There are a lot of things that go into being a successful author, that is, being read by readers. Unless you’re writing for yourself and hiding your work in a closet, then just ignore me. But I would say, don’t do that. The written word is meant to be read. But for some writers, if they’re the only ones reading their work, it’s fine with them. That’s what a diary is all about. BUT if you’re not writing a diary, for heaven’s sake, get that work out there.

Easier said than done, I know. You can be the best writer in the world and the most talented. But if nobody knows your work exists you’re screwed, pardon my French. And thus, we enter the world of the writing business.

I have always been a writer for as long as I can remember. As a kid, I wrote lyrics to songs and short stories. Really short stories. Pluto lost his collar. Pluto found his collar. Pluto was happy. Pluto went home. I was 8. My first paying job was at 17 years old for the Miami Beach Sun. I wrote a weekly column on the comings and goings of the tenants in a large condo complex. I got $25 a week and was beside myself. I was a paid writer!

After college, I moved to Manhattan. During the day my writing consisted of plays, ad copy, and acts for performers. At night I would work Broadway behind the scenes in the Wardrobe Department. It was a settled world for me as a writer, and one I loved. But it wasn’t quite enough. Something was missing and I didn’t know what. Then I met Norman who was a jingle singer/performer. We got married and went on with our New York City lives. But what was exciting when you’re 20 can become tedious when you’re 40.

We were tired of wondering where our next job was coming from, which goes with the territory of being in the theater. We moved to California for some stability. Norman became an English teacher, and I ran the Faculty Recruiting Department at Stanford’s GSB. We have never regretted the move, but his singing and my writing never completely left the scene. Wherever you go, there you are.

Once in the Bay Area and without the backing of the New York Theater district, I was temporarily lost. But eventually, the entire world opened up to me. I decided to try writing a novel, something I would never have considered before. I finished my first novel by getting up early and writing from 4 in the morning until I went to work and then when I came home in the evenings. Ah, youth! But that was twenty years ago.

Ready to publish, I realized publishing was going through a transitional period. To put it mildly. Ah, the ramifications of the internet! Publishing houses began eliminating genres in order to stay alive. Or going out of business entirely. Agents were forsaking their clients and opening their own online publishing houses. Everything became different. But all the time I was learning. I was learning the good, the bad, the preposition, and the proposition.

I went with two online publishers, great people, but they didn’t give my books the care I thought they deserved. I waited until publishing rights were given back to me, then I struck out on my own. This was when there was a stigma attached to self-publishing. If you self-published, it meant you weren’t a good enough writer to have a traditional publisher. I avoided the looks of sympathy and derision from my peers. Because somewhere inside me, I knew that if I pushed at it long enough, I could have the career in writing I wanted. And on my own terms.

When you self-publish, the various aspects of getting a book out there falls to you. From the first draft, to the cover, to the editing, to the final product, it lands at your feet. Not to mention advertising and publicity. I took it all on. I wanted my books to be read. So, I persevered with learning the steps needed. All the time, I said to myself: Heather, you’re competing with Big Boy Publishers. You need to do exactly what the Big Boys do. So I did.

I hired the best editor I could afford. Eventually, two of them. One for content, one for grammar and punctuation. I had beta readers. Not my friends who would soft-pedal things, but experts in the field who would give me the feedback I needed. I hired a publicist. In short, I was as professional as I could be.

My fellow mystery writers helped me. Mystery writers are the kindest, most giving people I know. If any of you are members of Sisters in Crime, you know what I’m talking about. When I was doubtful or got into trouble, they would give me all the support they could. And often great words of wisdom.

So here I am twenty years later, one of the old guard. I still learn. I hope I still grow. Newbie writers look up to me. Well, at least one or two of them. And if they ask for help I am there, as all the wonderful writers in the past were there for me.

It’s a heritage we pass down to one another, this business of writing.

