Writing with a Buddy

Posted on April 13, 2012 by marie

A while back, I read an interesting article in the Writer’s Digest. It was an interview with Doug Preston and Lincoln Child about writers combining knowledge and forces to write together. Their bestselling novels include Relic (which was also made into a movie) and at least fifteen other titles. In the article, the fab two expressed the idea that two minds are better than one. I agree to a point, as there have been times I asked a friend to read a chapter or two of a current project and give me an opinion. Her suggestions were something I hadn’t thought of or she pointed out an obvious flaw in the flow I wasn’t aware of.

So how does it work if two writers set about writing a book? Assuming that one partner’s ego is not bigger than the other, who then makes the decisions of what stays and what goes?  Certainly the partners are going to have to be compatible in their thought process, particularly where editing is concerned. They are going to have to rein in their automatic inner editor, or set down a set of guidelines before they start writing so any disagreement doesn’t end up demolishing the project and the friendship.

At one point, you know someone’s going to take out a red pencil and start editing. How open will the other be to having whole paragraphs shaved down into one sentence? On occasion I have overturned a paid editor’s suggestion because it changed the way I visualized the character. He consistently tried to add a hand crawling up the woman’s skirt or inject a slimy remark into the dialogue.  I am no prude as far as intimacy is concerned, but there are certain things that annoy me as a reader, and one of them is very explicit sexual scenes which leave nothing to the imagination. Most everyone has had sex in their lifetime, so unless they’re looking for a turn-on, they don’t need everything spelled out, and if they are looking for a turn-on, they’re probably not going to find it in any of my writing unless they can read between the lines. I prefer subtle nuances which allow the reader to take it wherever they want to go. As in real life, a kiss doesn’t have to be a slobber fest.

I have found that it’s best not to ask friends for advice on writing. You never know where they’re coming from. A friend made a suggestion along lines similar to those in the previous paragraph, believing that I should include his suggestion because it would “spice things up.” My character, Gilda, found herself leaving a bar with Bart Wolfe, obviously headed for some hot sex in the back of Bart’s van. My friend proposed that I should have her hang her panties on the door handle. It was an interesting visual, but this was the first time Gilda had ever stepped out on her husband and she was a bit apprehensive about it to begin with and surprised that the encounter would even take place. Toward the end of the story, however, there were no holds barred and she would have swung from a chandelier if the occasion arose.

So let’s go back to this subject of dual writers. If a writer is so possessive of their ideas that they can’t or won’t listen to a second party, then it’s not a good idea. There is always someone out there who has a more interesting way of setting the scene, writing the dialogue, and in general balancing out the story, whether they are a published author or not. If you happen to be lacking in these categories and are willing to embark on the adventure, I would say – go for it. You could not only improve your own story, but your co-writer might just turn out to be an ideal person to work with and the two of you could end up with the great American novel. On the other hand, it might be like having your teeth pulled.

Posted in characters, The Writing Life, Uncategorized, writing blocks | Leave a comment

WRITER’S CRAMP

Posted on September 16, 2011 by marie

As a writer, it has always been a struggle for me to get things moving in a story line. I’m a late bloomer and much like my woodcarvings, I had to learn everything from the bottom up.  These things didn’t come naturally.  I had to explore the wood, and now I have to explore the page.  What can I create from that chunk of wood, and what can I create from that blank page?  The final product for both has to be interesting to the viewer. So I set about trimming away the excess wood so that an image can emerge, gently tapping the sharp chisels with a mallet to refine and define the form I have in mind.  When I’ve gone as far as I can with knife and chisels, the figure then has to be sanded until every flaw has been removed from the surface.  The same goes for writing, trimming the extraneous words until the sentences flow smoothly.

Writing can be a thankless job, as there is no-one but yourself in front of that keyboard, clicking away and watching the words form sentences on the screen.  The delete button works just like the sandpaper I use to smooth out the surface on the wood.  Writing is definitely not like cooking. You can’t have someone taste it, and then you add a little more seasoning until the soup is palatable.  And I’ve learned not to ask my friends to read what I’ve written.  They don’t have a stake in it.  The last thing I need to hear is that something is “cute”, a comment my own daughter made some years ago when I had her read one of my short stories.  I realized then she probably hadn’t read it. The story was far from cute.  And to add insult to injury, I recently had my feelings hurt when I asked a friend to read one of my manuscripts. His comment was that it was taking me forever to get to the gist of the story and the reader wasn’t going to stand for it.  He said it looked as though I was just putting down sentences to reach my 65,000 word quota.   Ouch. That harsh but probably well-deserved criticism made me wonder what the reason was I was writing for and it also made me realize I was trying too hard to describe the characters, the setting and the plot.

