From January to the end of March, New England writers can submit stories for the annual Crime Spell Books anthology. We get a variety of stories from a diverse groups of writers, and often a new writer’s first story. Although each of the editors probably has a private set of expectations and standards, I know I’m going to be surprised more than once. I learned that lesson years ago.

In the 1990s I was invited to judge a short story contest sponsored by a local newspaper. I was one of three local writers who would judge the stories submitted to the editor of the arts and culture insert magazine. 

We were a dutiful trio, reading each story more than once, taking notes and evaluating each one according to whatever we considered the appropriate set of criteria. We knew of each other but didn’t know each other personally, though we all knew the editor. At the end of our period of private deliberations, we gathered an hour before the luncheon, where we’d announce the winners, who would be awarded certificates. This is where the surprise came in.

Each of us came with a different story that we ranked as number one. As I look back I’m amused by our passion for our chosen piece of fiction. We couldn’t understand how the other two hadn’t seen the perfection, the style and wit and wisdom in our perfect piece of prose. Of course we discussed our choices at length, certain we could persuade the other two because weren’t we all rational, professional writers?

One writer chose a story because it was a quiet meditation with a gorgeous nearly perfect sentence right in the middle. And it was a lovely arrangement of words expressing a gentle wisdom, but what about the rest of the work? The next judge picked a story that dawdled until the punchline, which I had to admit was effective. But neither judge had picked the story I chose, which to this day I’m convinced was the only true story—with a beginning, a middle, and an end, describing an experience that left the characters changed and the reader nodding in recognition and satisfaction. I’ll admit that the other two judges probably felt as strongly as I did and still do. How did we resolve this dilemma? We didn’t.

The newspaper was on a schedule. The program had to begin, but the editor was ready for us. Another writer gave a talk, the editor congratulated all the writers who had submitted stories, and then she announced that three stories had taken first place. Each judge got to present “their” choice, to the delight of three writers (and their families) in the audience.

I learned later that this is what happens every year. Three judges and three stories. We just can’t seem to agree on what makes something work, something worth reading a second time, something to share with friends and talk about in classes. The editor doesn’t try to persuade the guest judges to reach consensus. Wise move. Instead everyone learned the lesson of the world of publishing. Tastes will range, but every writer is encouraged to follow their own path, and every reader will find a work that resonates with them.

Each writer has a different way of getting started on the next book. Some prepare a story board, others keep pages of notes, some make an outline. I see a group of people moving around doing whatever it is they’re doing, which isn’t always clear in the beginning but I know it will be soon enough. Because location is especially important to me, I pull out photographs I’ve taken of the general location I’m focusing on. They aren’t usually of a specific place I have in mind for the plot, though they can be, but more of a way to get my brain thinking about what I’ve seen there, how people move through the space. Right now, that means India.

My current work in progress is an Anita Ray story, most of which usually takes place in the coastal resort of Kovalam, just south of the state capital Trivandrum. Even though such a story might begin in Hotel Delite, Auntie Meena’s business where Anita lives and helps out, the plot may take Anita away from the water and into a nearby city or inland village. She might go to Chalai, the main bazaar in the city, or to Connemara Market, where I often went to take pictures of fish or vegetables. (I love markets.)

In this mystery novel, Anita travels into the hills with a group of tourists staying at the hotel. They’ve heard about a particularly interesting chapel and want to visit. So, off they go. This gave me a chance to pull out images of the twisting roads rising up the Western Ghats, with homes built right along the verge and bougainvillea or other vines tumbling over trellises and brushed by a passing lorry. 

While I was sorting through images I came across one of groves of rubber trees. The hills can be a surprise to some foreigners who expect all of South India to be a jungle, huge climbing vines, thick bush, and bright flowers the size of basketballs. They don’t expect a small forest of deciduous trees.

Mature rubber trees look like saplings but they’re mature enough to produce the sap that is the basis for rubber, and farmers capture it the same way we capture sap for maple syrup. I lay the photograph out on my desk alongside two or three others, and let my thoughts drift. I needed a murder scene the reader could grasp in hindsight but nothing obvious, and this needed to be away from Hotel Delite and Kovalam. The rubber tree grove gave me plenty to work with.