‘

In the past, I have embraced AI, not as a lover but as a fellow worker. It did the grunt work I didn’t want to do or couldn’t do as well. For instance, after decades of trying to figure out the “i” before “e” except after “c” scenario I am still at a loss. This is because it isn’t an exact science, this spelling game, as in the word “science.” It’s all very weird. And I rarely spell that one right, either.

Nonetheless, I’m afraid I have to declare open war on AI throughout the land. Not as a servant which it should be, but as an equal which it shouldn’t. Let’s face it, the out-in-the-world AI has no soul, and we have to be very careful about enticing, soulless tools. These tools are going to be as honest as the person using them. And I have found there aren’t as many Honest Abes around as there used to be. But I wax poetic. Or tried to. Let’s see what AI does with that.

Lately I have been wondering why so many businesses are virtually cramming AI down our throats. Successful companies tend to have a projected plan for the future. What is the one with AI? Do they see us in ten years’ time with no longer any thoughts or will of our own? Do we just open our wallets and shell out for yet another AI product that does everything including wipe our noses? If so that means we might wind up no longer thinking human beings but drooling, babbling idiots.  As my mother said, “use it or lose it.” And I’m taking a stand that the mind is a part of this loss.

My new Windows 11 computer came with AI, a Mr. Co-Pilot. He’s everywhere. He does not sleep. He noses his way into any part of my life he can get into. I have been dealing with Siri on my phone for years. Yes, she can be intrusive, but I know how to put her in her place. All it takes is a strong “oh, yeah?” then turning off my phone. When I turn it back on, she’s gone. But this Mr. Co-Pilot, he’s a different breed. Literally. He’s always lurking around inside my computer, waiting to butt in.

I am most offended when he tries to rewrite my books as I am in the very process of writing them. After years of developing a voice, which every writer has to have, he keeps trying to take mine away. Of all the fat nerve. That’s messing with my bread and butter, mister. And he has absolutely no sense of humor. Not a drop. I can write the funniest sentence ever and all he does is try to rewrite it into something bland, bland, bland albeit grammatically correct. Turning the computer off and on again does nothing. He pops up time after time. Unlike Siri, he just can’t take a hint.

I may have been lured in with spellcheck all those years ago, but now I wonder if AI has graduated to something more sinister. Has Mr. Co-Pilot been programmed to rip off the best of my work and send it to somebody directly from my computer? “They” say no. but “they” say a lot of things. Plus, I don’t even know who “they” are. Just some unknown enticing soulless – whoops, I already said that. Sorry.

Whether or not I am being paranoid – pardon me while I take a Valium – I have good reason to think the above could happen. Seven of my novels have already been snitched off the internet and uploaded into a program that offers to write anything for a client from a eulogy to an after-dinner speech to a full-fledged novel. The middleman could have already been eliminated – the internet – and now AI could be going directly into my personal computer fattening up the databanks. I can see the ads: Yes! You, too, can be another Shakespeare. No talent, time, effort, or work required. Don’t dawdle. Send us your $$$ now!

Regarding my pirated novels, there is an ongoing class action suit involving thousands of writers and millions of dollars. Should I live long enough, I might just receive some sort of restitution from these AI pirates. Whatever the sum – it could be a dollar ninety-eight – I’ll take it. It truly is the principle of the thing.

But back to Mr. Co-Pilot, my unwanted partner in nearly everything I do on the computer. I understand it is possible to disable him. As the instructions are several pages long, I suspect it will take many hours to do so. Also, it isn’t clear exactly what else gets disabled, but there is a huge warning there can be consequences. Is that a ruse? Or will other features take a powder as well? Got me. So, I have asked my IT guy to come over and help me out. It will take some time, effort, and $$$. but it would be grand – no, a relief – to get back to writing my stories solo.

This is a question I ask myself every time I start a new novel. Giving reasons to a character for their behavior can be complicated. As the author, I need to justify why any of them do the things they do. But when they’re a louse, it needs to be double-justified. “Just because” doesn’t cut it. So bad guys can be tough.

