Research-do you or don't you?

One of the most common questions I am asked is "do you research your books?" And I can only answer definitevly, it depends.

I always associated research with term papers. All of us on this blog write fiction. Although, now that I think back, some of my term papers ---. Thrusting that firmly back in the past, I guess we all do some research. Sometimes it is as simple as getting a setting right. If you want a scene in a small town and you live in-for instance-down town Los Angeles, just finding a small town and wandering around for awhile can help make your description much more interesting. Knowing something about the job you give your protagonist also helps. You could get into a lot of trouble with readers if you make your hero or heroine a computer geek when you have trouble finding the on/off button on your own computer. So, when I wrote my first book, I took the advice of all of the speakers at all of the seminars I went to, and gave her my job. Real Estate agent. Of course, she was a beginner in the first book, and I had a lot of fun showing her the ropes. (That's a cliche, something to be avoided at all costs) But I found I still needed to do some research. Someone in the book gets shot, and I suddenly found I didn't know one thing about entrance and exit wounds. Oh, I'd read about them, seen people shot on TV, but I still wasn't sure. So I called up our police department and asked. After the laughter stopped, I got more information than I could use. The second book was about Arabian horses and Arabian horse shows. I had done years of research for that one, although I didn't know at the time that all the years of breeding, shivering in barn ailes while waiting for a mare to foal, mucking out stalls, and driving the country with a horse trailer behind me and a truck full of kids, dogs and tack were really preperation for a book. The third book, And Murder For Dessert is about wine, wineries, bed and breakfasts, and tempermental chefs. Wine tasting is a wonderful way to do research. I had some inside help feeding me information for that book as well. Made it fun to write, and I think I got all the facts correct. The book I'm just finishing up is set in a bakery. I've researched how they make all that wonderful stuff, and have done more than a little taste testing. I love research. Have a safe and happy holiday everybody. Kathleen Delaney And Murder For Dessert

The Power of the Contemptible Character

You know who they are -- the minor characters you love to hate in some of your favorite books. They're not psychotic; they're not even really evil. BUT ... they ARE full of minor failings, which inevitably impact the plot ... envy, false pride, phony values ... hurting themselves, or more often, other people ... sometimes, your hero or heroine. And while you loathe them for that, you can't really hate them -- because secretly, you know how much FUN they are when they show up.

Prime example: Caroline Bingley in PRIDE & PREJUDICE. Here's a woman just DYING to get Mr. Darcy's wedding ring on her finger, and yet, with all her artful ways and sophistication, she doesn't stand a chance.

But she NEVER stops trying ... interrupting him while he's writing a letter, taking the second volume of a book he's been reading and sighing about how wonderful reading is, when she hasn't opened the book yet ... even inviting Elizabeth Bennet to walk around the room with her, so she can attract Darcy's attention.

Every time Miss Bingley appears, I get interested. She brings with her an undeniable energy that lifts up the entire story. What stupid thing is she going to do next? I have to admit to a real fascination with that question.

What can you, the writer, do to lift up the energy of your own novel?

Easy: Create a contemptible character of your own.

Save the big failings -- abusiveness, an addiction to chainsaws, unending greed -- for your main villains. But can you give a smaller character some smaller, easily recognizable character flaws? It would help a lot.

Think of Beatrice in BOLT by Dick Francis. Francis, easily my favorite mystery/suspense writer of all time, draws characters in a few quick, unerring strokes that keep them with you forever. His heroes are truly GOOD and his villains -- well, you don't want to run into them on a dark night. In between are some generally good characters (he seems to have a pretty benign world view for a mystery writer) and a few with serious flaws.

Beatrice is one of them. A nouveau riche widow living in Palm Beach, she is easily manipulated because, my dear, she just can't seem to hang onto a dollar, though she has just a TINY establishment with a VERY small staff, and she's constantly scrambling for another source of income.

Kit, the champion jockey hero, is trying to trap a truly bad guy who's putting pressure on Beatrice's elderly and crippled brother and his wife. So far, they've been able to resist, and as Kit shores them up, he becomes the bad guy's target.

Beatrice is aggrieved when she arrives in London to find Kit ensconced in her favorite guest room in the house. "That's MY room!" she announces several times, but despite her clear view that Kit, a jockey, should be in a room just a cut above servants' quarters, her sister-in-law disagrees and keeps Kit in the beautiful guest room.