With important scenes taking shape near the rubber plantation and a tea shop, I had some important questions resolved and now needed only a Catholic chapel, so I rummaged around and found a photograph of one set among the trees. It was the right size for what I had in mind, and its location gave me plenty of scope for the specific activities I was toying with.

It’s exciting at this point to look at the photographs arrayed in front of me and see more fully the progress of the story. The characters are there, they’re spreading out among the trees and the buildings, and their voices punctuate the sound of feet shuffling through leaves and forest debris. I can see them and follow them, and when I do their behavior begins to fill the plot. My story idea, initially vague, takes shape.

Every writer learns early or late that readers have views. We’re used to the views of paid or unpaid reviewers, and learn a way to respond to them—ignore the reviews, take them personally, or some response between the two. The views of ordinary readers, those not expecting to see their opinions in print, have come to be more important to me.

One of the first reader responses came in the form of a postcard. A reader in the 1990s in the Pacific Northwest wrote to tell me, in terse language, that she’d just finished reading Double Take and she wouldn’t kill for the motive I ascribed to the killer. My first reaction was something sarcastic, but then I thought she was telling me something—this reader wanted a motive she could relate to, which in turn meant she wanted a killer more complicated, as well as more relatable. This is fair, and a pretty good lesson for any writer, so I’ve kept it in mind.

I found an unusual report on OSHA about a home-heating device that filled a home with a kind of exhaust, depriving it of oxygen. A woman arrived at the summer cottage as expected and after a while felt ill. She tried to light a match to start a fire, but the match wouldn’t light; she gave up, and went out onto the porch, where the reception was better, to call her husband on her cell. An editor found the situation unbelievable, but I cited the OSHA report. That wasn’t enough, she said, because the reader wouldn’t be likely to know this technical point, so the story didn’t work overall. The lesson there is to fit the technical information into the story before it’s necessary, or at the point where it can counter the reader’s skepticism. I followed that lesson in another story that depended on the victim having technical knowledge not available to the villain to enable her to survive.

Conferences are a great opportunity to hear from readers, as we all know, and in my experience they tell me exactly what I’m overlooking. I treated Chief Joe Silva in the Mellingham series as an iconic figure—he literally appeared in the town square in an early chapter, and I liked his independence and unattached presence. Not only did he not have a lady friend, a partner, even an occasional visitor, he never mentioned his family. And my readers felt the absence. They wanted to know about Joe’s family. While I was populating the small town of Mellingham with all the quirky souls I loved, my fans were reading between the lines in search of hints about Joe’s parents and siblings, perhaps an ex-wife or two hiding somewhere. It took me a while, but in the end Joe’s family got two books, one for his birth family and one for his own, constructed family.

I’m not always sure what the best response is to some reactions. In Below the Tree Line, the first in a series about farmer Felicity O’Brien, the action revolves in part around timbering. As a former farm owner working with state and private foresters, I knew something about managing a forest for income (it’s not lucrative). But what we call timberingin New England is called logging in the West, and this difference surprised the reviewer. I read the reviewer’s own mystery, also about a woman who owned a farm, and even allowing for the license allowed a writer of a mystery novel, I was appalled at some of her behavior. I couldn’t see it happening in New England, at least not without consequences. Certain aspects of life are more geographically defined than I realized—and this goes well beyond local accents.

In the Felicity O’Brien series I was prepared for the concern some readers expressed about cats in mysteries, and made a point of feeding my cat, Miss Anthropy, on time and giving her attention, even though she was not one for cuddling. The rescue dog, however, brought out a lot of unexpected advice, most of it unnecessary but interesting. It was a reminder of the boundaries of our chosen genre, and the core decency of our readers. Violate the standards at your peril.

The last lesson comes more from watching readers react to changes in other series, reactions I’ve heeded as warnings. In the Mellingham series, Joe Silva can grow and change in relation to the world around him. Because he is who he is, a middle-aged police chief in his prime, without the handicap of a dark past, he’s expected to grow into relationships like any other normal person. And he does. In the Anita Ray series, Anita’s environment is the hotel with her beloved Auntie Meena, the desk clerk Ravi, and other staff members from the surrounding village. This is a light-hearted, static world, and somewhere along the line I understood she could not change without disrupting that world. New hotels might go up, tourists from newly independent countries might arrive, war might break out, but Anita and her compatriots would remain the same. Joe’s world is dynamic, as is Felicity’s, but Anita’s is not. 

