Editing: From Suspect to Snitch

I'm still editing away and am able to breath a little easier now. Last week, I was in the middle of my developmental edit and was stuck in a particular place. I wrote words. Deleted words. Outline a change. Added it. Then took it out. Nothing was working but I knew this part of the story had to be changed. The problem was every choice either complicated the plot or gave away the ending. What was I to do? Nothing was working and I didn't want to edit myself into a place where I needed to rewrite the whole beginning. I was at a loss. I was frustrated. So, I made a decision that might not have been wise, due to deadline approaching, an event looming on the horizon, and the restarting of my part-time job at the golf course, but I took the morning off anyway. 

There were some items I wanted to get before my next crop event, and the nearest craft store was thirty-five minutes away so I knew it would be a huge time commitment. But as I was at the point of wanting to scream "I quit" or bang my head on the keyboard, a few hours away would be a good thing for me. So, I grabbed my Joann's coupons and keys and went on my trip.

As I drove away from my house, my computer, and the book, my mind started to clear and the task I left behind didn't seem so daunting. The farther away I got, the more my mind clearer and ideas started to come into my head, including two answers to my dilemma: change of ownership and make him a snitch. When I reached my destination, I sat in the car and emailed myself the hopefully brilliant solutions to the issues I was facing.

When I returned home, I went downstairs and took a look at my developmental report and the outline of changes I had intended to write. What do you know...the few issues I was still having would be solved or smoothed out with these two changes. One of the changes would mean reworking a few scenes and removing another but as it required a new one, no worries on the word count ending up too low. 

The biggest problem I was having was with one suspect. I had tried to find a way to make him more solid without giving away the ending or over complicated the plot with so many twists (or even worse coincidences) that it was not believable. I read back over his scene and discovered the idea I had on my drive was the right answer. The man wasn't a necessary suspect as I had others, stronger ones, and what was needed was a catalyst to narrow down the who could've done it--a snitch. He was no longer a character who didn't have a strong enough motive, and seemed like an add on. He was now necessary and helped move the plot forward rather than bog it down.

Save the Darlings!

By Camille Minichino

Earlier this week, April 2, my 16th book, "Mix-Up in Miniature," was released. What better time to visit the blog that supported my then-new crafts series nearly five years ago? Thanks to KillerHobbies for always being so welcoming!

One of the rules of writing that has been around for nearly a century is "murder your darlings." The idea is that if a particular sentence or phrase stands out in your prose, it doesn't belong there, no matter how brilliant it is.

There's disagreement about who first said "murder your darlings," but I hold to the theory that it was Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch (1863-1944), and not Nabokov or Stephen King, as often claimed, because those two have enough credits to their name, whereas Sir Arthur needs as many shout outs as he can get.

As much as I want to honor Sir Arthur, who put together no smaller a work than The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250-1900, I do not follow this advice.

Rather than murder my darlings—a phrase, a metaphor, a zinger piece of dialogue or description—I put them in storage, suspending their lives, keeping them available in their own file.

Let's face it—I don't write a lot of darlings, but if I come up with a line so good that it makes the rest of the page look bad, it's the rest of the page I should murder. I should rewrite that page so that it measures up to the darling.

Otherwise, I sink into mediocrity. Isn't that what happens when the bright stars in the world are asked to dim it down and wait until everyone else catches up? Darlings are an endangered species!

For example, I'm pretty good at sarcasm, but I find romantic/flirty/sexy scenes hard to write. Too personal? Too old-school? (Please don't say, just too old!) So, I was happy to have come up with this for "Mix-up in Miniature," and made it its own darling scene, where my protagonist, fifty-something Gerry Porter, calls her new almost-boyfriend:

I was so excited about the new dollhouse, I needed to share my delight. I called Henry.

"I'm on my way to see Alexandra Rockwell," I said through the Bluetooth device clipped to my car's sun visor. "I'm passing right by your street."

"Why would you do that?" Henry asked.

