One surprising thing – to beginning writers – about being published is that the author doesn’t get to choose the cover. Once in a great while, after having several books published, an editor will ask an author if he or she has any suggestions for the cover. Once in an even greater while, the idea the author has will influence the cover.
The usual thing is that, as the book begins the publishing process the author will receive, in the mail or via e-mail, the “cover art,” a more-than-rough-sketch. The author’s reaction can range from “Arrrrggghhh!” to “Wow, that’s great!”
I had a good friend who wrote science fiction, and who was achieving considerable success, who was sent the cover art for her next book. She was startled when it featured a scantily-clad, well-endowed woman, because her book was about a world populated by beings who resembled bears. She remarked that very likely there was a sci-fi author out there somewhere who couldn’t understand why his well-endowed humanoid heroine was portrayed on his cover as ursine.
My first mystery series, written as Mary Monica Pulver, featured a police detective whose wife raised and bred Arabian horses. Of the five books, four featured a horse on the cover. Though the covers were attractive, in none of them was the horse an Arab.
The one cover that didn’t have a horse on it, did have another problem. The story is set at the Great Pennsic War, a Society for Creative Anachronism annual event. Rather than just describing what the event looks like, we sent the publisher some photographs. To our amazement, the cover art was taken from one of the photographs and the people on it were clearly recognizable. We had to make some hasty phone calls to warn the people involved and see if they objected. Fortunately, they didn’t.
I think all of the covers of my Betsy Devonshire mysteries are very attractive, even eye-catching – which, of course, is the idea. I can’t wait to see what they’re going to do with Threadbare.
Showing posts with label Betsy Devonshire. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Betsy Devonshire. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
THE WINNAHS!
Sorry to be posting so late; I'm in Florida being passed along to various relatives and just got back to a place where I can borrow a computer and get online.
Boy, was it hard picking wht winners of the Boyfriend for Betsy contest! I dithered and dathered (neologism) and finally went with my emotions and picked Connor Sullivan. I was going to change his name to Terence O'Sullivan but my two sisters objected, saying Conner Sullivan tripped more euphoniously off the tongue. And then this morning I met a very handsome young man (okay a boy) walking a gorgeous black standard poodle. He was my niece's neighbor. I love black standard poodles, so she hailed him over to meet the dog. The dog's name is Chloe, and the boy's name is Connor. Okay, okay, some things are a *sign.* Betsy's new boyfriend is Connor Sullivan. The fictional Connor, as invented for me, has a very interesting background, being Irish born.
It was a near thing, though. Second place goes to a man with a Scottish background, whose physical description is devastating. Plus, I have serious weakness for the Scots.
In fact, all the entries were serious competitors, from the carpenter to the retired attorney who wants to buy ISBN's next door to Betsy's shop, to the cancer survivor photographer. I even like the cranky guy who stomps into town and buys the local newspaper.
My deepest thanks to everyone who sent an entry, it has keep me entertained for weeks, wven while it made me tear my hair out picking a winner!
Boy, was it hard picking wht winners of the Boyfriend for Betsy contest! I dithered and dathered (neologism) and finally went with my emotions and picked Connor Sullivan. I was going to change his name to Terence O'Sullivan but my two sisters objected, saying Conner Sullivan tripped more euphoniously off the tongue. And then this morning I met a very handsome young man (okay a boy) walking a gorgeous black standard poodle. He was my niece's neighbor. I love black standard poodles, so she hailed him over to meet the dog. The dog's name is Chloe, and the boy's name is Connor. Okay, okay, some things are a *sign.* Betsy's new boyfriend is Connor Sullivan. The fictional Connor, as invented for me, has a very interesting background, being Irish born.
It was a near thing, though. Second place goes to a man with a Scottish background, whose physical description is devastating. Plus, I have serious weakness for the Scots.
In fact, all the entries were serious competitors, from the carpenter to the retired attorney who wants to buy ISBN's next door to Betsy's shop, to the cancer survivor photographer. I even like the cranky guy who stomps into town and buys the local newspaper.
