Hello, Ladies ~

When I was a kid, I loved playing the game of “Clue.” Piecing together the clues to decide if Miss Scarlett killed the victim with a candlestick in the conservatory was exhilarating.

And was there anything better than watching “Perry Mason,” “Matlock,” or “CSI?” I would settle in to watch these shows armed with a pen and pad, making notes of possible clues to help me solve the crime before the episode ended.

A few weeks ago, a writer friend and I were talking about writer’s block, something she’d been struggling with. When I said I never suffer from writer’s block, she raised an eyebrow.

I continued, sharing that my brain sort of takes over and directs my fingers across the keyboard, or guides the pen in my hand across a blank page.

“Can you give me an example?” she asked.

My response, then became my blog for this month …

While I don’t write mysteries per se, I do like to add a touch of mystery to my books. In my first novel, “Peril in Paradise,” I discovered that my writer’s brain had automatically planted clues about my crime and villain. In my series México Mayhem, the reader knows who the villain is from the beginning, but I still create a sense of mystery by adding perfect hidden gems to keep the reader guessing.

Two of my favorite additions were characters who weren’t meant to be in more than a couple of scenes. In “Peril in Paradise,” I created Billy Boyd, who becomes my villain Damian’s cellmate. I didn’t know when I created Billy, initially intending for him to add color to a few scenes with Damian, that he would become his own interesting character.

In “Malice in Mazatlan,” Alba’s only purpose was to paint a picture for the reader of how difficult my villain, Sarita Garcia, could be. But Alba ends up stealing a scene and becoming a perfect hidden gem.

As I reread the current WIP for my México Mayhem Series, “Vanished in Vallarta,” I realized I had added some hidden gems during the first draft that I could now use as clues for the Hero and Heroine as they try to tie a suspect to a murder. When I edited the Villain’s chapters, I discovered I’d done the same thing with her storyline.

Every time I find these intriguing nuggets, I’m in awe of how my brain has placed a little of this and a little of that in the right places of the storyline, which I can now turn into tantalizing tidbits for my readers. Another fabulous thing occurred, too. Without knowingly inserting this information, I created a storyline for my next book, “Lost in Loreto.”

In the first novel, “Redneck Ranch,” of my Stoneybrook Mysteries, I added stab wounds to my victim and placed her on the dirt floor of an old barn. But I didn’t know at the time the stab wounds would reveal Morse Code for a number or that the barn floor being void of blood would suggest a different crime scene for this victim.

I just finished a short story, “Jamboree Jealousy,” for an anthology, and when I did my read-through, I smiled at the hidden gems I’d already added to the story: A missing cowboy hat. A gold hoop earring. A few pages with lyrics for a song.

I hope there are many Hidden Gems in your writing endeavors, too! Happy Writing, Sisters!

Several of my stories and mystery novels were worked out on paper before I began writing. I had blocks of story parts, notes on a particular character, and no sense of how the whole thing went together. As a pantser, I was willing to wait and then let it all come together when I started writing. This is an act of faith, and for some definitely reckless. But for me it feels like pulling a multicolored shawl around my shoulders, sinking into the warmth and richness of it, and letting the idea germinate. But these days the thinking part is taking longer and longer.

Some of my more recent stories are based on ideas or scenes that came to me years and years ago. Most often if an idea doesn’t take form within a month or so, I abandon it, or just as likely it abandons me. But some of these old snatches of a story I overheard, a piece of a scene that still flickers in my imagination, linger and don’t seem to change. When this happens I know there’s a story there, but I don’t seem to know how to get to it. 

This is where I can hear some of my fellow writers telling me to just sit down and write it out. There’s no mystery to it, as you know, Susan. It’s just a matter of doing the work. Most of the time I would agree. But there are some ideas that need more than an artificial structure composed for working them out on paper to be realized. These are the ones that hover in the back of my mind, like a dream that might be bad, might be good, but won’t fade. 

I’m not the only one who feels this way. A few years ago I was at a book event with other writers and found myself chatting with a writer I had met a number of times but didn’t really know. We talked about our work, what we were reading, and the days ahead. And then she said something that I recognized instantly.

“I think I’m ready for the next story. I can feel it growing. I’m ready to start writing.”

I knew exactly what she meant and how she felt. The story idea is there, gestating, growing, pushing through the reticence, the hesitation, the doubt, ready to emerge from the nib of my pen or the keys on the computer keyboard. At that moment I know I need one last step. Who is going to tell the story—that, for me, is the key to unlocking the whole thing. And once I know who the narrator is, the story unfolds before me, and it’s just a matter of me keeping up with the flow. The preparation time, if I can call it that, takes years. The writing takes a couple of days or fewer for a short story, a couple of months, writing full time, for a novel. The closer the story is to real life, a real event, the less rewriting, or fixing, is required. The characters act out according to their natures, their proclivities already established by where I found them in the basic idea. 

