Hubby and I just returned from the Central Coast (California) community of Arroyo Grande. The weather was wonderful! Sunny and gorgeous. As we drove down the coast, the ocean sparkled. People who want to visit California beaches would be smart to go in February when the weather is often sunny as can be. In the summer, often the fog rolls in, making it chilly.
The weather was quite a contrast to the previous weekend when we were in snowy Chicago. We loved that too, though. In fact, I thanked the organizers of Love is Murder, our reason for being there, for having such a lovely snow storm for our entertainment.
The reason we were in Arroyo Grande was for me to participate with the Central Coast chapter of Sisters in Crime in a library presentation–which I did, of course. I’m always up for talking about my books and meeting new people. A chance to go to the coast was a huge incentive. We used to live in Oxnard (which is near Ventura) about one mile from the beach, and frankly, I miss the proximity to the ocean.
It was in Oxnard that I first became interested in writing about law enforcement. Our first house was in a neighborhood with police officers, firemen, and Navy personnel and their families. We partied and had coffee with our neighbors and got to know them all very well. Years later, my youngest daughter married a police officer who loved to tell me stories about what happened on his shift–he even took me on a tour of the police station and on a rather scary ride-along.
In my Rocky Bluff series (much darker than my Deputy Tempe Crabtree series), I’ve drawn quite a bit on my experiences from the days I hung out with those policemen and their families. If you’re interested, here’s a video about the latest book, Smell of Death,
http://au.youtube.com:80/watch?v=B1Q_1YJe2XQ
And to bring this back around to the beach, the Rocky Bluff series is set in a fictional beach community somewhere on the coast between Ventura and Santa Barbara–with some resemblance to Oxnard back in the time when I lived there.
Traveling around to promote books is fun, though not at all profitable. What I truly like best is meeting new people and my travels have been a great way to do it.
Now, back to working on my income taxes. Ugh!
Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Monday, February 11, 2008
Fiction is easy; Living is hard
We all know that feeling. Those times, we've stared at the computer screen for an hour and found that we couldn't even compose a shopping list, let alone the next chapter of an overdue book. We've all experienced that panicky sensation that our muses have taken a Celebrity cruise through the Panama Canal and forgotten to take us along or even send a post card.
And then there are those moments, when I've worked myself up into a frenzy, when I've started checking the want ads for administrative assistant jobs because I don't think knowing how to make a fabulous matzoh ball soup is a marketable skill, and something happens which essentially is a message directly from the Lord telling me to "chill, girl."
I had one of those epiphanies a few weeks ago. I was visiting the M. Allan Fogelson Regional Branch Library in Voorhees, New Jersey, with fellow Stiletto author Maggie Barbieri. It was a lovely, lovely event, billed as "Tea and Crumpets with Mystery Authors." The turnout was great (and the refreshments were fantastic!).
I had just started talking about my book and the creative process when a group of 10 teenaged boys joined the audience. While they're not the standard mystery fans found at these events, they listened respectfully as Maggie and I talked about our work.
Afterwards, one of the boys shyly approached me, encouraged by a man I assumed was the group's leader. The teen told me he was 14 and liked to write. I asked him to tell me about one of his stories. It was a fantasy tale about a young boy who was locked out of his home for three days. He detailed a series of adventures and dangers, and the surprise twist at the end -- the hero wakes up and finds it was all a dream.
Later, privately, the group leader explained that these teens were from a program funded by the Juvenile Justice Commission of New Jersey. They were at risk kids who'd already entered the court system. This program was an alternative to a detention center. A final chance to turn around lives headed for big trouble. And the fantasy tale this boy wrote? Not so much a fantasy. He lived it.
My emotions were all over the place.
I was furious that any child should have to worry about where he will sleep at night. That should be a given.
I was worried about this youngster's future. On a basic level, would he learn from the program, get an education, pursue his dream? Or would he ditch this chance and end up back in the courts? Would he be locked out of a future?
And then there was the reality check. Was this child smart enough, strong enough, stubborn enough to pursue a life as a writer? For all the thrills and satisfaction that writing brings me, I also know how frustrating and disappointing this career can be when the mail brings another rejection letter. The odds of a high school basketball player making it to the pros are .03 percent. I'd bet that those are the same odds for a high school kid making it as a professional writer.
I don't know what I can do to help that child – and the millions of others like him. Writing – his and mine – can be one answer. For him, it can be a way of channeling his emotions and using words, not violence, to handle the frustrations of his life. For me, writing can be a way of exposing the underbelly of life, with all its glory and despair.