Where is the dividing line between too little and too much?  It was taking a while for the action to get started, but without the character development, there is no action.  So there was the dilemma.  I was stuck between the proverbial rock and a hard spot.  Just who was I trying to please? No wonder I was having a hard time. You can’t please two masters.  If I wasn’t happy with my writing, how did I expect the reader to be?  This is where you have to make a decision to either scrap the whole piece and start over, or place your ego in a holding pattern until you figure out where you want to go with the story.  I firmly believe that good writers have to learn to look at their work objectively, and until that process becomes second nature, a lot of mediocre writing isn’t going to pass muster with the reading public. So, excuse me while I pour myself another cup of coffee and take a good look at what I’ve written here.

Posted in case evidence, characters, jury verdicts, murder, The Writing Life, Uncategorized, writing blocks | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

SHADES OF O. J. SIMPSON

Posted on July 5, 2011 by marie

Well, I must say that the jury’s verdict issued today in the Casey Anthony trial in Orlando, Florida  astounded anyone who took the time to tune in to any of the major news channels.  This case played out for three years in the media. As the verdict was read, bells started ringing in everyone’s head. Did they hear right? Did the jury just find her NOT GUILTY on all of the major charges? In everyone’s mind, which probably included the defense attorneys, there was absolutely no way the jury was going to return anything but a Guilty on all counts charge.  Unfortunately, the ghost of murders past surfaced again by providing a jury who mimicked those assigned the O.J. Simpson trial.

The Anthony family was trashed numerous times from the beginning to the end of the trial. Casey Anthony claimed a multitude of unbelievable events which included being molested as a child by both her father and her brother, that her daughter Caylee had drowned and her father George Anthony had hidden the body, and the largest of which was that the imaginary nanny had kidnapped the child.  There is no backtracking on this verdict. She will probably get away with time served and soon be out on the streets, resuming her party life where she left off.  Like O.J., she will have to face that great jury in the sky, after which they will probably burn in hell together. That’s my opinion, and I’m sticking to it.

Posted in case evidence, Casey Anthony, jury trials, jury verdicts, justice for Caylee, murder, Nancy Grace, Uncategorized | 1 Comment

GUILTY UNTIL PROVEN INNOCENT?

Posted on June 5, 2011 by marie

Three years ago I was surfing with my remote looking for something to hold my attention for more than ten minutes. In my opinion, night-time cable television suffers from a severe case of the blahs, except on those nights when Criminal Minds or The Mentalist are on.  At the time, I was writing my first mystery and interested in gleaning whatever information I could from a well written plot. I stumbled on the Nancy Grace program and after a couple of weeks of tuning in, my ears tuned out her sensationalist catch-phrase, “Bombshell tonight!” That night she was featuring a story about a missing two year old Florida child, Caylee Anthony, whose mother had just admitted to her parents that the Nanny, Zenaida Rodriguez Gonzalez, had taken her over a month ago. Casey Anthony insisted that the nanny, later to become a glorified figment of her imagination, had taken off with the child after taking care of her for more than a year. As luck would have it, a woman by that name does actually exist, in the same town where the child went missing, and her life has turned to hell from all the publicity.

This is one of those cases where truth definitely becomes stranger than fiction. It wasn’t too long before law enforcement had wasted precious time chasing these figments. Turns out Casey Anthony hadn’t worked at Universal Studios for years, yet she “went to work” each day, dropping the child off at the imaginary nanny’s apartment. As the story unfolds, Casey’s parents received a notice from the post office that they have a registered letter to be picked up. That letter revealed that their daughter’s car (which is in their names) had been picked up some time before as abandoned and was now sitting at the tow area waiting for them to retrieve it and pay the fine. Meanwhile, Casey has been telling them she’s been in Jacksonville either attending a wedding, doing something for Universal, pursuing a potential boyfriend, etc. After they  bring the car home,  if it hadn’t been for Cindy the grandmother going ballistic about not seeing her only grandchild since Father’s Day and confronting Casey about that and about the abandoned car, this would have probably gone down as a stranger abduction and subsequent finding of the child’s body.