The hardest lesson in working on a story that arrives in this manner is to not tamper with it, to trust my own unconscious to deliver the narrative I can feel inside me. Sometimes I don’t know what the ending will be, but when I sense it coming, and understand what it probably has to be, I have to trust where I am and where I’m going and not tamper with it.

Not every story arrives in this way. I’ve constructed plenty from a simple What If beginning. But those that haunt my memory are different, and require a different writer response from me. From the few of these I’ve composed and published, I’ve learned discipline, trust that my writing brain knows what it’s doing, and faith that whatever is happening is something worthwhile. These stories tend not to have a happy ending, but they are realistic and honest. And for me that’s enough.

by donalee Moulton

We’ve left winter in the rearview mirror and welcomed more warmth and sunshine into our lives. This summer is particularly celebratory. I welcomed Bind, the first book in my series the Lotus Detective Agency.  I talked a little about the book previously. This month I’d share an excerpt with you – and would love your feedback.

Here’s a little background:

Everything that happens in a yoga studio is not Zen. Sometimes it’s grand larceny. Three yogis, two cops, and one damn cute dog join forces to discover who’s stolen a Patek Philippe watch from what was supposed to be a secure locker.  Time is ticking.

And here’s the excerpt from Bind.

Ten yogis are in various stretches, twists, meditations, and yawns when Kristi walks back into the studio. She forces a smile, and the smile spreads of its own accord into her muscles, her bones, her heart. This is her sanctuary. She is at home here. The rawness she feels is still there, but it has moved to the edges now.

Today’s bind is a yogi squat. One leg is extended; the other is bent. One arm goes under the bent leg; the other goes around the back until they meet. In theory. Lexie can’t wait until this month is over, and it’s only day three. Bhodi looks around the room to see if anyone else has completed the bind. Surprisingly, Honey seems to have easily maintained the squat and the bind. Bonnie begins the countdown until she can come out of the contortion, which for her is a little squat and a hint of a bind.

Kristi takes this opportunity to explain the benefits of binds. “These poses allow muscles to release, relax, and open. You can go deeper. You can also focus on alignment and flexibility while building strength.” She breathes in.

“Dear God,” thinks Lexie, “there’s more.”

“If you make her stop,” Bonnie says to her higher spirit, “I will give you my first born.”

Kristi continues to talk, and smile. “Remember to breathe when you’re in the bind. Don’t tighten. And come out of the bind if you feel any pain. Go to your edge, but no further.”

Archina isn’t sure where her edge is, but she fears she left it behind several minutes ago. Woo Woo unbinds. She believes in the mind, body, spirit philosophy of yoga, but enough of this shit.

If it’s one thing Kristi knows, it’s how to read a room full of yogis. The edge has been reached. She tells everyone to stand up, give themselves a hug, and as a special treat, this morning there will be an extended savasana that includes a meditation. (Kristi always has a guided meditation on her phone.) The room smiles, even Bhodi. Eleven bodies move from the vertical to the horizontal. Archina grabs a blanket; Lexie puts a bolster under her knees; Kevin, the newest member of the group, reaches for his socks.

The Dalai Lama is midway through his 13-minute meditation on the disturbed mind when the studio door opens. Twelve faces turn to look at the human who belongs to the shoes that just clomped into their zen-like state. All twelve agree, zen is overrated. Standing at the entranceway to the studio is a 6’2” man with ripped muscles, ebony skin, and a three-day stubble. “He can bind with me any time he wants,” Kevin thinks.

It takes the intruder less than a second to realize he has interrupted the class at an inopportune time. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “I thought class was over.”

“We’re running a little late,” says Kristi in a voice the class has not heard before.

“Please continue,” says Ripped. “I will come back.”

“Too late now,” says Bhodi. He gets the evil eye from most of the class.

“How can we help?” says Kristi introducing herself.

Ripped steps forward, hand extended. “My name is Michael …”

Before he can continue, Woo Woo interjects. “No, it isn’t. Your name is Lewis.”

The demi-god looks at her in surprise. He’s not alone. The whole class stares at Woo Woo.

“I’m so sorry,” Woo Woo says turning a deep magenta. “I don’t know why I said that.” But she does. Sometimes a thought, an image, a tickertape runs through Woo Woo’s mind. She knows it’s a message, and she usually tries to convey it. On this occasion, she wishes she hadn’t.

Michael turns back to Kristi, leader of the pack. “Terrell. Michael Terrell.”

“Did you want to join the class?” Bhodi asks. The snark is obvious.

“Please,” thinks Kevin. “Please join.”

Terrell smiles. “It’s on my bucket list, but today I’m here for a less pleasant reason. I’m a detective with the Halifax Police Department. I’m looking into a watch that seems to have gone missing from the gym.”

Kristi tries to control her breathing. No one else tries to control anything. Lexie’s eyes fly wide open. Charlene gasps. Bonnie recoils.

Honey farts.