I always end my library talks with the explanation that I write mysteries because I want the good guys to win. How I hope that there can be the same neat, clean resolution for the real-life story I heard in Voorhees.
Evelyn David
http://www.evelyndavid.com/
And then there are those moments, when I've worked myself up into a frenzy, when I've started checking the want ads for administrative assistant jobs because I don't think knowing how to make a fabulous matzoh ball soup is a marketable skill, and something happens which essentially is a message directly from the Lord telling me to "chill, girl."
I had one of those epiphanies a few weeks ago. I was visiting the M. Allan Fogelson Regional Branch Library in Voorhees, New Jersey, with fellow Stiletto author Maggie Barbieri. It was a lovely, lovely event, billed as "Tea and Crumpets with Mystery Authors." The turnout was great (and the refreshments were fantastic!).
I had just started talking about my book and the creative process when a group of 10 teenaged boys joined the audience. While they're not the standard mystery fans found at these events, they listened respectfully as Maggie and I talked about our work.
Afterwards, one of the boys shyly approached me, encouraged by a man I assumed was the group's leader. The teen told me he was 14 and liked to write. I asked him to tell me about one of his stories. It was a fantasy tale about a young boy who was locked out of his home for three days. He detailed a series of adventures and dangers, and the surprise twist at the end -- the hero wakes up and finds it was all a dream.
Later, privately, the group leader explained that these teens were from a program funded by the Juvenile Justice Commission of New Jersey. They were at risk kids who'd already entered the court system. This program was an alternative to a detention center. A final chance to turn around lives headed for big trouble. And the fantasy tale this boy wrote? Not so much a fantasy. He lived it.
My emotions were all over the place.
I was furious that any child should have to worry about where he will sleep at night. That should be a given.
I was worried about this youngster's future. On a basic level, would he learn from the program, get an education, pursue his dream? Or would he ditch this chance and end up back in the courts? Would he be locked out of a future?
And then there was the reality check. Was this child smart enough, strong enough, stubborn enough to pursue a life as a writer? For all the thrills and satisfaction that writing brings me, I also know how frustrating and disappointing this career can be when the mail brings another rejection letter. The odds of a high school basketball player making it to the pros are .03 percent. I'd bet that those are the same odds for a high school kid making it as a professional writer.
I don't know what I can do to help that child – and the millions of others like him. Writing – his and mine – can be one answer. For him, it can be a way of channeling his emotions and using words, not violence, to handle the frustrations of his life. For me, writing can be a way of exposing the underbelly of life, with all its glory and despair.
I always end my library talks with the explanation that I write mysteries because I want the good guys to win. How I hope that there can be the same neat, clean resolution for the real-life story I heard in Voorhees.
Evelyn David
http://www.evelyndavid.com/
Friday, February 8, 2008
Where Have All the Bad Guys Gone?
Back in the day, I wrote a murder mystery. As in – back in the day – before I was published. Looking back, I realize the problem. I am a terrific wimp when it comes to violence, since I will absorb all information about such things and imagine them happening to me. As my dear friend Julianna Baggott said to her children when they wanted to watch a scary movie with her, “I get scared playing CLUE.”
Me too, which is why I don’t think I could bear to do the research involved in creating a convincing murder-mystery. It’s the way I am. There’s a deep niche in my brain that collects danger, disaster, death and destruction, and a long slippery chute by which all things happy drop through a trap door, never to be seen again.
Despite, or perhaps because of, this character flaw, I have to say that the most common complaint/compliment I hear from readers is this inability to murder those who deserve it. I speak of the many letters I’ve gotten having to do with a particular character in my first novel, DIANA LIVELY IS FALLING DOWN. Readers are vociferous, they are unequivocal, and many of them are after blood, or at least justice. You see, my protagonist, Diana, is married to an overbearing, some might even say vile man. As my most recent email, from an eminent, internationally known scholar of comparative religions, proclaimed “And as for Ted--what a shmuck! A really memorable literary asshole!”
One of my first letters came from a federal prosecutor in Arizona who was deeply disappointed by my ending, only because he felt that Ted had gotten off far too easily. (Of course, I reminded him that this is what sequels are for.) Sweet little old ladies with names like Eustice and Bertha write to ask why I would have neglected the opportunity to ‘cut off the man’s balls and hang him up to dry.’
