I’ve been a member of the Authors Guild for several years, but didn’t host my website there until SquareSpace told me I couldn’t have a newsletter without a certain kind of email, which I didn’t know how to create. Rather than learn what was probably a pretty easy task, I decided to move my website to the Guild. Once there I could tap into their newsletter function.

After barely using it for the last few years, I received a notice that the Guild has decided to drop the newsletter function from its website citing both cost and logistics. I can hardly blame them. I’m probably part of the logistics issue, since almost every quarter I had trouble figuring out how to get the newsletter out there, into cyberspace. Hector sent me clear instructions, which became less clear as time passed between newsletters until, after a while, they ceased to make any sense at all.

I won’t miss the newsletter function, and I’m pretty sure the few people who asked to get the modest publication from me won’t miss it either. Let me be the first to say it: My newsletters weren’t riveting. I can’t even remember what I wrote. Several author newsletters come into my email box regularly, and I scan them. Some are archly self-deprecating. Some are breathless with news. Some are clearly filled with, well, filler because the writer has better things to do than write something for this medium. And some are interesting, the result of thought and effort. I’m impressed.

For most writers, from what I can see, newsletters have the main purpose of reminding readers that the writer is out there, working away on whatever the current project is, and making sure that readers don’t forget her or him. It’s basically the wave and calling yoohoo across the street.

Once in a great while I get one that I enjoy reading mostly because it’s not a sales pitch; it’s about something in particular that I’m interested in, or become interested in because of the short piece the writer has taken time to develop. But most newsletters could end and I wouldn’t miss any of them.

What I do miss, to my surprise, is my old site on Blogger. It was nothing but a blog page with my books listed on the side columns and a growing list of followers. (Silly as it is, I was proud of that.) It was easy to manage, and easier to find. But life got complicated and a website seemed the better choice. I wouldn’t say that today.

I haven’t been keeping up with my blog because I don’t want to waste my time writing and anyone else’s time reading something that is contrived rather than something that really is on my mind. I do have a few of those coming up, but here’s where things get tricky. Once I acknowledge that something is nagging at me, I spend some time thinking about it. And then a solution appears, and the problem no longer nags at me and hence I no longer have an interest in writing about it. I doubt I’m original in this. When I look at it this way, I’m surprised anyone gets a newsletter out there, regularly or irregularly.

This is all of a piece with my love/hate relationship with social media. The AG newsletter was reliable in that I could vet comments (deleting those that I found offensive or fishy) and keep out the inevitable bots and scammers. Since hackers seem to descend on various sites all at once, without any logic behind their choices that I can see, I sometimes think I should delete everything on social media, but I’m not sure that would solve any problems.

What you’re reading now is the typical writer’s unsettled grappling with a blessing and a curse—social media in all its forms. If we write or do anything creative, we want to reach an audience, we want our work to be read, and we want readers to be able to reach us. The journey between writer and reader is fraught with shoals, quicksand, hurricanes, sea monsters, a broken compass, pirates, and sometimes worse. It’s easy to forget that a good newsletter is an ongoing conversation with individuals who know the writer’s publications and interests and views; a reader who may, as has happened to me, talk about a character as though he or she were a friend of the family, someone known and cared for. I have friends who write to me about Anita Ray, and sometimes giggle about things Auntie Meena gets up to as though they had just seen her. These readers remind me of how fond I am of her, and why I keep up the Anita Ray series. (There’s another one in the works.)

So what is the upshot? I may send out one more newsletter informing people that this one is the end, and then hope they’ll pay closer attention to my blog. But that also means that I have to pay closer attention to it. 

I write for this blog, Ladies of Mystery, faithfully once a month. To this light burden, I can probably add a blog post at least once a month on my website. We’ll see how that goes. Right now, blogging occasionally is enough for me. And I’ll keep looking for problems to write about.

I’ve just finished writing a story that took me almost twenty-five years to compose, and not because I’m a slow writer either. Doris Lessing once said that “writing is probably like a scientist thinking about some scientific problem, or an engineer about an engineering problem.” Based on my experience with this story, I have to agree.

All those years ago I heard a woman make a comment about a divorced man’s new life. She was a friend of his ex-wife, who remained not so much bitter as still stunned years later. As I learned more about his conduct, I could understand her reaction to the divorce. The scene the friend described to me remained vivid in my memory, and I couldn’t put it to rest, forget about it and bury in in the ash heap of ideas that never went anywhere. So I thought about it. 

Just sitting down and composing a story of the tacky, mean-spirited, selfish ex-husband wouldn’t make an edifying story—we all know too many people like that. So what was the story? And who would tell it? That last question was the key—someone on the outside, not in the family and not in the circle of friends. I landed on a low-level staff person in his office, and at that point the story opened up. It rolled out in front of me like the proverbial red carpet, the stairs up into the blue sky, the plane on the runway. I didn’t know where I was going but I knew I was moving.

Because I was focusing on one character in particular as she dealt with a man of very specific weaknesses I knew all I had to do was follow her through her work and off days. The story from my friend, only a scene she had viewed, developed into this young woman’s story, and went where neither one of us expected. 

This sounds easy—just listen to someone else’s throwaway comment and you have a story. But it wasn’t that easy. I had the scene in my head for all those years, and I could not feel anything growing whenever I thought about it. What finally worked was looking at it as a problem to be solved. Here is the scene. This is the kernel of the story—this can’t be changed. It leads to the end. How do I get there? What do I need? I need a main character to follow, a setting where this man can reveal his weaknesses, a cast of characters that will reveal themselves at the crisis, and an ending that is honest no matter how awful or unsatisfying. (Just looking back at it now the whole thing seems daunting. As long as I didn’t think about all this at once I could make progress.)

I do some of this with other short stories and crime novels, but in those I have more control over where I go with the plot. In this story I was committed to ending with that scene given to me by my friend—it said far more than any one of us wants to hear, see, or experience.

When the story was finished, I was mildly depressed. I felt drained. That’s very unusual for me. My imagination might feel tapped out some days after meeting a deadline, but my emotional reserves have almost always felt bottomless (an illusion, but I like it), and I cheerfully look around for the next project.

Not every story proceeds in this manner. Some are so much fun to write that I’m sad when they come to an end. Some are easily and obviously constructed and I delight in their form and flow, and almost want to pat them on the head, like a well-behaved dog, at the end. But this one left me feeling satisfied, like I had just accomplished something I’d finally set out to do. I also think it’s one of my best. 

You can read it for yourself and be the judge. It’ll be in Snakeberry, the 2025 anthology from Crime Spell Books, out in November.