Brad Chapman report him missing?  With growing fears for Cal’s safety, his family begins to suspect Brad knows a lot more than he’s saying.

Friendship turns to suspicion and then to open hostility when Cal’s sister Emerson posts an online appeal that ignites a vicious crusade against Brad.

As decades-old loyalties crumble, Jane and Ivy find themselves on opposite sides of a deadly divide. How far will each mother go to protect her family? And what happens when saving one son means destroying the other?

Buy link: https://www.amazon.com/Shouldnt-Have-Done-That-psychological-ebook/dp/B0F1DPWT5D/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0

Liz Alterman is the author of the memoir, Sad Sacked, the young adult thriller, He’ll Be Waiting, the suspense novels The Perfect Neighborhood, The House on Cold Creek Lane, and You Shouldn’t Have Done That, as well as the forthcoming romcom Claire Casey’s Had Enough. Her work has been published by The New York Times, The Washington Post, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, and other outlets. Follow her on Instagram or subscribe to her Substack where she shares the ups and downs of the writing life (and cat photos).

Dialog With June

~ Janet Dawson ~ 2 Comments

June. Summer. Warm weather. Pleasant days, starting early, daylight stretching into the evening.

Interestingly enough, June brings thoughts of D-Day—June 6, 1944—when the Allies sent a huge armada of soldiers and materiel across the English Channel to invade Nazi-occupied France. The Longest Day, Cornelius Ryan’s riveting account of that day, is on my shelves, and I’ve read it multiple times. I also have the DVD of the epic (three and a half hours!) film, which I’ve watched over and over, usually on Memorial Day.

The movie is full of memorable dialog. Among my favorite scenes is one with actor Roddy McDowall, playing one of the many soldiers holed up on those ships, waiting for the orders to steam across the channel. It’s June 5, terrible weather, back-to-back storms giving the brass fits. The invasion has already been rescheduled several times.

Roddy’s not thinking about the weather, the wait or the battle to come. He looks into the distance. In a dreamy voice, he says:

June. Every June my old man used to take me camping up in the Blue Mountains. We’d hunt and fish all day long. And at night, we’d sleep out under the stars. Didn’t even need a blanket . . . June.

I love that. The dialog tells me a bit about the character, conveys something of his life before he got to this place and time, and contrasts starkly with his current circumstances. And it makes me think about some of the camping trips I’ve experienced. I’ll bet I’m not the only one.

Granted, movies are different from novels. I recall other examples of memorable dialog from books that wound up in the movie as well. In Gone With the Wind, Rhett Butler tells Scarlett O’Hara: “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” And there’s True Grit by Charles Portis. When irascible Sheriff Rooster Cogburn tells outlaw Lucky Ned Pepper that he’s planning to arrest him, the outlaw responds: “That’s bold talk for a one-eyed fat man.”

Dialog is one of many tools that we writers have in our skill set. Writing this blog got me thinking of dialog from my own books. Three of them come to mind, all with a line of dialog starting the book.

The first chapter of The Sacrificial Daughter begins in care manager Kay Dexter’s office, with a prospective client who says, “I’m at my wit’s end.” Beyond what she’s saying, her facial expressions, her demeanor and small physical actions show the character’s stress from dealing with her elderly mother.

In Bit Player, detective Jeri Howard is in a movie memorabilia shop, looking at an old poster. She says, “Grandma said John Barrymore made a pass at her.” I certainly hope that makes the reader want to turn the page and find out what comes next. For Jeri’s grandmother was an actress who played small parts in Hollywood in the late 1930s and early 1940s. Jeri is about to find out that Grandma was interviewed by police concerning an unsolved Tinseltown murder.

My most recent Jeri Howard novel is The Things We Keep. This book starts with Jeri standing on a street corner, looking at a down-at-heals Victorian house. She says, “It looks haunted.” She’s right. What happens next shows that the ghosts of past crimes are indeed in evidence. For example, those bones hidden away in an old footlocker. Haunted, indeed.