Certain reviewers and friends alike have quibbled that surely there did not really exist in nature a villain as bastardly as Ted, while others still have congratulated me for finally ‘outing’ what they see as a fairly pernicious trend among certain people who manage to be both successful at their subject area but complete failures when it comes to those things for which their careers don’t give awards, say kindness, generosity, a propensity to ask others (including their wives and children) about themselves, that sort of thing.
Now, on the other hand, I have many many professor friends who are the opposite of this. I’m married to one, my very best boy friend, who is, at this very moment mixing me a martini and cooking dinner. I hang out with the good ones, and there are many. However, I must report, gentle readers, that there does exist, both in nature and way more frequently in culture, such a creature as Ted.
If you clicked on the links above, you may have noticed my vile husband contest. First, I apologize that the deadline of December 31st, 2005 has come and gone, but the truth is that 1.) I didn’t get a single entry and 2.) I don’t have the technical wherewithal to change the date or details of the contest without falling into the rabbit hole known as the learning curve of internet protocols.
Poor web management aside, I’m flummoxed. Is there not a single woman who can tell me a story I might share with others? (Believe me, I will change his name and yours too.) I myself have seen real, live, vile husbands on other women’s arms and wondered how in the world they managed to STAY MARRIED. In fact, it was curiosity about that general question, the witnessing of some seriously difficult husbands and just the slightest bit of imaginative fairy-wand-waving that made me write the book in the first place. (The fairy-wand thing came from my niece, Tasha, who, when she was in second grade would wave her hand through the air at people she didn’t love a whole lot and say, with a flourish and a pointed finger “POOF, you’re gone!”)
So that’s the sort of mystery I’m bent on solving. Where have all the vile husbands gone? Has some group of geriatric vigilantes come along and hung them out to dry, their most precious valuables removed for safekeeping? Or have I set the bar too high, asking for a completely vile person when no one is exactly such. Even Ted had his strengths, which will, if I ever publish the sequel, be tested. The poor man will already suffer at least a short exile to Wales, sans alcohol and professional status, plus shallow in-laws, wandering wife, and a baby-on-board.. Until then, I leave it to my hosts, women with gumption, gumshoes and at least a little glitter, to bravely go where few before them have gone, into the Ass-Hat-Sphere, magnifying glasses in hand, to seek revenge, or even revelation, of the crimes no one, or at least no one in my cyber-circle, is willing to commit. (At least to memory.)
Sheila Curran
Thursday, February 7, 2008
My Love for Tom
I freely admit it – I have no innate sense of direction. I can get lost going around the block. More than once I've pulled into a center travel stop off a major highway, filled up with gas and coffee, and promptly headed back in the direction from which I'd come. The problem was even worse when I was traveling on country roads – which I have to do quite often for my non-writing job. As a coping mechanism, I'd make notes to myself – right turn, left turn, two miles past the yellow house, etc. I could usually find what I was looking for, but getting back home was a real challenge even with the post-it notes turned upside down.
Recently, I took a trip back to a town where my family and I had lived for several years, starting when I was in the third grade. I hardly recognized anything. No familiar landmarks. Nothing. My brother, two years younger than I, and only a second grader the last time he'd been to the location, knew exactly where to turn off the country road to get to the place where our grade school used to be located (the building was no longer there). Do you think there is a GPS gene? Is this a male versus female trait?
In my defense I never had to read a road map until I was in college. How does that happen? Why didn't someone teach me how to read a map in Driver's Ed? Of course, those old folded maps you purchased at gas stations, didn't always give you enough information to make a travel decision. Was that dashed line a goat trail or a perfectly passable two-lane road?
On-line Google and Yahoo travel maps with turn-by-turn directions substantially improved my life! Of course I still had to read and drive at the same time – which was always tricky in traffic. And what happens if you're in the wrong lane to make your turn? Once you're off the Google map, what do you do? I know what I did. I circled a lot. Two years ago I circled St. Louis for half a day – and visited three states - before finding the one I-44 W connection.
This Christmas, all that changed. This Christmas I fell in love. His name is Tom Tom.
I received a portable Garmin Tom Tom gps unit as a gift. Now I always know where I am, where I'm going, and when I'm going to get there. Life is good.
Last week I drove from Tulsa, Oklahoma to the Love Is Murder book conference in Rosemont, Illinois (a Chicago suburb) without even one missed turn. Snow was blowing the last hour and I couldn't see the exits, much less read the road signs, but my buddy Tom kept talking to me, telling which lane to get in and when to turn, turn, turn.
