What a winter, right? Add to that moving and a deadline that galloped toward the present and I’ve been hibernating in front of my computer screen.
But now the novel is finished except, fingers crossed, a couple of more read throughs. I have a couple of days before I need to start on the next one in earnest. And the weatherman promises Saturday will be warm enough for my first extended walk on the beach.
I’ve been several times. Thanks goodness for thermal clothes and warm coats, hats, gloves. Still except for a few occasions, my nose gave out before my feet did. That ocean wind can be a deal breaker for long strolls along the shore.
But now I’m psyched. I’m turning in my super dooper hybrid mountain bike (really it belongs to my daughter) and getting myself a beach cruiser. No gears, it’s flat here. And I don’t need to feel the wind whizzing by as I ride, I just need to peddle to the beach.
But not for another week or two or three. Do they really predict another snow or two? I love snow. It’s beautiful, especially here, but enough’s enough. Let the spring begin.
Anyone else ready for spring?
Christmas in July
Since March , I’ve written a Christmas novella , a Thanksgiving novella and I’m now working on a Christmas mystery (Dec 2013). The days grew longer, the plants sent out new shoots, the snow melted, and I was still enjoying the holidays in my office. School let out, graduation came and went, the pool was cleaned and opened. And I was deep in bleak midwinter.
Well not so bleak. I was having a ball following my characters through the snow, tackling their problems as they prepared turkeys, decorated trees and learned the true meaning of the holidays. I was totally engaged.
Then one day I caught myself going to the closet to get my coat to go to the gym. It was 80 degrees outside.
Talk about being lost in a book.
So last week I took a break and went down the shore with friends. We went mid week so the beach wouldn’t be so crowded, the traffic wouldn’t be so gnarled.
At least not so crowded and gnarled as the weekend would be. It was still pretty busy. And hot, oh boy was it hot. And muggy.
Never fear, what time we didn’t spend on the beach, we spent in air conditioning, playing dominos and drinking some excellent wine made by friends. They have over two hundred bottles in their basement. They get as involved in wine making as I do in my characters and their stories.
One thing that I did notice. It’s hard to relax, even when you’re relaxing. Even the folks lying out in the sun, seemed to be tanning with a vengeance. All loaded down with coolers and chairs, and books, and e-readers and boom boxes, and ipods. Phones are constantly in use though the glare of the sun really cuts down on efficient texting.
Still, a good time was had by all. We came home on Friday. I was still in ninety degree beach mode. In domino victory mode. Still thinking about drinks with little umbrellas in them.
But it was time to get back to work. So I booted up the computer, back to my Christmas mystery.
And stuck. I noodled around. Tried to pick up where I left off. Couldn’t get a rhythm going. So I took a break. Made some dinner. Turned on the television, promised to get an early start the next day.
Channel surfed for a bit and landed on the Hallmark Channel. And guess what they were showing. Hallmark Christmas Movie Weekend. In July. Several hours later I was back in the snowy, festive days of December.
Cape May Christmas
Evidently I’m not the only one who needs a little good cheer in July.
And as far as inspiration goes , I’m back in the swing of all things mystery and holiday. And I realize that it helps sometimes to have a little distance on what you’re writing about. Christmas seen from the summer.
What do you think? Do you write or read “in season” or does it matter? Do you find yourself listening to the Beach Boys in December or the Vienna Boys choir on the Fourth of July?
They say a picture is worth a thousand words.
I write thousands of words, my books generally run around a hundred thousand words. Sometimes longer.
So a thousand words seems like a no-brainer.
But try describing the delicate pink blossoms as they hover on the dark branches of the ornamental plum. It’s a sight that must make the most harried person stop and look in wonder. Or that blue the sky takes on when the clouds have passed and the sun shines through unhampered. Or the sheer exuberance of the yellow forsythia when all you can see is a fireworks display of color shooting toward the sky, and curving back toward earth
A thousand words.
Four manuscript pages.
Should be easy.
In these fast lane times if you took four pages to describe Armageddon, much less a spring flower, you’d be shown the publishing door, and kicked back into the nineteenth century. (Okay, most of us don’t actually see a real door, but you know what I mean.)
In those days, readers savored their books, there weren’t that many being published each month. And there were only a few books stores. If you weren’t near a book store or lending library, you had to wait for the cut versions to be delivered by mail. Which came by stage coach, an amazingly quick method of transport as long as the horses were fresh. You waited eagerly for the next installment of Dickens in the London newspapers or—remember these?— monthly magazines.
The working and poorer classes didn’t have too much time for reading. We don’t have that much time either.
But those were before the days of the twitter attention span, live streaming, pinging and poking. Of course it was also the days when the majority of people had no indoor plumbing. Which probably cut down on bathroom reading considerably.
These days you pretty much have to sneak a description in during the action or your character. I don’t mind that. It makes sense to see the world through your protagonist’s eyes. Even the eyes of the villain. It makes more sense than having the anonymous all seeing narrator ( accent on the second syllable, please) interjecting just when you’ve become totally absorbed in the characters’ lives.
But there’s something sad about not being able or knowing how to take the time to savor a slow passage of writing. To roll it around on your mental tongue; appreciate it’s rightness.
What we want are page turners. Which I always thought was a strange designation. Until recently you had to turn the pages to read any book. But we know what they mean. Write a book that is so constantly compelling, so full of hooks and cliff hangers that the readers can’t put it down. Will stay up late, miss their train stop, forget to pick up the kids.
When did reading become such an exhausting activity?
Wasn’t it Elmore Leonard who when asked how he writes, said “I cut out the parts the reader skips over.”
