November. Sunrise comes later and sunset comes sooner. Though I live in California, the nights are chilly. I bundle up on the sofa, a fleece throw over me, book in hand, and a cat or two jockeying for position on my lap. What’s for dinner? This time of year, it’s usually soup.

I start with the basics. Onion and garlic sauteed in olive oil. Add lots of veggies, whatever is to hand. Carrots for color, mushrooms, a handful of fresh spinach. Toss in that leftover cauliflower or broccoli. Add cans of tomatoes and pinto beans. I like pinto beans in my soup.

I add homemade broth made from leftover chicken or turkey bones. Perhaps I’ll add a splash of Worcestershire, soy sauce or even rice vinegar.

Then it’s herbs and spices, going beyond salt and pepper. Toss in oregano, or maybe a pinch of tarragon. With so many spices to hand, I’m experimenting with smoky paprika, cumin and coriander. Cayenne and chili, curry and sometimes even cinnamon or nutmeg for something different.

Soon there’s a fragrant pot of delicious homemade soup simmering on the stovetop.

And what does that have to do with writing? Plenty.

When I’m writing a novel I start with the basics. Instead of onions and garlic, it’s plot, characters and setting. Decisions must be made. Will it be first person, or third, or a combination of both? That depends on what kind of novel I’m simmering.

The plot thickens—sorry, couldn’t resist that, as long as I’m going with the cooking analogy. Suffice to say I want my soup to have plenty of variety and flavor. And my novel to have a story full of twists, turns and surprises.

The Jeri Howard novel I’m finishing up, The Things We Keep, is one such pot of soup. This is the 14^th book I’ve written with Jeri as protagonist, so I’m well acquainted with my fictional Oakland private eye and the world she inhabits. On that basic framework I build my story, and I think this one has its share of plot twists.

As for the setting, this time Jeri is sleuthing in familiar Bay Area territory. In other books I’ve taken her farther afield, though for the most part in California, though she goes to New Orleans in The Devil Close Behind. In Witness to Evil, I sent her to Paris, though she eventually wound up in Bakersfield.

As for characters, I do have a list of staples. Jeri’s father Tim, now retired, who at the start of the series was a history professor and a major player in Till The Old Men Die. Her fiancé Dan, who has his first appearance in Bit Player. Longtime attorney friend Cassie Taylor, who has appeared in several books since the first, Kindred Crimes. I enjoy adding new characters to the mix and if I like them well enough, they get return appearances. For example, New Orleans private eye Antoine Lasalle, who appears in The Devil Close Behind, has a walk-on in The Things We Keep.

It’s soup weather, a comforting bowl on a chilly night. Or several nights. Because soup melds flavors when it sits in the fridge overnight. I can put it on the stove again and add new herbs and spices. Basil this time or lemongrass for something different.

Novels, like soup, can always be revised.

As mystery and thriller writers we deal with death – a lot. What follows is my view of how death colors a story, as informed by being farm-bred, knowing where animals go on the big truck, and the host of ghosts who populated our old frame farmhouse.

Ghosts

Ghosts were as much a part of my early life as was the knacker man, to use a British expression. There was the guy who checked the non-existent, though once-existent, oil lamps in the upstairs hallway to ensure the gas was off. He walked down the hall to a window overlooking the hog pens, stood for a moment, then walked back. Every night.

There were brothers, one that occupied a cold spot in the corncrib, and one who looked endlessly into the house through a sashed window. They died on the same day, one after another, one from want, the other from the loss. Their story fueled my imagination.

And David whose sister waited for him to knock on her wall each night before going to sleep. I met David when he warned me of a small fire in the farmyard. When I returned, the fire out, he knocked.

This leads one to believe that life is like the loaf of bread used to describe time travel, we are never far from intersecting the previous or next slices of bread.

When someone dies and refuses to move on

Booth Island deals with the death of a brother who drowned off the family island in Canada. It is he who lures his sister back nine years later.

When one death haunts the characters

Dead Legend begins The Cooper Vietnam Era Quartet, centering around the mysterious death of Mac Cooper. His sons navigate his legacy and his loss:  anger in Dead Legend, bargaining in Head First, acceptance in Pay Back, and resolution in Don’t Tell.

Byron Cooper’s burden: The old adage about be careful who you mess on your way up, you may meet them on your way down, went double time when everyone in the Pacific Fleet, WestPac, over the rank of Lieutenant Commander, looked you in the eyes, clapped you on the shoulder, and said knew your old man.

And resolution in Don’t Tell: Laury and Kate held hands in front of a bungalow gleaming white in the soft light of a late Hawaiian afternoon. … He pointed out the carport, the palm where someone had lurked watching the family’s descent into hell, and a hibiscus Mac had planted not long before his death.

When an accident sculpts the future

A single past action drives the narrative in Saving Calypso, consider the action mold from the previous slice of bread, rimming the current slice and slowly eating into the loaf.

To ghosts everywhere

Characters driven by the ghosts of past actions, deaths, and loss give mysteries focus and heart, and protagonists a reason to act, creating a pulse and adding depth to the story. Paradise for a mystery/thriller/suspense writer.