In the hotel bar I told my publisher Karen Syed about my new love. She agreed that he was a great asset on a long trip, but warned me about becoming too dependent. Some day Tom might not be there. Her own Tom had experienced sudden death on her drive from Maryland. At a complete loss and feeling betrayed, she'd had to call her husband and get driving directions via her cell phone.
I guess at some point in any relationship, the romance is over. I'll try to prepare myself for it. Maybe buy a few maps and stuff them in the glove box. Just in case.
But for now, Tom is here, glowing brightly on my dashboard. My love for him knows no end.
Evelyn David
(directionally challenged no more)
Recently, I took a trip back to a town where my family and I had lived for several years, starting when I was in the third grade. I hardly recognized anything. No familiar landmarks. Nothing. My brother, two years younger than I, and only a second grader the last time he'd been to the location, knew exactly where to turn off the country road to get to the place where our grade school used to be located (the building was no longer there). Do you think there is a GPS gene? Is this a male versus female trait?
In my defense I never had to read a road map until I was in college. How does that happen? Why didn't someone teach me how to read a map in Driver's Ed? Of course, those old folded maps you purchased at gas stations, didn't always give you enough information to make a travel decision. Was that dashed line a goat trail or a perfectly passable two-lane road?
On-line Google and Yahoo travel maps with turn-by-turn directions substantially improved my life! Of course I still had to read and drive at the same time – which was always tricky in traffic. And what happens if you're in the wrong lane to make your turn? Once you're off the Google map, what do you do? I know what I did. I circled a lot. Two years ago I circled St. Louis for half a day – and visited three states - before finding the one I-44 W connection.
This Christmas, all that changed. This Christmas I fell in love. His name is Tom Tom.
I received a portable Garmin Tom Tom gps unit as a gift. Now I always know where I am, where I'm going, and when I'm going to get there. Life is good.
Last week I drove from Tulsa, Oklahoma to the Love Is Murder book conference in Rosemont, Illinois (a Chicago suburb) without even one missed turn. Snow was blowing the last hour and I couldn't see the exits, much less read the road signs, but my buddy Tom kept talking to me, telling which lane to get in and when to turn, turn, turn.
In the hotel bar I told my publisher Karen Syed about my new love. She agreed that he was a great asset on a long trip, but warned me about becoming too dependent. Some day Tom might not be there. Her own Tom had experienced sudden death on her drive from Maryland. At a complete loss and feeling betrayed, she'd had to call her husband and get driving directions via her cell phone.
I guess at some point in any relationship, the romance is over. I'll try to prepare myself for it. Maybe buy a few maps and stuff them in the glove box. Just in case.
But for now, Tom is here, glowing brightly on my dashboard. My love for him knows no end.
Evelyn David
(directionally challenged no more)
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Of All Things Super and Fat
I was going to write about teachers, and I promise I will, but since it’s the day after Super Tuesday, two days after the Super Bowl, and it’s Mardi Gras or Fat Tuesday—the superest of quasi-religious celebrations—as I write this, I need to address all of these topics. Today we’ll be talking about things that are either Super or Fat. Or both.
Let’s start with Super Tuesday. I was lucky enough (or was at the top of the alphabet enough) to partake in one of those surveys from a local college about the primary. Now’s a good time to disclose that I’m not a poller, a pollist, or a pollizer, whatever the term is. I’m polarizing and want to learn to pole dance but know nothing about polls. I can answer questions (or thought I could until I partook in this poll) but I could never write a substantive or informative poll question. So, I feel a little guilty talking about polls in a mildly disparaging way, but let me detail the kinds of questions I was asked. Then you can decide for yourself. After we got through my age (somewhere between seventeen and a hundred and fifty), my race (let’s just say that I’m somewhere between the color of alabaster and whale blubber), my income (hey, I’m a writer—take a guess!), and number of children (of the ones who will claim me as mother, just one, although I’ve borne two), we were ready to go with the real questions. Which were harder to answer than I would have imagined.
First question. “Did Caroline Kennedy’s endorsement of Barack Obama make you more likely or less likely to vote for him?”
And already I was stumped. Love Caroline Kennedy but I hadn’t given the whole thing much thought.
“Well,” I stammered. “It really doesn’t make a difference.”
Now she was stumped. “You have to answer the question.”
“More likely?” I guessed.
She let out a sigh of relief. “Great. Next question. Did Ted Kennedy’s endorsement of Barack Obama make you more likely or less likely to vote for him?”
