Time Away

Since my first book, A Reader's Guide to the Classic British Mystery (1988), I've stuck to the basic rule of writing every day, which for me has also meant developing a story idea, doing research, revising, rounding out characters, and working out ideas for the narrative. That's been a pretty good guide for all the years since my first mystery, Murder in Mellingham (1993), though I haven't published nearly as much as more prolific writers. I also include in my writing history hundreds of grants, essays, reviews, and other nonfiction work. But this month, I found I'd taken a hiatus of almost ten days. Was it a disaster? Did it ruin my WIP? (And where did the time go anyway?) 

When I took the time to assess where I was in the ms along with my list of questions about the plot, I found that the ten days' respite had given my unconscious time to resolve the issues, and the narrative gaps and bumps had been filled in and smoothed out. It was a relief.

 

I didn't expect this to happen, and I'm not convinced it would have if I'd planned it. Writers learn to trust the unconscious, our intuition, to solve story issues. Would this character actually do this? or say this? Does that sound like him? Would she really want that to be the end of it? If I let her do this, can she really follow it with that? Sometimes I can't answer these questions until the end of the first draft, and then I have to go back and pull scenes into line, straighten out the wobbly character or fill in the missing dialogue. But this time none of the resolutions were forced, and each seemed exactly right.

 

The time away from writing while I was absorbed elsewhere served me well, but I'm not going to make a practice of it. When the first draft is finished, I generally set the ms aside for two or three weeks so I can come to it fresh and see more clearly where it falters, when something is missing or a passage sounds clunky or confusing. But I avoid taking time off in the middle of the first draft because it feels risky. I'm afraid of losing the thread of the plot, or the energy propelling the story forward. But I'm glad to know I can survive a hiatus if I have to.

 

Do you have the same worries, or is taking a break in the middle of the first draft easy for you?

 

 

What's in an Ending?

After writing every day for three months I'm coming up to the final scenes in a new stand-alone. This is usually an exciting time for me because I have an idea of what will happen and I'm eager to see how all the elements play out. But as I approach this section I'm not as decided on the various threads as I usually am, which means I have far greater flexibility on the ending. So, how much choice do I have? What do I want in my ending?

In a cozy or traditional mystery, all the questions should be answered. Based on the form of comedy, the cozy mystery is expected to answer all questions, solve all problems, mete out punishment, and bring the community together again into a coherent whole. We want to see the villain get what he has coming to him or her. We want the virtuous sleuth to be rewarded with praise and new regard. That's exactly what happens in The Widows of Malabar Hillby Sujata Massey. The tidy ending is heartwarming and clear, much tidier than in real life. 

The second type of ending is a variation on the first. In this one the villain is caught, but another criminal in the midst of the community is revealed and departs. It doesn't matter how involved in the instigating crime this second party is; only that he or she walks away. This is the ending I chose in Friends and Enemies: A Mellingham Mystery.

The third type of ending is popular in a series that the reader especially likes. In this type the mystery is solved but then another mystery or problem occurs, and the sleuth doesn't have a moment to rest in glory. One crime is solved, and another is hinted at or committed, which means the sleuth can't walk away and move on. This is the ending chosen by Alexia Gordon in Murder in G Major.

In the fourth type the reader confronts a question of responsibility that transforms the mystery and its crime into a larger question, and no two readers may have the same response. In The Nine Tailorsby Dorothy L. Sayers, a man is found dead from what looks like a tortuous experience. Lord Peter Wimsey searches doggedly for a murderer to no avail. He stumbles on the answer quite by accident, but how the victim came to be where he was, unable to escape and thus unable to protect himself from death, raises questions of the nature of guilt, of responsibility and justice. No villain is arrested, no one is charged. Sayers addresses the underlying questions and offers one possible response.

There is a fifth type that few writers attempt, but it is delicious when tackled successfully. In this form, the crime may or may not be a murder but there is always deception around a death, perhaps a lesser crime, and a question of justice and responsibility. In The New Sonia Wayward(The Case of Sonia Wayward) by Michael Innes, a man goes sailing with his wife, a famous novelist who has been supporting him generously all their married life. When she falls overboard and drowns, he faces a bleak future. He decides to conceal her death, tell everyone she has gone on a trip, and write her romance novels himself. This has been called Innes's most cynical novel, though written with his light, wry touch.

The ending chosen tells us about the story structure, for example, but it also challenges the reader's view of justice and right or wrong. Not everyone will agree with Sayers's conclusion in The Nine Tailors, and not everyone will agree that community is restored in Murder in Mellingham, the first Mellingham mystery. Each ending is an interpretation of what justice means in a particular situation, and forces the reader to think about the choice that has been made. In a few more days I will have to choose one of the five possibilities, and right now I only know that it won't be the first one.