Beatrice, annoyed and humiliated, tells the bad guy where Kit will be on a certain night -- thus virtually assuring that he will be attacked. Kit manages to escape, but her sister-in-law is horrified and asks why Beatrice would ever do such a thing.

Beatrice, still aggrieved, says plaintively, "He was in MY ROOM." And to her mind, that was all it should take.

A truly contemptible character -- but every time she appears, the energy level of the book rises perceptibly.

Where can you put a contemptible character of your own?

I'm sure if you look, you can find the perfect place ...

SUSAN SLOATE
Author, FORWARD TO CAMELOT, STEALING FIRE

OUT IN THE AIRE

We spent Sunday afternoon at Wilgrove Park in Mint Hill

and it was great fun! Six Conspirators (Lynette Hampton, Doug Walker, Joyce and Jim Lavene, Elizabeth Craig and Linda Evans) were there to sell books and meet the public. People responded to their friendly neighborhood mystery writers and by the time we left, bookmarks and other items were sold out!

Sunday afternoon in the Park is sponsored by Mint Hill Arts(www.minthillarts.org) a group of artists and craftsmen (including writers) who are always looking for ways to promote their work.

This is the third year for the Conspiracy at the event and it will probably not be the last year!

Joyce Lavene

Monday, August 25

We strike again!!

The Do-Over

Ever have one of those moments where you think back to an encounter and wish you’d said something even remotely clever? Or done something differently, maybe behaved like a hero instead of standing like a puppy caught in the headlights of an oncoming semi while someone else saved a little old lady?

I long ago resigned myself to the fact that I am not superhero material. Words—especially clever comebacks—do not spring easily to my lips in stressful situations. I am one of the faces in the crowd when the photographer shows up to document the hero’s latest save.

But for the main characters in my books, life is a different story. For them, I can use the do-over.

Good thing, because my first drafts generally cause me to cringe in shame. An example might go something like this: The heroine—let’s call her Bethie—has an ex brother-in-law who is an attorney. This brother-in-law, Jack, is harassing Bethie’s sister. Bethie and Jack encounter each other in the hallway of the local courthouse where Bethie accidentally bumps into Jack and causes him to drop his briefcase.

“Get out of my way,” Jack says, eyeing her with disdain.

“I’m so sorry.” Bethie lowers her gaze. She picks up his briefcase and dusts it off before handing it back to him. Why is she always so clumsy?

“I hope you don’t think you can get away with following me.” Jack leans in so far she can smell his minty breath. “I’ll take out a restraining order before you can blink, you little twit.”

Bethie tries not to cry. She bites her lip and finally stammers, “I wasn’t following you. I just…I’m a citizen. I can come to the courthouse any time I want.” Darn. He wasn’t supposed to catch her.

Next day, I read this little gem and I have to apply an ice pack to my burning face. What was I thinking? Wait, no problem. I have the do-over.

The first revision:

“Get out of my way,” Bubba Ray growls.

He looks as if he’d like nothing better than to shove her down the nearest flight of stairs. Kate wishes he’d try. He bends, reaching for his briefcase, and she beats him to it, snatching it out of his grasp. She whips a tissue out of her purse, spits on it, and smears it across the expensive leather.

“There you go, good as new. Now you can get back to prancing around the courthouse like you think you’re somebody important.”

Bubba Ray’s beady eyes get smaller. “Bet you think you’re cute, don’t you? Well, I have two words for you if you don’t stop following me—restraining order.”

Kate snorts. She leans in so close she’s sure Bubba Ray can smell her breath. She hopes he likes the garlic and onions she had with her lunch as much as she does. “Following you? I suppose little green men landed in your yard last night, too. Guess what, dirtbag, I have two words for you. Good psychiatrist.”

Okay, it still needs work. But I can rewrite it as many times as I want. After all, I would not want Bethie—I mean, Kate—to wake up tomorrow morning saying, “Darn. I wish I'd handled that whole scene differently.”

L.C. Evans

Writers Are Weird

My daughter and son-in-law are very precious to me – almost as precious as the two wonderful grandchildren they’ve given me – but sometimes they give me a hard time. It’s not that they don’t care about me or my work. They do. It’s just that sometimes I think we live on different planets. If not planets, at least different planes of this planet.

