Tag: writing

Adventures in Anthology-Land

~ janispattersonmysteries ~ 3 Comments


by Janis Patterson


I like the anthology format – a short (ca 20K words) length which is appealing to today’s sound-bite sensibilities, several authors, which means several different stories, several different viewpoints, several different styles even if written around the same theme. This broadens the target audience and exposes every one of the contributors to readers they might not otherwise have reached.


On top of my standalone releases I do two Regency-set romance anthologies every year – one with a summer theme and one set at Christmas. Great experience, great publisher, good financial returns – everything needed to give me a totally overblown opinion of my own knowledge and powers.


At an informal gathering of some long-time (multiple decades) writer friends (all working professionals) we were talking about the market and what we could do to improve our sales. Suddenly struck with an attack of the stupids, I suggested “Why don’t we do an anthology ourselves? A mystery anthology?” (Yes, I have seen all the Mickey Rooney/Judy Garland movies where someone always cries, “Hey! We’ve got a barn… why don’t we put on a show?”)


After a lot of chatter and very little good sense, we decided to peg our anthology to underserved holidays. I mean, who needs another Christmas or Valentine’s Day anthology? Who has even seen a Labor Day or Memorial Day or St. Swithin’s Day anthology? It’s practically a virgin field.


We decided to start with July Fourth, each of us writing a story about our choice of the various wars that have defended our freedoms. I – for some unknown and unfathomable reason – chose World War I, about which I knew next to nothing. Now I know a lot, much more than is needed for a 20,000 word novella, but that’s the way things go.


Fortunately, as all of us are long-time professionals, all skilled in the mystery genre, coming up with the ideas and actually writing the stories were not difficult at all. What drew us all up short was the non-writing stuff.
Who is going to do the formatting? We all have different formatters, or do it ourselves. What about covers? Same thing. But those were small problems, easily handled.


It was the business side that drew us up short. Now we have all self-published with varying degrees of success, so the mechanical part didn’t faze us, but the financial part did. The vendors only take one name and social security number, so whomever we used would get stuck with the tax bill. There are ways around that, with a portion of the buy-in to be set aside to recompense that person, but it seemed dreadfully complicated. None of us are particular mathematical geniuses (genii?) so through the kind generosity of several other writers we got names of a couple of companies that did fee-splitting, which relieved our minds immensely. The only sad thing is, by the time we got this far it is much too late to get the July Fourth book release on track for a proper pre-release. The only choices we had were to rush it through and sell a less-than-ideal product or put it off a year so we could give it the professional send off – and offer our readers a professional product.


So what did we do? Of course none of us could face putting out a less-than-professional product, so it should be ready for pre-order next June. You expected something different? Of course, that left the question of what to do between now and then… go back to our individual projects after making a release schedule for the July Fourth anthology? Take a much-needed break from writing at all?


Hey, people, we’re writers. What on earth would make you think we would do anything so sensible?
The new anthology is titled Bloody New Year! and is centered on New Year’s Eve/Day. It will be ready for pre-order 15 November. Don’t forget to get your copy!

In Praise of Envelopes

~ susanoleksiw ~ 8 Comments

Scattered around the house, until I finally gathered them in one place, were a number of pretty, well-decorated pads of paper in various colors. Some are aqua with little sprigs of white flowers in one corner; others are yellow, or pink, or off white with cute titles such as To Do, or Not To Do, with a row of colorful books at the bottom, below the hand-drawn lines. Some only say Notes in florid fonts. Some have bouquets in the corners and others have snowflakes along the borders. My favorite is the collection of library book cards that used to be found, stamped, in the back of every book. I never use any of these.

I also have a stack of journals I received as gifts. They come with nice covers and silk bookmarks, and beautiful pages, some lined, some not. I don’t use these either. When I travel, I take a plain black Moleskine journal, the small size, and it’s just the right tool for a short vacation, about a month or less.

For taking notes, keeping track of my to-do list, I use envelopes, plain white, usually used envelopes. I can’t break myself of the habit. When I get the mail the first thing I do is examine the envelopes, hoping for one that isn’t stamped or printed on the back, torn or stained. The envelope might end up with coffee spots on it, or smears of butter from a morning pastry break, but I don’t want it to begin that way. I want pristine, a pure white envelope calling me to list all the goals I have for the day, the list of things I believe, in my arrogance or delusion, that I will get done in the next ten hours. I can be very ambitious, and with small handwriting to accommodate the space, I can list a month’s worth of tasks on the back of a No. 10 envelope.