After three years of incarceration drama revealed by Nancy Grace featuring every jail-house video she could get her hands on, the case recently went to trial after the Court was forced to change the venue to Orlando, Florida, where efforts were made to impanel a jury who might be open-minded enough to give the defendant a fair trial. Casey Anthony has become one of the most hated people on television. Linda Baden, one of her former attorneys, seems to know more than what she’s letting on (citing attorney/client privilege) as she staunchly defends Anthony’s conduct as stemming from the sexual abuse inflicted on her during her childhood. Yes, that was the “bombshell” dropped by defense attorney Jose Baez during opening statements – that the child wasn’t missing and wasn’t murdered, but instead had drowned in the family pool and the grandfather, George Anthony forced his daughter to dispose of the body the best way she could. He went on to say that the reason Casey had woven an intricate web of lies for the past three years was because she had been sexually assaulted by her father from the time she was eight years old and victims of sexual abuse tend to zone out into another dimension when things get to be more than they can handle.  The courtroom was hushed as Baez went into great detail about George Anthony’s acts on his daughter. During this whole three year ordeal, there had never been a word uttered about this alleged abuse. Casey had continued to pile lie on top of lie about Zanny the Nanny, her many boyfriends (any one of whom she figured might have disposed of the child) and her month of partying right after little Caylee went missing.  Added to the drama are discovery by the detectives that Casey Anthony had been exploring various methods of murder on the web, including how chloroform worked and how to break someone’s neck.  The toddler’s body is eventually discovered in a wooded area some three blocks from the Anthony’s neighborhood, coincidentally a place where Casey Anthony  played as a child. The bizarre evidence includes duct tape over the mouth of the skeleton, with a red plastic heart in the center, an identical sticker found in the child’s room.

Geraldo Rivera has now joined the fray, as have most popular night-time news anchors. Rivera pounded out his theory that Casey Anthony was never properly Mirandized and if she’s convicted, the case will be overturned on appeal. Gloria Allred, famed California attorney, agrees with this theory, and many of them are taking it as fact that the defendant was abused, (just because she says so) and that’s the reason she’s such an expert at weaving a web of deception.  Dr. Drew, another popular television psychiatrist who deals with severe addiction, calls it all lies and deception by a woman who is jealous of her parents’ affection for the child.   Like most of the American public, I too have expressed an opinion that this woman is guilty of being tired of having to deal with her young child’s interference with the party life, and was probably using chloroform to knock her out and keep her quiet while she partied down the night. I figured at some point she either overdosed the child accidentally, or just decided to do away with her so she could devote more time to her new boyfriend.

So how is all this going to play out? Your guess is as good as mine. The jury is going to have their hands full in dissecting all the circumstantial evidence the State has amassed. Who knows, this might just turn out to be another infamous acquittal like in the O.J. Simpson case. The Casey Anthony case is filled with lies told so effectively that even she believes them. This is one case where truth is definitely stranger than fiction. There’s a best-seller in there somewhere. Many people hope she gets the death penalty. All I hope for is justice for the child.

Posted in case evidence, Casey Anthony, jury trials, murder, Nancy Grace, Uncategorized | 2 Comments

COVER ART AND BOOK TITLES

Posted on March 14, 2011 by marie

Last summer as I was in my Santa Fe studio, working on a sculptural art piece, I stopped to think about what I should name her.  This was a woodcarving of a woman on an antique metal bike, her hair and polka-dotted scarf flowing in the breeze.  (For a photo, see my  other blog, marieromerocash.blogspot.com ) When I added the last bit of color, and proceeded to brush varnish over it, I stopped to think about what the piece represented to me.  I named her Running from La Llorona. One of the legends of La Llorona is that she represents a mythical bogey woman who hides out in the arroyos of northern New Mexico, waiting to grab mischievous children and cart them off until they straighten up their acts. (Loosely translated, her name means “The Crier” although it sounds much more beguiling in Spanish, La yo-roh-nah.)

Along with a whole slew of artists who have been zinged in the kiester with the downturn of the economy (more than those with regular paychecks), I realized I had been running from the economic bogey person, trying to keep it from grabbing me from behind and stuffing me in a crevice somewhere. In a recession, art is the first of the commodities to go. People still need shelter, food and gas, but most don’t need art.  I’ve been creating art for thirty-five years, so it’s a little late to change careers in midstream, and I haven’t had that million selling book yet, so patience is turning out to be a virtue I need to cultivate.

In the past I have found that collectors prefer that the art they purchase have a title. Most don’t want it to be just a painting or just a sculpture. They want the artist to tell them what the piece represents. My son, Gregory Lomayesva, is a Native American artist.  He rarely adds titles to his paintings, preferring to let the viewer’s imagination take them wherever they need to go.  Much of his art comes from a space deep within which makes it doubly difficult to attach a title that anyone else would understand. If a gallery insists, he will come up with a random name, but most of the time he leaves it to the viewer.

I wondered how very odd it would be if writers didn’t put titles on their work.  I know, this is a stretch,  but bear with me. I’m trying to make up for losing that hour to Daylight Savings Time.  So think about going into your favorite bookstore and finding shelves and more shelves filled with nothing but books with blank covers. A person would have to imagine what’s inside.  So, I’m thinking that choosing a title for a book can be very similar to choosing a title for an art piece. When I wrote my memoir about growing up in Santa Fe, the title of Tortilla Chronicles came from the idea that through my entire childhood, there was always a stack of freshly made tortillas on the kitchen table.  You could put anything inside or on a tortilla, fold it over and place it in your  lunch sack along with whatever meager assortment of foodstuffs was available. Tortillas were our staff of life, and we never tired of dipping torn segments into warm bowls of beans and chili.

