Writers Plot

Breaking the rules (Blush)

2009-12-10T00:59:00-05:00

posted by Jeanne Munn Bracken

I am stepping a little out of line today and I’m going to violate one of the Writers’ Plot cardinal rules: limit BSP. I have probably mentioned here before that one of my “claims to fame” is the term BSP, or Blatant Self Promotion, coined on the DorothyL mystery lovers list quite a few years ago. I was noting in a post there that I am not a mystery author but I didn’t mind reading about others’ new books, because unless we support them, we were all in the soup and wouldn’t have anything good to read.

Didn’t know that about me, did you?

It’s also possible that you don’t know I have also written books. The Cancer Book From Hell that I’ve been complaining about for the entire life of this blog will be published next year. I promise. Finally! It is a title that will help families in distress, but I really, really hope none of you will ever have to consult Children with Cancer: A Reference Guide for Parents (Oxford University Press , 1986; rev ed 2010)

Still. About that BSP. I was also an award-winning columnist for the Littleton Independent for over 20 years, which was a lot like having a weekly blog, although the geographic reach was a bit smaller (Littleton, Massachusetts and environs vs. The World. Yep, smaller.)

But what I wrote was universal, because I was (and am) Every Suburban Woman. House, husband, kids, pets, balky cars—as Zorba would say, “The Full Catastrophe!”

I could have cried about a lot of things: my daughter’s cancer diagnosis, career challenges, dysfunctional childhood… Instead, I became a humorist, most of the time. Laughter is really good for your body and your soul. My readers laughed for over a thousand columns, and folks from my church helped me figure out which ones to include and which to deep six and hope nobody ever saw again.

For example.

At one family reunion a cousin’s spouse missed dinner because he was in the emergency room with (ahem) hemorrhoids “the size of Rhode Island,” to quote his loving wife—thereby insuring he would be the “butt” of our jokes for reunions to come.

Other people’s kids come home from McDonald’s with leftover fries. My kids brought a cat. A female cat. A pregnant female cat.

When offered a gift hamster, at least stop to think why the donor is so eager to get rid of it. Hamsters have more accessories than Barbie, and they don’t mingle well with resident cats. ‘Nuff said.

So. Let me help you laugh. (See BSP comment above.) A few years ago I collected some of my columns in a book. You will probably not be shocked to learn that I still have several boxes of this self-published book in my garage. I’m not a shy and retiring type, but I really, really suck at BSP. Totally.

Certainly some of you have bought my book and I appreciate it. Your support means a lot to me, and I happen to think you got your money’s worth of good reading. Thank you.

Anyway, for everyone else, here goes the BSP: I collected some of my award-winning columns in Someday We’ll Laugh About This, some 60 essays on imperfect families, vacationing with vehicles of questionable trustworthiness, raising daughters and coping with dozens of pets from huge goldfish to hamsters to newborn kittens. The book was put together with the help of friends from church, but don’t let that scare you off. Not to worry—it’s not a “religious” book. In the case of the few columns that mention the church, feel free to substitute “aerobics class” or “PTA meeting” for the nursery care disaster.

It’s a funny book. One fellow said he laughed so hard he couldn’t breathe. So yeah, it might be hazardous to your health in that respect, but you can probably read each essay in five minutes, so if you can hold your breath that long, you should be ok.

So. Buy my book. Email me at jmbracken@verizon.net, mention this blog, and I’ll give you a deal. Rather than $15.95 plus shipping and handling, I will sell you the book for $13 flat and eat the tax, bubble envelope and mailing costs. I’ll extend that to 2 for $25.

It’s the holiday season. This book makes a great gift for family and friends, teachers, other relatives, neighbors, day care center staff, bus drivers, Yankee swap….use your imagination. But please: give it only to people with imperfect families; others will not be able to identify.

Read my book. Whew! That didn’t hurt too much.

While I'm on a roll: Also check out my new website: www.jeannemunnbracken.com

Martha Stewart Made Me Do It

2009-12-09T05:10:00-05:00

Happy Holidays from Kate....

This is not a column about insider trading. Aren't you relieved? This is a column for those of us who are trying to get through the holidays with some semblance of style (the occasional shower, clean jeans, or bit of glitter) without having to guild the turkey carcass or serve seventeen kinds of cookies on our collection of antique silver platters covered with homemade doilies.

This year, I am so far behind that I can't say for sure that we will be having Christmas, but I'm trying. When I can remember. Which is why I'm thinking that it's a grand idea, this business of making a list and checking it twice. I'm not sure it applies so well to a woman of a certain age. That's me. The woman who can no longer remember anything. Whose store of proper nouns has been stolen, with the rest of my vocabulary not far behind.

I thought this season was supposed to be fun? Normally, I'm so organized. My holiday shopping is done by mid-November, so I can deliver presents to my brother's family at Thanksgiving. This year, aside from buying that dump truck load of books I mentioned last week, I've done nothing. No baking. No holiday cards. No stocking presents. No tree. One spindly little amaryllis that might eventually produce a bloom. The charmingly ugly construction paper turkey my niece's students made is still taped to the dining room window. I have no idea what I'm doing, despite daily trips to the post office.

I may have to break down and make some lists. For example, this Saturday, I expect that shortly after 7 p.m., the doorbell with start ringing and 50 or more of my closest neighbors and friends will arrive for a holiday party. This is a party that I can blame, entirely, on Martha Stewart . Nearly thirty years ago, she published a cookbook called Entertaining. A neighbor bought it for his wife, who made fantastic hors d'oeuvres that she served at a party. My husband was impressed, bought me the cookbook, and we decided we had to have a party. The party has gone on ever since. I'm still using Martha's recipes, and the part has become a neighborhood tradition.

Years ago, I used to cook for three weeks. I'd make dozens of phyllo dough triangles stuffed with curried walnut chicken, and dozens more with spinach. I'd make artichoke toasts and tiny orange muffins with smoked turkey. I'd make a hundred miniature smoked salmon and leek quiches. I'd chop, roll, bake, marinate, and freeze. I'd peel eggs for hardboiled eggs by the hour. That was when I was young and supple and not desperately trying to cut another 10,000 words out of a manuscript. That was when I could stand in the kitchen for six hours at a stretch without moaning, "Oh, my aching back!"

One year, just as guests started arriving, the power went off. I couldn't finish cooking my trays of goodies. No problem. I put sterno in the oven to keep things warm, put out every candle in the house, and borrowed a camping lantern so I could work in the kitchen. Lulled into happiness by candlelight and bowls of margaritas, every had a fine time. No one even knew we didn't have power until three hours later, when the lights suddenly came on. It was a magical evening.

Now, party time is almost here, and, with no memory and no list, I can't quite remember what it is that I'm planning to serve. Eggs again, probably, since two of my neighbors have already declared that they are stealing the platter and eating them all. That brought a prompt, "We SHARE in this family."

Golden brown Asian chicken wings, a recipe I got from a colleague in the Maine Attorney General's office. Smoked bluefish pate, from one of my old Thea Kozak's quick and dirty recipes. Crab cakes with caper sauce because my husband grew up in Maryland. Pedro's Secret, aka The Giant Taco, because we always have it, and it's so much fun to put all the layers together. Meatballs and tiny sausages, because they don't take any work and everyone loves them. Shrimp, likewise, with the Martha Stewart touch of a red or green pepper full of cocktail sauce in the center of the platter. The almond-stuffed dates with bacon are still a question mark.

The wise hostess stays with her own demographic. It probably won't matter whether I remember to serve food at this party or not, because all my friends also have memory issues. Together, we'll make it work. We'll light the candles, put out something on some kind of platter, put out the annual bowl of margaritas, and celebrate the season. Once again, we'll blame Martha, and love, and friendship and have some of that fun this season is supposed to be about. (At right, Sheila's apple cake, from One Bad Apple. Delicious!)

P.S. Martha could use some competition, or an updating. Anyone got a great hors d'oeuvre recipe to share?

The smoked bluefish can be found in the recipes section of my website. Let me know if you want that Mahogany Chicken Wings recipe.

Maid In America

2009-12-08T06:57:54-05:00

Posted by Lorraine Bartlett

For years, I've been teasing my husband with a line from an old "Bickersons" comedy routine. (No, I'm not old enough to remember them first-run; I got an old cassette out of the library and learned the routines playing them over and over again.) In it, Blanche wails, "Why can't I have a maid?"

