We're off to New Zealand with Jane

Last week, India. Today, New Zealand. What a wonderful global tour my guests are providing. Join me in welcoming author Jane Beckenham to Terry's Place today.

It’s raining, and to use a cliché--which smack my hand, because as a writer that’s a very bad thing--but that darn rain is coming down cats and dogs. You see, while you live through the hazy, lazy days of summer sunshine, bbqs and beach parties, I’m stuck in the middle of winter down under.

Yep, that upside down world of ours is to blame. You see, I’m way down yonder in New Zealand. But isn’t technology wonderful! That we can ‘talk’ to each other in virtual reality and time, and yet be thousands of miles away. That Mr. Bell (of the telephone fame!) sure has a lot to answer for. I mean the man really started us all off on this world of communication.

So what is it like living below the equator!

Firstly, the basics of life

The water goes down the sink the opposite way. And if you want to dial a phone number, the numbers are back to front, and phoning emergency services – well that’s 111, not 911.

Then there's the best difference. Christmas time is summer time. No snow to make Christmas shopping a pain in the – well you know where – no delays on holiday flights because of the weather.
New Zealand is a country of just over four million people and about sixty million sheep.On a recent trip I had driving around the USA I kept remarking to my family – where are the animals? For days we couldn’t figure out what was ‘wrong’ with the landscape – then it hit us – we couldn’t find the cows and the sheep!

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Down under, a kiwi isn’t a fruit, but a wingless bird that lives on the forest floor. Here’s the mythical legend of how the kiwi lost its wings. Down under, a tamarillo is a tree tomato, and if you’re asked to ‘bring a plate’ when invited to a gathering, that doesn’t mean your hostess hasn’t got enough plates, it means bring some food! Kiwis (that’s kiwi-speak for a New Zealander, not the bird) love sayings. We can fix anything with a bit of ‘number 8 fencing wire’, everything is always ‘she’ll be right, mate’ and a banger is a sausage, and if someone says to you it’s a dag, it means it’s funny, and he’s not talking about a sheep’s derriere. A car trunk is a boot, and a biscuit is a cookie… confused… never mind, we’re a friendly bunch really.

Now if I talk about a fanny we mean female genetalia, not a derriere, and if I’m fagged out, I’m actually knackered, a.k.a exhausted. Fizzy is soda pop and a flat is an apartment and if I’ve seen a great flick, it’ll be that I’ve been to the movies.


Years ago (actually nearly a lifetime ago!) I had a penpal in the USA. When she enquired if I lived in a grass hut, I was a most indignant 10 year old. But life is a lot slower than that in the northern hemisphere, life is green and mostly clean. The country is made up of two main islands and no, we’re not near Greenland or the North Pole, just head south a bit – actually we’re opposite Australia, but not part of them – never call a Kiwi an Aussie!!! Never! LOL.


We talk with a twang (so others tell us) and our government is situated in Wellington, with a new prime minister who was elected to power the same week as Barak Obama. We expect to have another big earthquake sometime soon – they tell us and Auckland, where I live is built on 50 dormant volcanoes, but the trouble is one isn’t – and that is meant to go sometime soon!

Now, back to winter. The best time of year for a writer like me. It means I can bury myself away inside and write…and not feel guilty that the garden is being neglected, or that I don’t go out for a walk. But then, there’s always the housework waiting.

Oh, well. I suppose I can’t have it all my own way.

Happy reading everyone.

In books author Jane Beckenham discovered dreams that inspired in her a love of romance and happy ever after. Years later, after a blind date, Jane found her own true love and married him eleven months later. Life has been a series of ‘dreams’ for Jane. Dreaming of learning to walk again after spending years in hospital. Dreaming of raising a family and subsequently flying to Russia to bring home her two adopted daughters. And of course, dreaming of writing. Writing has become Jane’s addiction - and it sure beats housework.

Visit Jane’s web site,
www.janebeckenham.com or email her at neiljane@ihug.co.nz

It's All About Conflict

What I'm reading: The Prairie Grass Murders by Patricia Stoltey

On Saturday, I went to our RWA chapter meeting, where Betina Krahn was our speaker. Her topic was conflict, and I thought I'd share my notes.

She began by giving us the three most common reasons a writer gets stuck.

1. The characters aren't developed enough.
(I can relate to this one, as my detective more or less hijacked my WIP, and I need to know a lot more about him, so I know how he'll respond in any situation I throw at him.)

2. The scene is in the wrong Point of View.
The character has to have something to lose or gain in the scene. Or maybe you have to reveal some critical point, and you're in the wrong head to do it.

3. Lack of Conflict.

All fiction revolves around conflict. Without conflict, there isn't a story (well, maybe some "literary" fiction exceptions, but we're talking commercial fiction for the most part). Conflict doesn't have to be physical, 'head butting' confrontation.