"Remember I mentioned we want her to donate a dollhouse to the bookmobile auction? Well, she agreed!"

"I meant, why would you pass by my street?"

I gulped and felt a blush coming on. "I can stop at your house on the way back."


It's not always possible for me to do justice to the occasional darling I come up with. That's when I extract the darling, put it in its own file, and continue on the middle road.

Sometimes, late at night, I take a phrase from DARLINGS file and work with it. I might use if for a whole new story, or a blog, or a novel. Then, guess what, a new darling will appear, and I'll have to take it out and put it in its own file and …

I'm in a loop.

But I believe this loop is what makes me a better writer now, as I write my 18th and 19th books, than I was with the first one.

And speaking of darlings, I wanted to share the little house I put together for the Left Coast Crime auction last weekend. Note the crime scene in the living room!

As writers, what do you do with your darlings? As readers, do you notice darlings?

I hope I've helped save a darling!

This 'n' That

The book is finished, hurrah! It was sent as a file to my publisher two days ago. Whew! I think it was probably the most difficult to write -- mostly because I couldn't figure out why it was being so reluctant to come out of my head. I like the characters, it was a good story. Maybe it wasn't thrilling enough -- no one was trying to murder my sleuth and there weren't any fistfights -- such things make the pages fly by. We'll see what my editor thinks in a few weeks.

This weekend my writers group is holding a retreat. Sometimes we go away, this time we're staying close to home. One of the two days it is being held in the Party Room of the building I live in. Our Christmas tree is up and there's a gas fireplace and a kitchen, so it'll be very nice and cozy. We start early in the morning, and everyone will get a chance to read several chapters of whatever we're working on instead of just one, the critiquing will be a little deeper, the shared meals will tie us even closer, and it will be a valuable as well as a pleasurable time. We do this twice a year. My writers group has improved my writing tremendously. All you writers out there: Do you have a group? Is it helpful to you?

For many years I collected the Fontanini Christmas pieces. It started as the basic Creche: Mary, Joseph, the Babe, an angel, a pair of shepherds. Then the Three Kings. Then: Bethelehem! The green grocer, the innkeeper, the rug seller, the goose girl, the excited old man with a lantern, street musicians, the carpenter and his apprentice, the man with a basket of cherries, the woman with a basket of olives, the baker, the children . . . I have over three hundred pieces, if you count the sheep, the ducks, and the chickens. And no room to display them. We moved into a smaller place two years ago, and even using all of the kitchen breakfast wasn't enough. I thought about selling the set on e-Bay, but got what I hope is a better idea. I'm donating it to my church. They are very interested (I don't think they realize how BIG this collection is yet), and want me to be in charge of setting it up and taking it down. So I would still get to play with it, would have room to display it, and would get to share it with people. The best of all possible worlds.

A Weekend in Morris, MN

All the changes I’ve been making to Buttons and Bones at last had me confused about what was and what was not still in the book. So I finally had to stop writing forward and go back to do a chapter-by-chapter synopsis. These synopses are aggravating because they take up quite a bit of writing time, but in this case it was absolutely necessary. Already I can see my way forward much more clearly. I guess that’s a helpful hint for when you’re trying to write a novel and get stuck. Go back and do a chapter-by-chapter, just a few sentences on each chapter. It just may clear your vision amazingly and prepare you to go forward.

We had a great time in Morris, MN, last weekend. They were holding their 25th annual Prairie Pioneer Days and had pulled out all the country town stops: parade, talent competition, arts and crafts fair, kiddie inflatable fun, art show, fireworks, BBQ dinner – and me. The least understandable part of that was me, as the only connection I have with Morris is that my husband graduated from high school there. I came as Monica Ferris, needlework mystery author, not Mrs. Kuhfeld. On the other hand, I had a great time. Everyone was kind and friendly, I did two appearances, one at the little gem of a museum made out of the old Carnegie Library, the other at the new library. I brought books to sell and sold a lot of them, and read from the Prologue to Blackwork, the book coming out this fall. At the new library the audience and I had a great conversation done in Q&A. They asked good, solid questions.