When I think about it, I admire my smarts in choosing this disposable vehicle for my ultimately disposable thoughts. The item is plain, it fits neatly into my hand, and there’s room on the back for additional notes and clarification. Because the No. 10 envelope, a standard size, is 4 1/8 in by 9 1/2 in, it is roomy enough for a clear statement of the task but not so roomy that I’m tempted to get wordy. There’s no point in a to-do list if it reads like a lecture or an essay. In addition, it folds neatly to fit into a pocket, and slides into my purse easily.

This week I cleaned my desk and found no less than seven (that’s seven) envelopes packed with things to do, books to read, household chores to get to, handymen to keep in mind for various repair jobs (I live in an old house), and writing ideas so terse I had no hope of ever figuring out what I had intended. That’s okay. I always tell myself if it’s a good idea, it’ll come back—several times—until I either get to it or discard it. I’d crossed out much of the items on each envelope, and as I read through the remainder I smiled at my plans, and was glad to let them go. I have new ones now.

There’s another reason I like envelopes, one that I rarely admit to myself. You can probably guess what it is, or who I’m going to refer to. In my quiet writerly life, I’ll never rise to the level of him, the great one, nor will I ever write anything so perfect as to be quoted decades or centuries after I wrote it. But here I sit, with my stack of envelopes honored by having its own desk drawer, thinking of what is possible with a simple envelope. The great man’s example is simple and can be summarized by anyone, and is always worth remembering and thinking on. Be direct, be honest, be brief. This is good advice for the writer, no matter what she writes on. Thanks, Abe.

Spring Has Sprung

~ janispattersonmysteries ~ 5 Comments

by Janis Patterson


I have never had any trouble being lazy, which is a difficult thing for a writer to overcome. Our careers – to say nothing of our incomes! – depend on us being self starters who have to be responsible for getting everything done when it is due.


And that’s hard to do at any time, let alone when warm weather has finally returned, and the song of the hot tub, or the pool, or the garden is heard in the land. Frankly, I much prefer being on the porch, a glass of iced tea beside me, watching the antics of doves, blue jays, cardinals and lots of little brown birds jockeying for supremacy at the bird feeder, and the squirrels hanging around at the bottom of the pole, hoping for some spillage. Sometimes a hawk will fly overhead and suddenly everyone disappears, either under the deck or into the leafy trees. Then, once the dark shadow is past, they’re back chowing down. There must be some sort of wildlife telegraph about sucker humans who put out free food, because every day there are more. I fully expect the next time I oversleep there will be a delegation knocking peremptorily at the patio door.


See? See how easy it is to wander off into current pleasure – especially when ‘current’ is so beautiful and enticing – when you should be concentrating on immediate deadlines. I have to finish one book, am halfway done on another, really need to do some research on a long-neglected non-fic history, format a special edition paperback for the goody bags at our SCV reunion in July and… I’m sure there are several other somethings, but can’t remember them at the moment. You see, the blue jays and the doves are having a ‘discussion’ about who is next at the feeder.


At least last week I presented my seminar on ‘The Secrets of Republishing Your Backlist’; it was tiring, but received quite well. I am still working on ‘Your Story – How to Write A Memoir’ that I’m giving at the end of the month in Arkansas. I think that’s all of them…


It’s so much more pleasant to sit and watch the Bird Wars, but that does not make a career. I really do have to be more disciplined. When I worked in a 9-5 job I would have fired an employee as easily distracted as I. Successful work depends on projects finished. Well, I do get my projects finished, but not in as timely a fashion as I might wish.
How do you get things done? Do you adhere to a strict by-the-hour schedule, or simply pants it, getting things done even if it means staying up all night, or something else? Let’s face it – no matter what system/systems we use, every once in a while an unkind Fate will dictate that for one reason or another we have to pull an all-nighter. Or two.


But we get it done. We’re writers, and we know what we have to do. Even when there are Bird Wars at the feeder, the temperature is perfect and the hot tub is calling seductively. We are writers.

Adapting Agatha and Other Greats by Heather Haven

~ Heather Haven ~ 8 Comments

Several days after returning from the Left Coast Crime Conference, I came down with one of those upper respiratory bugs that are sent to try us. After making sure it wasn’t Covid or RSV, I accepted and dealt with it. Medicated up the wazoo, bored out of my mind, and feeling sorry for myself, I turned to what I always have in times of trouble – murder and mayhem.