Advice, the Long and the Short of It

By the time one of us publishes a novel, we’ve been fortunate enough to receive a fair amount of feedback from other readers and writers. Sometimes this advice takes the form of extensive, detailed notes, and at other times it’s a general reaction of liking or disliking the story or how it’s told. An early reader of my first mystery, Murder in Mellingham, said simply, “Could we get to the dirty deed sooner?” As an editor, she knew that merely moving up the murder would require a lot of other changes, all of which would improve the story.

Another of my first critiquers, Jim Huang, gave me several pages of single-spaced, typed comments. Yes, I was intimidated, but it was an enormous help. He gave me a lot to read and ponder, specific passages to rework or excise, and questions to answer. But one comment that I’ll never forget was ultra simple. “What’s this scene doing here?” Apparently, nothing useful.

Over the years I’ve learned to expect certain reactions from certain readers, and I look forward to those because I know they’ll put me on the right path and save me a lot of embarrassment. One friend can deliver the most important message in the shortest sentence. She once said, “It isn’t finished.” This stopped me in my tracks because, of course, I thought it was, as did several other readers. But I trusted her, so I thought about her comment at length, and she was right.

In Below the Tree Line, I was dealing with a new setting and new characters. Several Beta readers talked about the plot, when certain scenes should be beefed up or a character fleshed out. All of this was useful, but the best comment, at least for me, came from one reader in particular. The story revolves around Felicity O’Brien, who has recently taken over the family farm now that her father is too frail to do the work himself. She knows this land, has grown up here and worked the farm, all of which rests in the background. Then a friend said, “What is her life really like?” Out of that question grew an understanding of the role of the farming background. This had to be more than window dressing, a pretty landscape. I thought I knew this, but the reader’s comment indicated that I had failed to convey it well. Out of her comment came a change in how Felicity spent her days with an intent of showing the obvious to those who might know nothing about farms.

The more short stories or novels I write, the better I become as a writer, but also the more I understand that the length of the critique doesn’t matter. Sometimes the shortest critique contains the single idea that I need most. The fault in a story can usually be distilled into a few words, and understanding this can open up a raft of possibilities. As I choose one, I eliminate one problem but I may encounter others. Thinking about this reminds me of something Walter Mosley said during a talk at Crime Bake 2018. He said he knew a manuscript was finished when he identified a problem he couldn’t fix. But it was something he could get right in the next book.

Like many other writers, I usually want to make one more pass through the manuscript, but that isn’t always necessary. Sometimes the story really is complete. Being told when to stop is also an important comment from a reader.

The Writer's Life . . . Now and Then

A recent discussion on the Five Star chat list and on Maine Crime Writers (http://mainecrimewriters.com) tapped into a general frustration with how hard it is to make a living as a writer these days. We have all had these moments of doubt and frustration, and I agree with everything that's been said, and I thank both Brenda Hill and Kate Flora for taking on the task of opening the discussions to others. These discussions are part of an important conversation about our expectations and roles as writers. It took me a few years before I realized that my expectations were based on the realities of the 1950s.

The path for an aspiring writer up to the 1950s and 1960s was clearly marked. Get an education, possibly an MFA in creative writing though not required, write short fiction and submit it to literary journals, publish a few stories, and work on a novel. In the summer, attend a few writers' workshops, such as the Bread Loaf Writers Conference (the original one), and meet a few editors and agents. The point was to keep writing until someone liked what you did or you gave up and got a full-time job. No one admits to giving up but there are far more first novels published than second novels.

Since all the mainstream magazines carried short stories every month in those years, a beginning or established writer could make a living selling stories while finishing a novel. Redbook, for example, paid $5,000 for a short story, and often published two a month into the 1980s. In the mid 1960s $5,000 was the starting salary for a social worker and a number of other positions. Well, those days are gone.

If you were lucky enough to sell your novel, you received an advance against royalties. You set about writing your second book while your publisher announced your first book to booksellers, conducted modest promotion, and forwarded reviews by mail. If your book was doing well, you might get a telephone call from your editor. If your sales were reasonable, which you knew from quarterly royalty reports, you had a chance to sell your second novel, assuming you could find something to write about. And yes, those days are gone.

Even in 1993, when I published my first mystery with Scribner, the drill for the beginning writer was the same--get a newspaper and radio interview, set up a few signings wherever you could, and send out a lot of flyers, newsletters, or postcards, anything to introduce your book to readers. In 1993 I sent a postcard to every library in Massachusetts, with a handwritten note on each. I sent another thousand postcards to a select group of libraries throughout the country. Those days are gone too.