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So, where does conflict come from? It's an imbalance, especially of power. (Again, power doesn't mean muscle). Sooner or later, those powers will be used, and the differential will come into play.

You can have a conflict of interests, intentions, principles, or beliefs. To overcome these, there will be battles and resistance. The opposition of incompatible wishes or expectations can drive the level of conflict higher. Again, it doesn't have to be a physical confrontation. He wants to go to the mountains; she wants to go to a spa. He expects her to do the housework; she would rather fix his car.

The clash between protagonist and antagonist produces tension on many levels. This produces uncertainty in the reader, which leads to the excitement of wanting to keep reading. And that's crucial. The reader MUST want to see how things resolve, and they have to want this from page one.

This, of course, makes fiction very subjective. What one reader finds compelling, another may find boring.

Krahn also pointed out that just like plots and characters, conflicts must also have arcs throughout the story. Characters will have conflicts with other characters as well as themselves. These arcs can be interwoven. They must also be resolved by the end of the book. If not, the book will become too predictable, and you want to keep surprising the reader.

What kinds of conflict can you consider? Krahn listed a number of them:

Character vs. Nature (fire, flood, hurricane)
Character vs. Character
Character vs. Idea
Character vs. Social/Political System
Character vs. Event (war, famine, financial collapse)
Character vs. Loss (mate, child, marriage, job, dreams)
Character vs. Fate

There are internal and external conflicts. Your character might have a, "I don't know whether to hug him or slap him" moment.

Conflict can be subtle as a whisper, or blatant as an ax blade. One character says to another, "Oh, now that blouse isn't tight at all."

Krahn suggested we work to tease out the conflict "diamonds" hidden in our ideas.
The true conflicts lie below the obvious one. Her example likened the external conflict to something in the trunk of a tree, while the internal conflicts could be found in the roots. Her example:

The basic conflict, often found in books: "Marriage Phobia." The character does not want to get married. But the author must dig down into the roots to look for reasons. "Why" is the critical question.

Is it a fear of failure? His parents divorced, and he doesn't want to risk having the same thing happen? Or the fear of loss of control? If he lets someone else into his life, it's no longer his own. Are there family secrets he would have to reveal? Is he afraid he might be making the wrong choice, and that there's someone better out there?

Before you can solve the problem in the tree trunk, you have to resolve the ones in the roots.

Krahn also pointed out something we've heard before. A misunderstanding that could be resolved with a nice chat is not enough conflict to carry a book.

She then shared numerous examples of first pages that created the "I want to know" feeling in the readers. You don't want to tell the reader what's going on. You want the reader to figure it out. In Krahn's words, the reader likes to feel smart. She suggested walking into the bookstore, taking a stack of books over to a comfortable chair, and reading the first page. Were you dragged in? If so, why? If not, why not?

Tomorrow – a trip to New Zealand! Join author Jane Beckenham as she takes us on a tour of her homeland.

Homicide Hussey: Super Cop

Detective Hussey returns today with a story of the grim reality of police work and its consequences. Somehow, I didn't think cute pictures were appropriate.


Today is Wednesday, February 11, in the Year of Our Lord, nineteen hundred and ninety-eight. I found out yesterday that Jerry Whitehead had committed suicide with a gun, in front of the Sheriff's substation in North Lakeland. He was one of the last people I would have ever thought would take his own life.

Where to start. I met Jerry in the mid 1970's. In those days, he was a seasoned veteran, and in great physical condition. He was one of the truly physically strong people I have ever met. In fact his strength was legendary.

Jerry Franklin Whitehead began his law enforcement career in 1961 at the age of 21, walking a downtown beat. Jerry was well thought of and had a reputation with good and bad guys alike for being fair but firm. Later, Jerry rode a bicycle downtown, long before all the fancy mountain bikes came along. A story is told about Jerry pursuing a motor vehicle for miles and staying with him. He just didn't know there were things he couldn't do.

In those days the area north of the railroad tracks was considered a dangerous place for everyone, including the cops. There weren't any radios and very few telephones.

You just didn't go north of the railroad without a backup...that is no one did except Jerry Whitehead. By the time Jerry's probationary first year was up, he had created a reputation that would only grow larger. Once, a call came in to the police department that there was a policeman in a fight at one of the Pine Street liquor establishments. When the patrol units arrived, they found around a dozen dazed and banged up drunks, lying in the street. Inside they found a slightly battered Officer Whitehead, uniform torn, alone, after having single handedly, thrown every patron outside on his or her respective ass.

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Another time, he ventured north of the tracks at the request of a disgusted citizen who had seen two scantily clothed winos lying in the alley behind one of the bars. Jerry located the drunks, handcuffed them and telephoned the police station for a wagon to transport. The operator told Jerry that all the units were tied up on calls and that as soon as someone was free, she would send help. That wouldn't do for Jerry. A short time later, he was seen walking into the police station's sally port with an unconscious drunk over each shoulder. He'd carried the pair a quarter of a mile.