The interaction between reader and writer in crime fiction is one of the best features of this genre—the community is so fully engaged that we as writers can only benefit. It may not always feel that way (So, exactly why did Felicity do that?), but in the end the readers are usually on to something, and I’m ready to listen.

A Pause

This Saturday straddles the holidays Christmas and New Year’s, a time washed with good will and optimism. Each holiday alone offers a topic relevant and pertinent in today’s world. I could talk about my gratitude for having close friends, or I could focus on the excitement of going into the year ahead. But I have nothing new to say about either one. Instead a friend and I talked this week about the word pause, and that’s the subject that feels most appropriate for me at this time.

We rush headlong from one activity to the next, some of us weary and some of us energized by how much we can get accomplish and what the season holds. I could do that but instead I want to take this time of being neither here nor there to step back and pause, to take a break thoughtfully, not because I feel I need it or want it. I’m taking a break, pausing, because this is something to treasure—a moment when I don’t have to move forward or back, rush ahead or finish up something left behind me, to clear my desk before covering it with the next task.

This isn’t as far removed from a writing life as one might think. Whenever I finish a story or novel I set it aside and stop thinking about it. This gives us as writers distance on our work, so we can come to it with a fresh pair of eyes after three or four weeks (or even a year). But it can do more than that. 

A pause in the work of creating something, a season, or any time of year, gives me an opportunity to come back to myself, to step away from the person whom I created in order to write the story, call her the narrator or protagonist or something else. Or in my day to day life, the person who gets things done, checking each item off on a real or imagined to-do list. 

A pause allows, even encourages me to step into another space, one that is walled off from the world in motion and complete in itself. This is not a moment of purpose, to wind down, lower my blood pressure or find the time to assess my upcoming tasks. The pause is its own purpose, to listen to random thought, to discover once again what it is to just be, to exist, to watch the world go by, to slow down enough to notice the world is going by, ever moving around us.

Perhaps this pause is a meditation without the Buddhist directive to “empty the mind,” ignore thoughts or feelings and keep the mind blank. My pause is a long moment to heighten the awareness that I exist. I am here in this place, touching the fabric of the seat of my desk chair, studying the color of the dyed leather desk top, hearing the occasional car pass my window.

When my mind tells me this moment has passed I know the lights will be brighter, the music will be sweeter, and I will enjoy them all more deeply. But I will also linger in the moment more often, knowing that life is truer when savored than gulped greedily. This weekend I straddle the holidays that define our year, and find a moment that is more, that is all of life held lightly in the palm, awakening me to all that is beyond accomplishment, goals, appearances, rushing thoughts. My moment as me entirely with the Universe sitting within my half-curled fingers.

I write like I pack—I take whatever I need and stuff it into story or suitcase. This is good for writing, but not for packing—or the trip I’m going on. I recently attended Crime Bake, our annual systery writers conference in New England, and I arrived with the same suitcase I used for a recent three-week vacation overseas.

The conference runs two full days, which is really one full day and two half days, the latter being Friday afternoon and evening and Sunday morning. Saturday is a full day, and runs well into the evening. Do I really need a full suitcase for this? 

My wardrobe for Friday night is settled because I drive down with a friend, and I’m fully prepared. It’s like the opening scene in a short story—I include all those details that tell the reader exactly where she is. No wondering if this story is set in India or along the Eastern seaboard or on a farm. No wondering if the year is now or the 1950s. No wondering if that thing I refer to is sci-fi madness or just a bizarre way of describing the most ordinary things. I know what I’m wearing to the conference on my first appearance and plan to stay that way throughout the day because the arrival is well choreographed. But the rest of the time (and the story) . . . is a problem.