I could see where this was going but all I could think of was that I had looked in the mirror that very morning and thought that my hair was starting to look like Ted Kennedy’s. The question should have been “Did seeing Ted Kennedy endorse Barack Obama make you more likely or less likely to call Carla, the hairdresser, to set up a hair appointment?” But I decided to play it straight with her on the whole endorsement question. “Less likely?” But may I mention that my head looks more fat than super right now? No, you may not.
More relief on the pollster’s part. The questions continued in this vein until I admitted that “Project Runway” was just about to start and I needed to go. Because in my world, at this time and in this place, whether or not Romi can pull out a win over Christian is all I need to know. I also need to know if jodhpurs are coming back in style, too, because if so, there’s some work I need to do. And it has nothing to do with sewing and everything to do with liposuction. Because the legs? They are fat.
Onto the Super Bowl. I'm still in a state of shock and awe. Although I will admit that I don’t have a stomach for contests that are decided by a mere field goal and that I did go to bed with a pillow over my head so I couldn’t hear the outcome. And as a result, missed the David Tyree catch heard round the world that broke open the game and brought the Giants their first Super Bowl win in many, many years.
The moral of this story? Hang tough and watch the game as hard as it is to do it. Otherwise you will miss something super.
And onto our last topic: Mardi Gras. Tonight is our church’s annual celebration of Fat Tuesday, which is basically a pot luck supper in the gymnasium. There are silly hats, free beads, and thankfully, no exposing of one’s bare torso. (Yet. There’s also free wine and beer, so it’s just a matter of time really.) It’s a family affair and I do love me some free beads. But the weather is lousy, I have to run the gauntlet that is voting in this town (what district am I in? I can never remember when confronted with all of those tables and little old ladies eating Dunkin’ Munchkins—hey, which will make you fat even if it is Super Tuesday!), and I haven’t made a proper dinner in weeks. I owe my family at least one decent meal and by golly, Fat Tuesday is the day for it! And let’s face it: dragging the kids to a church function in the middle of the week won’t be an easy task. Even with the promise of free beads.
Oh, and incidentally, I just ordered my first pair of Spanx, from what I gather, great for the stomach fat and super tight. Stay tuned to see if I, like my friend--we'll call her "M."--will use the jaws of life to free myself from them in the ladies’ room during a bat mitzvah. I’ll let you know in the coming weeks.
You now have my musings on all things super and fat. Do with them what you will.
Maggie Barbieri
Let’s start with Super Tuesday. I was lucky enough (or was at the top of the alphabet enough) to partake in one of those surveys from a local college about the primary. Now’s a good time to disclose that I’m not a poller, a pollist, or a pollizer, whatever the term is. I’m polarizing and want to learn to pole dance but know nothing about polls. I can answer questions (or thought I could until I partook in this poll) but I could never write a substantive or informative poll question. So, I feel a little guilty talking about polls in a mildly disparaging way, but let me detail the kinds of questions I was asked. Then you can decide for yourself. After we got through my age (somewhere between seventeen and a hundred and fifty), my race (let’s just say that I’m somewhere between the color of alabaster and whale blubber), my income (hey, I’m a writer—take a guess!), and number of children (of the ones who will claim me as mother, just one, although I’ve borne two), we were ready to go with the real questions. Which were harder to answer than I would have imagined.
First question. “Did Caroline Kennedy’s endorsement of Barack Obama make you more likely or less likely to vote for him?”
And already I was stumped. Love Caroline Kennedy but I hadn’t given the whole thing much thought.
“Well,” I stammered. “It really doesn’t make a difference.”
Now she was stumped. “You have to answer the question.”
“More likely?” I guessed.
She let out a sigh of relief. “Great. Next question. Did Ted Kennedy’s endorsement of Barack Obama make you more likely or less likely to vote for him?”
I could see where this was going but all I could think of was that I had looked in the mirror that very morning and thought that my hair was starting to look like Ted Kennedy’s. The question should have been “Did seeing Ted Kennedy endorse Barack Obama make you more likely or less likely to call Carla, the hairdresser, to set up a hair appointment?” But I decided to play it straight with her on the whole endorsement question. “Less likely?” But may I mention that my head looks more fat than super right now? No, you may not.
More relief on the pollster’s part. The questions continued in this vein until I admitted that “Project Runway” was just about to start and I needed to go. Because in my world, at this time and in this place, whether or not Romi can pull out a win over Christian is all I need to know. I also need to know if jodhpurs are coming back in style, too, because if so, there’s some work I need to do. And it has nothing to do with sewing and everything to do with liposuction. Because the legs? They are fat.