There used to be a rock in downtown Lakeland's Munn Park. The stone was huge and weighed several hundred pounds. Jerry would take people there, especially rookies, begin discussing the weather, politics, the size of the rock, then bet the unsuspecting sucker that he could lift it. Trust me, he could lift it. Jerry won a lot of lunch money that way. Years later, the city set the rock in concrete. Jerry went over to the park and nearly broke his back, trying to lift it. He hated defeat worse than anything.

Sometimes on the midnight shift, you would find him behind a business or shopping center, grunting and sweating profusely, as he was "working out." He'd be there, lifting a full trash dumpster several feet off the ground. He just had awesome strength.

There are a hundred Jerry Whitehead stories. One of my favorites is one I wrote about in an earlier chapter. Jerry was having lunch at K.C.'s. While he was inside, Billy Hyatt tied a dead dog on the end of a short rope, and concealed the dog under the back of the officer's cruiser. When Jerry came out, he got in his car and turned West on the boulevard, then headed South on Florida Avenue. It was a bright sunny day and the streets were full of people. As Jerry drove down Florida Avenue, past the old Silver City garage, people yelled and pointed. Jerry thought everybody was waving and being friendly he flashed his huge smile and waved back. The calls started pouring in at the LPD switchboard. "Hey, one of your asshole cops is pulling some poor defenseless dog behind his car, he should be shot"... Until a grinning Sgt. Pete Petersen stopped a surprised Jerry Whitehead and made him dispose of the dog.

Jerry left the Lakeland Police Department in 1976 to take a supervisory position with the Polk County Sheriff's Department. He rose to the rank of Captain during the Mims administration, but was ousted by newly elected Sheriff Dan Daniels, who defeated Louie T. "Trooper" Mims in 1984.

For the next several years, Jerry managed and marketed restaurants for the Burger King Corporation. I saw him once, dress shirt and tie, sleeves rolled up, flipping hamburgers behind the counter of the Burger King restaurant on The Boulevard. He was sweating and moving at breakneck speed. He was a hard worker; it's how he did everything, and it's how I choose to remember him.

When Lawrence Crowe became Sheriff in 1986, Jerry went back to work for the Sheriff's Department as a deputy, shagging calls and taking orders from kids who weren't even born when he first became a cop. He did so cheerfully and with the same zeal as always. He later was able to secure a spot for himself in the agricultural crimes unit. He stayed there until several weeks before his death. It was a job he enjoyed very much.

Jerry's tenure spans several decades. He worked for numerous Police Chiefs and Sheriffs, including Lawrence W. Crowe, Jr., who had worked with Jerry as a rookie patrolman. His personnel file took up nearly a file drawer at the Polk Sheriff's office where he finished his career. No one person had more letters of commendation and awards than did Jerry Whitehead.

In 1995, Jerry again immortalized himself in the annals of police folklore. He was called to recapture 3 prize Hereford bulls that had escaped from a fenced pasture. As the giant bulls made their way down a road, Jerry planted himself firmly in their path and challenged them hoof to toe. One bull charged Jerry and knocked him out of the way. Jerry was slightly injured; the bull later died. One of Jerry's supervisors said "I always bet on Jerry, I've seen him work, no bull."

I'm sure that we will never know the truth or the torment that lead a legendary veteran to leave the Sheriff's Office building, walk to the front door of the substation and end his life with a gunshot to the head. The story circulated at the department is that he was insubordinate to a supervisor and was being bounced back to the patrol division. Probably some wet behind the ears, virgin, college boy, who wouldn't make a pimple on a real policeman's ass. I can also tell you that at age 57, it's a pretty dark prospect to have to handle calls with a bunch of rookies when you're a grandfather. You just have nothing in common with those kids.

There were many things about Jerry Whitehead that weren't saintly. He was a human being, a man, a good cop. Cops like him are a thing of the past. He was like the frontier Sheriff who lived through the end of the eighteen hundreds into the 20th century. He just couldn't make the changes. I think I know how he felt. So many other things have gone by the wayside too. Things like peaceful neighborhoods, respect, and being safe in our homes and cars. You think there's a connection?

What's in a Cover?

What I'm reading: Out of Sight, by Elmore Leonard

Lately, a lot of the books I've been reading have not only the author's name and title on the cover, but also a label telling the reader what kind of a book it is. I can see positives and negatives with this approach.



On the plus side:

If I've enjoyed a book about certain characters, it's nice to see that this is another book about Harry Bosch, or Elvis Cole, or part of a trilogy, or a set of connected books. A few days ago, Susan Wiggs posted her new cover on her blog. While the scene—or even the title wouldn't have appealed to me (I'm not big on holiday books about holidays I don't celebrate), the "Lakeshore Chronicles" on the cover would have made the sale, because I've read all the other Lakeshore books. (OK, Susan Wiggs' name would get me to buy the book, but that's not today's topic.)