Some years ago I picked up a book with an intriguing dark cover, the author wearing a turtleneck sweater pulled up all the way to her nose against a black background. The book was by Nora Ephron titled I Feel Bad About My Neck, a reference to the wrinkled turkey necks that seem to appear out of nowhere as one ages.  The cover and title spoke to me, and for that reason I believe that in order to be effective, both title and cover should stir something in reader.   When I’m browsing for a book to cuddle up with on a cold or breezy Santa Fe night, I am attracted to the cover first and then the title, probably because of my artistic background.  I appreciate that some authors can pick a number or a letter of the alphabet and go with it, although “A is for Asinine” sure isn’t going to tell you much about what’s on the inside.  If you’re drawn to food, as most of us are, one  mystery writer adorns the cover with an assortment of baked goods . Somehow I never wanted to read a book about a missing cupcake, but hey, if it caters to your inner baker, buy it.  It isn’t unusual for me to change a title several times before I’m satisfied that it’s going to be the one that makes it to the final cut.  I read somewhere that the title should speak to a reader as much as the inside cover, but I believe that’s also true for the image you choose for the cover. A book about turkeys sure wouldn’t have a zebra on the cover (duh) but wouldn’t a book about a zebra sure look nice with just a black background and some carefully placed white stripes?  That would be compelling enough for me to pick it up and take a look inside.

I’m presently working on several writing projects, and decided yesterday that it’s time to get back in the studio and create a few works in anticipation of a well-mended economy by the time Spanish  Market comes around at the end of July on the Santa Fe Plaza.  Not to worry. My mind is conditioned that even while I’m doing something else my subconscious is working on writing. That’s when I should keep that voice recognition gizmo I spoke about in the previous post next to my carving knives. Then I won’t have to stop to make a note about something that just came to mind and I can just speak into a laptop, but then my Border Collie will wonder who I’m talking to since she’s the only other person in the room.

Posted in art and writing, folk tales, The Writing Life, Uncategorized | 3 Comments

KEEPING UP WITH TECHNOLOGY

Posted on February 22, 2011 by marie

In a previous post I mentioned that much of my writing begins in longhand, utilizing the many new gel pens that flow like honey and spiral notebooks. I have honed my skills in this manner because of my dislike for the laptop keyboard. If one of these companies would invent a keyboard similar to the desktop, I’d be first on their list to buy one. However, since  it appears that I’m probably in the minority, I’ll have to continue writing my own way.

The other night I was  at home kibitzing with a friend and I happened to mention that another friend in New York and I were discussing speech recognition software. Most of her writing sits in dozens of notebooks, waiting for her to process them into her Word program.  She admits to not being a very proficient typist and loathes having to start putting these chapters in order, and doesn’t feel comfortable in paying someone else to do the job for her.  We both thought it would be nice if we could just dictate everything right into the computer. (We’re both in our sixties, so that will account for the lack of savvy in certain areas.)

Sitting in my kitchen on a blizzardy Santa Fe evening, I noticed Doug was tapping on his E-phone or I-phone or whatever the latest cell phone gizmo happens to be.  He picked up one of my notebooks and read a few paragraphs out loud, then showed me his phone. Voila! There it was, one of my pages transcribed onto a Word document. My cell phone, of course, is the kind that only has one ring, Phantom of the Opera, and all it does is receive and send calls, nothing fancy. But his phone did everything but fix him dinner. He said he had a Dragon program on his phone, and as a realtor, it saved him a lot of time writing notes.

The next day I went online and found this  Dragon – Naturally Speaking, Speech Recognition Software. Since my daughter works at Staples, I had her pick up the least expensive one, which is Version 11. (The only difference in this one is it doesn’t have the I-Pod and phone apps that the more expensive versions do, but I’m not hard to please.) It took at least an hour to get everything set up, as the program needs to develop a user profile for your voice. It prompts you to read sentences and paragraphs until it “gets you”, and also takes a short voyage through all your emails and documents to determine the vocabulary you use in writing. That done, you’re all ready to go. Pop the headset on, plug it into a port, and start talking.

I set up a Word Document as usual, with the font I generally use, spacing, pitch, etc. I dictated several pages and watched with fascination as it appeared on  my screen. There is a catch to all this, of course, so reading the next few lines will save you a lot of grief. Here’s how you must dictate, using your normal voice:

tab The detective was surprised to discover that such an innocent looking nerd of a young man could have a rap sheet period But there it was period He had been arrested in Tacoma comma Washington four years before for assault on his employer period paragraph tab  (you can also say “Correct that” and it highlights a few words and you can either dictate or type over them).