When I lived in a small bedroom in my parents first house, it was easy to keep tidy. Same in my first two (small) houses. But then I got married and moved into a sprawling contemporary ranch house. (The original owners had expanded with four additions, and finished off three-quarters of the basement, too.) We, therefore, essentially have four living rooms (it only took 11 years to furnish this place), and we rotate their use on a regular basis.

I don't know how I kept the place clean when I worked a full-time job and had a booth in an antiques co-op (for 12 years), and wrote (but not published) books, as well, but somehow I managed. Now that I don't have to squeeze cleaning and laundry into my life, it's gotten out of hand.

It's been a stressful year, and cleaning the house was not on the top of my to-do list. So, after talking about it for months (okay, really, a couple of years), we bit the bullet and called a cleaning service, and then stressed about it or a whole week.

I'd always heard of women who clean before the cleaners come. "That won't be me," I said.

I lied.

Two hours before they were to arrive, I found myself on my hands and knees cleaning the bathroom floor. Decluttering took the better part of an hour. Everything got stashed in my already messy office, which we hadn't contracted for them to clean. I had to leave to run an errand, so I wasn't there when the two ladies showed up, and wondered if I could find a way to STAY away while they were there.

No such luck. They were here for over three hours.

It turns out, I'm not the only writer around who has someone in to clean. One of my (very successful) author pals said hiring someone to come in and clean her house on a regular basis was the best thing she ever did for her writing career. It freed up hours and hours every week, giving her more time to devote to her career. (And she has a REAL career.) Still, I can't help feeling guilty.

Why do women feel they should do it all? My husband quit cutting the grass three or four years ago. Same with snowblowing the driveway. Gutters? There's a guy for that, too. Wanna dig up the garden in a big way? Just pick up the phone. We both work from home--and usually seven days a week--and he doesn't feel a lick of guilt over no longer doing his "home chores." So why should I feel like I'm not holding up my end?

Will somebody tell me it's okay to have the house cleaned on a regular basis -- and not by me? (And by the way, it really is nice to have a clean house!!!)

WRITE WHAT YOU KNOW

2009-12-07T07:00:00-05:00

Posted by Sheila Connolly, with a little help from Sarah Atwell

That's one of the first rules you learn in writing. Write about something you're familiar with, so you can give your story authentic flavor, color, texture. There's one major exception: most mystery writers haven't killed anyone. I've met a lot of mystery writers, and they're all really very nice. But I do know that many of us have done such odd things as visit morgues and prisons, and even taken shooting courses, in order to get our details right. We also post all sorts of gruesome questions on various loops as we look for accurate information: "What would a body look like after being submerged in a swamp for a week?" "How far does blood spatter?"

I'll admit that Sarah and I had never seen the Southwest when we started writing the Glassblowing Series. When I did travel there, I was blown away by Tucson and the surrounding area. It was so unfamiliar, so unlike anything I had ever encountered growing up on the East Coast or in Ca lifornia (where I lived for ten years). In a way the setting became a character in its own right–the dryness of the air, the ubiquitous cacti, the mountains always on the edge of your vision. My protagonist E m Dowell was herself a transplant from Back East, so she was always aware of her surroundings.

The Orchard Series, on the other hand, was born from my chance encounter with a house built by an ancestor of mine. I've always joked that it was all those dead relatives in the town that kept calling me back, but I fell in love with the place and ended up using it in a book, and then a series of books, because I wanted to have a reason to keep going back. Once again my protagonist Meg Corey is an outsider, a city girl, so she starts out by feeling completely out of place in the small rural town–and finding a body in her back yard doesn't help! But over the course of the series she comes to appreciate small-town values, and she's making friends and finding her own niche there.

Like Meg, I'm learning as I go–and now I've picked a lot of apples, and planted organic lettuce, and walked through boggy fields, and toured farmers markets and cider mills. And talked to farmers and orchardists about the economic and practical realities of small farms in this day and age.

Next fall I'll be launching a new series, which is about as diametrically opposed to the Orchard Series as you can get (except for the intelligent and determined protagonist in each who will keep on solving murders). It "stars" the City of Philadelphia, and my heroine is an insider, someone who has lived and worked in the area for many years. She's involved in the cultural community, so you lucky readers are going to get all sorts of glimpses into what really goes on behind the scenes in museums and historic institutions.

This time I can say that I have lived in the Philadelphia area and I worked there for over a decade, and yes, that included stints in two museums. I also worked for the City itself, so I know something about how the city works. As a result, I know the sights and the sounds and the smells of the place–the bustle of the underground corridors between train stations, the wonderful vistas where you catch glimpses of the opulent City Hall, the quiet corners of history like Ben Franklin's burial site. I hope to use all of these to make the books in the new series come alive.

But I have a favor to ask of you. So far my editor and I have been calling this "Book 1" of the "Museum Mystery Series." Marketing hasn't chimed in yet with names. So tell me: what's the first thing you think about when you think Philadelphia? What terms will immediately clue you in that a book is about not only the city, but also about its history and its cultural community? All suggestions welcome, including title ideas. (So far the only strong contender we've come up with is "For Whom the Bell Cracks.)

Standing Next to Genius--The Original Christmas Carol

2009-12-04T09:41:32-05:00

posted by Leann Sweeney

While I was in New York City last year, I had a wonderful museum experience. We went to the Pierpont Morgan Library. Pierpont Morgan collected first edtions and there was so much to explore in what was once the Morgan family home. Like a handwritten original copy, one of only four in the world, of Milton's Paradise Lost. One bedroom size room was taken up with this display.

But I kept returning to one small spot in the original library with its floor-to-ceiling book shelves: a small glass display case holding the original draft of Dickens A Christmas Carol. I saw his very readable handwriting and the leather journal where he wrote one of the most socially significant books ever written. I saw his line edits, line edits not different at all from what I have done on my drafts. Oh how I wished I could take that book and hold it in my hand for just one second.

He wrote the book after a falling out with his publisher, whom he believed had cheated him out of profits from his previous book. He chose to publish A Christmas Carol on his own, staying in control of every aspect of its production. Not so different than the route some writers are taking today, and have taken for as long as books have been written. Contrary to what many believe, the book was an instant bestseller. He sold 6,000 copies the first week. But it was not enough to offset the costs he incurred in publishing the book himself. I'll bet that sounds familiar, too.

Every year, part of the minimal decorating I do for the holidays is to take out my copy of A Christmas Carol and place it where I can see it. What better way to decorate a house than with a book? And what a book it is. A ghost story, a mystery and a tale that some say created our modern Christmas. One wonderful day of celebration with good food and loving family. By the time Dickens wrote the story, he was celebrating Christmas with a happy family. But, as I shared a few weeks ago about my own unhappy early years, Dickens had a miserable childhood. When he wrote about how the Industrial Revolution harmed children, he was speaking from experience. He had been placed in a home while his father served out a term in debtor's prison.

Miserable childhoods are nothing new, either. But Dickens made a difference for me as a little girl. I related to that book the first time I read it ... no devoured it. What Dickens taught me is that a book with a real plot, with a beginning, a middle and an end, can shine a bright light on how our society works or doesn't work, as was the case in England in 1843. He wrote that masterpiece in six weeks. Six weeks. And I got a chance to stand next to it and examine his writing word by precious word.

I felt the ghost of a genius standing over my shoulder--and he was smiling.

Most Influential Books?

2009-12-03T00:27:28-05:00

posted by Jeanne Munn Bracken

My friend Betty stopped by my desk the other day and reported that NPR was airing a program about the most influential books... Sounded interesting even if I didn't know who was influencing whom. I tried to find the information on the NPR website, but no luck.

But it got me to thinking. There are lists and lists and lists of books that are the most important ones of the 20th century, the most important since the invention of the printed (or monk-inscribed) word, the most important to different groups (Jim Huang has done a couple of nifty ones about mystery writers).

So I dutifully scan the lists and, except in the case of Jim Huang's books, I realize I have, at best, read a very small minority of the titles. I mean, we're talking seriously behind the times. A person who has never read Great Expectations, Moby Dick, Jane Eyre for heaven's sake. Really really behind.