In honor of Pioneer Prairie Days, the museum had mounted an exhibit of artifacts dating to those good old days, including the wreck of a covered wagon, photographs of local one-room schoolhouses, Indian beadwork, and an actual buffalo hide coat that covered its wearer from neck to ankle. The fur itself was so coarse and itchy that around the neck and wrists another, softer fur was substituted – a little detail that, for someone writing about that time, could make the story sing with authenticity. You’re welcome.

I was surprised at the variety and quality of the amateur talent show, from a young man who played something very esoteric and difficult on a bass guitar to a Native American pipe player to a set of belly dancers. A young man performed "Folsom Prison Blues," and as as he did a train came through town blowing its lonesome whistle as if specially ordered for the occasion.

An old high school chum of my husband’s was charming and funny. Brent told great stories. One of them went something like this. He and his grandsons were traveling out west and saw a Hells Angels biker pushing his Harley Davidson motorcycle into a service station. Down the street was a group of Hells Angels at another service station. Brent pulled into the second station to get gas. The attendent came out to ask, "Is th-th-th-there anything I-I can d-d-d-do for you?" Brent said no, thanks and started a casual conversation with the bikers. He was surprised to learn how civil and ordinary they seemed to be. About then the lone biker rode his now-repaired (or gassed) bike in to join his companions. "What the hey?" asked Brent. "How come you left to go on your own to that other station?" The biker replied, "I d-d-didn’t want him to th-th-think I was mo-mocking him." You find nice people in the most surprising places!

BLACKWORK

I signed up for a private lesson in blackwork and took it last week Thursday. Blackwork is the name of the Betsy Devonshire novel that will follow Thai Die (Dec. 2 release), and it is nearly finished in first draft manuscript form. Blackwork has two meanings. The first is a form of counted embroidery, the second is an alternate term for black magic. This makes it perfect as a book title in a needlework series, especially when the book is about a Wiccan woman accused of murder.
I’m glad I took the class, which will result in an eight-sided pincushion.
But doing blackwork isn’t as easy as I’d hoped. Oh, the theory is easy enough – just as Hardanger is easy, in theory. Blackwork has been made easier for me since the lesson. Between a good teacher who managed to talk down to my level, and a relatively simple pattern, I have both a little more ability in the craft and a little more confidence that, if I really worked at it, I could get a whole lot better. I’m having a follow-up lesson tomorrow evening. By then I’m supposed to have completed two copies of the pattern. Since I’ve not quite finished one, perhaps I shouldn’t be writing this blog entry but . . .
Excuse me.

Magna cum Murder

Magna cum Murder was terrific for me this year. It was smaller than usual, so everyone got to meet everyone, which was great.

I had three great things happen there. First, Mattie Coleman had set up a booth selling her hats and clothes. For the first time in my life I had bought a pair of shoes with nothing to wear at home that matched. They are a brown suede with a reddish tinge, with a thin gold thread outlining a five-petaled flower on the toe. They are beautiful and, for a wonder (I have arthritic feet), comfortable to wear. And, I have a cloche hat in an odd beige trimmed in brown that was a gift that, again, nothing I own matched. So I brought them both to Magna, hoping Mattie could work her magic. And she did. She had a brown knit suit that sets off the shoes beautifully. And the trim on the hat matches, too – but for an oddity, the shoes hate the hat and it’s mutual. I have brown leather shoes to go with suit and cloche but I needed a hat to wear with the suit and suede shoes. And, again, Mattie came through. She had to go back to her shop, but she found this amazing hat, one of those that change color depending on the light and angle from brown to red to gold. Its shape is as of a garrison cap, and the top of it is covered with a tight bunch of ruffles in the same fabric as the rest of the hat. The edges of the ruffles glow red and gold, much like paper that has been burning in a fireplace. You can wear it about six different ways, and I’m sure I will. Anyway, the brown of it matches the shoes.