So you get the idea. Reading the instructions is very important, as other things like numbers and dates have specific references. The nice thing about this is that once you get most of it down, you can scroll back and edit just as you would if you had typed it in yourself. I had to laugh, of course, since there’s not a human mind enclosed in the box, and there lies the need for proofreading. I was writing about a 1956 Chevy Impala, and it came out as “Shave E him Paula”, so the program certainly doesn’t have everything  down pat. But hey, it was a fun experience and I got a lot of typing accomplished by just sitting there reading out loud.  Right now the program is on sale at Staples for $44.00 – quite a bargain, I must say.

Posted in computers, The Writing Life, Uncategorized | 1 Comment

THE DAY THE WORLD STOOD STILL

Posted on February 1, 2011 by marie

This year we’ll be noting (not celebrating) the tenth anniversary of 9/11.  Was it just a coincidence that 911 is our universal code for emergency or was it the warped sense of humor of a terrorist who understood how the American mind works. Emergency? Dial 9-1-1.  Death and Destruction?  9-11. That bit of irony didn’t escape me. It’s bothered me ever since. I am a firm believer that the tragedy of that September day affected us all, and has continued to do so. No matter if we live over a thousand miles or fifty miles from New York City, thoughts of that day bring forth emotions secluded deep within the crevices of our brain.

I live in Santa Fe, New Mexico, which is exactly 1,758 miles from New York City.  I woke up early that lazy southwest morning eager to greet a day full of warm sunshine and turquoise blue skies. I flicked the TV on for a look at the news. I fixed myself a cup of Earl Grey tea and leaned back against the re-plumped pillows, eager to spend a few minutes more relaxing before I ventured into my studio.  When I saw the images of the jet plane headed toward the towers in some imaginary city, I thought I was watching a Tom Cruise movie, so I changed the channel, in search of the morning news.  That was the morning news. I stared into the screen, paralyzed by the images I was viewing.  No, this couldn’t be happening to us.  Not here, not in America, not in the land of the free. It must be a mistake.  I called out to my teenaged grandson to wake up.  “Something’s happened in New York, “I said. “It looks pretty awful.”  We sat together on my king-sized bed, mesmerized, the slow-motion images replaying over and over on the screen.  Ten years later, those pictures are still in my head.  The impact of the news is deeply embedded in my psyche.

I have never been to New York, but I have passed through it on the way to Boston when Amtrak put all the passengers on a shuttle when the train broke down. And I do have a friend whose nineteenth story apartment overlooks ground zero.  She doesn’t’ talk much about the events of the day. She’s been trying to write about them for ten years. The words seem to be trapped in an irretrievable whirlpool.

As writers, our words can be fueled by horrifying events such as these. I was just an observer from afar, caught in the loop of repetition of something so terrifying that I wasn’t able to wrap my mind around it. I continued to be in my own little state of denial for days, until the media storm surrounding it squeezed the life out of every single minute of each ensuing day.  I can’t begin to imagine what thoughts would be rooted inside someone who was experiencing the event first-hand. Some years later when I was putting a series of short stories together for publication, I wrote this about September eleventh.

As the road winds its way toward home, I have mixed feelings. Did I find what I was looking for all these years, or was it always there? I was pedaling my bike as fast as I could, running toward myself. Somewhere along the way I saw my reflection off in the distance, but when I arrived at the fork in the road, I was gone.

My heart thumped with the realization of how close I actually came to finding me. But then one day the world changed. Jet engines roared and skyscrapers collapsed into rubble. Silent screams echoed through the dust. Suddenly I no longer felt safe, in this America, the land of the free.

Bogey women peered from jagged curtains covering closed windows, beckoning me to come closer, to look into the depths. But I turned and ran, feigning blindness. Who was there left to believe? The straight and narrow path had become a winding road leading to uncharted territory. Scarecrows sat ominously in fields of corn whose kernels baked in the late summer sun. All that was reliable disappeared from view. In its place came chaos, panic, fear, unrest and a hunger to find, regain, or retain love. I was no longer wrapped in my blanket of security, my American flag.

My tears flowed behind me as I spun around in every direction; a great whirlpool of black dust swallowed everything in my midst. I was alone again. I wandered across the landscape, ever hopeful that a knight would come to my rescue. I had no magic slippers to transport me to the depths of my imagination; no Calgon baths to take me away. I was not the same. I will never be the same.

I gathered the charred remains of my life and gave them up to God; this Lord, this wizard, who had carried me across the yellow brick road more times than I could remember.