But I have still turned into a relatively fine human being, and my lack of literary acumen has not prevented my library career (where I only have to know where to find things) and my writing. I mean, Merchant of Venice doesn't have a whole lot to do with childhood cancer, and raising (and writing about) my family with good humor has not been adversely affected by my never having read The Divine Comedy, either in the original or translation.

So we agree I'm no intellectual. But I have read a whole lot of books, and these are the ones that have influenced me.

I loved David Hackett Fischer's Paul Revere's Ride for its very readable history of the beginning of our country's independence. I recommend this book all the time to readers looking for a good read, and nobody has come back and hit me with it.

It's been decades since I read Men to Match My Mountains, Irving Stone's wonderful tales of the opening of the American West, and forgive the sexist title, since it was published in the pre-feminist 1950s. This is another book I recommend, although it's getting harder to find it in libraries, where current books often elbow older ones off the shelf.

Pretty much anything by Bill Bryson tops my list of influential books. I guess A Walk in the Woods is highest in this category, with its humor, its easy style, and its tale of a journey. Another book in this genre is John Steinbeck's Travels with Charley, which I read at least four decades ago and again--there is humor, there is style, there is a journey.

Other memorable books that have nudged me towards writing nonfiction are John Ransome's Andersonville Diary, a jaw-dropping memoir of survival under terrible conditions; Civil War prisons have been an interest of mine since I read MacKinlay Kantor's fictional Andersonville in high school. (We won't even think about how long ago that was!) Another, less well-known book that I loved and recommend is Coming Out of the Ice, the biography of Victor Herman, a young American athlete trapped in Stalinist Russia and sent to the gulag. Again--survival.

I could never talk about excellent nonfiction without adding Walter Lord's A Night to Remember, which jump-started a fascination with all things Titanic.

I have read thousands of book over the past decades but few have stayed with me as much as Trapped! The Story of the Struggle to Rescue Floyd Collins from a Kentucky Cave in 1925 by Robert K. Murray and Roger W. Brucker. That tragedy seems ripped from the headlines over the past week and I can't think of spelunking without a shudder and gasping for breath. I cannot imagine many fates worse than being stuck underground. The writing in the book is good, the story is timeless.

I see that all those books are nonfiction, and they inspire me and make me want to write as well on topics as gripping in a style as compelling. Of course, I read a lot of fiction, too; the two novels that have most influenced me were the iconic Gone with the Wind, a tale of survival as well, and Sharyn McCrumb's She Walks These Hills. GWTW needs no annotation from me. If you have somehow missed McCrumb's Ballad series, set in the Appalachian Mountains of North Carolina and Tennessee, I suggest you rush right out and get your hands on this lovely novel, with its layers of storytelling, its humor, its pathos, and its deft shifts in historic time.

What else has influenced me? The poets Frost and Sandburg feature prominently on my bookshelves, but I think the book of verse that I treasure most is A. E. Housman's A Shropshire Lad. "When I was one and twenty..." indeed.

You will never see most of these books on anybody else's list of The Best Books of the Year, the Century, the Millennium. But they all contributed to make me the reader--and writer--I am today.

What about you?

The Gift That's The Right Size For Everyone

2009-12-02T04:58:00-05:00

We were talking at our annual book group holiday lunch yesterday about getting gifts for our children. Everyone, it seems, is cutting back again this year. And once again, some of the impetus for change is coming from children who are greener and leaner and less interested in filling up their lives with possessions. I expressed some regret at not getting to buy my boys things, because it really is the only time in the year when I do give them presents. But like the other ladies, I am very happy not to have to do a lot of shopping, schlepping, and wrapping.

I don't much like stores. Malls give me a headache. I'm cranky about having to navigate around a gazillion careless people parked in front of the product I need, chatting heedlessly on cell phones while blocking the progress of a dozen of us with other demands on our time. I'm already anticipatorily cranky about the mountains of sugar that lie between me and January 1st. I find it hard to imagine putting up a wreath when I've still got a few brave flowers blooming in the garden.

But I'm dealing with this minor case of the holiday grouchies, and with a number of people who will need some wrapped gift under the tree, by doing my shopping at the one set of stores that make me smile instead of frown: Bookstores. Luckily, my family and friends are bookworms, so I can go from store to store with my loved ones in mind, and chat up the bookloving staff. "What's new? What's good? What are your customers falling in love with?"

In a great bookstore, like Water Street, in Exeter, New Hampshire (where I recently did a Quarry event with Frank Cook, JE Seymour and Norma Burrows, pictured here) or Porter Square Books in Cambridge, Mass., my questions draw enthusiastic suggestions. The booksellers will pluck books off the shelf and give me quick descriptions. This post-apocalyptic one, for the physics guy, is called young adult but all the adults who read it are blown away. Perhaps Nick Hornby for the film maker? A new Julia Glass for the relative who loved Three Junes. Can any Ishiguro ever compare with The Remains of the Day? I chat. I collect a pile of books. I begin to make my own holiday wish list.

I spend my life in the world of books. I eat, sleep, love, and breathe books. When I die, it will probably be because I'm crushed by the toppling cascade of my TBR pile. Last year the only book I got for Christmas was a cookbook. This year, I'm making a wishlist and hope they're checking it twice.

I'm buying all these books because I love books, of course. I'm also buying all these books to set a good example for the rest of you. Because I know that not all readers understand the importance of book buying to authors. Several years ago, I did a library event with a few other authors, and we all brought along copies of our books to sell. At the end, when we authors were circulating, and drinking punch, and eating cream cheese brownies, two women came up to me, declared themselves to be great fans of mine, and said, "But we've been having a terrible time finding your first book." I pulled a copy out of my bag and said, "Well..you're in luck, because I have a copy right here." They backed up a few steps and one of them said, "Oh, we don't BUY books."

I realized then that there's an educational component to being a writer--and I'm not talking about teaching writing. I'm talking about teaching readers to buy. I know we're all being careful about our finances these days. I also know that writers live and die by our book sales. Sales are good, the publisher will want to buy another book from us. Sales are poor, the publisher goes looking for a promising new author. Paperbacks cost little more than a few cups of Starbucks coffee. Trade paperbacks cost as much as a couple pairs of panties, and the elastic doesn't give out. A hardcover book can last a lifetime, be read by dozens of people, or you can enjoy it and then give it to your library, take a charitable deduction, and give pleasure to many.

When I graduated from high school, valedictorian of a class of about 26, our motto was: In Ourselves Our Future Lies. For writers, that also properly reads: In Yourselves Our Future Lies. I hope I'll see you at the bookstore.

P.S. Our book group is also creating our own small buzz (and cluck) with bees and chicks from Heifer, International.

Me--A Domestic Goddess?

2009-12-01T02:29:00-05:00

Posted by Lorraine Bartlett, also known as Lorna Barrett

For years I've been telling anyone who'd listen that I don't like to cook. I think that may now be a lie. Lately it seems I'm a lot more interested in food prep than I have been. It might have a LOT to do with the fact that so much of the food we buy is processed with sodium or high-fructose corn syrup and I really feel better knowing what's in the food I eat.

That's one reason why I expanded my vegetable garden this past summer. We grew broccoli and Brussels sprouts (which Mr. Groundhog ate most of), tomatoes, a TON of green beans (yum!), potatoes, parsley and cilantro.

For the past few days I've been a cooking machine. Wednesday I made Potato-Leek soup (the recipe is included in Bookplate Special) and a mince pie. Friday I made a HUGE lasagna. Yesterday I made a huge vat of turkey-vegetable soup (which will probably feed me for the entire winter, and nobody else in my family will eat it--I freeze it in small containers), and made cookies for the coming holidays. (Shortbread and Oatmeal Raisin cookies.)

The thing I'm noticing is that ... I'm now enjoying the process. Mind you, I love to cook with my husband, but lately we haven't done much of that. (Note to self: Bug Husband To Cook With Me.)

This year I've frozen a ton of onions, leeks, and parsley, good stuff for soups and stews. I have a bunch of crock-pot recipes I want to try. And since I became a cozy mystery author, I always seem to be testing recipes to include in my books. (Too bad most of them are so fattening. But, it's a sacrifice I'm willing to make for my readers. And if you believe THAT ....)