I want the reader to slide into the story and immediately be engaged in the surprises and developments. This is no time to get lazy. Or sloppy. With my wardrobe, I want to be comfortable and informal, so that means regular clothes, but my regular clothes are boring. There they sit in my suitcase, so I toss in a brighter sweater and nicer black pants (you can never have enough pairs of black pants). I can’t wear the same kind of outfit I wore on Friday for the same reason the story after the opening has to be more, something more than the opening, something surprising, different. I really have to “up my game,” or more simply, “something has to happen.” My main character is a middle-aged woman faced with upheaval in her life, lots of change—not very original. The ordinary needs work, so I introduce a compelling secondary character who tosses in a complication, a character who cheated on all his university exams and is now applying for a job in the CIA. Riveting? Hardly. But who knows about this? My main character remembers the guy from school. So the complication is good for my story, but my suitcase is filling up with more attractive options for Saturday (because, just like the story, I don’t know where I’m going during the day while I pack). And I haven’t yet gotten to Saturday night.

In preparation for my recent three-week trip overseas, the organizers made a point of telling the attendees that this was mostly walking in neighborhoods, woods, rural areas, etc. There was nothing fancy about this trip—very casual outdoor clothes were all that was needed. Great, I thought. Except, of course, someone added in small type, you might want to dress up a bit for a night out for dinner. I looked at the schedule, and there were several nights out for dinner. I loaded up my suitcase with several more pairs of black pants.

By now in my story I’ve come to the middle, which often sags. I don’t like sagging in fiction or in clothing. So worried that I’ll look dull Saturday night I rummaged through my closet for something dressier than a plain turtleneck sweater. But my brain was stuck on the sagging in my main character’s ability to tackle the threats and problems facing her. She has to do something to show she deserves to be the main character—break out of her dull pattern of living safely. Since she often works with hunters—issuing licenses, reporting on weather in the area, and the like—in her quiet Town Hall job, I make her familiar enough with weaponry to know which is the business end of a gun or rifle—just enough information to make her dangerous. And she responds by shooting one of the applicants for a hunting license (this is the CIA hopeful). She’s about to get away with it all—until it turns out she knew the man from college, and he “done her wrong.” So, is she guilty—the once demure lady now in a flamboyant see-through blouse—or the steady dull neighbor in the beige turtleneck? My suitcase is filling up and now I have to press down to make sure I can close it and I’m not done yet. I have to get through Sunday. My story isn’t doing any better. I’ve tossed in so many possibilities that I’ve probably overdone it.

My main character has to prove herself. She’s either guilty of murder or she isn’t. Which is it? Or is it something else? She makes bail—after all, she’s a known quantity, a longtime resident of the town, steady employee, spotless record (very plain wardrobe)—and sets about proving her innocence or at least figuring out a way to get off, one or the other. That means she’s no longer exactly the same person she was at the outset. It’s like Sunday at the conference—we have to be different from the first day; I can’t wear the same thing as Friday. Don’t ask me why. I don’t know, but I have an idea.

Sunday is a step up from Friday, something to show I’m more accomplished than I was at the beginning, that I’ve learned something over the last day and a half, that I’m a better writer, my money well spent. Just like my main character, I have to demonstrate I now have the needed abilities and good sense that I’ve been hiding. I’m different—black pants, yes, but a brightly colored blouse with a spiffy vest.

My main character is different too and has to demonstrate this in her explanation of what happened. And lordy knows I can do this because I’ve gone back and planted clues, changed clues, added a character or an incident—I’ve restructured the story to end up wherever I want. This means a lot more words and a lot of rewriting and adding and rearranging. It’s the same for my conference wardrobe. I now have the extras to pack in—underwear, jewelry, scarves, toiletries, all those things that are almost more important than a pair of black pants. 

My suitcase is close to too packed to close, but close it I must. I have so much folded into it by the time I’m ready to zip it shut that I can make anything work, any outfit, for any event, any contingency. This is the skill of the writer—I can pack whatever I need into my story, move it around, match it up with anything anywhere, a small detail about a character’s hearing or missing an appointment, and I have a plot (like an outfit) that works. My story ends up a marvel of subtle misdirection and character revelation, a neat perfection with an unimaginable twist and not a single unnecessary word. This is where my suitcase and story diverge, and I’m glad to leave both as they are. Time to move on.