One to never let me down in that department is Agatha Christie. I think I’ve read everything she’s written and loved them all. I even liked The Big Four, considered one of her worst. Frankly, I’m convinced that even her worst novel is better than a lot of other writers’ best, but maybe I am prejudiced.  Whatever, it was Agatha Christie Chicken Soup time.

Assessing the situation, I realized the Kindle was being charged and any reading materials in the bedroom were aaaall the way across the room on bookshelves. Doped up and lazy, I reached for the remote. I managed to stream in a collection of several versions of Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple done throughout the years. I glommed onto Joan Hickson, who I feel is the quintessential Miss Marple, sharp but seemingly befuddled, all-knowing but not pushy about it. And here she was, in one of my favorite Christie stories, Nemesis. I blew my nose, settled in, and went back to jolly old England during the fifties aboard a week-long motorcoach of historic homes and gardens.

Before long, everyone aboard the bus winds up to be a suspect, of course, having either won the tour or offered hard cash to join. Most damning of all, each was a player in a past … secret. But nothing throws Miss Marple for long. She’s there, complete with godson companion, in accordance to the wishes of a recently deceased friend and millionaire, to right some horrible wrong from the past, no matter what the consequences. Thus, the name Nemesis. Guided by a biblical saying “Let Judgement run down as waters and righteousness as a mighty stream,” the story moves forward and pretty much follows the original, Christie plotline which is chilling, fiendish, unique, and satisfying.

I got greedy. Right next to this episode was yet another Jane Marple thespian, Geraldine McEwen, appearing in the very same mystery. I thought, well, why not? The comparison of both might be fun, and Lord knows I’m not very busy. So, hubby brought me a cup of herbal tea, a scone, and I settled in again. Okay, not a scone. It was actually a chocolate croissant but munching on a chocolate croissant doesn’t sound quite right for the occasion.

Ms. McEwen presents an intelligent, twinkling Marple, as if she knows whatever she is saying is clever and important and you’ll catch on in your own good time. I found her Marple charming. I liked her. The storyline, not so much. In fact, I was completely at a loss as to what was going on. It still took place on a bus tour of historic homes and gardens, a few years after WWII, and there were a host of odd characters showing up with familiar character names, but they were nothing like the original ones. In short, there was no similarity on any level to the book or even the 1989 Joan Hickson version.

This version involved missing airmen, whackadoodle nuns, scarecrows, and a bust of Shakespeare used for nobody’s good at all. Even the villain was different and once revealed, was an unsatisfying one, at best. I couldn’t blame the budget. It looked to me as if the same amount of money and attention to detail went into making the 2007 version as it had the one done twenty-years earlier. But this 2007 Nemesis made no sense. I became cynical. Some hotshot somebody or other, under the guise of transporting the work from one medium to another, thought they could do a better job of Agatha Christie’s story than Agatha Christie. As Puck says, “What fools these mortals be.”

Not-so-cleverly segueing over to Shakespeare, here is someone else whose stories are often played with as fast and as loosely as Agatha’s. They have cut, added, rewritten, edited, obliterated, updated, melted down, puffed up, refined, and poured over brine everything he has written. It is rare to see his work performed in any of its original form, especially the same historical period. Too old hat. Others need to put their stamp on it. So if you’re off to see the latest version of Macbeth, it might have a Polish circus or a Macon, Georgia, WWII prisoner of war camp as a backdrop.

Back to Agatha. I remember one horrible adaptation of And Then There Were None in 1989. They called the movie Ten Little Indians. This particular novel has had many titles throughout the years. Namely, different forms of Ten Little Somethings Or Other. Not much worked until they came up with And Then There Were None, which might seem to give the plot away but apparently doesn’t. And it’s PC.

Regarding the plot, the scriptwriters changed the location from an island along the Devon Coast and plopped it amid an African safari at the bottom of a ravine, their idea of remoteness. Here, the roar of a surrounding pride of lions can often be heard but are never seen. I suspect the big cats were too embarrassed to be caught on-camera. Even Donald Pleasance and Brenda Vaccaro could not save one single moment of this dreadful interpretation. And yet I watched every frame, hoping against hope it might save itself. After all, it was Agatha’s work. Maybe somebody in charge got a clue and reverted back to what worked in the first place. Maybe somebody saw the rushes. Maybe the Serengeti rose en masse and took back its own.