Sadly, all this domesticity hasn't manifested into a massive clean up of the old homestead. And this week for the first time in my life, I'm hiring someone to come in and give the place a good going over. (I think I'll go hide in the basement while they're here.)

But when I'm in the kitchen, I'm not exactly having fun ... but I do notice I feel completely content when I'm cooking something or other these days. I like that feeling.

How about you?

CUTTING WORDS

2009-11-30T07:00:00-05:00

Posted by Sheila Connolly and Sarah Atwell

For the last few weeks I have been in intense edit mode for a book that's due (electronically, thank goodness) on Tuesday. It's a book I actually wrote in 2004, before I had sold anything. It's set in a Philadelphia museum where I worked for several years. I circulated it to agents, and one agent came back with some excellent suggestions for making it better–like including a murder. Oh. Right. So I rewrote it with the murder of a character who was already in the book. I resubmitted it to that agent, but ultimately she passed on it. However, I never throw anything away, and a couple of months ago I pitched it to Berkley and they bought the book, in a three-book deal.

This should be easy, I thought. After all, I had the first book written, and I'm just overflowing with ideas for sequels. There's only one problem: Book 1 (still unnamed) was too long. The contract specified 70,000 to 80,000 words. Book 1 was 102,000.

Sarah and I had no problems with the Glassblowing Series–the books there all came in nicely at around 78,000 words. The Orchard Series? Well, I'll admit I fudged a little, and they're all over 80,000, but not by a lot. But 102,000? Not happening. Which meant I had to do some serious editing.

I write long. When I first started writing, I had no clue how long a book was supposed to be. I just sat down and wrote. I remember pulling a mystery book at random from my bookshelf and literally counting the words on the page and the number of pages. That was long before I knew about writers groups and on-line loops, and I'm not sure I even knew that my word processing program had a "word count" function. I simply told the story until it ended. Luckily that turned out to be book length. Looking back, I find that the shortest thing I've ever written was my second book, a sweet romance set in Ireland, at 66,000 words. All the others topped 80,000 words–and, once I got rolling, they started creeping past 90,000, and then 100,000.

But there are conventions in the book business: cozies short, and thrillers and suspense are longer. I write cozies, ergo my books should be kind of short. There are probably lots of good reasons why this is true: some relate to physical production of the books, others to reader expectations. Publishers don't always share these tidbits with writers, but they do expect us to conform.

So Philadelphia Book 1 had to go on a starvation diet. Let me say I prefer whittling to padding. I think. I'd rather have something on the page to pare away than try to shoehorn a new subplot or some enriching description into existing text (and you know, either way, you're going to introduce some bloopers which will come back to embarrass you).

But cutting is still painful. A writer puts the words on the page for a reason. You're building characters; you're making a place come alive with sensory details; you're planting subtle clues. You love each and every word, because they're all yours and you strung them together. But at the same time, you can hear your editor's voice (Note: I love my editor–she knows what she's doing, and she invariably makes my books better) saying, "what is the point of this section?" "Why do we need this?" And worse, "you've said this before–can't you take one or the other out?"

The immature part of you says, "no, I don't wanna. I like those words/paragraph/subplot." You can dress it up and tell the editor things like, "I was expounding on the protagonist's issues with forming close relationships with other people based on her dysfunctional relationship with her father."

And the editor's appropriate response to all your blustering should be, "but does it advance the story?"' And often the answer is "no."

So I had to cut a whole lot of words out of my story. It hurts, no question. The first part to go was the "romance" aspect–the potential relationship with the law enforcement official (okay, it's cliche, but...). Take out all the drooling over his broad shoulders, all the enigmatic glances (does he? should I?). Take out a few juicy scenes, or tone them down. Still too long.

Then there were the chunks I label "look at how much I know!" This series is about museums, and I've worked in several. Unfortunately I have a tendency to show off my arcane knowledge. Some of this insider information might interest people who really want to know what goes on behind the scenes, so some of it stays. But not all of it. Stop showing off, Sheila. Slash, chop.

And then there are the lovely chunks of "thinking." My protagonists actually stop and think about what's going on, most often about how they're supposed to solve the murder. Thinking is good–now and then. But thinking falls under the dreaded "show, don't tell" umbrella, and it's kind of cheating, when you periodically review the evidence for the readers. Out comes the red pen again, axing entire paragraphs of thinking.

This doesn't mean that I don't ever get to add anything. Even in the best of times, I will stumble over a sentence I wrote and say, "what the heck did I mean by that?" And I also have a tendency to assume I've said something, but when I look for it it's not there. Maybe whatever I was trying to say was obvious to me, immersed in the book, but it's not going to be clear to a new reader.

So that's what I've been doing for weeks now–taking a machete to my deathless prose. Pretty words? Bah! Throw them overboard. Longing glances? Not in my mystery! As of yesterday, my bloated 102,000-word book was down to a lean 90,000 words and change, and I've got one more pass to make before I push the button and send it off to my editor. That's 12% of the book that has fallen to my sword, er, pen. Is it a better book now? I think so. It's clearer, cleaner, and it comes closer to telling the story I wanted before I buried it in words. I think it's working–and I hope my editor agrees.

Look for Untitled First Book in the Unnamed Philadelphia Museum series in Fall 2010!

Where's Leann? (And a contest!)

2009-11-27T03:54:11-05:00

Nope, this isn't a Writers Plot version of Where's Waldo -- but Leann is definitely among the missing today--on Black Friday. Why? She's out shopping for the perfect Christmas gift for granddaughter Maddie.

Maddie's now two years old--yes, the TERRIBLE but oh-so-fun TWOs (and Leann can give Maddie back to her parents at the end of the day). This year, Maddie knows all about Santa and presents under the tree. Leann wants to give her a great Christmas. But what should she get for Maddie?

That's where you come in. Suggest the perfect Christmas gift for Maddie and you could win a copy of The Cat, The Quilt and the Corpse--or another book by one of the Writers Plot authors! Just drop us a line at contest.writersplot@gmail.com, and include your name and address.

Leann will announce the winner on December 5th.

Go on! Enter now!!!

The other white meat

2009-11-26T00:26:00-05:00

posted by Jeanne Munn Bracken

I did something a couple of days ago that I have never done before in my life. I bought shallots and fresh jalapeno peppers.

In my quest to learn how to cook for two, I came across a recipe for "Cider vinegar & molasses glazed pork chops." I found it in the Eatingwell Serves Two cookbook, although it is also on their web site, which gives me hope that it's okay to share the recipe with you.

At any rate, this being Thanksgiving and all, I was thinking of the progression of the holiday turkey. There will only be four of us here this year, but my daughter bought a 19 pound turkey to be sure there will be leftovers. Oh, no doubt about that. Here's what will happen:

Thanksgiving dinner with the fixin's.
Turkey and gravy with leftover stuffing
Hot turkey sandwiches
Turkey with dumplings
Turkey soup with stock from the carcass

The problem is, Ray isn't crazy about turkey leftovers, and he really only eats the white meat. That works fine, actually, since there are only two drumsticks on the bird and the rest of the family fights over them. (Very genteely, to be sure.)

But before the Big Meal That Lasts A Week, I made him pork chops. The recipe calls for thin sliced boneless pork chops. Miracle of miracles, in the freezer stocked by Mr. "Bring on the Beef," I found frozen burger patties, bulk ground beef with varying degrees of fat, a couple of roasts--and a package of six thin sliced boneless pork chops.

The rest of the ingredients were at hand--vinegar, molasses, olive oil, low sodium soy sauce. Except for the shallot and the jalapeno pepper. So I went to the grocery store, bought them, and made the recipe for Sunday dinner. It actually was delicious. Even Mr. "Bring on the Beef" thought so. It didn't hurt that I served it with rice, which he likes.

Of course, I doubled the recipe and had leftovers for supper the next night.

So I'm getting the hang of cooking for two. Problem is, I haven't learned to shop for two. I bought three shallots and two jalapeno peppers; I have one of each left.

Now I have to find another recipe that will use them up. Because I am now out of thin sliced boneless pork chops.