My deepest thanks to everyone who sent an entry, it has keep me entertained for weeks, wven while it made me tear my hair out picking a winner!
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Me, the Election Official!
I was an election "judge" in Minneapolis on Tuesday. That means I got to sit at different stations in the big room in Ward Seven, Eleventh Precinct while people came in to vote. I checked people in, helped people register, watched the machine where people inserted their ballots, and handed out "I Voted" stickers. Turnout at first was very heavy. It’s a mixed precinct, everyone from welfare moms to businessmen, students to senior citizens. I was surprised at how many had to re-register until the Precinct Captain told me that it’s a part of town where many people are "just passing through," and others are still finding themselves, and so they all move a lot. One young woman came in with her small dog, but animals are not allowed in the voting area. We weren’t busy at the time so I volunteered to sit out in an outer room and hold the little animal for her. She was a mixed breed dog, quite small, the kind with long, unkempt-looking gray-black fur. She sat very quietly, barely acknowledging my words or strokes. Then her mistress appeared, and she became a wild thing revealing, I think, how anxious and unhappy she was over the separation – but too gently-bred to growl and sulk over her absence. A good little dog.
Entries in my find a boyfriend for Betsy have dropped off sharply, and I’m tempted to call off the contest early. I’m at a part of the book where he needs to appear and it’s hard writing around him. But I said November 15, so I guess I should stick to that date. It’s going to be hard to choose, there are some really great entries. Once in awhile I will get an entry that is obviously part of a story the writer has thought about, and those people I encourage to go ahead and write the story – even the novel, if it appears complex enough. There are web sites on which a writer can try out a story using some published author’s vision – Star Trek fans are legendary for stories set in that world. But it’s possible to write a story set in Betsy Devonshire’s Excelsior, too. I’d love to read a story told from Godwin’s point of view. Also such exercises can be a step for a budding author to get his or her very own original story published.
Entries in my find a boyfriend for Betsy have dropped off sharply, and I’m tempted to call off the contest early. I’m at a part of the book where he needs to appear and it’s hard writing around him. But I said November 15, so I guess I should stick to that date. It’s going to be hard to choose, there are some really great entries. Once in awhile I will get an entry that is obviously part of a story the writer has thought about, and those people I encourage to go ahead and write the story – even the novel, if it appears complex enough. There are web sites on which a writer can try out a story using some published author’s vision – Star Trek fans are legendary for stories set in that world. But it’s possible to write a story set in Betsy Devonshire’s Excelsior, too. I’d love to read a story told from Godwin’s point of view. Also such exercises can be a step for a budding author to get his or her very own original story published.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
A Report from "Up North" Minnesota
Sunday, August 10, 2008 – A looooong drive up from St. Louis Park to Thunder Lake, and we’re in Cass County, named after a pre-Civil War general who explored this area and made treaties (later broken, of course) with the Indians. The area is heavily forested, some oak but mostly birch and white pine – lots and lots of pine. Weather spectacular, sunny and not quite cool. Rita’s cabin is up a winding gravel road closely set with big trees. As advertised, it is elderly, made of logs, set in a clearing it shares with a much lower-class cabin of broad boards (with an outhouse!), which also belongs to her, and a higher-class log cabin with a stone chimney of the sort that means a fireplace. The higher-class one is not made of real logs but that siding designed to look like logs.
Rita’s cabin is small but not tiny, a cozy place with an efficient kitchen, dining area and living room, bedroom, bath. The windows are horizontally rectangular and open like French doors – they’re original to the house, though work has been done on them to make them fit tightly again. There is an enclosed back porch with big screen windows that faces the lake. It might once have been a front porch, and there was a door leading out of it that wasn’t properly braced and so it was pulling the whole cabin down. And once started, the cabin might well have ended up in the lake, because there is a very steep slope of about seventy yards down to the water’s edge. The old logs of the cabin are a dark red-brown and some are fissured or split. I wish I’d brought my bird book along because there are all kinds of birds up here, some I don’t recognize. Rita reports there are bears and otters, kingfishers and loons. She has a canoe we can use. Thunder Lake is beautiful, of an odd, oblong shape. It makes me think of a plucked duck. There are other cabins and several resorts.