I've seen books that say, "a novel" on the cover. Well, yeah. They're in the fiction section. Do I need to know that? Probably would have guessed without being told. But if the author writes both fiction and non-fiction, maybe that's a good marketing tool.

On the 'either-or' side:

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If I'm browsing the book shelves, and I'm not familiar with an author or series, it can help me decide if I might like it. Maybe it says "fantasy" or "paranormal". I'd probably walk right by. So the label can kill a sale.

Personally, I think the labels are there simply to sell books. I've read books that were supposed to be 'romantic comedy' according to the cover, but in reading them, I failed to find the humor. Of course, that's a subjective thing. Just ask my husband.

If I haven't beaten the dead horse enough already, I prefer classic mystery structure to suspense. And again – different genres. Not right, not wrong, not better or worse. Different.

Mystery and Suspense have relatively "simple" definitions. In mystery, the reader follows the detective along to solve a puzzle, and is usually a step behind. In suspense, the reader is aware of what's going to happen, and is usually a step ahead of the protagonist. There's often blending, but a rule of thumb for me, is if you see anything the protagonist doesn't, it's suspense. It's knowing there's a bomb under the table, or seeing the villain planning, or committing the crime. Even if he's faceless, the reader is aware but the protagonist isn’t.

As I was learning these terms, another one cropped up. Thriller. Everything I heard indicated that a thriller was a suspense kicked up a few notches. The problem to be avoided was of massive proportions. Death and destruction of vast numbers of people. Entire nations. Global, perhaps.

A brief trip through Google yields the following definitions:

Thriller is a genre of fiction in which tough, resourceful, but essentially ordinary heroes are pitted against villains determined to destroy them, their country, or the stability of the free world. Part of the allure of thrillers comes from not only what their stories are about, but also how they are told. High stakes, non-stop action, plot twists that both surprise and excite, settings that are both vibrant and exotic, and an intense pace that never lets up until the adrenalin packed climax.

Thriller: Often, but not always, multi-national, high energy, involving major threats such as bio-terrorism, governmental crisis, nuclear weaponry, kidnappings, serial killers; often also high-tech.

Which leads to the minus side of labeling:

Using the above definitions of a thriller, I would shy away from books labeled 'thriller'. But what about the person who does want a thriller and picks up a book labeled as such that doesn't match the expectation? I would think they'd feel cheated. I know if I picked up a mystery and the crime was unsolved, or a romance without a relationship, I'd be upset.

I saw one of my books for sale on eBay (guess that means I've "made it" as an author!), billed as an "erotic thriller." Pity the poor buyer who's expecting both erotica and a crisis of far-reaching proportions. The seller justified the 'erotic' label because she also had books from Ellora's Cave for sale, and my book is from Cerridwen Press, which is an imprint of Ellora's Cave. Logical? Um … the reason it's NOT published by Ellora's Cave is that it's NOT erotic. Ah, well. It's also a mystery, not a suspense, much less a thriller.

This weekend, thriller authors are gathering for their annual conference. Do they all write "thrillers"? I don't think so. Not by the above definitions. But maybe the organization will be able to present a more concise definition of Thriller.

Don't forget - tomorrow is Friday, and I'm sharing another chapter in Detective Hussey's book. This one is a glimpse into the "down" side of police work.

Changing Tastes

What I'm reading: Second Thoughts, by Bobbie O'Keefe

First -- thanks to Susan for taking us to India yesterday. It was a wonderful trip.

While Susan was handling comments here at Terry's Place, hubby and I played at the 'unemployed/retired' game. Technically, he's got a title, and he hasn't put in for Social Security, so he considers himself unemployed, not retired. However, his plans to drive to the coast to do some acoustical research were put on hold by a bad weather forecast, and so we went to the movies.

On a Tuesday. At 11:20 am (early bird discount). Along with one other person in the theater. But it was a romp, and he laughed enough to deem it acceptable, even if it was too heavy on the romance, not heavy enough on the comedy. (Let's remember this is the guy who put all the Pink Panther movies in our Netflix Queue--his idea of comedy.)

And now … onto the subject of today's post, which really does have a connection -- a loose one, but a connection -- to the movie: Publishing and our changing tastes.

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A newly re-discovered high school friend recently sent me a book he thought I might enjoy. Being a 'read anything from cereal boxes on up' kind of person, I gave it a shot.

After the cover, which had a vintage feel, I noticed the yellowed pages and tiny type. A quick check of the copyright showed the book was published in 1965. Another thing that jumped out at me was the 'density' of the writing. Almost the entire book was narrative. Lots of introspection. Lots of back story. All the things that agents and editors say are absolute no-no's today. Readers want white space. Short paragraphs. Short chapters. Lots of dialogue. Keep things moving.