When you're tired of turkey, try this out:

Cider Vinegar-&-Molasses-Glazed Pork Chops

1 tsp. extra-virgin olive oil
2 thin-cut boneless pork chops (8 oz), trimmed of fat
1 shallot, finely chopped
1/2 jalapeno papper, seeded and finely chopped
1 clove garlic, finely chopped
2 tbsp. molasses
2 tbsp. cider vinegar
1 tbsp. Dijon mustard
1 tsp. reduced-sodium soy sauce

1. Heat oil over medium-high heat in a medium skillet. Add pork, and cook until browned and no longer pink in the middle, 1 to 2 minutes per side. Transfer to a plate and cover with foil to keep warm.

2. Add shallot, jalapeno and garlic; cook, stirring often, until slightly softened, 2 to 3 minutes. Add molasses, vinegar, mustard and soy sauce and bring to a simmer. Reduce heat to maintain a simmer and cook, stirring occasionally, unti thickened, 2 to 4 minutes. Return the pork and any accumulated juices to the pan and turn to coat with sauce. Serve the pork with the sauce.

Stuffing Wars, The Dish Lottery, and Other Holiday Customs

2009-11-25T05:00:00-05:00

Posted by Kate Flora

The other night at dinner, my husband was asking about my family's holiday traditions. I must be a bear of little brain, as Pooh says, because I can't remember very many traditions. I think I spent my entire childhood being unobservant, because I always had my nose in a book. Also because holidays tend to be those occasions when people fight, and having your nose stuck in a book makes it easier to filter out the raised voices.

However, under his persistent questioning, I was able to dredge up a few memories of turkey days past. Here are the ones that top the list.

The Year My Mother Outraged My Father's Family!
Thanksgiving seems to have traditionally been held at our family farm in Union, Maine. Depending on the year, we would have my grandmother, her sister Lillian, Lillian's son Richard, his wife, and their too-sweet daughter Sherry. Uncle Kleba. Uncle Guy and Aunt Lucille. Against this overwhelming onslaught of Clark relatives, my mother created her own protective device--the collection of strays. That meant that along with all the people who, in my father's opinion, BELONGED there, my mother would collect a tiny handful of little old ladies who lived alone and a few odd folks from church, and they would also be included. By the time my parents were done, we had a rather large crowd gathered around the table. And after the tiny green glasses of creme de menthe to aide the digestion were downed, we had rather a large number of dirty dishes.

Feeling, most righteously, that she had already spent the better part of the day in the kitchen, my mother evolved an equitable system for assigning dish washing duty. Everyone got a number, and people did five or ten minute dish washing stints according to their numbers and a kitchen timer. My poor father, who was always desperate to avoid being embarrassed in front of his relatives, used to writhe in humiliation as the tottery old Uncles and Aunts were marched to the kitchen, wrapped in aprons, and set to work doing dishes. He never got used to it. I expect the relatives, particularly the elderly male relatives never got used to it either, and my brother John, my sister Sara, and I marveled at our mother's courage.

Stuffing Wars.

It is a fact well known in any blended family that THE OTHER SIDE OF THE FAMILY doesn't make stuffing that is as good as ours. I think we've gotten over that, for the most part. My mother made wonderful stuffing. My mother-in-law's stuffing is better. By contrast, my uncle Kleba's wife made the world's worst stuffing--miserable, tasteless bits of burned, dry bread that no amount of gravy could resuscitate. Interestingly enough, my mother-in-law's sister also made awful stuffing. We used to hope for Thanksgiving at our house so we wouldn't have to eat the gummy mass thick with chunks of liver and giblets that one relative produced. And one year, my sister Sara, who had spent her summer working on an island off the coast of Maine as the cook for a picky and eccentric New York interior designer, decided that we needed to get just a wee bit more sophisticated in our tastes, and brought a separate dish of oyster stuffing. She was a fantastic cook, and it was a hit. (As long as there was also mom's stuffing for the ritual next day turkey sandwich. Oysters don't quite make it in a turkey sandwich)

It is very easy to assume that stuffing really doesn't matter very much...whether it is good or bad...until somehow, the stuffing gets completely forgotten. Which is what my brother John did one year. He got the job of fixing the turkey, and completely forgot to make stuffing. A fact that wasn't revealed until everyone had searched the table, and the oven, and the carcass, repeatedly, assuming it had to be somewhere. He has never been allowed to forget this dereliction. Indeed, some years, he gets a phone call, reminding him of the importance of stuffing. And the terrible year of NO STUFFING is always mentioned several times during dinner.

Thanksgiving is also not "right" unless there are too many pies. Usually, a ration of one pie for every three people is considered correct, but my sister Sara used to get a bit manic about baking pies. She never could make just one. Or two. Or three. One year, she showed up with five. Among them, since toward the end of her insane baking spree she was running low on ingredients, was a pie that was a mixture of sour cherry and raspberry. Not a traditional turkey day offering. Bar none, the best pie I've ever eaten.

I'm waiting for the next generation to start a few wars of their own, once we get the family horse-trading straightened out and figure out who has to go where each year to appease which family. Meanwhile, we've only got three styles of cranberry relish. Whole berry (I made my own this year), jellied, and the wonderful raw cranberry, apple, orange relish my son Max makes. Surely there must be some other styles. Surely we can find room for one more dish on table? Or maybe not.

Oops...forgot perhaps the best T'day story of all. One year, my friend Nancy happened to have Julia Child at her house for Thanksgiving. Julia arrived with the turkey, and a separate oven to cook the legs. Nancy, who gets a bit nervous about entertaining anyway, got so flustered she forgot to serve about half the things she'd prepared. Who among us would have done any better?

Finally, no Thanksgiving Day is complete without the ritual reading of Art Buchwald's column, Explaining Thanksgiving to the French. You might find it here:http://www.freerepublic.com/focus/f-chat/796829/posts

Meanwhile, I'm avoiding all the TV shows that tell me that by just picking five nuts off the pecan pie I can save 100 calories. Dieting on Thanksgiving Day is a bore.

What are your holiday traditions? What's the funniest thing that's every happened? Has anyone ever had the turkey go completely wrong...and how did you cope?

The woman with the invisible hands

2009-11-24T06:59:59-05:00

Posted by Lorraine Bartlett, also known as Lorna Barrett

Every couple of months I'll wake up with a finger missing. Sometimes it's a whole hand--sometimes (but not often) it's BOTH hands. I call them my invisible hands. That's not exactly correct. I can still see them, but they just don't work really well. They're too busy tingling.

I have carpal tunnel syndrome.

Not that I've actually gone to the trouble of having a real diagnosis. It was the lady at the apothecary who sold me my first pair of wrist splints some twenty or so years ago who did the actual diagnosis. I said something like, "my hands tingle when I wake up. Do I need wrist splints?" She said, "Yup," and then proceeded to fit me.

Was it the constant rewriting of manuscripts (this was back in the days of typewriters) that did it or one too many cross stitch projects? I'll never know. But I had to give something up, and as I wanted to be a writer, it was the cross stitch. (And, as I discovered a couple of years ago when I decided to make a scarf--I had to give up knitting, too.)

The splints aren't a cure, but they're pretty good at making the tingling go away. I wear them for about a week and then I'm good again for three or four months, which works for me, especially as I've known several people who've had surgery for the ailment and have not reported good results. That's why I'm perfectly okay with having invisible fingers now and then.

I recently shot the wad and bought myself two BRAND NEW wrist splits. (Hey, I had to spend those fabulous $9 and $1.78 royalty checks on something, right?) Oh how glamorous I feel when I don one (or both) before retiring for the night. NOT! But they work and I'm not complaining. (BTW, these aren't pictures of my hands, but my right splint really is black and the left is beige.)

How about you, do you sometimes have invisible hands, too?

CLASH OF THE TITANS

2009-11-23T07:00:00-05:00

Posted by Sheila Connolly and Sarah Atwell, who are equally ticked off

There was a great disturbance in the Force this week: Romance Writers of America took up arms against the publisher Harlequin. The story is both simple and complex.

To give some context, some numbers first. Romance Writers (aka RWA) is a writers organization with over ten thousand members, whose "mission and purpose is to advocate for the professional interests of career-focused romance writers," according to their website. In the industry, they are a force to be reckoned with. I am a member, and have been for six years. I started out trying to write romantic suspense and found that I simply don't have a romance voice, but I've stayed with RWA because they provide a terrific support structure and a lot of valuable information for writers.

Among the advantages of membership is access to their annual market review. For 2008, RWA reports that romance fiction generated $1.37 billion in sales, and they estimate that this level will hold steady in 2009. Compare this to mystery sales for 2008, at $668 million according to RWA's figures.