And then there’s the fact that usually in each book the villain is new. It’s not a familiar character. Arriving at the who, what, and why often takes time and can be a problem. So I try to be methodical and logical. First I start with the dastardly thing I need them to do for the story. Kidnapping? Extortion? Theft? Murder? All of the above? When they are rotten to the core, I have them extend their evil intent to an animal. I DO NOT, however, allow any negative actions done to any animal in my books. It is intent only. I write Cozies. And this is one of the reasons why.

In Death Runs in the Family, Book 3 of the Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries, I have the villain catnap Baba and Tugger (the two cats belonging to Lee, the protagonist), with the threat of harming them if Lee doesn’t stop her investigation. This may have worked well for the book, but it did not work well for me.

I was interrupted by an urgent family matter and had to stop writing for three days directly after the villain put the cats in the back of a station wagon and started her journey to Las Vegas. I woke up in the middle of the night several days later distraught about these cats having no food or water for all that time. It didn’t matter they were fictional. It didn’t matter I was dog-tired. Excuse me, cat-tired. I leapt out of bed with a “No, no, no, no, no. I can’t stand it!” A shocked husband demanded to know what was wrong. I told him I had to rescue the cats NOW or I would never get back to sleep. Knowing me after decades of marriage, he merely nodded, rolled over, and started snoring again.

I sat down at the keyboard and for the next seven hours typed my heart out, only stopping now and then to stretch my legs and have more coffee. The storyline continued with Lee finding out where the station wagon was going by the microchips embedded in the cats (modern science can be a glorious thing). Lee then flew to Las Vegas to coincide with the arrival of the station wagon. Once there, she was joined by a fellow investigator. Together they rescued the cats from the back of the parked wagon while said villain was in a casino whooping it up. By now I hated this scumbag.

As it had only been a matter of hours in fictional time and not an actual three days, the cats were not starving or dying of thirst, but merely scared half to death. Thus, once Lee and the cats were reunited, there was a lot of hugging and purring. Then food and water for the felines and pizza for the protagonist. Peperoni. As Tugger and Baba were alright, Lee could concentrate on capturing this monster who not only catnapped her pets but, coincidentally, murdered somebody.

Did I forget to mention that? Anyway, by now this had become a very personal issue for Lee. Steal and threaten to hurt my cats, will ya? There is nothing like a hopping mad protagonist determined to bring a villain to justice to move a story along.

Back to me and that event. Late that morning, after I was satisfied that everyone in the story (except the villain) were happy, I went back to sleep. But I learned a valuable lesson. All my characters live in my head 24/7. I need to remember that. I need to be careful. I can only have my villains do so much before I start paying for it. They are part of my being. And for the record, this villain, a young woman in her mid-twenties, had all kinds of reasons for behaving the way she did. I wound up feeling sorry for her. But that didn’t stop me from putting her in prison for a very long time. After all, murder is murder.

The meaning of the word grit when used to described a person states “courage and resolve; strength of character.” At least, that’s what the Oxford Dictionary says. I like to think I have grit. But I don’t like the word so much. Grit. Naw. Not a great word.

Now grits. I can get behind grits. And often do. Back to the Oxford Dictionary: “A dish of coarsely ground corn kernels boiled in water or milk.” I like my grits in the morning with bacon and eggs. I like cheesy grits. I like buttery grits. Some people like their grits plain, just a little salt and pepper. I can do that, although I really prefer them with lots of butter or cheese. Whoops! I think I said that.

Moving on to the Merriam-Webster Dictionary on the word gritty. When applied to a person it means “Having strong qualities of tough uncompromising realism. A gritty novel.” Unfortunately, I don’t write gritty. I write cozy. I rarely read gritty, either. I like happy endings or at the very least, ones with justice. And I don’t like too much suffering, especially with an animal. If a novel gets too gritty for me (or a movie) I give it a toss. I try to protect myself.