There is a very tall, ancient pine near the lake on her land with a huge bald eagle’s nest in its top branches. There is a single baby eagle in the nest, who shrieks a lot because his parents are not feeding him right now. They want him to find the courage to fly to a nearby tree, where they sit calling and waving fish at him. So far he’s refusing, he sits in the nest fat, angry and complaining (typical adolescent?) and calls for them to bring the fish over.
Ellen and I went to Remer for supper. It’s about ten miles up highway 6 from here. It’s a very small town, one of those "wide places in the road." We went into The Woodsman, a country café sort of place, with fake knotty pine paneling and faded pictures of local wildlife. But the food was pretty good – real mashed potatoes and home-made gravy, fat breadsticks with just a hint of sweetness, flavorful "chopped steak" (hamburger) with mushrooms and onions. The owner said an elderly woman named Lou has lived here all her life and could tell me about the German POW camp right outside of town. She comes in every morning early for coffee.
Back at the cabin darkness drew in and there came the odd, sad "yodel" of a loon out on the lake, followed by three or four loons having fits of nervous giggles. The song of the northwoods, absolutely. I am looking forward to writing this novel!
I spent a certain amount of time wide awake that night. I find I have turned into a city girl. We left the windows open to the delicious, chilly night air, and I was sure a bear or a cougar was going to break the screen and come in after us. It was incredibly dark and very quiet out there, with occasional rustles or faint whuffling noises ("Oh, my God! A bear!") or rumbles ("Oh, my God, a cougar!"). In the daylight next day, I was ashamed. But later, while I was driving out the gravel road to Highway 6, something loped across the road in front of me. It was much bigger than a cat, but it didn’t look like a dog. Too small to be a bear. It was medium brown, furry, thick-legged, tailess. It didn’t move like a bear cub and anyway they are black. "Oh, my God, a bobcat!" And in fact, it might have been, they are rare but present up here.
We did go to talk with Lou, who is a very spry and youthful 80. She is, in fact, Lucille Anderson, who was 15 when the German POWs came to Remer. Her grandfather worked at the camp, which was converted from what they call "the CC Camp" – Civilian Conservation Corps, an FDR remedy for the Depression. She remembers army trucks hauling them around, they standing in the back, and how they would call out and wave to her grandfather if they saw him on the street. She told me where the Remer camp was located. (Go out the graveled Highway 4 past a cemetery to a "tar road" that curves to the right, go past a house and look for a very tall stand of pines: "you can’t miss it.")
And we didn’t. I sprayed myself heavily with Deet, took the camera, left Ellen in the car, and went into the woods via a faintly marked, grassy, weedy road that had been built up across a very deep ditch. The trail branched here and there, and I found smallish clearings marked with old trunks, but even the clearings had tall pines growing in them, and I couldn’t find any sign of any old buildings. I didn’t want to wander too far off the trails, first because I thought they might be the remnants of roads leading to the camp, second because I didn’t want to get lost. There was evidence of passage on the "roads" by vehicles not so long ago, probably checking the place out for logging.
Later I walked down to the lake in front of the cabin, trying not to break into a trot which could only have ended in a soaking. Coming back, I detoured to the big pine the eagles are nesting in. It is a very big pine, its trunk at least twice the diameter of the other pines around it. Suddenly I heard the peculiarly high-pitched squeal of the eagles coming in short, excited bursts and saw a dark shadow circle and land up out of my sight. Landed heavily, with a clap of wings. Then two more shadows circled in, also squealing. The eaglet is out of his nest! Well, he’s back again, but he’s taken his first flight.