Harlequin Enterprises has been distributing books in North America since 1957, and while I can't cite statistics, I think it's safe to say that they dominate the romance market. While you may not always see their imprints on bookstore shelves, they do mail order as well, and they have throngs of hungry readers who may read as many as 30 of their romance novels each month. Harlequin is one of the few companies which actually reported increased sales for last year, in the face of economic turmoil (escapism sells!).

So what has pitted RWA against Harlequin this past week? Harlequin announced a new venture: Harlequin Horizons, a vanity/subsidy press. And RWA ejected them from the kingdom, because RWA has clearly-stated guidelines about what kinds of publishing they endorse, and this does not include vanity presses. Harlequin ignored those guidelines in creating their new venture. RWA acknowledges the right to publish through a vanity press, but their stand against Harlequin represents an effort to protect member-writers from exploitation.

Why does this matter? Harlequin will no doubt continue to thrive, with or without its new vanity press. But RWA will not let them continue to participate in the annual national conference, which offers free meeting space, the chance to hold editor appointments and offer spotlights for their program only to eligible publishers. Harlequin can attend the conference–if they pay. But they cannot use RWA resources to publicize or promote the company or its imprints, and this includes Romance Writers Report, which goes to all RWA members.

Pity the poor RWA members who are published by Harlequin, and there are quite a few. They won't be drummed out of RWA, but they won't be eligible for RWA-sponsored contests, of which the biggest is the RITA, awarded at the national conference. Romance writers seem to love contests, and the RITA is the jewel in the crown; Harlequin books will not be allowed. Ouch.

Members have been vocal on various loops, and the majority support RWA's stance. The guidelines are there for all to see, and have been for years. Apparently Harlequin did not consult with RWA when they planned their new venture, even as a courtesy, and they feigned dismay at RWA's quick response. [MWA and SFFWA have joined with RWA to condemn Harlequin's actions; Sisters in Crime has made a slightly more cautious public statement.]

So what is the stink really about? Who's got more power, more clout in the industry? Not exactly. Harlequin has every right to create a new imprint, and that is a business decision. What is offensive is the way they went about it. The scenario boils down to this: you, Eager Writer, submit a manuscript to Harlequin. You receive a rejection letter–which includes the suggestion that you contact Harlequin Horizons (note: Harlequin backtracked almost immediately, saying that they would remove "Harlequin" from the title–maybe because it was quickly labeled "HarlHo" by loop members–but it's a bit late, since everybody knows now that they're behind it). This new imprint will be happy to accept your money–up to $1,500–and produce your book. Oh, and they'll be happy to take 50% of the proceeds–after you have promoted it yourself. And if you're really, really lucky, and the book does well, maybe a Harlequin editor will look at it and consider publishing it. But, oops, Harlequin isn't going to ensure that your self-published book will appear on shelves alongside their own.

This is just wrong, and violates the ethical standards of almost any writers organization. Eager Writer is clueless about the industry, and will do almost anything to see her name on a book cover, particularly one with Harlequin stamped somewhere on it. Harlequin is exploiting that, and pocketing a nice piece of change while they do it, dangling the hope that somehow the Harlequin name will guarantee success.

Could this mess be laid at the feet of the new CEO of Harlequin's parent company, Canada-based Torstar–who is a number-cruncher? Does he see Harlequin as a cash cow, and that slush pile Harlequin sits on as a potential goldmine that will help him bolster the sagging Torstar?

It's an ugly scene all around. The consensus among members is that RWA has done the right thing, but at a price. Harlequin's image in the eyes of its writers had fallen, but the general public probably won't notice. Who wins?

But I salute RWA for sticking to its guns, and for its sister organizations for following RWA's lead. We as writers need powerful advocates who will stick up for writers and protect their interests, and I for one am glad that RWA has taken this stand. I hope it makes a difference.

It Was The Worst Of Times, Now It's The Best of Times

2009-11-20T09:43:08-05:00

posted by Leann Sweeney

Holiday season is upon us, a time of year I have had plenty of difficulty with. Ever since my children moved away and married, I seem to have dwelled on the the worst that holidays brought me when I was growing up, thanks to my very alcoholic mother and all the drama she brought to each and every day between November through the end of January. January was when she usually sobered up.

As I raised my own family, I made sure that every Thanksgiving (and Christmas) was exactly as I wanted it to be--filled with food, laughter and love. And when the first Thanksgiving came that we weren't all together, I wasn't "all together" either. I cried a lot. I remembered too much about the past. I felt very sorry for myself.

Way back when I was a kid, we didn't get a huge Thanksgiving break--just Thursday through Sunday. And I remember getting off the school bus on that Wednesday before Thanksgiving hoping I'd find a sober mom. And I usually did because she was preparing food that day, although sometimes she started drinking Wednesday night. And then Thursday morning her coffee was pretty heavily spiked. By dinner time she was wasted and embarrassing all us kids with her slurred speech, inappropriate jokes and unsteady gait. Oh. And usually something she'd prepared was left to burn in the oven. We could always count on that. Yup, holidays were the worst and I know there's a lot of folks out there who can relate, who know all about "holidays" and what they meant to children of alcoholics. It's called hell.

But now that my father has passed, now that he and my mother's generation are all gone, now that I have a granddaughter, I find myself remembering that despite the chaos, uncertainty and shame I felt during those holidays, there were some very fun times, too. My father's side of the family always did have a wicked sense of humor and my cousins offered up a lot of laughs. While the adults were getting drunk, we were playing cards. We knew every kind of card game you can imagine. And if there was snow and ice, we'd be out ice skating on the rink my mother always managed to make in the front lawn no matter how drunk she was. Guess making layers of ice doesn't require your reflexes to be all that good.

And the food. Now if there was one thing my mother was really good at, it was cooking. My grandfather was a chef and she learned at the hand of the master. Everyone wanted her cooking at Thanksgiving and that's one thing I brought to my own family. I cook a mean, massive, and scrumptious Thanksgiving. I guess that's why I didn't want to give up having the family always come here to Texas so I could be in control of the kitchen. And even when we did go elsewhere, I always did a big part of the cooking. Until we went to my father and stepmother's one year. We ate at the country club they belonged to. For me, that was blasphemous. I hated it.

But last year and this, I seem to recalling many more of the pleasant memories--the spicy and rich smells, the Jell-o my grandmother always had to make, even if we had five different pies--and more importantly that real whipped cream she made to go with the lime Jell-o. The excitement of visiting my aunt's house where everything was so absolutely NON-chaotic.

Today, I have given up the control. My brother-in-law cooked Thanksgiving last year and it was awesome. I didn't have to lift a finger, even to do the dishes. And this year my son and daughter-in-law are doing the cooking. And it will be fantastic. The reasons I had to do absolutely everything aren't important anymore. What's important is to let go of the control adult children of alcoholics so desperately cling to. Two years in row for me now! Yahoo. Maybe I should be counting and marking the anniversary just like alcoholics who get sober do. I've found there's so much more power in my new attitude: I can cook, and it will be delicious. Or someone else can work their butt off and it will be delicious. And that feels so right.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

Lots to be thankful for

2009-11-19T00:59:00-05:00

posted by Jeanne Munn Bracken

Now that the New England mystery conference Crime Bake is over, it's time to get into the holidays. I have admitted already that I've bought a few gifts, including some when I was on vacation. (Souvenirs R Us). But before we go into Christmas Crazy Mode (and I plead guilty as a carrier of that disorder), let's give thanks for what we have.

It's a tough year for a lot of people, and as suggested in other posts here at the Writers' Plot, I plan to be generous both to the food pantry and the local police department's collection of toys for kids. I also have a stack of mailings from favorite charities, and at the end of the year I try to send them checks. Childhood cancer, Make a Wish, Salvation Army, the humane society, the nascent National Women's History Museum, among others. Tells you what I care about: kids, dogs, women's history.

The number of people around our Thanksgiving table can vary widely from year to year. We have had so many family and friends here that we had two tables and no space to move around the room at all, once everybody was seated. (That's about 15 people, for us.) On occasion we have invited folks who would otherwise be alone for the holiday. More recently we have spent Thanksgiving with our good friends the Smiths.