Onto the Super Bowl. I'm still in a state of shock and awe. Although I will admit that I don’t have a stomach for contests that are decided by a mere field goal and that I did go to bed with a pillow over my head so I couldn’t hear the outcome. And as a result, missed the David Tyree catch heard round the world that broke open the game and brought the Giants their first Super Bowl win in many, many years.
The moral of this story? Hang tough and watch the game as hard as it is to do it. Otherwise you will miss something super.
And onto our last topic: Mardi Gras. Tonight is our church’s annual celebration of Fat Tuesday, which is basically a pot luck supper in the gymnasium. There are silly hats, free beads, and thankfully, no exposing of one’s bare torso. (Yet. There’s also free wine and beer, so it’s just a matter of time really.) It’s a family affair and I do love me some free beads. But the weather is lousy, I have to run the gauntlet that is voting in this town (what district am I in? I can never remember when confronted with all of those tables and little old ladies eating Dunkin’ Munchkins—hey, which will make you fat even if it is Super Tuesday!), and I haven’t made a proper dinner in weeks. I owe my family at least one decent meal and by golly, Fat Tuesday is the day for it! And let’s face it: dragging the kids to a church function in the middle of the week won’t be an easy task. Even with the promise of free beads.
Oh, and incidentally, I just ordered my first pair of Spanx, from what I gather, great for the stomach fat and super tight. Stay tuned to see if I, like my friend--we'll call her "M."--will use the jaws of life to free myself from them in the ladies’ room during a bat mitzvah. I’ll let you know in the coming weeks.
You now have my musings on all things super and fat. Do with them what you will.
Maggie Barbieri
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
On Writing About a Culture I'm Not Really a Part Of
(Yes, I know that’s terrible grammar, but "On Writing About a Culture of Which I’m Not Really a Part" sounds terribly stilted.)
My heroine, Deputy Tempe Crabtree is an American Indian and I’m not. My closest relationship to native people are my daughter-in-law and a four-year-old great-grandaughter. When I first created Tempe, her native blood wasn’t a big part of life. With each book, she learns more and more about her roots. I’ve learned right along with her.
Tempe belongs to the Yanduchi tribe which is part of the Yokuts. Yanduchi is not a real tribe, though quite similar sounding to one. The Yokut Indians have many off-shoots and were and are located all over the Central Valley of California. The Bear Creek Reservation where many Yanduchi live has a strong resemblance to the Tule River Reservation which is located fairly close to where I live.
In looks, Tempe resembles my daughter-in-law who is part Yaqui, but her personality is her own. I've also been very much influenced by two female law enforcement officers I know.
Whenever I’ve put Yokut legends in a novel, the legends are true. Calling the Dead has quite a few that seemed to fit what was going on in the story. A future book, Dispel the Mist, is based on a Tule River Indian legend that isn’t well-known, but oh, so much fun to write about. To find out more about the legend, I was invited to go along with the anthropology class to the Tule River Reservation and visit the Painted Rocks.
Though I have attended Pow Wows and visited with our local Indians as part of my research, much of what I’ve used has come from books, especially when I’m writing about supernatural and spiritual aspects of the culture. I want to be respectful and that’s one of the reasons I always emphasize I’m writing fiction.
The town of Bear Creek is a fictionalized version of the town I live in, though I’ve moved it a thousand feet higher into the mountains. In all the years I’ve lived in my little town, there’s only been one murder and a second in a mountain community several miles above us. Bear Creek isn’t so lucky. The worst that happens on the real reservation are vehicle accidents on the narrow, winding road leading to the reservation and it’s casino.
Fortunately, I’m thrilled to say, the Native Americans who’ve read my books seem to like them.
My latest, Judgment Fire, besides investigating the murder of a battered wife, Tempe participates in a Starlight ceremony that opens her eyes to some buried painful memories of her highschool years.
Writing this series has brought me great pleasure and some faithful fans.
Marilyn http://fiction foryou.com
P.S. I met in person half of Evelyn David this past weekend at Love is Murder. Actually I'd met her before though I didn't realize it. We all had a great time at LIM.
My heroine, Deputy Tempe Crabtree is an American Indian and I’m not. My closest relationship to native people are my daughter-in-law and a four-year-old great-grandaughter. When I first created Tempe, her native blood wasn’t a big part of life. With each book, she learns more and more about her roots. I’ve learned right along with her.