Excerpted from  “Lowrider Blues: Cantando, Gritando y Llorando”, (which translates to Singing, Screaming and Crying). ©Marie Romero Cash

Posted in 911, America at War, Bin Laden, New York, Terrorism, The Writing Life, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

DISSECTING THE WELL WRITTEN MYSTERY

Posted on January 26, 2011 by marie

A few days ago I was attempting  to  add a little juice to a story I was writing, and plagued by an overwhelming lack of direction. Instead of calling it writer’s block, I usually say my word bank is temporarily inaccessible due to inclement weather, and the weather here in Santa Fe has been off the charts. We’re either bundled up like an Eskimo or walking around in a light jacket. Apparently it was also affecting my mood. So I did the next best thing and drove downtown to Collected Works, my favorite book store. I browsed for a while in the mystery section, and picked up a book that looked interesting. I took it home and plumped up the pillows on my bed, grabbed a hot cup of green tea, and proceeded to spend the rest of the day chillin’. It was a good read, and I finished it off the next morning. The writer made me sit up and take notice of her particular way of presenting a story, and since I’m always sliding around the learning curve, I managed to absorb a few things. Here’s how the plot was laid out:

In the introduction you start to believe the wife is first missing and then dead.
From the way the husband reacts, you think he killed her.

Then the pedophile down the street is introduced – you start thinking he’s probably the murderer. How could he not be, he lives just a few houses away.

The detectives interview the couple’s four year old and she technically implicates the father by repeating what she heard in the hallway right before her mother went missing.

We find out that the missing woman is a teacher and she’s been spending a lot of time with one of her students,  a computer whiz, learning about how she can break into her husband’s laptop, suspecting he might be visiting porn sites. The kid is only thirteen, but you start to wonder if there’s a possibility that he might be responsible for her disappearance, since once in a while you see a news story where a twelve year-old killed off his entire family.

Then we meet the computer kid’s uncle, who is much better at helping her crack into her husband’s computer because he works for the cops and that’s what he does for a living. So we get the idea she’s starting to fall for him while the computer kid looks on. Perhaps he’s a little jealous of his uncle?

About the time the author has convinced us we’re on the right track to solving this mystery, the missing woman’s father finagles his way into the story. He wants custody of the little girl, a child he never even knew existed until he read about his missing daughter in the newspapers.

So it continues to appear as though the husband isn’t quite telling the truth, so the cops  interview the child a second time. The grandfather obtains a court order to see his granddaughter, and while the husband is processing this in his beleaguered mind, the old man shows up inside their house and tries to kill the husband.

Now the story starts moving forward at a rapid pace. The missing wife shows up in the house just in time to shoot her father while he’s trying to do away with her husband. They have a sit-down and she tells him the whole story – in a nutshell she was afraid of the computer kid’s uncle’s reaction when she tried to break their affair off so decided to run off to keep him from harming her husband and child.

But we’re not finished. The computer uncle is killed by a bomb in his car at the same time the grandfather is trying to kill the father, and bomb components are found in the grandfathers hotel room tying him to that crime. The husband then discovers that years ago the old guy had killed his wife in front of the daughter, and then continued to molest her. He divulges his own childhood secrets to her.

So the detectives close the file, the couple is back together, they’re having another baby, and we find out later the wife set up her father by putting the bomb stuff in his room after she killed the computer uncle. And everyone lives happily ever after.

I won’t divulge the author or the title of the book, but clearly I can see why this writer is always on the best-selling lists. The story moves along at a rapid pace and there are so many red herrings that the book starts to smell like a fish hatchery, but it keeps you turning the pages. I have spoken to several mystery writers in the past, and I’m amazed at how differently everyone approaches their writing. One fellow surely has A.D.D. as he indicates that before he even sits down at the computer, he already has the entire story in his mind so he just starts writing. That’s a skill I’d sure like to have in my box of tricks. Another writes down his story line on 3×5 cards and then begins to expand from there. Yet another author creates an entire story board on a large piece of newsprint, breaking out the entire story like a cartoon before sitting down to write. Other writers fill in character and story line sheets, so they don’t repeat the same incident in the next book and they always know what their characters have done in the past. The character sheets contain the name of the character, along with their physical description, where they work, what they do, and how that character has been developed in previous stories.

In my own writing, as a novice mystery writer, I tend to create a skeleton sketch of a story in a notebook which might just be one idea, and then sit down at my desktop. I usually start with a prologue and a first chapter if there’s something that will start the action moving forward. But the rest is a crap shoot. Sometimes I’ll write the last chapter and then go back and fill in the story as I go along. Once in a while it does seem like rocket science.