Sometimes we had dinner here and sometimes at their house. We had a varying number of our kids at the table, and recently their grandchildren in highchairs. One year we celebrated at a restaurant on Cape Cod, where we had taken condos for a few days' respite. (That was the year that our daughters and the Smith daughter entertained us with stories of their escapades, most of which included teaching bad habits to the younger sister.)

This year, the Smiths have moved to North Carolina. It's the end of an era. We could probably go to my sister's for dinner, since she was drafted as Chief Chef, but we weren't actually invited, and besides, the drive to their rural area is time-consuming and often hair-raising in wintry weather.

So. This year, it's the four Brackens, and for the first time, the daughters will be arriving from their own homes. Mollie has already brought a turkey, making sure it was large enough so there would be leftovers to take home. Lisa will make the mashed potatoes. I'll do the rest, and I don't mind.

I make the stuffing from scratch the night before. I'll cheat and use the bread machine to make the dough for rolls. I'll make creamed onions (which only two of us eat, but which make a great next-day treat with leftover peas). I've ordered a pie from the high school fundraiser.

And I will not repeat earlier Thanksgiving goofs. The year when Ray and I were dating, I made dinner while he watched football on TV. I was rather naive, though: when the food was ready, he said there were just 15 minutes left in the game and could we wait. I didn't know that 15 minutes in football is about eleven innings in baseball, an analogy I could understand.

So the carmelized sweet potatoes were rather more charred, and we had to carve the bird with the only knife I had that was big enough: a bread knife. A few years ago, when we were having our kitchen remodeled (once and never again!), I tried to make the sweet potatoes in a crock pot. (Note to self: crock pots do not carmelize. They glop.)

Cranberry orange relish from Mom's recipe is already in the fridge. My stepfather refused to eat anything that had rind in it--until, after a number of years, he actually tasted it.

So, I want to wish you all a great Thanksgiving spent with loved ones. May all your teams win. Whatever game they're playing.

The Red Pen or The Shredder?

2009-11-18T05:00:00-05:00

Posted by Kate Flora

Boo. Hoo. Where is Joshua Bilmes when I need him? The last time I was up to my ears in the pages of a promising, but flabby manuscript, he led me through the forest of rewrite with firm but calm advice. I cut. And I cut. And I tightened and I tweaked. And in the end, I had a book I could be proud of.

So here I sit, the week before Thanksgiving, facing the grim fact that the book I just spent a month cutting needs more than word removal. It needs a plot lift. It needs greater focus. It needs scenes that economically move the plot and develop my characters. It needs tension, not whining. Showing, not telling. And a dump truck load of inner monologue hauled away.

If I were my student...I'd know what to do. I'd make myself sit down and do a chapter by chapter and scene by scene analysis to see what isn't working. But today, I sat and looked at the size of the task and promptly reverted to Plan B. I would continue to indulge my obsession with National Novel Writing Month, and see if I could add a few thousand zippy words to my unserious novel in progress. Not a smashing success. For twenty-nine chapters, I'd managed to keep my characters from actually having sex, despite a number of times when they'd come within a whisper of the deed. Ringing phones, buzzing doorbells and the arrival of nosy cops had kept them apart. But finally, their moment had come. And once it had come...and gone...I lost my ertia. I couldn't think of the next interesting thing for them to do.

On to Plan C. Flip over to eBay to see if I could do a little bit of holiday shopping. I went to Costco and bought gigantic amounts of food that wouldn't fit in my refrigerator, including way too many perishable berries. I zipped into my favorite clothing emporium, Global Thrift in Waltham, and picked up a Jil Sander jacket, an Italian designer skirt, a lovely bejeweled peasant top to wear to a holiday party, and two pairs of corduroy pants, all for the price of a sandwich lunch and a cappuccino. I practiced a fine form of busy avoidance. I knocked lots of things off my list, prepared a delicious dinner, and did my sit-ups.

But the book is still out there, lurking just at the edge of my consciousness. Waiting for the attention it deserves.

Tomorrow, I promise, I will take Mr. Laptop to the library, away from all distractions, and handcuff myself in a carrel.

Tomorrow I will act like a grown-up. I will be diligent. I will carry my laptop to the library and I will edit the heck out of the little beast. I will not move until the first three chapters are slim and lovely and irresistible, with powerful forward momentum.

But first, of course, I must go to the gym. Can't be typing novels with flabby arms, can I? And then there are batches of books that must go to the post office. And don't I have to be at a bookstore in Exeter, New Hampshire? Oh dear. It looks like I'm too busy for rewrite tomorrow.

It's hard to believe that after twenty-five years in the writing game I still can't always see the forest for the trees, but that's my reality. Every book is different. Each one has a rhythm and a personality. Some come easily. Some are dragged out and nailed to the page. And rewrite is always its own challenge. Sometimes I can see what needs to be done; other times, I'm like a monkey at a typewriter, with the occasional good word or sentence coming out.

Like every writer, I prefer those moments of obsession. I love it when the prose just flows and I can't type fast enough to get it down. But I've been in this chair long enough to know that what makes me stronger, and a better writer, is fighting my way through times like this, when nothing is easy. Nothing flows. And even though I'm practically bleeding on the page, the story won't behave. Persistence. Faith. Experience. Banging my head against the desk. And keeping myself in this chair. In the end, these will help me through rewrite.

Something else will, too--my friends who have offered to read a few chapters and give me feedback. So far, my ego is badly bruised, but my mind is starting to tick away, evaluating suggestions and assessing avenues for change. By next week, when I'm thoroughly dug-in, it's going to be hard to get up and go cook that turkey.

Thanksgiving -- it's not a given

2009-11-17T03:37:00-05:00

Posted by Lorraine Bartlett, also known as Lorna Barrett

I have loads of wonderful memories of my family sitting around the Thanksgiving table, chowing down on turkey, my mother's wonderful bread stuffing, my aunt's marvelous roasted potatoes, and all the rest of the trimmings. Sadly, this will be the first year I won't have my Dad sitting at the head of the table, and that makes me incredibly sad.

But I do have those wonderful memories, and I'm sure my whole family will be thinking about them as we pick up our forks and knives and dive into the feast.

Yet, in the back of my mind, I know I'll be thinking about others, who won't be seated at a table laden with food. The hungry. And I wouldn't even have to leave my suburb to find them.

My latest book, Bookplate Special, is full of food. In fact, I juggle three subplots about various aspects of the subject. One of them involves food pantries. While my story isn't set during Thanksgiving (it's about a month too early), it does involve the working poor and the need for donations.

I did my research just down the road from where I live, at the Greece Ecumenical Food Shelf. One of its volunteers is our own Doranna Durgin's mother. Mrs. Durgin gave me a tour of the facility, and answered my many questions relating to the workings of food pantries, including how the food is collected, sorted, and distributed.

Something I'd never heard about were the special "Turkey Day food shelf baskets." According to Doranna, "The holiday baskets are like Santa Times in Food Shelf land. My Mom used to be so pleased when they got a basket for a family in dire need--often your average hard-working family suddenly sideswiped by circumstance who never thought they'd be in that position at all."

That's one of the biggest problems these days: people who used to support food pantries, are in dire need of their services. According to a recent report in The Washington Post, "Last year, people in 4.8 million households used private food pantries, compared to 3.9 million in 2007, while people in about 625,000 households resorted to soup kitchens, nearly 90,000 more than the year before."

The thought of children going hungry not just occasionally, but on a regular basis, especially in this land of plenty, should be unthinkable. And yet, it's a fact of life.

So while I'm thankful that I don't need the services of a food pantry, I'm glad it's there for people who do.

There's still time to donate to your local food pantry in time for Thanksgiving. But the need isn't just seasonal -- it's here 365 days of the year.

Can you help?

WHERE IT ALL BEGAN

2009-11-16T07:00:00-05:00

Posted by Sheila Connolly

Since the Thanksgiving holiday is upon us, we thought we'd take a look at different aspects of the holiday and what it means to us. Since I'm first in the queue, I'll talk about the first Thanksgiving.

I live about fifteen miles from Plymouth, Massachusetts, site of the first permanent settlement in the colony that would become the United States. Okay, I know that the Roanoke Colony came earlier, but they couldn't hang on (thus generating one of the first mysteries on our soil). There were also plenty of trappers and traders who roamed the lands and rivers (spreading germs to the Indians), but they didn't stick around.