There is Internet access in Longville! Checked e-mail there Tuesday. The librarian showed me some history books on the Land’o’Lakes area – one focusing on Longville – and we sat down to read and wait. One of the books said the POW camp was over by Little Boy Lake (perhaps in addition to the one at Remer – or is Remer near Little Boy Lake? Need to do more research!) and told a couple of brief anecdotes about the Germans. One said a prisoner ran off but stopped by a house (got lost?), where he was fed, comforted and returned to the camp the next day. Another recalled the Germans being brought along by American soldiers stopping off for beer – this is beginning to sound like "Hogan’s Heroes!" A POW was asked what he thought of young American women and he, an older officer, "indicated by gestures" that he would not allow his daughters to use lipstick or nail polish. (I wonder if they changed his mind after he’d been home a couple of years.) Just in passing, there was a story about a man who’d served time in prison during the 20s and, after another conviction, was "persuaded" to leave the Chicago area to live with relatives in Longville. His grandson didn’t know about this as a boy and was shocked to discover years later that his sweet old Gran’dad was setting up illegal slot machines in the backs of bars and going around weekly to collect the money. I think the word we want here is "incorrigible."
All this is, of course, gold to my research for Buttons and Bones, a future Betsy Devonshire novel.
The library opens at one on Wednesday, so this won’t get posted until then.
Rita’s cabin is small but not tiny, a cozy place with an efficient kitchen, dining area and living room, bedroom, bath. The windows are horizontally rectangular and open like French doors – they’re original to the house, though work has been done on them to make them fit tightly again. There is an enclosed back porch with big screen windows that faces the lake. It might once have been a front porch, and there was a door leading out of it that wasn’t properly braced and so it was pulling the whole cabin down. And once started, the cabin might well have ended up in the lake, because there is a very steep slope of about seventy yards down to the water’s edge. The old logs of the cabin are a dark red-brown and some are fissured or split. I wish I’d brought my bird book along because there are all kinds of birds up here, some I don’t recognize. Rita reports there are bears and otters, kingfishers and loons. She has a canoe we can use. Thunder Lake is beautiful, of an odd, oblong shape. It makes me think of a plucked duck. There are other cabins and several resorts.
There is a very tall, ancient pine near the lake on her land with a huge bald eagle’s nest in its top branches. There is a single baby eagle in the nest, who shrieks a lot because his parents are not feeding him right now. They want him to find the courage to fly to a nearby tree, where they sit calling and waving fish at him. So far he’s refusing, he sits in the nest fat, angry and complaining (typical adolescent?) and calls for them to bring the fish over.
Ellen and I went to Remer for supper. It’s about ten miles up highway 6 from here. It’s a very small town, one of those "wide places in the road." We went into The Woodsman, a country café sort of place, with fake knotty pine paneling and faded pictures of local wildlife. But the food was pretty good – real mashed potatoes and home-made gravy, fat breadsticks with just a hint of sweetness, flavorful "chopped steak" (hamburger) with mushrooms and onions. The owner said an elderly woman named Lou has lived here all her life and could tell me about the German POW camp right outside of town. She comes in every morning early for coffee.
Back at the cabin darkness drew in and there came the odd, sad "yodel" of a loon out on the lake, followed by three or four loons having fits of nervous giggles. The song of the northwoods, absolutely. I am looking forward to writing this novel!
I spent a certain amount of time wide awake that night. I find I have turned into a city girl. We left the windows open to the delicious, chilly night air, and I was sure a bear or a cougar was going to break the screen and come in after us. It was incredibly dark and very quiet out there, with occasional rustles or faint whuffling noises ("Oh, my God! A bear!") or rumbles ("Oh, my God, a cougar!"). In the daylight next day, I was ashamed. But later, while I was driving out the gravel road to Highway 6, something loped across the road in front of me. It was much bigger than a cat, but it didn’t look like a dog. Too small to be a bear. It was medium brown, furry, thick-legged, tailess. It didn’t move like a bear cub and anyway they are black. "Oh, my God, a bobcat!" And in fact, it might have been, they are rare but present up here.