I recall an editor who requested a full manuscript from me, who told me to check my pacing. She was kind enough to discuss it on the phone, but one of the things she said was that she could look at the pages and get a feel for the pacing. Not too much narrative, not too much dialogue. This without actually reading the words.

Times have changed. The writing style was definitely something we would consider 'literary' fiction today, although it's a romance. No doubt about it, from the man and woman embracing with a winter castle scene in the background, to the HEA, to the obvious cover tagline, "A spellbinding blend of mystery and romance…"

Today, I have my doubts that it would sell. And yes, I enjoyed the book, and I'm glad he sent it to me, because if I'd seen it in the bookstore, I probably would have dismissed it as having too much eyestrain potential.

Are today's books better than their 1965 counterparts? Or just different? Would an agent look at a manuscript where a page might contain only two or three paragraphs? Would a good story get dismissed simply because it didn't "look right" on the page? Would it ever make it past the editorial assistant (point driven home in the movie, where the assistant says, "In all the years I've worked for you, I've read hundreds of manuscripts, and this is the first one I've asked you to read."

If this book were to be reissued again (it's been reprinted many times), would the editor take the chapters which are subdivided into sections headed with Roman numerals, and make each section a chapter? Would she break the long paragraphs into shorter ones? Would she use a larger font, with more spaces between the lines?

Is it the words, or what they look like on the page that matters? And should it?

First Loves - my guest, Susan Oleksiw

Today I welcome author Susan Oleksiw to Terry's Place. Join her as she takes us on a journey to India.

My First Love

One of my favorite pastimes is wandering the aisles of independent bookstores checking out the mystery novels, looking for books by new writers and new books from old friends. Writers take me into little known corners of the world—Dana Stabenow teaches me about Alaska, Alexander McCall Smith about Africa, and Cara Black about Paris. I love learning about a new place, and I understand the satisfaction derived from writing about a city or landscape well loved. For me that place is India.


My character Anita Ray grew out of a deep love of India and a longing to experience that country when I couldn’t get there. If I couldn’t take my vacation traveling out to the beach at Kovalam, I could send Anita, watch her stop at the local temple, enjoy a bowl of fruit sitting on the beach, or ride along with her on a bus into the hills. She took me to all the places I loved but were too far away to get to.

When I was about ten years old, perhaps younger, someone gave me a book of stories set in Asia, and I was hooked. I have never forgotten that book, and I have never forgotten the moment those stories opened up an entirely new world to me. And that was about it for several years—until I was sixteen. I went to a very progressive girls’ school (which is why I still count on my fingers) and had the good fortune to be offered a class in Asian history.

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Once again the fascinating world of India (and, yes, also China and Japan) worked its magic on me, and my love of Asia deepened into a love of India specifically. After the end of the class, I spent free time looking for information on India—cutting photos out of magazines, studying images of buffalos and monsoon damage and sari-clad women and visiting museum collections of Indian art. I was not very sophisticated about it, obviously. Unfortunately, back in the 1960s, there wasn’t much information available. India was regarded as just that country with millions of people living in poverty. Who would want to know about that?

And then I went to college, where the cosmos presented India in the form of art history, and that was it. I couldn’t get enough of it—and fortunately my professor was kind and tolerant and kept devising more classes for me to take. At the end of the year, when I had to graduate—and thus leave behind all these wonderful opportunities to explore India—he announced an Asian festival for the coming year—art lectures, exhibits, dancers, visiting scholars.

I was tormented to be a worker and not a full-time student, but overjoyed to be participating anyway. (And so began my life as a writer with a day job.) And that year did it for me. An idle comment about graduate school and the following year I was on my way to the University of Pennsylvania, where I was the only graduate student studying India who did not arrive via the Peace Corps.

After living in India during two year-long trips, getting a PhD (yes, in Sanskrit), I had to get a job, again, so I reentered the so-called real world. I thought India was lost to me, and did my best to put it behind me. Then, after many years, my husband casually remarked that he had enough “miles” for a round-trip to India—for one.

I went back to Kerala, in South India, and not until I landed in Madras (the name recently changed to Chennai) did I believe I’d actually get there. When I landed in Trivandrum in Kerala I was stunned with amazement—and so were the friends who opened the door to someone they hadn’t seen in fifteen years.

That was in 1999, and I’ve been returning almost every year since, trying to remember as much Malayalam as possible, taking in the changes in the landscape (high-rises everywhere), the streetscape (girls in jeans and tight jerseys), and shops (air-conditioning!). I’ve rejoined a community of friends that, kindly, never forgot me, and now I even toy with the idea of living there for six months a year after I retire. All right, so I’m dreaming, but it feels so wonderful to imagine.