Which leaves those hardy Pilgrims of Plymouth. We probably all got hit over the head with the Mayflower story in elementary school (at least if you lived on the East Coast as I did). The romance of Priscilla Alden and Miles Standish. The happy natives sharing their lore and their corn and fish to help the settlers survive the first winter, for which they were woefully unprepared. They should have known better than to land in November, but that wasn't altogether their fault–the boat ran late.

Anyway, recently I've had a chance to get to know modern Plymouth. It's an interesting place. I first saw it decades ago, although I didn't do a lot of sightseeing–more like, yup, there's that rock. We moved to southeastern Massachusetts six years ago, and when I first revisited Plymouth, I thought it was kind of a stodgy, seedy little town. The rock was still there. I did visit Plimoth Plantation, which is perhaps the best living history museum in the country, and worth the trip if you have any interest in history.

Over the past few years Plymouth has kind of reinvented itself. The main street downtown is dotted with interesting restaurants and shops of all sorts. A couple of upscale malls have sprung up on the outskirts. My doctor has an office in The Pinehills, a huge residential development that's like a little city unto itself, with a market, a bank, and a variety of shops, all in sparkly-bright and very clean new buildings, and not one but two golf courses. A derelict rope-making center on one end of town has morphed into an interesting industrial and office park now called Cordage Park.

But that's the modern city, and I was talking about history. I've may have mentioned before that I'm a genealogist (no! really?), and, yes, I have identified one Mayflower ancestor. Poor guy, he died less than a month after the Mayflower landed, and he may never have set foot on the ground (his wife came over on another ship three years later, with their two daughters, and I'm descended from one of them). For years I felt like he was kind of a second-class Pilgrim, until I learned that fully half of the original passengers died in that first year. In fact, the settlers were so worried that the Indians would notice that their ranks were dwindling rapidly that they didn't even set up a burial ground for the dead–they buried them by the dark of night in unmarked graves. For the tri-centennial of the landing, the townspeople collected all the bones they'd been unearthing for years and had squirreled away in various places around town and installed them all in a substantial granite sarcophagus, so at least they're together, for perhaps the first time since 1621.

But the settlers survived that first hard year, and more settlers arrived (along with food supplies), and as people kept dying, they did in fact create a cemetery. It's up on the hill above the town, where the first palisade stood. Several years ago I visited that cemetery for the first time, and I was surprised by how much it moved me. Strip away all the buildings and the docks laid out below, and imagine open space along the shore, with a few people moving around, maybe a few cattle or pigs. Behind you stands the pitifully small wooden fort, large enough to contain the handful of citizens and the precious livestock. And behind that? Nobody knew. Imagine the weight of those endless miles of unknown territory, peopled by unpredictable natives, while you and your tiny band clung to the coast and hoped that you'd survive, which was far from guaranteed.

I came away from that place with a heightened respect for those first settlers. Their reasons for coming–financial, political or religious–may have varied, but whatever the reason it took a lot of courage to make that leap into the unknown.

They survived because they were lucky: a couple of plagues in the years before they arrived had wiped out over 90% of the local Indian population, which left already-cleared land for them to occupy and cultivate–and nobody left to resist them. And the settlers didn't exactly cover themselves with glory in their ongoing relationship with what few Indians remained: they robbed the survivors, and even plundered the graves of their dead. It's a wonder the Indians helped them at all.

But they did. The first Thanksgiving took place in the fall of 1621, after a good harvest, with some 90 Wampanoags attending. Here's Edward Winslow's account from A Journal of the Pilgrims at Plymouth, in 1621:

"Our harvest being gotten in, our governor sent four men on fowling, that so we might after a special manner rejoice together after we had gathered the fruit of our labors. They four in one day killed as much fowl as, with a little help beside, served the company almost a week. At which time, among other recreations, we exercised our arms, many of the Indians coming amongst us, and among the rest their greatest king Massasoit, with some ninety men, whom for three days we entertained and feasted, and they went out and killed five deer, which they brought to the plantation and bestowed upon our governor, and upon the captain, and others. And although it be not always so plentiful as it was at this time with us, yet by the goodness of God, we are so far from want that we often wish you partakers of our plenty."

Many of us may be facing hard times these days, but put yourself in the place of those First Settlers in 1621–it may make you feel better.

Happy Thanksgiving!

The secret to getting published . . . ? (Guest Blogger Laura Child)

2009-11-14T04:14:00-05:00

Greetings! I'm delighted to be guest blogging today and talking a little bit about how I kick started my mystery writing career. Probably my biggest qualification was being the kid who snuck into cemeteries late at night on a dare, whispered ghost stories around the campfire, and devoured Nancy Drew books under the covers.

And late at night, when the wind is howling and the house is creaking, I still believe there might be a body stashed in that old trunk in the attic. And when I finally visited New Orleans and wandered through their incredibly spooky above-ground cemeteries, I think I even started believing in vampires.

But as much as I longed to be a mystery writer, I landed in advertising instead. I wrote and produced TV commercials, then ended up heading my own firm for nearly 15 years. Still, the mystery bug gnawed at me. So writing evenings and weekends, I chipped away at Old Masters, a thriller about stolen World War II artwork. When it was finished, I thought it was fantastic – the best thriller ever written! My only problem was, I wasn't sure what to do with my masterpiece.

One day, while having lunch with my friend, F. Jim Smith, (he was Bing Crosby's personal artist and illustrator for the Marlboro Man) I told him about Old Masters. Brimming with enthusiasm, Jim said, “Let’s call my friend Mary, she'll know what to do.” Well, his friend “Mary” turned out to be Mary Higgins Clark! Who, as you probably know, is the Queen of Suspense and one of the best-selling mystery writers of all time.

I thought to myself, “No way is this going to happen.” But two hours later Jim called back with a message from Mary. “Come to New York and meet me at the Mystery Writers of America symposium.” Oh, heck yes, I thought!

When I arrived at the symposium, this tiny dynamo in a gorgeous Chanel suit grabbed my hand and proceeded to introduce me to New York’s finest agents, editors, and publishers! As Mary handed me off to each one, I did my little song and dance and presented them with a spiffy book cover I’d had my senior art director design.

Did I sell my Old Masters manuscript that day? No, but it was read by Penguin and Random House. And I received offers from 5 different agents to represent me and ended up with a dandy offer to write a cozy series.

A fairytale ending, yes? But that was almost nine years ago. Could this still happen today with publishers clinging miserly to every dollar, allowing author’s backlists to go out of print, and letting new (good!) manuscripts languish in slush piles?

If you want it bad enough, I really believe you can make it happen. Pour your heart into your story, make sure it’s a killer plotline, add twists and tangles, and then prove, prove, prove to a publisher that you’ve got the platform to promote it.

I’ll also let you in on a very weird secret. Editors (who are really acquisition editors, not mark-it-with-a-red-pen editors) don’t really know what they’re looking for. That’s why you have to tell them that you have the next big thing in publishing. If you can, gently pull them aside at a conference and perform your own animated song and dance. Because if you’re convinced, they’ll be convinced.

One more critical thing. You must also learn the subtle art of the one-page query letter. It’s the only way you’ll score the big enchilada - a killer agent. Which, in publishing’s uncertain times, is the best way in the front door!

Ah. You’re probably wondering who my killer agent is? After three years of writing, guerrilla marketing, and proving I could actually sell books, I finally landed the same agent that represents Mary. And every day, rain or shine, I thank my lucky stars.
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In Laura Child's past life, she was CEO and creative director of Mission Critical Marketing, with offices in Minneapolis, MN, Austin, TX, and San Jose, CA, where they handled marketing and advertising for medical, technology, and financial clients.

She's married to Dr. Robert Poor, a professor of Chinese and Japanese art history at the University of Minnesota. They live on two acres of woods in Plymouth, MN and have two snarky Chinese Shar-Pei dogs. They travel to Asia, enjoy art collecting, and serve on the boards of a couple of non-profit organizations.

Oh yes, and she's the author of the Scrapbooking Mysteries, Tea Shop Mysteries, and Cackleberry Club Mysteries.Her most recent mystery, TRAGIC MAGIC, was just released. And don't miss EGGS BENEDICT ARNOLD, coming December 1st.