Posted in The Writing Life | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

CHOOSING CHARACTERS AND SETTINGS

Posted on January 6, 2011 by marie

A while back, someone asked me why I had chosen to give one of my main characters a Mormon background in Shadows Among the Ruins. My reply  is that I wanted Jemimah Hodge, the forensic psychologist, to stand out, to be different, and to have a host of life’s traumatic events as part of her story. So, why a Mormon? Quite honestly, I have always found that religion to be every bit as interesting as Catholicism. What drew me to it was not the religion itself, but the aspect of it which had become such controversial headlines over the years: the Fundamentalist sects that embrace the practice of polygamy. I did not intend to make judgments on anyone’s religious beliefs. It is fiction, after all, and life gives us so many subjects to draw from.

I wondered how a young woman from this culture really felt about her father having several wives and multiple children. I also wondered about how the wives themselves felt about sharing their husband with other women. Granted, when a young person is brought up in a particular lifestyle, it is all they know. Yet I wanted to explore a character who did not agree with everything going on around her. One who was single minded, independent and outspoken. Jemimah Hodge is all that and more. I gathered additional information from several television shows which depict the polygamous lifestyle. I watched every episode of “Sister Wives” and observed the faces of the three women as they tried to appear so jubilant that their shared husband was bringing yet another wife into the fold. Personally, I would have never stood for it. It was heart-wrenching to see them expending so much effort trying to convince their husband and each other that it was all right. Deep down in their hearts, I don’t believe they thought it was okay. The husband spent far more time with the new fiancee  and it appeared that he preferred her company to theirs. There was no doubt in my mind that he was acting like a love-struck teenager.

I also like to treat the setting for my stories as one of the characters. The town of Cerrillos is a wonderful little town with a magic quality about it. Right in the center there is an old trading post, an old Catholic church, and an opera house from the 1800s. It resembles an abandoned movie set, yet there is a daily hustle and bustle which gives it a remarkable energy. Although I might intimate in my book that they have a high crime rate, in actuality they do not. It is a peaceful little burg surrounded by magical hills, and populated by some very nice people.

The Crawford Ranch is actually based on the Cash Ranch, a place where an old cowgirl named Hazel Cash ruled with an iron hand from the mid-forties all the way up to her death in 1979. She was a five-foot tall ball of energy, who smoked Pall Malls and drank Jack Daniels whiskey. She herself had a colorful life, having been the proprietress of the first country music bar and lounge in Santa Fe and the owner of two well attended cathouses during the fifties. I was married to her grandson and spend many weekends out at the ranch, a life which I quickly discovered I was not cut out for. On one occasion, the mare was ready to foal and Hazel decided I should help. I followed her to the barn, knowing I wasn’t going to be much help at all. I stood around like a dummy, my feet glued to the ground. She singlehandedly delivered the foal and although it was a beautiful experience, she never asked for my help again. My brother, Ricardo, took care of the ranch for us until the will contest matters were settled, and he provided much more information about the area than I would have ever remembered.

The San Lazaro Indian Ruins are also a magical place and really are one of the few privately owned ruins in New Mexico. Originally they were part of the Cash Ranch, but after Hazel’s death the property was sold and the new owner borrowed money on the ruins and eventually defaulted.  I was fortunate to be able to introduce the ruins to local art dealer, Forrest Fenn, who ultimately purchased them and has done a tremendous job of excavating the area and documenting each find. He has written a comprehensive book on the pueblo, The Secrets of San Lazaro Pueblo. (The character Tim McCabe in Shadows is based loosely on Forrest.) His most recent book, The Thrill of the Chase, is a great read also It’s a wonderful memoir with a treasure hunt woven between the pages.

I am an avid people watcher, and my characters grow from what I see and from people around me. In the coming sequel to Shadows, I use several of my own life events to bolster the characters. When my brother Jimmy was fighting Cancer, I used his struggles with an aluminum walker to indicate the problem Jerry Frazier was experiencing as he maneuvered a walker in the story.  By far, I still consider myself a fledgling writer, learning a little bit every day. Some days the words flow like honey. Other days they are as slow as molasses.

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

WRITING BLOCKS AND CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT

Posted on December 31, 2010 by marie

Writing blocks, ah, we’ve all had them.  Some of us more than others.  I’ve been semi-struggling with a work of fiction for about six months now.  It’s a multi-generational story, and I’ve come to a fork in the dirt road.  I do most of my writing in the evenings and on weekends, when there are less distractions to deal with.  This aging, somewhat meager manuscript has spent a lot of time on the shelf along with a number of other writing projects which include a cookbook, a children’s story, and two more mysteries set in New Mexico. Every so often I’ll take the manuscript into my bedroom, where I prop the pillows up, grab an icy glass of decaf tea, turn the TV on, reach for my reading glasses and proceed to reread.  Some people might consider that to be a lot going on, but I’ve discovered that multitasking helps me to focus more on the task at hand. And besides, I do my best work in the bedroom.  Maybe I have a form of Attention Deficit Disorder, who knows?