I have never questioned the appeal of this country for me—it’s something I’ve taken for granted—it’s just a part of me. A good friend feels the same way about Umbria in Italy, and another has devoted his life to visiting Guatemala and helping a certain village there. Our callings, if I may characterize this love of other lands in this way, is a mystery to me, but thanks to Anita Ray and her extended family I can play with the smaller mysteries of her life while content to live within the greater one in mine.

Susan Oleksiw writes the Mellingham mystery series featuring Chief of Police Joe Silva and the Anita Ray series, featuring Indian American photographer Anita Ray in a number of short stories. The first book in this series is UNDER THE EYE OF KALI, coming from Five Star in 2010. Learn more about Susan at her website, www.susanoleksiw.com

Names and Rules

What I'm reading: The File on Devlin, by Catherine Gaskin

I'm a clone today. I'm over at mystery author Nancy Cohen's blog, talking about naming characters. And here, I'm talking about Rules of the Writing Variety.

The other day, I saw a post at a colleague's blog discussing the "rules" of writing. She took exception to one, about opening with weather, checking books on her bookshelf to find those that "broke" it. There was an interesting discussion, although after one comment, she admitted she had no idea where the supposed "rule" had come from.

I think that's often the case. A rule, guideline, or suggestion has been around so long that it's abbreviated. And often, the context is lost. In 2001, Elmore Leonard published his article in The New Yorker where he gave ten rules for writers. The crux of the matter is that these are Mr. Leonard's guidelines to help an author, especially a beginning author, remain invisible on the page.

I thought it couldn't hurt to post some of it here – full credit to Mr. Leonard, of course. Take a minute to look at the complete rule which stops being a rule and becomes a guideline when you look at it in context. His first five today, the rest later.

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These are rules I've picked up along the way to help me remain invisible when I'm writing a book, to help me show rather than tell what's taking place in the story. If you have a facility for language and imagery and the sound of your voice pleases you, invisibility is not what you are after, and you can skip the rules. Still, you might look them over.

1. Never open a book with weather.
If it's only to create atmosphere, and not a character's reaction to the weather, you don't want to go on too long. The reader is apt to leaf ahead looking for people. There are exceptions. If you happen to be Barry Lopez, who has more ways to describe ice and snow than an Eskimo, you can do all the weather reporting you want.

2. Avoid prologues.
They can be annoying, especially a prologue following an introduction that comes after a foreword. But these are ordinarily found in nonfiction. A prologue in a novel is backstory, and you can drop it in anywhere you want.
There is a prologue in John Steinbeck's ''Sweet Thursday,'' but it's O.K. because a character in the book makes the point of what my rules are all about. He says: ''I like a lot of talk in a book and I don't like to have nobody tell me what the guy that's talking looks like. I want to figure out what he looks like from the way he talks. . . . figure out what the guy's thinking from what he says. I like some description but not too much of that. . . . Sometimes I want a book to break loose with a bunch of hooptedoodle. . . . Spin up some pretty words maybe or sing a little song with language. That's nice. But I wish it was set aside so I don't have to read it. I don't want hooptedoodle to get mixed up with the story.''

3. Never use a verb other than ''said'' to carry dialogue.
The line of dialogue belongs to the character; the verb is the writer sticking his nose in. But said is far less intrusive than grumbled, gasped, cautioned, lied. I once noticed Mary McCarthy ending a line of dialogue with ''she asseverated,'' and had to stop reading to get the dictionary.

4. Never use an adverb to modify the verb ''said'' . . .
. . . he admonished gravely. To use an adverb this way (or almost any way) is a mortal sin. The writer is now exposing himself in earnest, using a word that distracts and can interrupt the rhythm of the exchange. I have a character in one of my books tell how she used to write historical romances ''full of rape and adverbs.''

5. Keep your exclamation points under control.
You are allowed no more than two or three per 100,000 words of prose. If you have the knack of playing with exclaimers the way Tom Wolfe does, you can throw them in by the handful.

Tomorrow, my guest is Susan Oleksiw who will be taking us on a trip to India. You don't want to miss it!

The Exhumation - Part 2

This is part two of The Exhumation. Scroll down and read Part 1 first if you haven't already, or if you need a refresher. Also, if you're using IE 8 and are having trouble with the blog, I can only suggest you try Firefox, or use IE 7. There are issues with IE 8 that nobody has been able to debug, at least not that I have found.

On to The Exhumation ... Part 2

L.W. Roddenberry, or "Uncle Wayne" as he was known to his friends, arrived on the scene. After carefully placing his police hat on his head, he limped over to my car and in a friendly way asked, "What's up?"

"I can show you better than I can tell you," I said, turning and walking away fast.

As we pushed through the brush, I related the story to the boss.