I didn’t used to be like that, but I learned my lesson the hard way. After reading The Pawnbroker at sixteen years old, I didn’t sleep for three nights. I cried all the time. It’s the story of a WWII concentration camp survivor and it was beyond tough to read. In my teens, this book taught me that I don’t have the “4th wall” that most people do. I was traumatized by the book but in a way, it was a good thing. If I had any childish illusions about sadism, concentration camps, and human suffering, this book dispelled them. It also turned me into an adult overnight. I have never been the same after reading it. That is the power of a novel. That is the power of the written word.

Now in all fairness, The Pawnbroker was beyond gritty. But I find the older I get, the more precious life becomes. The more I respect goodness, kindness, and generosity of spirit. I’ve also been through enough gritty things in my own life that I don’t want to spend time reading about other’s grittiness. Plus, if I want to be scared out of my wits, despondent, or depressed I have but to turn on the six o’clock news or step on a scale.

So, I think I’ve covered the three words, grit, grits, and gritty. And give me grits every time.

Every time I start a new book, I wonder how my words and ideas will come together. Expressing myself sometimes can be tough. Can I do it? Because, let’s face it, it’s more than stringing a lot of pretty words together. Can I find the right ones to tantalize the reader into staying with me ‘til the end of the book? Or will the words and ideas become a mish-mash?

Remember Snoopy in the Peanuts comics? He used to sit on top of his doghouse and bang on a typewriter, writing the words, “It was a dark and stormy night…” Snoopy stole that line from Edward Bulwer-Lytton’s 1830 novel, Paul Clifford. “It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents—except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind that swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.” Mr. Bulwer-Lytton himself stole it from the journal of the Doddington shipwreck that was published in 1757. Although Snoopy claims his great, great to the 15th power grandfather, Basil MacDoggal, was the originator of those words, written when he was aboard the Doddington as a mere pup. What it shows is you can’t keep a good sentence down.

What that sentence led to was a worldwide contest, the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest, where writers would write marathon run-on sentences for the pure joy of doing so. And the tradition was carried on until the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest hung up its pen in 2025 after 42 years. Here is just a sampling of the yearly winners:

“On reflection, Angela perceived that her relationship with Tom had always been rocky, not quite a roller-coaster ride but more like when the toilet-paper roll gets a little squashed so it hangs crooked and every time you pull some off you can hear the rest going bumpity-bumpity in its holder until you go nuts and push it back into shape, a degree of annoyance that Angela had now almost attained.” — Rephah Berg, Oakland, CA

“The corpse exuded the irresistible aroma of a piquant, ancho chili glaze enticingly enhanced with a hint of fresh cilantro as it lay before him, coyly garnished by a garland of variegated radicchio and caramelized onions, and impishly drizzled with glistening rivulets of vintage balsamic vinegar and roasted garlic oil; yes, as he surveyed the body of the slain food critic slumped on the floor of the cozy, but nearly empty, bistro, a quick inventory of his senses told corpulent Inspector Moreau that this was, in all likelihood, an inside job.” — Bob Perry, Milton, MA

I’ve read a few books, particularly by novice writers with similar opening sentences, but I suspect they weren’t thinking of the contest when they wrote them. I may have mentioned this before, but one newbie went on about a building for an entire paragraph. This building had nothing to do with the plot and was never mentioned again. A paragraph is a long time to wax poetic about anything non-germane to the story, especially on page 1. However, as it had only been one sentence, he could have submitted it to the B-L contest and just might have won. I like to look on the bright side of bad writing.

Hmmmm. I wonder if I can write one of those danged sentences? How about: “It was a dark and stormy morning with drafts swirling around like clothes in the rinse cycle of a washing machine, white clothes, bleached within an inch of their lives because that’s what you do with white clothes, bleach them, even though it weakens the integrity of the fabric, especially cotton, and cotton-linen blends, and can turn them yellow, not blue the way bluing does.”

What do you think?