My stories begin in longhand. I write in a notebook and then transfer it to my computer. I don’t mind typing at all and I smile when I see others doing the hunt-and-peck (two finger typing).  I was a legal secretary for a good portion of my life, and honed my skills on IBM electric typewriters (yes, you remember those), and MagCards (IBM typewriters which saved information on a 3×6 magnetic card ).  During the 1990s when my art was becoming a bigger focus than my job, my grandson insisted I buy a desktop computer.  I was surprised to find that its keyboard was so similar to an electric typewriter .  Well that worked fine, and then a few years later at my son’s prodding I tried a laptop.  He said it would free me up and I could take my work with me to the coffee shop and a host of other places.  Honestly, this didn’t work at all.  Because I type pretty fast (150 wpm or more with little effort) it turned out that all the words ran together on the laptop.  After ten minutes of typing I looked up to find  that there was nary a space between words.  I had to go back and insert spaces between  almost every word, a task I found to be very irritating and time consuming.  I never did get used to that skinny-ass laptop keyboard, so I hearkened back to my trusty pen and paper and my  handy desktop.

Back to my original topic on writing blocks. Some months ago I received an email newsletter from  Jessica Morrell, a writer/editor from Oregon who conducts writing seminars throughout the west. I had used her editing services on one of my manuscripts in the past and found her sharing of information admirable.  This particular newsletter had a section about characters and how to develop them.  She asked, “Just how much DO you know about your character?”  I realized that in most cases I  knew very little about my characters.  They were just truly figments of my mahagination (a word coined by my daughter when she was six).  Did I know their social security numbers?  No.  Did I know how much they weighed?  No.  Did I know their favorite color or alcoholic beverage?  No.   Overall, I was embarrassed how little I did know about my characters.  Jessica’s solution was to take your character out to breakfast or lunch and find out a little more about them.  I made a mental note to do just that.

The following Saturday morning I drove across Santa Fe’s busy main street over to the Santa Fe Baking Company, where I ordered a cup of Earl Grey tea and a bagel for myself and just water for my character.  She wasn’t hungry, having risen early in the day, gone out for a jog, and eaten a hearty bowl of yogurt and granola.   So I took out my notebook and proceeded to take notes of everything she said.  At first she was a bit hesitant, since she wasn’t quite sure of my motives.  After all, she had run away from her ex-husband a while back and needed some reassurance I hadn’t been hired to track her down.  I smiled assuredly and explained I was just trying to get to know a little more about her.  She smoothed her hair back with long, well-manicured fingers.  I ventured a guess that with those beautiful hands she could probably play a mean rendition of  a Rachmaninov piano concerto, and I asked about her musical endeavors.  She replied that as a child she hated the weekly piano lessons her parents insisted she partake of, but admitted that for a number of years she had capitalized on this talent to earn extra money playing at a small restaurant during her college days.

I noticed that she had a small scar in the center of her neck.  The robin’s egg blue turtleneck she was wearing was about a half-inch too low to cover it.  She must have seen me staring, as her hand quickly went to her throat.  “I was in an accident some years ago,” she said.  “My brother and I were running through the woods and I didn’t see the wire strung between two trees and I ran right smack into it.  It crushed one of the bones in my larynx and it had to be replaced with some sort of plastic.”  I nodded, a little embarrassed that she seemed able to read my thoughts and realized that‘s how her Betty Davis voice probably developed..  I was a bit uncomfortable, sitting at the table with this woman.  She had a way of answering one question without hesitation, as if she knew there was more to it than I was asking; and on the next one completely avoiding eye contact.  Yes, I wanted to know her deepest thoughts.  What did she think about life, love, war, and everything else?  What events had occurred in her life to make her appear so shallow in one light and so forthcoming in the other?  Why was she here in this small town; what was she looking for; who was she looking for?  Did she come here to renew her old acquaintances and friendships, or did she come here to hide?  And what was she hiding from?

After about an hour, she began to fidget in her chair.  I realized our interview was over.  She wasn’t at all interested in answering any more questions.  She kept looking at her watch as though she had a much more important place to be.  I waved for the waiter, paid the tab, smiled and said.  “Let’s do lunch soon.  I’ll call you.”  I haven’t been able to reach her for several weeks, but I am having lunch with Carlos tomorrow.  You remember him. He’s the tall, dark and sinfully handsome antique dealer from Buenos Aires.  I can hardly wait!

Posted in characters, The Writing Life, Uncategorized, writing blocks | 1 Comment