Tempe belongs to the Yanduchi tribe which is part of the Yokuts. Yanduchi is not a real tribe, though quite similar sounding to one. The Yokut Indians have many off-shoots and were and are located all over the Central Valley of California. The Bear Creek Reservation where many Yanduchi live has a strong resemblance to the Tule River Reservation which is located fairly close to where I live.
In looks, Tempe resembles my daughter-in-law who is part Yaqui, but her personality is her own. I've also been very much influenced by two female law enforcement officers I know.
Whenever I’ve put Yokut legends in a novel, the legends are true. Calling the Dead has quite a few that seemed to fit what was going on in the story. A future book, Dispel the Mist, is based on a Tule River Indian legend that isn’t well-known, but oh, so much fun to write about. To find out more about the legend, I was invited to go along with the anthropology class to the Tule River Reservation and visit the Painted Rocks.
Though I have attended Pow Wows and visited with our local Indians as part of my research, much of what I’ve used has come from books, especially when I’m writing about supernatural and spiritual aspects of the culture. I want to be respectful and that’s one of the reasons I always emphasize I’m writing fiction.
The town of Bear Creek is a fictionalized version of the town I live in, though I’ve moved it a thousand feet higher into the mountains. In all the years I’ve lived in my little town, there’s only been one murder and a second in a mountain community several miles above us. Bear Creek isn’t so lucky. The worst that happens on the real reservation are vehicle accidents on the narrow, winding road leading to the reservation and it’s casino.
Fortunately, I’m thrilled to say, the Native Americans who’ve read my books seem to like them.
My latest, Judgment Fire, besides investigating the murder of a battered wife, Tempe participates in a Starlight ceremony that opens her eyes to some buried painful memories of her highschool years.
Writing this series has brought me great pleasure and some faithful fans.
Marilyn http://fiction foryou.com
P.S. I met in person half of Evelyn David this past weekend at Love is Murder. Actually I'd met her before though I didn't realize it. We all had a great time at LIM.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Does the Dog Die?
The Southern half of Evelyn David thought things had gone pretty well. It was her first library talk after the publication of Murder Off the Books. Good turnout, delicious refreshments, the group had laughed at the jokes and listened with interest to the creative process that goes into writing a murder mystery. She opened up the floor to questions.
"Can you promise me that no dogs or humans are killed in your book?"
Hmmmm.
Well, it was easy enough to promise the first. We guarantee that no animals were harmed in the creation of this mystery.
But as to the second? No vows could be made.
In fact, as a murder mystery, it seems to me that there is an implicit agreement between readers and the author: somebody will bite the dust. In Murder Off the Books, in fact, somebody kicks the bucket (or has the bucket kicked for them) in the first paragraph.
We decided to ignore the old showbiz warning: Never work with kids and dogs. Whiskey, the adorable and adored Irish wolfhound in our book, weighs 120 pounds, is six feet tall when she stands on her hind legs, and has never met a cheeseburger she didn't enjoy. She instinctively knows the good guys from the bad guys, offers licks to those she loves, and growls to those who are dangerous. She brings warmth, goodness, and yes, humanity, to a book that explores the origins and effects of evil.
Animals in books serve many purposes – much like they do in our lives. Of course, Whiskey is a plot device. In Murder Off the Books, the hairy beast is a sounding board for our protagonist Mac Sullivan's inner thoughts. Whiskey is also comic relief, our version of the gravedigger in Hamlet. She provides the audience with a laugh in the midst of murder and mayhem. And unlike the humans who surround her, Whiskey is clearly drawn with no shades of gray. Everybody, but bad guys, likes Whiskey.
But including a dog in the narrative is tricky. You have to appeal to readers without turning them off. I still can't re-watch Old Yeller because while I understand the dramatic purpose of the dog's death, I vividly recall the childhood trauma of hearing the rifle shot and understanding what had transpired off-screen. I'm perfectly fine with killing all the villains in whatever gruesome manner an author chooses – but anything with four legs must survive. Thank goodness Trusty in Lady and the Tramp had no more than a broken leg.
I recognize that over-crowded animal shelters and Michael Vick's off-season "hobby" are clear evidence that, in real life, animals are frequently at risk. And yet, I can't write fictional stories with that kind of storyline. It's not that those books can't be done with taste and care – but my imagination won't let me travel that road.
Clio, the Irish terrier who shares my office while I write, fulfills many of the same roles that Whiskey does. She's privy to my musings on how to create fictional havoc; she offers comfort when writer's block descends; she's always good for a laugh as she rolls on her back, four legs in the air, and waits for a tummy rub. Maybe that's the reason why I can't create stories where animals are harmed? It's too close to home.