We did go to talk with Lou, who is a very spry and youthful 80. She is, in fact, Lucille Anderson, who was 15 when the German POWs came to Remer. Her grandfather worked at the camp, which was converted from what they call "the CC Camp" – Civilian Conservation Corps, an FDR remedy for the Depression. She remembers army trucks hauling them around, they standing in the back, and how they would call out and wave to her grandfather if they saw him on the street. She told me where the Remer camp was located. (Go out the graveled Highway 4 past a cemetery to a "tar road" that curves to the right, go past a house and look for a very tall stand of pines: "you can’t miss it.")
And we didn’t. I sprayed myself heavily with Deet, took the camera, left Ellen in the car, and went into the woods via a faintly marked, grassy, weedy road that had been built up across a very deep ditch. The trail branched here and there, and I found smallish clearings marked with old trunks, but even the clearings had tall pines growing in them, and I couldn’t find any sign of any old buildings. I didn’t want to wander too far off the trails, first because I thought they might be the remnants of roads leading to the camp, second because I didn’t want to get lost. There was evidence of passage on the "roads" by vehicles not so long ago, probably checking the place out for logging.
Later I walked down to the lake in front of the cabin, trying not to break into a trot which could only have ended in a soaking. Coming back, I detoured to the big pine the eagles are nesting in. It is a very big pine, its trunk at least twice the diameter of the other pines around it. Suddenly I heard the peculiarly high-pitched squeal of the eagles coming in short, excited bursts and saw a dark shadow circle and land up out of my sight. Landed heavily, with a clap of wings. Then two more shadows circled in, also squealing. The eaglet is out of his nest! Well, he’s back again, but he’s taken his first flight.
There is Internet access in Longville! Checked e-mail there Tuesday. The librarian showed me some history books on the Land’o’Lakes area – one focusing on Longville – and we sat down to read and wait. One of the books said the POW camp was over by Little Boy Lake (perhaps in addition to the one at Remer – or is Remer near Little Boy Lake? Need to do more research!) and told a couple of brief anecdotes about the Germans. One said a prisoner ran off but stopped by a house (got lost?), where he was fed, comforted and returned to the camp the next day. Another recalled the Germans being brought along by American soldiers stopping off for beer – this is beginning to sound like "Hogan’s Heroes!" A POW was asked what he thought of young American women and he, an older officer, "indicated by gestures" that he would not allow his daughters to use lipstick or nail polish. (I wonder if they changed his mind after he’d been home a couple of years.) Just in passing, there was a story about a man who’d served time in prison during the 20s and, after another conviction, was "persuaded" to leave the Chicago area to live with relatives in Longville. His grandson didn’t know about this as a boy and was shocked to discover years later that his sweet old Gran’dad was setting up illegal slot machines in the backs of bars and going around weekly to collect the money. I think the word we want here is "incorrigible."
All this is, of course, gold to my research for Buttons and Bones, a future Betsy Devonshire novel.
The library opens at one on Wednesday, so this won’t get posted until then.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
What a Character!
Last week I mentioned motive. So how about this week I blog a little on Character?
Today we are often described as living in “the second golden age of the mystery,” the first being the period between the two World Wars, when Dame Agatha, Ngaio Marsh, Dorothy Sayers and others ruled the mystery bookshelves. It is also often said (often by the same people) that today’s mysteries are more “character driven” than the old ones. I’m not sure that’s true, especially when I haul out the Sayers for a trip down memory lane. Lord Peter Wimsey was (is) a complex character, as was (is) his true love, Harriet Vane. Even Lord Peter’s vague, stupid brother and vain, impossible sister-in-law were interesting, I think. And his mother was a dear, diplomatic, far-sighted person.
Okay, Agatha Christie seemed to have a japaned box of perhaps fourteen characters, and when she’d start a new novel she’d open it and select six or eight of them: the retired army colonel who’d spent years in India, the shockingly-modern young thing, her ineffectual brother, the over-sexed wife, the bankrupt husband, the pair of women (one very masculine) who lived together, etc. But these are “types” who existed in her world, and so have a kind of reality. Still, Dame Agatha was more interested in keeping us guessing her solution than in showing us something new about human nature. A great deal of what we find trite or cliché about mysteries were INVENTED by this grand mistress of us all.
