Once Upon a Summer Island Thriller

~ dzchurch ~ 5 Comments

It’s summer, the heart of it; fireworks have filled the sky, and the heat has set in like a hot pad on high. The grass has turned lion’s mane bronze punctuated by the yellow of blossoming mule ears. It all makes me long for a trip to my husband’s family’s cabin on an island in a lake in Ontario, Canada. It is a magical place, saved from dereliction by my husband’s mother. She paid the taxes due in the early days of the prior century.

I once charted 19 species of trees and bushes on the three-acre island a buzz with bees and even the stray firefly. I have long believed it is like no other place on earth. As an island, it is of endless curiosity to those boating on the lake. What, then, does one do to ensure the random visitors who climb the island respect it.

In a stroke of brilliance, the door to the cabin was left open, and a Red Chief pad was set out on the dining room table for those who visited to write their names or leave a note. There have been a few incidents, but very few over the nearly hundred years my husband’s family has shepherded the place.  

And, yes, visitors left notes, years of them, whole histories of those who picnicked with their children, who returned as teens, announced their marriages, and returned to picnic with their children. A history left in pencil on foolscap.

Then there are the Canadians who have property on the same bay. Friends who look out for the place. I’m thinking of one group who, upon availing themselves of the island for a bit of the Canadian pastime of beer drinking, saw that a tree had fallen across the cabin’s roof. They returned, removed the tree, fixed the roof and left a note dubbing themselves The Green Bay Boys. I met them when alone on what appeared to be a deserted island, the guys had taken the boat to go into the nearby town (about 20 miles) for lumber. They trooped up with cases of beer to sit on the deck overlooking the lake. Spying me, they grinned, introduced themselves, and offered me a Labatts, which I did not decline.

The family across the bay, whom my husband knew from childhood, lived in the original stage stop, farmed, and managed a herd of spring kittens. They also allowed our family to dock and keep the boat and the engine in a shed over the winter. They are all gone now, and we truly mourn their passing. Such good friends and times.

And if you aren’t aware, Canadians are lovely, filled with fun, and a bit understated, eh? Our neighbors created a whole mythology about the island added to with wild abandon. A dentist who buried a body on the island. A mobster who flew in on a waterplane and held secret planning meetings. Sprinkled with tales of the horse-eating fishers, just to liven up the lies.

My great-nephew. His
dad’s snap of him on the island’s deck made the perfect cover.

Then it happened. A few years ago, I sat down to write a thriller and out popped a tale of the island. Booth Island was a blast to write, rampaging out of my head chapters at a time. When I was done, it had been nine years since Boothe Treader summered at her family’s island. Twelve since her brother died on its rocky shore. She never forgave him for abandoning her, her parents for divorcing, or the dark-eyed boy who watched him drown.

Then her mother deeded her the island. And old friends lined up to welcome her back —Mike, Meg, and Penny, who all affectionately called Boothe “Boo”— or were they? She sensed she was being watched from the moment she stepped foot on the island, even before the shirt her brother died in appeared on the porch railing.

Or he came — her brother’s killer.

The lake neighbors like it, it’s about them and the lake and the nearby town. They buy copies for the bookshelves in their rentals and, every now and again, replace those taken by visitors. It even got good reviews: Masterful, suspenseful, and engaging; Church crafts a mystery rich with unease and an exhilarating climax while also offering a bold portrait of Canadian lake life; Mystery readers will be hooked by the unresolved death and quiet intrigue of this lakeside thriller.

And it’s about summer — romances, jealousies and lake friends. I’ve had a few. How about you? I suspect that’s why writing about this one magic island in Canada was such a gas. Sometimes, I guess, it is best to just sit down and let the joy flow.

Booth Island is available at https://www.amazon.com/Booth-Island-D-Z-Church-ebook/dp/B08VFCRL16/. For more information on it and my other books, go to my website at https://dzchurch.com

SCRITCH, SCRATCH, FEEDBACK

~ Kimila Kay ~ 3 Comments

I’ve always wanted to write a country song. I love country music and how artists tell stories with such few words set to beautiful music. Over the years, I’ve put pen to paper and attempted to write a poem that could possibly morph into a song.