For instance, the other day my daughter dropped by. (Oh she’s thoughtful, she called first.) I was in the middle of finishing up a lovely wedding scene in my latest book. This couple, who everyone thought would never make it, were finally having the wedding of their dreams. I cried through the whole ceremony

About the time I had them heading out on an extensive honeymoon, the door bell rang. I answered it, blew my nose and told daughter to come in.

"Are you crying?” She demanded.

I knew I might as well confess so I said, “Yes. June finally got married and…”

“Who’s June?”

“You know. The woman in my book who was shot and nobody thought she would make it….”

“But she’s not real, Mom. What’s wrong with you?”

Now you know if you’re a writer, you’d never tell another writer their characters were not real. Indeed! These people are real to me. I live with them for months. I give them life and they talk to me and I talk to them. I feel what they feel.

For example, in JILTED BY DEATH, when Willa met Trent and the shivers went down her spine, they went down mine too. When the hot plastic spewed on Ernie Wilkes in STETSON MOLD, I felt the pain. I felt alone and lost when Amy decided the best thing to do in DUO OF OPPISITES was to get lost in San Francisco. I was excited and thrilled when Gaylord Swanson and Nevis Poole presented Willa with a new car in ECHOES OF MERCY. When Nola Dean stumbled on a dead body in the darkness of her Myrtle Beach condo in MURDER IN SOUTH CAROLINA, I was as horrified as she was.

So how could anyone tell me my characters aren’t real?

Believe me, I’m not alone. Many writers out there do the same thing I do. We get into the heart and soul of these people we create and this is what makes them come alive on the page. If they don’t make the writer cry or laugh or feel, then they won’t make the reader cry or laugh or feel either.

And that’s what I strive for. I want my readers to feel for and with my characters. The sweetest words I’ve ever heard from a fan is, “I didn’t want the book to end. I want to know what happens to the people after you stopped the story.”

So call me weird. My family does and I don’t mind. Maybe I am a little weird. Maybe that is what it takes to be a writer. I don’t know. I only know that I love to make up stories and put them on paper. There is no other job where a grandmother like me could live part-time in a dream world, write those dreams down and if lucky get paid an amount which puts me below the poverty level.

Just so you won’t think I’m completely nuts, while I was thinking about writing this, I changed my cat litter, tossed a load of clothes in the washer and put a roast with pepperoncini in the crock pot. See, a writer can live in both worlds even if they are weird.

Deja Vu All Over Again?

Been following the Olympics? Of course you have. You can’t avoid it. You turn on the radio, log on to the internet or watch the nightly news, and you hear something about the gazillion dollar competition in Beijing, from the aesthetically pleasing nine year old girl lip syncing the theme song to the Greco-Roman wrestler who lost his bronze medal due to poor sportmanship.

And you’d have to have been living under a rock for the last couple of weeks if you don’t recognize the name of Michael Phelps, who now holds the records for most gold medals ever won in a single Olympics.

That record had been held by Mark Spitz, who won seven gold medals in 1972 Munich Olympics.

I was 16 during the ‘72 Olympics and although I was not much for athletics, I went nuts for Mark Spitz. I watched every one of his races and even went out and bought the famous poster you see here of Mr. Spitz, wearing little more than his medals and a smile. If ever a man could fill out a Speedo, it was that guy.

Hey, what happened to the Speedo suits anyway? The suits the swimmers wear now remind me of the tight leggings I used to wear to my aerobics class. I hear those things are supposed to give the swimmers an extra edge, but they look kind of silly.

I didn’t watch the swimming races this time. I guess I didn’t want to be reminded that it’s been 36 years since I was so captivated by an Olympic athlete. Or perhaps I remember the terrible events that happened soon after Spitz won that seventh gold medal, when the Israeli athletes were taken hostage and later killed by Palestinian terrorists. I can still hear the late Jim McKay saying "They’re all gone," and crying for all those fine young men lost.

We’ve learned a lot since 1972. I’m sure with the whole world watching, the Chinese have the right security measures in place to prevent another terrorist attack like the one in Munich. But maybe it helps that I haven’t watched the swimming competition like I did in 1972. You never know.