Nope.

One reason for the wild takeover of someone else’s work could stem from filmland’s past history. From 1930 until 1968 every single movie, including adaptions, had to follow the guidelines of the Motion Picture Production Code of 1930, also called the Hays Code. The Code was a strict master and you’d better believe it. It didn’t mess around, it didn’t compromise. If the code found one scene didn’t meet those standards, the entire movie could be scrapped. Goodbye production, cast, and crew. Hello breadline. Below is a link to what a studio had to deal with: https://cinecouple.hypotheses.org/files/2017/07/Code_Hays.pdf. That’s still no excuse for some of the stunts adapters pulled throughout the years, even though sometimes rewriting had to be done. Unfortunately, it did give those with power, money, and ego a chance to play around with a genius story until it resembled the original work in title only.

Here’s an interesting fact, though, in the it-pays-to-be-good category. No matter what a screenwriter, actor, producer, or director does – and they can make all the idiotic versions they want – the reality is nothing can diminish the author’s original WRITTEN words. Anyone who wants to know the talent and timelessness of the Bard or the Queen of Mystery and others like them, have but to sit down and read their books. The power of the word. It never goes away.

The Blank Page

~ susanoleksiw ~ 5 Comments

Like many writers before me, I get a deadline for an assignment and spend the days, weeks, or even months leading up to it thinking about what I’ll write. If I pick something lighthearted, I have to consider just how far to go in the humor direction. If the topic is serious, I worry I’ll sound earnest (Oh, the shame!). Either way, I let my mind wander, make a few notes as I go along (and try to keep them on the same pad of paper), and sit down to write with ample time to revise and edit. And then on the day when I’m supposed to post, I plan to finish the essay with a light and quick rewrite, just to keep it fresh. I open a new page, and there it is. The blank page. I’m catatonic.

What is it about the blank page that makes my brain go blank as well? I look at that white sheet which now has the vastness and strangeness of the Sahara covered with a blanket of snow, and I haven’t a thought in my head. Not even an idea that I’m looking at a blank sheet of paper on a computer screen. Nothing. 

I had so much to write about this morning at 5:30 a.m. I woke up to the morning sun lightening the New England sky, reminding me that today was supposed to be a nice day, upper 50s along the coast, possibly even hitting 60 degrees. A good day to be outside tackling the weeds and cleaning things up for spring planting. I had the luxury of just lying there thinking about all that I could do today after I posted my blog for the fourth Saturday, my regular day for Ladies of Mystery.  But by the time I got to my desk and laptop, something unbeknownst to me was draining my brain of every idea I’ve ever had.

I’ve thought about ways to cheat the blank page of its power to cripple me. It’s possible that pulling up a page from an earlier post will stimulate my tired synapses to get popping, but then I have to make a decision and choose a page. Nope. Still crippled. I could pull up a page from the novel I’m working on (and have been since last summer—what’s with that?) but then I’m liable to fall right into my usual funk of trying to figure out what’s wrong that scene or the other one in the same chapter. Not good for morale, which I need right now.

If you, reading this, are also a writer, you’ve probably already shut your eyes hard against a painful memory of a blank page, the one that just wouldn’t let you get started on what you hoped would be your greatest ever WIP. This experience drives me to question, what is the purpose of the blank page? And I’ve decided it’s the Universe’s way to test us, to make sure we know what we’re doing. If I pulled up a new page and started tapping out advice for ingrown toenails, the Universe would be telling me I’m in the wrong business—I’m not a writer; I’m a frustrated podiatrist. Perhaps I decide to explore the drawing or designing function on my computer. Okay. Problem. No words. 

The blank page is the test for me every time. I don’t know what I’m going to write. Even if I think I do, I don’t know what’s going to come out. No matter how much I plan, no matter how much energy I waste on sample paragraphs or opening lines, the minute I look at that blank page, I go blank, white, empty, nothing. And then something comes up, something not planned, not expected, not even understood sometimes. There it is, and a wonder among wonders, For me writing is like breathing. I don’t really know how it works, but I know that it does and that’s enough for me. I thank the Gods of Desperation and go on typing.

Facing the blank page forces me back on myself every time—challenging me to trust that whatever shows up, making my fingers wiggle and stretch, spreading those black squiggly things across the white space, has to be what matters to me at that moment. On this I have no questions, which is good because I also have no answers. I take it all on faith.

I write because I have to, and I accept what comes also because I have to. It’s me.