Smart man, sad commentary on how we read today.
What words at their most succinct can do is trigger a picture in the head of the reader that expands and expounds on what they’re reading, letting them complete the scene in their imagination as we draw them into the next page.
Which kind of reading do you prefer, slow and lazy or page turning thrills?
Love my Times
I was traveling quite a bit lately so I put my Times on vacation. I’ve been back a week or two and was beginning to wonder when my Times would return.
When I looked out of my window this morning and saw that bright blue plastic wrapper it was like Christmas, Easter, and my birthday all rolled into one. Or like meeting an old friend after being apart.
And I did something I haven’t done in months. I poured myself a cup of coffee and instead of heading for my desk, I took my paper and coffee out to the sunporch. Even though I had synopses and a new work in progress, not too mention loads of publicty stuff for my June women’s fiction, Beach Colors, I sat at my cafe table in my wicker arm chair and spent the next half hour learning what was going on in the world.
I already knew what was happening. I do have the internet and television and my Iphone. i see the headlines at the deli or the airport. But there’s something more satisfying and more memorable about the tactile experience of turning the pages for the continuation of a story. Pulling the page closer and farther away as you peruse a photo. Knowing my favorite section, the Arts Section is just several turns and folds away.
At first it felt strange. And a bit cumbersome. But pretty soon, the rattle of the paper as I turned the page became a familiar habit. The shake to make the seam just right. The fold in half to make it small enough to fit on the table. All became a familiar and natural beginning to the day. And by the time I finally opened to the Arts Section I was feeling right at home.
It was a concentrated half hour. I didn’t check my email. Didn’t scroll through text. Didn’t tweet or text. It was just me and my Times. The news wasn’t all good. The news never is. But it felt real and it carved out a niche in my day. Jump started my thoughts. And I was glad to have it back again.
Hello, my name is Shelley and I’m a fashion nightmare.
I wasn’t always like this, an embarrassment to my children, whenever I start to leave the house.
There was a time pre carpools when I didn’t blink at four inch heels and silk blouses, at pencil skirts and evening gowns. Alas. I’d like to blame my children and the suburbs for my fall from haute couture, but actually it’s all my fault.
When I was a dancer and appeared on stage in front of huge audiences I always appeared “done” even to rehearsals. Now as a writer of mysteries and women’s fiction, I spend hours a day sitting at a computer. That, and evidence of computer spread, was enough to send my fashion sense out the door.
Beware it doesn’t happen to you.
Take this typical example.
You’ve just finished 3,000 words for the day You’re feeling great, you’ve spent the day at the computer, working. You didn’t even stop for lunch. (It isn’t really that hard to type with one hand while you eat with the other.) You didn’t even spill any crumbs on the keyboard. Maybe just a drop or two of mustard down the front of your sweat shirt . . . and there seems to be a grease spot on your yoga pants.
And then . . .
You realize you’re going to a fundraiser for a local charity and you do have to dress up and your only outfit that still fits is at the cleaners from where you wore it to the last big event, possible months ago.
It’s quarter to five and the cleaners closes at five. For the briefest second, you consider quickly changing into jeans, but that might make you late.
Besides you’re only going to the cleaners and coming right back, maybe edit those 3,000 words. Who will notice those little spots of food residue.
Really? You’re going to the cleaners. If they’re good, that’s what they do.
Never mind. You get there and back and no one gasped or pointed.
Next day . . .
Only 982 words today. Not so good, but not horrible. Maybe you should take yourself out to lunch, just the local diner. You’ll come right back and write some more, so there’s really no reason to change clothes. You go to the diner. No one mentions you have a teeny tear in the armhole of your tee shirt.
Lunch is good, but you don’t feel the words coming. Maybe a trip to the mall—
And so begins the downward spiral of a fashionista to a fashion disaster.
But here’s the good news. Fashion sense, like word count, comes back with a little practice.
It helps to have your own live-in fashion police. Or a fashionista daughter who lives nearby.
How’s your fashion sense? Did you look down when I mentioned the mustard stain on my sweatshirt? Gotcha.
I was thinking about food, recently. Not because I was hungry, but because I was thinking about how food can define a character.
When I first started writing mystery, advice was not to have conversations over the dinner table, and not to waste time describing food. It bogged down the story. These days, I see a lot of food in books; whole series are often centered around food themes.
I love to know what my own characters like to eat. When I’m reading, I like to sit in on the character’s enjoyment or lack of enjoyment of food. It tells me something about them that I wouldn’t get just reading a description, or seeing them in action. It’s more intimate in a way. I know I was surprised when Nick, the police chief in Beach Colors finally got up the nerve to ask Margaux to dinner.
Nick is a rough and tumble kind of guy, raised in a small town, did a stint in the army. They go to formal restaurant with a maitre d and linen table cloths. He was way out of his comfort level, but he came through with flying colors. I must have known he would; after all I made him up. But nonetheless I was so proud of him when he ordered a good bottle of wine.
Then there are the fun food fun things about people. In my latest mystery as Shelley Freydont, the owner of the Apple of my Eye bakery, Dolly Hunnicut, is famous for her Apple Crisp. Now I’m partial to apple crisp and I have a really great recipe which was given to me by a friend whose recipe can certainly give Dolly’s a run for her money.
Dottie is always handing out samples of her baking. I’m going to give Dolly her own page on my shelleyfreydont.com site, because she’s so much fun and her food is so yummy. (Of course I have to test out all the recipes. It’s research!)
Do you like novels that include food? Or does it distract you from the story?