Second, they had a round table discussion up and running and I got to take part. It was unusual in that at any time there were three authors at the table, but every fifteen minutes one would leave and someone took his or her place. Each author stayed forty-five minutes, which meant that every forty-five minutes there was a new set of authors talking. There was no subject set, each one brought something (unless the discussion was already hot on a topic, which it usually was, though it shifted all the time). It was great! There was an audience whose members were also always shifting, and they could make comments or ask questions, too. I loved it, and hope to do it again in two years – no Magna next year, as it coincides in time and place with Bouchercon. Magna is in Muncie, just up the road from Indianapolis, the site of next year’s Bouchercon.

Third, I was asked to moderate a panel called You Are What You Write? First, I drew a super set of panelists: Louise Penny, Austin Comacho, Marion Moore Hill, and Sarah Wisseman. I decided on a philosophical, summing-up approach, as it was the last panel of the convention. I asked some obvious questions, such as How is the character in your books who is most like you also least like you? I asked, What problems did you have inventing a character you disliked or who is not at all like you? And the last question was the best, it got some amazing replies: "In Cruelest Month, Louise Penny (she was Guest of Honor at the con) suggests that the little town of Three Pines (in which her stories are set) is a happy place because the villagers throw away bad feelings. But a psychic visiting the town says that feelings have power and need to go to a specific place. There is a house on the edge of town that people stay away from because they think it is haunted or inhabited by evil spirits, but it’s really the ugly thoughts and feelings discarded by the villagers. We, as authors, create bad people and bad feelings. Does putting them onto paper discard them from our minds – or nurture them?" Louise thought that was the best question asked her at the entire convention. Sarah said she feels she takes wicked ideas out of her head and puts them into a book as into a box and can close the cover on them. Austin said he thinks of them as weeds and explores the possibility of identifying and uprooting a bad weed so it doesn’t become a whole field of them. Marion warned against becoming so friendly with wickedness that we "invite it to come in and sit down." What a great panel that was!

Well, I tried to post a picture of me in the hat, but somewhere along the line I made an error. I'll get it yet! (Just not this time.)

CHALLENGE!

I am facing an amazing challenge, the kind that strikes terror into the heart of anyone who has ever faced a deadline. I thought, when I had to do a major re-write of Thai Die, that everything to follow got pushed down the time line a couple of months. That though the original deadline for Blackwork was the end of 2008, it would now be due in February or even March.

Then I was invited to debut Blackwork at a science fiction convention called Gaylaxicon – and you don’t have to be a detective to understand what the focus of that con is. The person running it in 2009 is a good friend of mine, someone I’ve known for probably close to thirty years. And it will be in Minneapolis, a first for this convention. Gaylaxicon will be held October 9 – 11. The reason he wants to debut the novel is that he is a sort of Godfather to Godwin, the gay man who is my sleuth Betsy’s sidekick, mentor, advisor and good friend.

I thought it wouldn’t work, as now (in my mind) the due date for the completion of the manuscript should now be too late for that pub date. To confirm, I asked my editor at Berkley when the pub date for Blackwork might be. Well, she said, we’re talking October 2009. I told Don that it looked good for debuting the novel.

And at the same time I felt a little trickle of fear. It takes time for a novel to go from manuscript to finished product. March, or even February, to October is awfully short a time in the normal course of events. When, I inquired, is the ms due to you? And the reply came: The end of this year.

I’m on Chapter Six. Well, Seven if I split that one long chapter in two.

Part of me is in a mild state of panic – but another part of me is exhilarated by this challenge.
So watch this space! And if anyone has any advice or encouragement to offer, please feel welcome.