There’s just one little problem … I don’t hear music. Can’t play music. And full disclosure, I can’t sing either!

Not to be deterred, I’ve spent hours researching how to write a song and listened to country music artists describe their process. For instance, Morgan Wallen’s song, “Dying Man,” was originally written for his young son. Morgan said having a child changed him and made him want to be a better person. The song eventually became a love song about a woman saving a man from his destructive behavior.

During my research, I came across a nugget that stuck with me … the definition of the word “scritch” in relation to guitarists plucking the strings of their instruments. I love hearing the string noise while enjoying a song, imagining the musician feeling the notes through his fingers. It surprised me to learn that this sound is also called “feedback.”

Intrigued by the definition, I Googled “scratch.” When I’m writing longhand, the scratching noise my pen makes as it moves across the paper, telling whatever story I’m writing, seems to ignite my creative juices. The simple sound opens the floodgates, and the ideas flow as I work on a novel or blog, smiling as the story unfolds in blue ink.

You guessed it, “scratch” also means feedback. One of the definitions of feedback states: as a reaction to a person’s performance of a task. Of course, there are other types of feedback. The clicking of a laptop’s keys as your fingers bang out a story. The agonizing moan of a writer struggling to craft the perfect sentence. The well-earned sigh of accomplishment when the book is finished, and you’ve typed “The End!”

During my endless hours of listening to country music, I also discovered that the stories the songs tell inspire me. An artist’s ability to describe human emotions and reactions to life in short phrases has given me ideas on how to show the same in my characters.

In “Redneck Ranch,” my hero, Wyatt Stone, is the sheriff. I decided to have Wyatt idolize Eric Church, so Wyatt, his brother, and his high school friends formed a band and sang Eric Church songs in local bars. Eric is known to his fans as Chief, a tribute to his grandfather, who was Chief of Police back in the day. Eric is also a standout singer, songwriter, and performer, but he is also a humble, kind person. I loved the idea that my character Wyatt could mirror these same characteristics. And the nickname has provided an element of humor because Wyatt isn’t crazy about the moniker. He even named his horse Chief, hoping his deputies and the townsfolk would stop using the nickname.

Another Morgan Wallen song, “Cover Me Up,” has this line: A heart on the run keeps a hand on a gun, can’t trust anyone. I used these words as a springboard for my heroine, Harley Harper, to question Wyatt’s love for her in “Willow’s Woods.” She’s had her heart broken more than once, and this line summed up how I wanted her to feel. I loved creating a scenario where Harley doesn’t feel her heart has a home. The song is about learning to trust and love again, and well, you can imagine how her and Wyatt’s journey might end in “Willow’s Woods.” I plan to carry this song into the next Stoneybrook Mystery, “Fatal Falls,” and can’t wait to see what insight it provides for Wyatt and Harley.

Another favorite song, “Oklahoma Smokeshow,” by Zach Bryan, is about a man with a woman out of his league. The word “smokeshow” is a slang term used to describe someone extremely attractive. I used the word as a way for Wyatt’s friend Britt to poke fun at Wyatt about being with someone as lovely as Harley.

All genres of music inspire me except for Rap. Knowing I wanted to weave a Christian theme through my Stoneybrook books, I studied gospel songs, too. I know several worship songs, but was thrilled when I found a lovely song called “Cowboy Church,” which was perfect for the outdoor Cowboy Church scene in “Redneck Ranch.”

In “Vanished in Vallarta,” the third book in my Mexico Mayhem series, I weaved in the lyrics (yes, I Googled and had Paty’s help in knowing exactly how one uses lyrics without going to copyright jail) from Ed Sheeran’s “Perfect,” to create a sexy dance scene between my characters, Jade Mendoza and Amado Pena.

If I controlled the hours of my day, I would spend every spare minute writing. Unfortunately, I still work and have a husband who requires a little attention now and then. Not to mention yard work that never seems to end, I console myself with the knowledge that as I clean the house, file the mounds of paper in my office, or pull endless weeds … I can listen to music and be inspired.