Today, writers are expected to have begun promotional efforts even before the book appears. And this

is possible today only because of the Internet and the mind-numbing array of sites where writers and readers can discover each other and books. It is tempting to think that online activity is the way to sell books because that means I can sit at my desk and wear my gardening or painting clothes (which should not be seen in public) and never think about putting on stockings or high heels or do anything else that makes me miserable. But that isn't the case.

The real complaint isn't about how little we make or how much marketing we have to do as writers today but about how little original creative work is valued. Our expectations are based on another time when it seemed such work was appreciated and its producers admired. But our expectations as writers are based on life thirty or forty or more years ago, and the expectations of readers are based on life today. And life today is different. We have reduced the world to the cheapest, the fastest, the easiest. That might be all right for hamburgers but it's not all right for books.

Every one of us knows that it takes time to think through an idea, to understand human behavior and appreciate the myriad ways a single event can be interpreted. We took history in college to help with this sort of problem. But we live in a world when no one wants to take the time to explore facets of an experience, world-changing ideas must be reduced to sound bites or be ignored, and our politicians are an embarrassment to anyone with any self-respect.

When I pull back from my frustration with the low pay, the shrinking advances, the neglect of readers to try a different kind of story, I have only my own reasons for writing left to consider. I did not give up writing when I had a chance to spend all of my waking hours on a better paid job, and I did not take up writing the kinds of books that would ensure a devoted if non-thinking audience. If these things are true, then I am writing for reasons other than money and prestige.

I could end here with a sly comment--"And when I find out what those reasons are I'll let you know"--but I have come this far and will see the idea to the end.

I write because it is something in me that demands to be done. I write because I see characters and hear their voices and I want to tell their stories, to myself as well as others. Some stories feel like a physical mass inside me pushing to get out. I write because I get an idea about a character or incident and I think it's something other people should know about. I write fiction because I think it is one of the best ways to draw people into a larger world where they can learn and grow without the pain that would come from the same experiences in real life. We read to get outside of ourselves and be part of something bigger than ourselves. I write to be part of that.

Beta Readers

I recently gave a short story to a friend to critique, and because it involved an activity her husband enjoys, sailing, she gave it to him to read also. Both came back with useful and pertinent suggestions, and I felt fortunate to have their reviews. As I finish an Anita Ray story, I'm getting ready to send it to someone who has also lived in India and will warn me when I conflate the ways Indian and Americans think.

These particular readers are among the three or four I rely on to comment on my work, and I have always felt comfortable with that group because their critiques are spot on and precise. But when I look at the acknowledgments in some of the books I've been reading lately, I notice the author often includes a long list of names of people who have read and commented on or helped with the book. The list includes friends and relatives as well as editors and a large number of beta readers. Sometimes the number of people in the last category can reach forty or more.

At a writers' conference I listened to another mystery writer describe her process. She sent out her ms to four writers, read their comments and edited her ms accordingly, and then retyped from word one the entire ms. Then she sent it out again. She did this until she had sixteen reviews, retyping the book each time. (Yes, that's a lot of typing, and a topic for another time.)

When I was writing my first mystery and learning about structure and character and plot and clues and all the rest of it, I read chapters of the book that would become Murder in Mellingham to my writers' group and sent opening chapters to friends in the publishing world. I learned from all the comments, but the total number of beta readers did not number more than ten.

How many beta readers do you need? I don't know the answer but I am wondering. A quick Google search for "Beta readers" brings up 55,400 entries, including a call for beta readers, a listing for a group on Goodreads, advice on how to apply to be one, things to do and not do, what to expect if you become one, and more. It there has been an explosion of writers in the marketplace, there has also been an explosion of beta readers and posts about them.

But there is one big difference between today, 2015, and the 1980s, when I began writing my first mystery novel. When I began I knew all my readers, and asked them for their views because I knew, first, that they liked to read and, second, they read carefully and often made astute comments about a story line or character. I wanted the benefit of their expertise. I didn't know about anyone who served as a beta reader for a writer they didn't know personally, and I didn't know any writers who sent their mss to readers they didn't know personally.

Today, in many case, beta readers are strangers to the writer seeking feedback. We have no idea if the people who post reviews on Amazon, Goodreads, or any other site can read well or easily, like reading, or even care about books.

I don't know how many beta readers are considered enough, but I know that a good one is worth every effort it takes to find him or her. I consider myself fortunate to have several who have supported and guided me over the years.

But as I watch the writing and publishing world evolve, I wonder how the institution of the beta reader will also develop. How many will be considered enough? Will a group spring up to set standards for becoming a beta reader? Will we formalize the process? Will writers be expected to find strangers to serve as readers? I don't have any answers but I'm curious to hear what others think.