The coundown begins now

Fame, Gratitude

I had an extremely pleasant experience last week, going to a library in Bloomington (that’s the suburb where the Mall of America is located). I was to give a paid talk. The room was crowded and virtually every person there was familiar with my books. The audience applauded and laughed at my jokes and asked good questions at the end. Some even had brought books for me to sign. Such experiences are good for a writer’s soul. Possibly a bit dangerous, too, when the author gets to thinking he or she deserves the plaudits. I write genre fiction for a very special subset of mystery novel fans; that doesn’t make me important. I tell myself that -- but sometimes I wonder if people in the creative arts who meet with any sort of success shouldn't hire a person to follow them around, murmuring in our ears, "You ain't so much."

Friday I am to go signing books at the Midwest Booksellers Association conference at RiverCenter in St. Paul. My publisher will be there and I get to go to a cocktail party ahead of time. I’ll be one of hundreds of authors, and it’ll be fun to rub elbows with authors who write other things than mystery fiction. I’ll wear one of my more spectacular hats.

I finally finished a short story, "It Slices, It Dices," for a Minnesota Mystery Anthology to be called Murder on a Stick, which will feature stories set at our State Fair. I will polish it in some haste, as it is due in the hands of the editor by October 1. And you know something? Acceptance is not guaranteed. (Though if it is rejected, I’m going to pitch a fit. Not because I’m important, but because I think it’s a pretty good story. I think I slipped a major clue into the story without being noticed, one of the kind that later you go back and say, How could I have missed that? I hope so, anyhow, know two people who have read an earlier draft who missed it. If everyone else does catch it, especially the editor, I'm cooked.)

We had a pretty violent rainstorm this afternoon and, as I have done bedfore, I went to a window and looked out at it. The rain was pouring down as if someone had unzipped the sky, and the wind blew it hard into the window. The gutters were overflowing. Our balcony is roofed, but the floor was wet back to the wall. Also as I have done before I thought how grateful I am that I live in a time and place where I was perfectly warm and dry. For a long time I was a member of the SCA an organization that studies the Middle Ages by behaving as if they were still around. I have also long taken an interest in camping, in studying the American Indian, and following the learning curve of anthropologists and archaelogists who study early man on the African and European continents. Not the very richest of any of them was privileged to live in such comfort as I have. Thanksgiving is a long way off, but I’m already grateful.

CONTEST, Golf, Singing

About the contest: I’ve already gotten some very nice entries. I can tell it’s going to be hard to decide. I wonder if it would be legal to have a tie-breaker? No, probably not, since I didn’t announce one at the start. But some people can be very convincing in only a few words.
If you’re wondering what I’m talking about, I’m offering a contest, the prize to be about two pounds of quilting fabric, various patterns but all featuring chickens. Realistic, cartoon, artistic, chicks, roosters, hens. Even eggs. And chicken wire. This fabric is left over from a beautiful chicken quilt I had made last year.

So tell me in twenty-five words or less why you think I should award the chicken fabric to you. Go to my web site, Monica-Ferris.com, and contact me via that. I’ll pay postage. Contest ends July 31.

I’m still intrigued by golf. A friend drove all the way from North Dakota to see the Ladies Professional Golf Tournament which took place just a few miles from our apartment. She had two tickets, but the friend who was coming backed out at the last minute, so she asked if I would like to go. Wow! Now, I’m arthritic, so I couldn’t do what my friend wanted to do, which was follow her favorite around the course. So I found a seat in the bleachers set up at the eighteenth green and watched them come in. One thing surprised me: how badly some of them putted! Okay the green was very fast and they were tired, but still. Anyway, it was a lovely setting, the magnificent Interlachen clubhouse in the background, a large pond guarding the second half of the fairway, tall trees and bright flowers and polite applause. It’s a different world. What I was surprised to learn was that I’m not anxious to be a part of that world. I just want to smack the ball hard enough to get to the green in two or three strokes. I don’t need applause or trophies or the rarified air of the private golf club. It might be a futile dream I do have. I played a par-three course on Saturday and it took me eleven strokes to finish the first hole – nine of them just to get to the green!