I still yearn to write that country song. But until the lyrics scratch across the pages of a legal pad, or I learn to hear the music in the scritch of my imaginary guitar strings, I’ll keep enjoying the feedback I get from telling my stories and writing my books.

Happy Feedback, Ladies of Mystery!!!

For Heaven’s Sake, Just Take the Photo!

~ Pamela Beason ~ 3 Comments

I’ve never been nostalgic. As a child, I often spent weeks away from home at my grandparents’ house or at the home of friends, without a single thought of what I might be missing in my own family. I am very much a creature of the moment.

I’ve also never been photogenic. People rarely believe me when I say this, but then they take a photo of me and remark, “Oh, I see. You’re right.” I’m short, my frame is square, my hair and clothes are inevitably messy, my eyes are squinty in bright light, and if I know someone is taking a picture, my face goes all stiff. I find it impossible to smile on demand. I usually try to avoid being photographed if at all possible. Only a professional photographer who takes hundreds of shots can create a presentable photo of me. Which explains why my author photo is a bit dated.

Selfies are mystifying to me. Who wants yet another photo of herself in front of another landmark? Do all selfie-takers worship themselves? As a child, I had posters of the astronauts and Olympic skiers I adored on my walls, not a single shot of myself. Equally mystifying to me are snapshots of meals or drinks or clothing on Instagram and Facebook. Living animals and plants and landscapes, I can often appreciate.

Put all of these challenges together, and it makes sense that I have very few photographic mementos of my past. In recent years, I’ve realized what a tragedy that is. Late last year, a dear friend of more than 40 years passed away. While searching for a photo to put on his memorial page, I was appalled to discover that couldn’t find any. There were a few action shots taken during backpacking adventures we’d done together, but none of just the two of us, and none of him by himself. I sat down and cried. Why hadn’t I taken more pictures? It simply didn’t seem important at the time, but now it does. I ended up cropping his image out of a photo his friends had sent to me from his solo trip to Egypt. Thank heavens my Pixel phone has a magic erase function to eradicate extraneous people from photos.

For a local adventure magazine, I wanted to write a story about backpacking the West Coast Trail, also called the Lifesaving Trail, on Vancouver Island. Of course it needed photos to illustrate the amazing landscapes and challenging obstacles along the route. I had a handful of old pictures, but none that were good or particularly useful for the article. I remember the trip in vivid detail, but I was building campfires and climbing ladders and ferrying people and gear across rivers in cable cars instead of snapping photos. Honestly, what is wrong with me?

My hiking club likes to post photos of every hike, but I have often thought, why? We have hundreds of photos of the same place. Now I get it. It’s to document the people who were there.

So now, even though it’s not something I naturally do, I try to remember to take photos of my gatherings, whether the events are ordinary or extra-special. You never know when you’ll want to look at that memory again.

So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen… by Karen Shughart

~ kshughart47 ~ 8 Comments

The song from The Sound of Music kept popping up in my head as I struggled to choose a title for this blog, which will be my last for Ladies of Mystery.  I started writing these shortly after the first book in my Edmund DeCleryk mystery series, Murder in the Museum, was published in early spring, 2018, and other than missing one a while back, I’ve managed to write every month for the past six years.

You’ve read not only about my books, investigative procedures and writing processes, but also what it’s like to live in the northern Finger Lakes region of New York, our travel experiences and family gatherings, and even eulogies for those I’ve loved. I’ve enjoyed every minute of it and feel gratified by how many wonderful and positive comments I’ve received as a result, and friends I’ve made along the way.

The decision has not been easy, it’s taken me weeks to feel comfortable with it. As I’ve grown older (and by most standards I’m in the elderly category), simplifying my life and deciding what takes priority seems tantamount to residing in a world that’s become far too complex for me as of late. Family always takes precedence, we’ve committed to spending more time with our children and siblings; also with friends whom we hold dear to our hearts. Some live hours and sometimes a plane trip away.