Today’s mysteries do, by and large, have more complex, more interesting characters, some of whom live uncommon lives in unusual locales. Hurrah for us!
I want to mention here my writers group, Crème de la Crime, because they are always pushing me to dig deeper into myself and my characters to make them behave in more realistic ways. Betsy Devonshire has depths I never thought to plumb before they got on my case, and all my characters react more realistically to what I'm putting them through. And it has improved my books tremendously. One of my favorite compliments is, “When I read one of your books, I feel like I’m visiting old friends.” I thank Crème de la Crime for helping me earn that compliment, and I will continue to do so, even when they are coming down hard on me.
I recently read a short interview with an author who admitted that he frequently used people he knew as the models for his characters. But only people he didn’t know well. He said that when you get to know someone really well, they become too complicated to translate into literature. Literary characters should be painted with a broad brush. The more I think about that, the more I agree with it. Unless you are writing a biography, a character needs to be summoned in a kind of shorthand: “He was a short man, and therefore peppery in nature, making up in noise and bounce for his lack of inches.” We all know people like that – and there, you see? We are back to Agatha Christie’s “types.” Every person is unique, true. But also there are quiet people, bad-tempered people, sullen people, dangerous people, kind people. When writing about a fictional person, the author can’t spend pages introducing the reader to a character. So especially the first meeting must be shown in simple, recognizable terms. More and more can be revealed as the book moves along, but the descriptions must not get in the way of the story, especially in a mystery novel – which is, by definition, centered on the mystery. On the other hand, there are some amazing, fascinating people walking through the pages of today's mystery novels. They are as complex and "real" as the ones who live in classic literature.
Advice for the novice writer: Don’t make yourself crazy about developing wildly "different" characters. People love to recognize themselves in books, too. Follow the First Rule of Writing Fiction: Write what you know. Write about people you are familiar with – and include some people you like. You’re going to spend a lot of time in their company, don’t set yourself up for hours of pain. A long time ago I was told that the afterlife for an author is spent in a small room in the company of your characters. You can make that seem like heaven or hell, your choice.
Today we are often described as living in “the second golden age of the mystery,” the first being the period between the two World Wars, when Dame Agatha, Ngaio Marsh, Dorothy Sayers and others ruled the mystery bookshelves. It is also often said (often by the same people) that today’s mysteries are more “character driven” than the old ones. I’m not sure that’s true, especially when I haul out the Sayers for a trip down memory lane. Lord Peter Wimsey was (is) a complex character, as was (is) his true love, Harriet Vane. Even Lord Peter’s vague, stupid brother and vain, impossible sister-in-law were interesting, I think. And his mother was a dear, diplomatic, far-sighted person.
Okay, Agatha Christie seemed to have a japaned box of perhaps fourteen characters, and when she’d start a new novel she’d open it and select six or eight of them: the retired army colonel who’d spent years in India, the shockingly-modern young thing, her ineffectual brother, the over-sexed wife, the bankrupt husband, the pair of women (one very masculine) who lived together, etc. But these are “types” who existed in her world, and so have a kind of reality. Still, Dame Agatha was more interested in keeping us guessing her solution than in showing us something new about human nature. A great deal of what we find trite or cliché about mysteries were INVENTED by this grand mistress of us all.
Today’s mysteries do, by and large, have more complex, more interesting characters, some of whom live uncommon lives in unusual locales. Hurrah for us!
I want to mention here my writers group, Crème de la Crime, because they are always pushing me to dig deeper into myself and my characters to make them behave in more realistic ways. Betsy Devonshire has depths I never thought to plumb before they got on my case, and all my characters react more realistically to what I'm putting them through. And it has improved my books tremendously. One of my favorite compliments is, “When I read one of your books, I feel like I’m visiting old friends.” I thank Crème de la Crime for helping me earn that compliment, and I will continue to do so, even when they are coming down hard on me.
