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.

Hello, Ladies ~

As Thanksgiving approaches, I find myself reminiscing about last year’s holiday, which was the last family celebration I had with my sister, Lori, and uncle, Terry. Of course, we never truly know when we’ll be called home, but I sensed at the time that it would be their last holiday season here on earth.

Every effort was made to enjoy all the trappings and food that come with Thanksgiving and Christmas. We cooked, laughed, and took lots of pictures to capture the special moments.

As I put up my authentic, fake Christmas tree today, a pang of nostalgia pricked my heart knowing I will most likely never trapse through the woods in search of the perfect Noble tree. Large family holiday gatherings are now a thing of the past with the loss of my sister and uncle.

My mini-melancholy vacation was interrupted when one of my Beta readers called with input on “Chaos in Cabo.”

“I loved this book, Kimila,” she said. “I think this is the best book you’ve written so far. I loved all of the emotional turmoil your main characters faced. Their struggles brought them to life, and I couldn’t wait to see how they worked through their issues.”

I choose Beta readers who I know will always be honest with me. I appreciate being told what is wrong with a character or storyline. Knowing where the problems are helps me rewrite the book and bring everything into a better light.

When I finished “Chaos in Cabo,” I didn’t think it was very good. I attributed my concerns to the fact that the book had been written in starts and stops due to the rough journeys of my sister and uncle. Every time I stopped working on the book, I would lose track of the character arcs and storyline. When I was able to get back to writing, I’d have to read from the beginning to reintroduce myself to the story and find my rhythm.

I’ve never suffered from writer’s block, but the weight of my family’s struggles kept me off balance. And then there are those emotions … sadness, anger, confusion, hopelessness … and many more.

Had my emotions bled into my writing? Did the upheaval in my life thread its way into my characters’ lives? Could it be I had channeled my cornucopia of feelings into my story?

“Chaos in Cabo” had three Beta readers, and I was anxious to hear what the other two had to say. When my next reader texted to see if I could talk about the book, I said I’d call her from my car. “No,” she texted, “I want you to focus on what I have to say, so call when you can listen.”

Alarm bells went off, but I called as soon as I could. Her first words were, “This is the best book yet! The characters were so interesting, I didn’t want their stories to end.”

The conversation continued and was similar to what my first Beta reader said. Imagine my delight when I received the same fabulous feedback from Beta reader number three.

I think as writers we bring parts of ourselves and our lives into the stories we write. Maybe it’s a favorite childhood memory that we have a character share with readers. Or a broken heart served up at the hands of a partner who cheated or left without a valid reason. Then there’s the void left in your life when someone dies.

In “Chaos in Cabo,” my heroine, Detective Socorro Cortés, enlists the help of her former fiancé to solve the murder of his niece’s boyfriend. While trying to solve a murder that she thinks is linked to a scam calling crew, she has to deal with another ex who is trying to win her back. Oh, the emotional rollercoaster she rides!

Lieutenant Amado Peña just wants to help his niece and leave Cabo San Lucas as soon as possible. He knows he can’t risk having Coco break his heart again. But when he’s drawn into her efforts to solve two crimes she believes are connected, he finds himself also wondering whether he still has feelings for Socorro Cortés. Can a broken heart learn to love again?

Alida Burton has two goals in life: to remove abusive men from the planet. And to make as much money as possible from unsuspecting marks. Given her cruel treatment at the hands of previous males, Alida has no intentions of falling in love—ever—until she meets Antonio Ruiz. Could it be that even someone as damaged as Alida can overcome her hatred and trust a man?

The wonderful feedback from my Beta readers has reminded me that even the hardest times in our lives can produce small blessings. “Chaos in Cabo” might have taken longer than my normal timeline to write, but I’m thankful that my emotional baggage allowed me to create unforgettable characters with stories that readers don’t want to end.

Ladies ~ I hope your Thanksgiving holiday brings much joy and many blessings. Gobble, Gobble!!!

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.