When I wrote the first book, my publisher asked for a series, and that’s what she got. I’m now working on book four, Murder at Chimney Bluffs, which, like the others, includes a historical backstory that provides clues to why the murder occurred, this time Prohibition and rumrunning. There was much activity between Canada and our side of Lake Ontario during that period of time, with contraband liquor unloaded onto a beach beneath Chimney Bluffs, drumlins that were created from icebergs millions of years ago.

Authoring books is a time-consuming process and one that I integrate into the other facets of my life, which include writing a monthly blog for Life in the Finger Lakes magazine, serving on the board of directors at our local library, and occasionally volunteering for other organizations here. An active social life and attendance at a multitude of cultural events are included in the colorful tapestry of our lives.

I truly appreciate that I, as a newly published author of mysteries, was given the opportunity to show off my writing skills here. Thanks so much, Paty Jager, for your unwavering support along the way and for understanding my decision at this juncture of my life, and to the rest of you who have steadfastly been with me throughout this journey.

 So, for now, so long, good-bye, auf wiedersehen, good night, and may peace and love follow you everywhere you go.

Karen Shughart is the author of the Edmund DeCleryk cozy mystery series, published by Cozy Cat Press and set in the Finger Lakes. She has also co-written two mysteries with Cozy Cat authors, two non-fiction books, and pens a monthly blog for Life in the Finger Lakes magazine https://www.lifeinthefingerlakes.com/.  A member of CWA, North America Chapter, and F.LARE (Finger Lakes Authors and Readers Experience), she lives with her husband, Lyle, in Sodus Point, NY.  Her books are available at local gift shops and bookstores and in multiple formats at  amazon.com

How’s the Weather?

~ Margaret Lucke ~ 4 Comments

by Margaret Lucke

Is it hot enough for you? Here where I live in Northern California, we’re sitting under a long-lasting heat dome—heat meaning 100° and more. And we’re not alone. Most of the country has been enduring extreme weather this summer—ultra high temperatures, severe thunderstorms, tornados, the season’s first destructive hurricane.

But at least we don’t have to endure oobleck.

Have you ever encountered oobleck? It’s green, sticky, relentless. It gummed up an entire kingdom and brought all activity to a halt.

As a little kid, I loved the stuff.

I discovered the green goo in a book in my kindergarten classroom: Bartholomew and the Oobleck, by Dr. Seuss.

Bartholomew is a lowly page boy serving the royal court of the Kingdom of Didd. The king has become bored with endless cycle of sunshine, rain, snow, and fog, and he summons his royal magicians from their secret cave and asks them to make something new come down from the sky. Bartholomew protests that this is a bad idea, but the king insists. The magicians oblige him by creating oobleck, and what results is a disaster of epic proportions. It’s up to the humble Bartholomew to save the day.

By the time I reached first grade, I’d read that book 1,247 times (approximately). I’ve been a big fan of weather in literature ever since. (If not always a fan of what’s going on when I step outside my house.)

Dr. Seuss violated the first of Elmore Leonard’s famous rules for writers, which is: “Never open a book with weather.” This book doesn’t just start with weather; it has weather on every page. Without weather, there would be no story at all.

And that’s very much in keeping with the reason Leonard gives for his directive. A description of weather may set a mood, but that’s not enough pull readers into a story. Readers want to meet the characters and jump into the action. They don’t care that it’s a dark and stormy night–at least, not until they see how the characters react to the storm and find out how it impedes the hero’s ability to solve the problem or meet the challenge set forth by the plot.

I’ve often heard it said that the purpose of fiction is to provide the reader with an emotional experience. Weather is one experience that everyone shares, and anyone whose heart has felt lighter on a sunny day or who has gripped the steering wheel tighter while driving on an ice-choked road knows that weather can evoke emotion.

When an author uses it well, a bit of weather can transport readers into the world of the story and help them relate to what the characters are going through. As E.L. Doctorow said, “Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader–not the fact that it’s raining but the feeling of being rained upon.”

Or being ooblecked upon. What a horrible mess that is! Excuse me while I try to scrape this green, sticky, gooey glop off my boots.

And whatever the weather is right now in your part of the world: Stay cool. Keep dry. Be safe.