I recently read a short interview with an author who admitted that he frequently used people he knew as the models for his characters. But only people he didn’t know well. He said that when you get to know someone really well, they become too complicated to translate into literature. Literary characters should be painted with a broad brush. The more I think about that, the more I agree with it. Unless you are writing a biography, a character needs to be summoned in a kind of shorthand: “He was a short man, and therefore peppery in nature, making up in noise and bounce for his lack of inches.” We all know people like that – and there, you see? We are back to Agatha Christie’s “types.” Every person is unique, true. But also there are quiet people, bad-tempered people, sullen people, dangerous people, kind people. When writing about a fictional person, the author can’t spend pages introducing the reader to a character. So especially the first meeting must be shown in simple, recognizable terms. More and more can be revealed as the book moves along, but the descriptions must not get in the way of the story, especially in a mystery novel – which is, by definition, centered on the mystery. On the other hand, there are some amazing, fascinating people walking through the pages of today's mystery novels. They are as complex and "real" as the ones who live in classic literature.
Advice for the novice writer: Don’t make yourself crazy about developing wildly "different" characters. People love to recognize themselves in books, too. Follow the First Rule of Writing Fiction: Write what you know. Write about people you are familiar with – and include some people you like. You’re going to spend a lot of time in their company, don’t set yourself up for hours of pain. A long time ago I was told that the afterlife for an author is spent in a small room in the company of your characters. You can make that seem like heaven or hell, your choice.
What a Character!
Last week I mentioned motive. So how about this week I blog a little on Character?
Today we are often described as living in “the second golden age of the mystery,” the first being the period between the two World Wars, when Dame Agatha, Ngaio Marsh, Dorothy Sayers and others ruled the mystery bookshelves. It is also often said (often by the same people) that today’s mysteries are more “character driven” than the old ones. I’m not sure that’s true, especially when I haul out the Sayers for a trip down memory lane. Lord Peter Wimsey was (is) a complex character, as was (is) his true love, Harriet Vane. Even Lord Peter’s vague, stupid brother and vain, impossible sister-in-law were interesting, I think. And his mother was a dear, diplomatic, far-sighted person.
Okay, Agatha Christie seemed to have a japaned box of perhaps fourteen characters, and when she’d start a new novel she’d open it and select six or eight of them: the retired army colonel who’d spent years in India, the shockingly-modern young thing, her ineffectual brother, the over-sexed wife, the bankrupt husband, the pair of women (one very masculine) who lived together, etc. But these are “types” who existed in her world, and so have a kind of reality. Still, Dame Agatha was more interested in keeping us guessing her solution than in showing us something new about human nature. A great deal of what we find trite or cliché about mysteries were INVENTED by this grand mistress of us all.
Today’s mysteries do, by and large, have more complex, more interesting characters, some of whom live uncommon lives in unusual locales. Hurrah for us!
I want to mention here my writers group, Crème de la Crime, because they are always pushing me to dig deeper into myself and my characters to make them behave in more realistic ways. Betsy Devonshire has depths I never thought to plumb before they got on my case, and all my characters react more realistically to what I'm putting them through. And it has improved my books tremendously. One of my favorite compliments is, “When I read one of your books, I feel like I’m visiting old friends.” I thank Crème de la Crime for helping me earn that compliment, and I will continue to do so, even when they are coming down hard on me.
I recently read a short interview with an author who admitted that he frequently used people he knew as the models for his characters. But only people he didn’t know well. He said that when you get to know someone really well, they become too complicated to translate into literature. Literary characters should be painted with a broad brush. The more I think about that, the more I agree with it. Unless you are writing a biography, a character needs to be summoned in a kind of shorthand: “He was a short man, and therefore peppery in nature, making up in noise and bounce for his lack of inches.” We all know people like that – and there, you see? We are back to Agatha Christie’s “types.” Every person is unique, true. But also there are quiet people, bad-tempered people, sullen people, dangerous people, kind people. When writing about a fictional person, the author can’t spend pages introducing the reader to a character. So especially the first meeting must be shown in simple, recognizable terms. More and more can be revealed as the book moves along, but the descriptions must not get in the way of the story, especially in a mystery novel – which is, by definition, centered on the mystery. On the other hand, there are some amazing, fascinating people walking through the pages of today's mystery novels. They are as complex and "real" as the ones who live in classic literature.