In the meantime, I'll just re-read The Thin Man. I'll visit speakeasies, sip martinis with Nick and Nora, and toss a treat to Asta. She's a schnauzer with a nose for murder. I'd like to introduce her to Whiskey.
Evelyn David
Friday, February 1, 2008
Callie's Southern Voice
Guest blogger Fran Rizer is the author of A Tisket, a Tasket, a Fancy Stolen Casket. The second Callie Parrish mystery, Hey Diddle, Diddle, the Corpse & the Fiddle will be released by Berkley Prime Crime on March 4, 2008. Her website is www.franrizer.com
Southern literature has been defined as writings about the South, written by authors raised in the South, characterized by importance of family, importance of time and place, and use of southern voice and intellect. I didn’t set out to write the Callie Parrish mysteries to fit this description, but Callie is, in fact, southern. Why?
Write about what you know—I couldn’t count the number of times I’ve heard, read, and taught those words. They’re why the Callie Parrish mysteries take place in the south. I’ve lived in South Carolina my entire life. The laid-back charm of the land and life are as distinctive and apparent as the southern dialect.
Southerners are gracious—A successful mystery writer recommends that protagonists have “unusual occupations.” Callie was a kindergarten teacher, but she grew tired of five-year-olds who wouldn’t be quiet or lie still for their naps. She solved that problem by becoming a mortuary cosmetologist, a job she loves because her clients are silent, don’t jump around, and don’t have to tee tee every five minutes.
Write about what you know—I couldn’t count the number of times I’ve heard, read, and taught those words. They’re why the Callie Parrish mysteries take place in the south. I’ve lived in South Carolina my entire life. The laid-back charm of the land and life are as distinctive and apparent as the southern dialect.
Southerners are gracious—A successful mystery writer recommends that protagonists have “unusual occupations.” Callie was a kindergarten teacher, but she grew tired of five-year-olds who wouldn’t be quiet or lie still for their naps. She solved that problem by becoming a mortuary cosmetologist, a job she loves because her clients are silent, don’t jump around, and don’t have to tee tee every five minutes.
I’m surprised how many of Callie’s fans have worked in funeral homes. Until I set out to learn the business, I didn’t even know that in Funeraleze, Callie’s position is called a cosmetician, not a cosmetologist. I learned through the graciousness of Southerners, who, for the most part, are courteous and helpful, especially those super polite undertakers.
The graciousness of my southern relatives is why my family members didn’t freak out when I went missing at funerals and visitations. They’d be looking for me, and finally someone would tell the others, “I saw her go downstairs (or upstairs or to the back) with the mortician. She’s probably asking questions and climbing around the caskets again.”
The kindnesses of people at the School of Mortuary Science less than a hundred miles from my home and the South Carolina Undertakers Association are also very helpful. Caution to non-southerners: Beware of southern graciousness. Sometimes smiles are masks some southerners wear while they call you “Sweetie” as they knife you in the back.
The “Bless her heart” syndrome grants grace—Authors say they like to write southern because it’s okay to say anything bad about a person, so long it’s followed by “Bless her heart.” Example: “That woman is just an evil, conniving bitch. Bless her heart.” The blessing makes everything okay.
The “Bless her heart” syndrome grants grace—Authors say they like to write southern because it’s okay to say anything bad about a person, so long it’s followed by “Bless her heart.” Example: “That woman is just an evil, conniving bitch. Bless her heart.” The blessing makes everything okay.
I haven’t used that expression yet because Callie defies the stereotype and has a tendency to “call a spade a flippin’ shovel” without adding “bless her heart.”
Southerners are easy to describe—When Callie says her daddy “looks and acts just like a sixty-something-year-old Larry the Cable Guy,” nothing else is needed.
I love the grits and gravy heritage—Southern greats set wonderful precedents. William Faulkner and Thomas Wolfe wrote sentences that ran on over half a page, longer than my paragraphs. Some are about as lengthy as my chapters. (Hyperbole is part of the southern speech pattern.)
They knew about run-on sentences; they simply wrote their stories in the rhythm and flow of the South. I didn’t set out to write “southern.” Callie’s rhythm and flow are her own, and occasionally that means sentence fragments and unusual structures. Being classified as “southern” enables writers to break rules though I can’t say being southern lets me get away with murder. Callie always solves the crime...bless her heart!
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