When we got to the spot, I showed Wayne the makeshift grave. He agreed the situation warranted looking in to. As Wayne talked to dispatch on his walkie-talkie, I looked at the dirt. There were handprints where the dirt had been carefully packed down.

"Better step back. You might be standing on evidence," Roddenberry said. I moved closer to the sergeant.

"This might be in the county," Wayne said. "I'm having the Polk County supervisor meet me with a map."

I couldn't believe my ears. Here was a bona fide murder, and the supervisor was trying to pawn it off on another agency, letting them get all the credit. "This is our case," I whined.

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"Maybe, maybe not."

What happened next was some of the finest fancy jurisdictional footwork I have ever witnessed. For nearly three hours, the two "leaders" argued. It looked like something out of the Paris Peace Talks.

"It ends at the tracks," Roddenberry said.

"Bullshit," the S.D. Boss said, "Those aren't even the right tracks."

Finally, Wayne resorted to the old standby. "We can't determine, so you guys have got to take it, in case it turns out to be the county." The county sergeant knew he was had. By now he was also very angry that this had been dumped on him. He seemed to cool off a little, when Wayne told him he would leave me there to help out. I was pretty happy too.

What happened next was truly something to behold. For two hours, a host of law enforcement gurus began to arrive. First came additional supervisors, the watch commander and some support deputies for crime scene control. Then came the detectives from homicide and their supervisor. Then came the forensic people, with their vans and trucks and the photographers with their vans and trucks. Just behind them came the news media. The television, radio and newspaper crews. It was a multi-ring circus.

As we stood on the perimeter, keeping back curious onlookers, the homicide detectives talked quietly among themselves and smoked cigarettes. They would chuckle ghoulishly from time to time.

God they were cool, I thought.

The news media stood at the edge of the yellow crime scene tape and craned their necks like vultures, looking and listening...waiting for the first bad news.

I watched intently as the crime scene technicians worked. They wore uniforms but no guns. They had surgical masks on their faces. One held a magnifying glass in one hand as the other carefully brushed away dirt with a paint brush, being careful not to destroy any key evidence. It was a tedious process.

It began to get dark. As night fell, a generator was delivered from the fire department. The huge machine was started a several flood lights were put into service so the techs could work as long as necessary.

By now, several inches of dirt had been removed from the mound. Another truck arrived with coffee and sandwiches. I had been there ten hours. I was beginning to think this wasn't fun anymore.

Around midnight, the tedious brushing and digging gave way to a certain earnestness. The crime scene techs shouted something to the homicide dicks, who walked briskly to the edge of the would-be grave. The crime scene guys were working carefully on what appeared to be a dark plastic garbage bag. I, having been in the military remarked to one of the reporters, that it looked like a "body bag." Everyone crowded in and peered into the hole. Then I heard one of the detectives say, "Hey let's get back and give em' some room."

The brushing and digging continued for another 30 minutes when one of the techs said, "Okay, let's open it."


One guy had what looked like a scalpel and began to carefully cut the bag from one end to the other. As the opening became larger, the stench of rotting flesh hit everyone's nostrils.

The reporters grinned to one another. A big scoop. In those days a murder in Polk County was still a pretty big deal. All at once, all hell seemed to break loose. One of the forensics guys was laughing hysterically and pointing.

"What the fuck?" one homicide detective said loudly enough for everyone to hear.

"Ho-lee shit," another one remarked. "Well that beats all," one of the uniform cops said.

The sheriff's lieutenant made a circular motion in the air with his index finger extended, as if to say, "Okay let's wrap it up."

"What the hell's going on?" one female newspaper reporter asked.

The LT. noticed the bewildered reporters standing at the edge of the crime scene tape and walked over with a half grin on his face. "Folks looks like we all got roped into this for nuthin'." The deputy shot me a sharp glance.

"What's that mean?" one camera guy asked. "In the hole there," he said, pointing behind himself. "It's a goddamn dog, a fuckin' K-9, as it were. Some wino gave his pooch a fond farewell."

"Shit," was pretty much the only comment from the reporters as they gathered up their cameras and lights and packed out to the next story.

I guess everybody was pretty much pissed at me and the Lakeland Police Department. It wouldn't be the first or the last time for either of us. Well, how was I to know? It could have been a human. They all knew that too, but would never have admitted it. It would sure have done that old dog some good if he'd known how much he cost a couple of government agencies that day.

What is a Friend?

What I'm reading: Sworn to Silence, by Linda Castillo

First, my news. Yesterday, my Five Star release, WHEN DANGER CALLS was a featured read at Barbara Vey's Publisher's Weekly blog.

I'm still working on my short story, with a goal of a complete first draft by Monday. I'm not as far along as I'd hoped, but endings scare the heck out of me. I have too much fun with the writing, and can never seem to wrap things up effectively the first time around. Or the second. As I was told when I started writing, I have a beginning, a middle, and more middle.