Advice for the novice writer: Don’t make yourself crazy about developing wildly "different" characters. People love to recognize themselves in books, too. Follow the First Rule of Writing Fiction: Write what you know. Write about people you are familiar with – and include some people you like. You’re going to spend a lot of time in their company, don’t set yourself up for hours of pain. A long time ago I was told that the afterlife for an author is spent in a small room in the company of your characters. You can make that seem like heaven or hell, your choice.
Today we are often described as living in “the second golden age of the mystery,” the first being the period between the two World Wars, when Dame Agatha, Ngaio Marsh, Dorothy Sayers and others ruled the mystery bookshelves. It is also often said (often by the same people) that today’s mysteries are more “character driven” than the old ones. I’m not sure that’s true, especially when I haul out the Sayers for a trip down memory lane. Lord Peter Wimsey was (is) a complex character, as was (is) his true love, Harriet Vane. Even Lord Peter’s vague, stupid brother and vain, impossible sister-in-law were interesting, I think. And his mother was a dear, diplomatic, far-sighted person.
Okay, Agatha Christie seemed to have a japaned box of perhaps fourteen characters, and when she’d start a new novel she’d open it and select six or eight of them: the retired army colonel who’d spent years in India, the shockingly-modern young thing, her ineffectual brother, the over-sexed wife, the bankrupt husband, the pair of women (one very masculine) who lived together, etc. But these are “types” who existed in her world, and so have a kind of reality. Still, Dame Agatha was more interested in keeping us guessing her solution than in showing us something new about human nature. A great deal of what we find trite or cliché about mysteries were INVENTED by this grand mistress of us all.
Today’s mysteries do, by and large, have more complex, more interesting characters, some of whom live uncommon lives in unusual locales. Hurrah for us!
I want to mention here my writers group, Crème de la Crime, because they are always pushing me to dig deeper into myself and my characters to make them behave in more realistic ways. Betsy Devonshire has depths I never thought to plumb before they got on my case, and all my characters react more realistically to what I'm putting them through. And it has improved my books tremendously. One of my favorite compliments is, “When I read one of your books, I feel like I’m visiting old friends.” I thank Crème de la Crime for helping me earn that compliment, and I will continue to do so, even when they are coming down hard on me.
I recently read a short interview with an author who admitted that he frequently used people he knew as the models for his characters. But only people he didn’t know well. He said that when you get to know someone really well, they become too complicated to translate into literature. Literary characters should be painted with a broad brush. The more I think about that, the more I agree with it. Unless you are writing a biography, a character needs to be summoned in a kind of shorthand: “He was a short man, and therefore peppery in nature, making up in noise and bounce for his lack of inches.” We all know people like that – and there, you see? We are back to Agatha Christie’s “types.” Every person is unique, true. But also there are quiet people, bad-tempered people, sullen people, dangerous people, kind people. When writing about a fictional person, the author can’t spend pages introducing the reader to a character. So especially the first meeting must be shown in simple, recognizable terms. More and more can be revealed as the book moves along, but the descriptions must not get in the way of the story, especially in a mystery novel – which is, by definition, centered on the mystery. On the other hand, there are some amazing, fascinating people walking through the pages of today's mystery novels. They are as complex and "real" as the ones who live in classic literature.
Advice for the novice writer: Don’t make yourself crazy about developing wildly "different" characters. People love to recognize themselves in books, too. Follow the First Rule of Writing Fiction: Write what you know. Write about people you are familiar with – and include some people you like. You’re going to spend a lot of time in their company, don’t set yourself up for hours of pain. A long time ago I was told that the afterlife for an author is spent in a small room in the company of your characters. You can make that seem like heaven or hell, your choice.
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