Oh, and here’s a golf hint for free: If you’re writing a murder mystery and want the weapon to be a golf club, don’t pick a driver. They look formidable, with that huge knob on the end, but they’re not all that heavy. Instead, choose a nine iron. They’re big compared to the other irons, and they’re heavy. Somebody, trying to help me out, went to a garage sale and bought me a whole set of golf clubs, and the bag. Paid five dollars. They are exactly what I need at this stage of my game. The clubs are elderly but good and not damaged. I think the seller went around collecting old clubs, because there were three seven irons, two five irons and two putters in that bag, along with the other clubs. Including that impressive nine iron.

Sunday evening our church put on a little recital. The three Eschweiler children, Ted, Phillip and Emma sang. They are twenty, seventeen, and fifteen years old. They sang some opera, some Broadway songs, and an arrangement of a hymn made just for them. They are so bright, competent, intelligent and level-headed (well, Phillip has a little bit of artistic temperament, but he also has the best voice), that it was another lesson in "not to worry." You know what I mean. My generation (how predictably like previous generations!) is sure the rising generation is going to rack and ruin and will tear down the country, if not the world, about their ears. But now and again I’ll meet young people like the Eschweilers and I know that isn’t true.

Golf?!? Pity Party

I think I’m taking up golf. I only think so because I’ve gone golfing exactly one time, and for only nine holes – and my partner and the other two gentlemen we were golfing with allowed me to pick up my ball and throw it on occasion, because I was holding up the game. Or when we were crossing a creek. I was pretty good at putting, because I’ve played miniature golf for years. But going up the fairway? Not so much.
So twice since then I’ve gone to a driving range and hit a bucket of balls. My range rarely exceeds fifty yards, and is often much less than that. But you know something? I’m going to go again.
But there’s something about the game. I’ve always loved to watch it on television, though I’ve heard that many sports fans think it’s more exciting to watch paint dry. One thing pro golf tours on television don’t seem to show: there are some hills on those courses! I’m not in great physical shape and some of the hills on the course we played were pretty steep! And those pros make it look so easy. They take a swing and the ball just flies. Me? I swing and miss. Or swing and it dribbles a few yards.
My favorite Tiger Woods story, one I saw for myself: He was playing on a rainy day and the green he was coming up to had a distinct tilt toward the fairway. He hit his ball too hard and it went over the green and down a grass-covered, cliff-like slope that was about eight feet high, landing in a shallow puddle in tall grass. The two commentators watched as he came around behind and studied his lay. They noted that the hole on the green was near the top, which would make it very hard to land near from behind. They discussed first, whether Tiger could get up on top in one stroke, and then how far down the green the ball would roll. And then how many spectators, who were crowding around, would get splashed when Tiger swung. The answer was: a lot! Grass and mud and water flew in all directions as Tiger took a mighty swing. But the ball rose beautifully to the top of the little cliff, landed just barely on the green – and stopped. I don’t think it was more than fourteen inches from the hole. There was an incredulous silence, then one of the commentators said, "I think some of Tiger’s shots are animated."
I remember when I was struggling to get published, many years ago, and managed to get into a writers’ group. One member was regularly published. At one meeting she told of some problems she was having with her editor about her covers, about her deadlines, about some difficulty over the plot of her latest book. I sat there trying hard to keep a sympathetic look on my face, but all the while I was eaten with envy. Oh, how I wished I had her problems!
Well, be careful what you wish for . . .! My editor didn’t like the direction Thai Die was taking and made me do a massive re-write. I groaned and grumbled and complained, but I did it. Now, both she and my editor ganged up on me about the synopsis of Blackwork I submitted. We actually held a three-way conference call over it. I won a point or two, but I’ve been groaning and grumbling and complaining to anyone who’ll listen about the points they won. I’d be more specific about their complaints but I don’t want to let everyone know that I wasn’t being very bright about the plot points – and they were right to make me change some things. It helps when I remember we all three want the same things: a good story that sells lots of books. So boo-hoo, poor me – okay, pity party’s over.