Okay, and I watched a little too much Wimbledon. But I've thrown in the next plot twist, and have to figure out how to have "the end" hit at the right word count.

But none of this is related to the topic of today's post, unless you compare watching tennis to another time suck, Social Networking, which is the topic of today's post.

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Back in May, I blogged about Looking at the New Old Days, and included some comic strips about Social Networking Sites.

The influence of these phenomena seem to be growing exponentially. And will Dictionary.com have to revise it's definition of "friend" which has 5 definitions as a noun, and one as a verb, which it says is rare usage, and really means befriend?

Do I play? A little. I have sites at a lot of the networks. One I haven't yet succumbed to is Twitter (and there's now a whole new definition of "tweet", which has yet to hit the dictionary).

I check in to my Facebook page a few times a day. I notice a few people have dozens and dozens of updates that are fed through their Twitter accounts. Trust me, I'm not THAT interested. And even more importantly, I'M not that interesting. I think Brian Crane says it very well in his Pickles comic strip


Nor am I that interesting. Friends, Followers, whatever. I have to agree with Wiley Miller in the June 30th Non Sequitur comic strip.



When we're lucky enough to sell our house, I'm pretty sure none of those hundreds of friends I have on my social network pages are going to be helping us move.

Yes, I know there's not a lot of "meat" in today's post. I was going to talk about the differences between suspense and thrillers, but I'm saving that for another time. Please come back tomorrow for the conclusion of Detective Hussey's Exhumation chapter.

Retired? Unemployed? Whatever.

What I'm reading: Knock Out, by Catherine Coulter

Yesterday, I volunteered at an semi-annual Award Ceremony at the Sheriff's Office. The small auditorium was packed to honor those who have gone above and beyond the call of duty, as well as those retiring after decades of service.

Family and friends were invited, but I was most impressed by how many colleagues of these people took time from their day to crowd into that room. I can't help but compare it to what's going on at our place.

Yesterday was also hubby's last official day of work. He's been on half time for the last three months, but as of today, he's officially either unemployed or retired—he hasn't decided yet, since the choice to leave wasn't his. He works in a very small office, but there was absolutely nothing done to acknowledge the countless hours he's put in, going in on weekends, stepping in to do everything from crawl under desks to keep computers running, to driving across the state to represent the company at a fund-raising event.

Not to mention nary a raise in the 8 years he's worked for them. (Practice for living on a fixed income, right?) The company is headquartered in California, but they've definitely kept their hands on what's going on in Florida. Actually, "micromanage" is the term hubby used.

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And, work horse that he is, he'll be back at the office, probably every day, although the agreement says they'd like him to come in one day a week in return for a few minor perks. His new "emeritus" status gives him a desk, and he's been working on some personal, but work-related projects which he can do better there. And yes, there's the "I'll drive him nuts if he's home all day" factor which plays into it as well. But my mindset right about now is that it's all well and good for him to do HIS work at his office desk, but if I find out he's crawling under desks to fix computers, or answering questions, or anything else that he used to be paid for, I'll pitch a fit.

Unemployed or retired doesn't matter. He's not being paid for his time, and owes them nothing. Petty of me? Probably. But that's how I feel right now. And he knows he's toast if he goes to the office until next week, so we should be taking some time off for us, at least until we get sick of each other. Anyone going to start the pool for when that will be?

Meanwhile, I'm working on my short story. I'm about 5,000 words in, so I'm past the halfway point. It's quite a departure for me, since there's no "relationship" the way there would be in a romance or romantic suspense. The protagonist is a divorced homicide detective in his mid-to-late forties, and the major secondary character is a rookie cop who happens to be female. He's definitely a mentor figure, and there's none of the demand to keep building sexual tension.

To be honest, I'm having similar issues with the novel I set aside to write the short story. I have Gordon, a divorced Chief of Police, and two other POV characters, Justin and Megan, all caught up in some Very Bad Stuff. For some reason, there is an undercurrent of sexual tension building between Justin and Megan. I have a feeling that convention would require that if I give them a consummated relationship, I'll have to find a woman for Gordon as well.

It's not a romance, so I don't have the constraints of that HEA relationship, but it's starting to feel strange as Justin and Megan are alone in a hotel room, while Gordon's back in town dealing with two homicides and two break-ins. Hmmm. He's had his eye on Angie, who works in the small town's favorite bakery/café/diner. Maybe she'll notice.

Other writing updates: The release date for my Cerridwen Press short story, The Other Side of the Page is July 27th.

I got my Rita contest scores and When Danger Calls finished in the top quartile. Since it doesn't adhere to romantic suspense convention, I'm pleased to know the judges liked it.

Check back tomorrow when I'll announce the winner of my June contest. And Friday, it's the conclusion of "The Exhumation" from the case files of Detective Hussey.