Murder She Writes

I had another blog subject planned for today. In fact, I wrote it last night, thinking I’d get a jump on today. But did that happen? Noooo. I came into my office around 6, made coffee, drank a cup while I sorted through emails, paperwork, and to-do lists, then went back to the pot for a second cup. I was in mid-pour when something else came to mind for the blog, so now I’m back at the keyboard….

Ya see, the story is this— I’m on a death-grip deadline for a manuscript. It’s due on December 15th. Now, I’m figuring the only way I’m going to meet that deadline is if I receive some serious intervention—like from Moses. If I could just get him to wave that staff of his over these blank pages, maybe the crap would part and make way for some decent prose.

Working under the pressure of a deadline is tough enough, but when you add life’s little nits into the mix, like eating, sleeping, and going to the bathroom, writing can feel downright laborious. And heaven help us if, during this time crunch, some real crap gets thrown our way—you know, the stuff that happens in life that leaves you feeling anesthetized—then writing goes from laborious to impossible.

Unfortunately, I got a dose of that Monday night.

I got home relatively early, planning to grab a sandwich and lock myself in my home office so I could write the night away. That didn’t happen. It couldn’t happen—not when I pulled into my driveway and discovered my two beautiful, 150 pound Rottweilers dead.

Both had been shot in the head.

It took me a while before I could collect myself—lots of crying, then just the stupor of shock—and gather clues. From the size of the entry and exit wounds, I knew a .22 caliber long had been used and that the shots were fired from a distance. There was no blood spatter evidence that indicated movement after the shooting, which meant the dogs were literally dropped with one shot each. That kind of precision from the distance I estimated could have only been managed with a scope.

The police were called, of course, but the bottom line is the chances that they’ll ever find the asshole or holes who killed my beauties are slim to none. I live in a small town, in the country, were hunters often traipse through the eighty acres of open field behind my home in search of rabbits and squirrel. Tracking spent bullet casings would be an act of futility because there are casings EVERYWHERE in that field. (That acreage doesn’t belong to me, so I was never able to post a NO TRESPASSING sign along its boundaries. The only thing I could do was put a fence around my own property so my pets would have a safe zone—or what I thought would be a safe zone.)

Anyway, there was to be no writing that night. I spent five hours, digging graves for Rajah (the female) and Axle (the male), and by the time they were laid to rest and I had patted down the last scoop of dirt, I was too numb inside to think. The only thing that would move through my mind with any clarity was a vision of my friends…how excited they’d get when they saw me, how those nubby tails would wag so hard, half their body shook.

They’re still very much on my mind today, much more so than this book, which brings me back to ground zero….where the hell is Moses when you need him?

With my other blog, I generally have lots of material. Either someone is blogstalking me, leaving nasty comments and emails on a regular basis, or sending me “Come unto the Lord” warnings. Or someone is doing something stupid, related to the predominant religion here in my home state, thus giving me all kinds of material.

But here, with these other esteemed writers, I’m sort of, well, constipated. I do NOT have diarrhea of the mouth. See, I’m trying to keep my rather, well, opinionated opinion, in rein.

But how the heck am I supposed to do that, because the truth is, I have a lot of people reading me BECAUSE I am that loud-mouth, smart-alecky, bi-atch.. Am I going to chase hordes of people away because of who I am? (Stupid cyber-stalker guy? No one believes you. And you have a small male, er, uh, unit. Go away.)

In real life, I am fairly easy-going, patient, and seem fairly sane, albeit neurotic about my writing career, because every damn writer is neurotic about their career.

But here on MSW, I am trying to be level-headed, moderate, and mostly, well, plain vanilla? Well folks, I like vanilla, but it can get very, very boring after a while.

So sorry, ladies, but I HAVE to vent.

Ready? Sorry to disappoint, but it isn’t going to be about anyone you’ve heard about in the news.

These damn characters in my book are NOT cooperating. How am I supposed to sit my ass down and write when they are pulling all this crap right and left? Tell me that? When you have a character whom you assume is a minor character, and suddenly you realize they are DOMINATING the book, what are you going to do? Are you going to tell them that? Do you have that courage? Well, I’ve tried, but when bossy characters take over, what are you going to do?

Hmm. Death is good. Er, I did not just say that. I heard a comedian one time that said, “I put you into this world young lady, and I can take you out of it,” and I laughed and laughed. The comedian, of course, was referring to his/her daughter, but that applies to writers. Even better, because of course the comedian would go to jail, but not a writer. You can remove a mouthy character. Or can you? Consider my current work-in-progress.

Alissa: Collins, I am not happy with my current position in your book. You have all the men drooling over me, but not actually consummating. I need some consummation.

Collins: Uh, is that even a WORD your character would know, let alone use? I think not. And women go without sex for long stretches of time. In fact, GORGEOUS women are known for having a hard time getting guys. So what are you complaining about?

Alissa: Collins, you are full of so much crap. Ya know? I think you are just jealous because you were never a gorgeous woman and you have no real measure of what it’s like to be me, to be special, to be adored by men. And that does NOT mean I give in to men, although I do if they are really hot. And if you even begin to judge me because I occasionally give in I am so going to give you so much trouble that you are going to be so sorry that you even created me that you will…”

Collins: Um, excuse me? Alissa? I am already sorry that I created you, and by the way, wherever did you get the idea that I am not hot, or at least was never hot, although I am a FEW years past my prime, huh? And how the hell did this conversation devolve into this discussion?

Alissa: Because you are an insecure writer who thinks she knows women and understands women, but is really just a has-been-wanna-be who is trying to control what happens here, and it ain’t gonna happen, because, well, that’s not something people can do. No matter what you think, you cannot control what someone else says or does or…. I AM WRONG. I AM SO VERY WRONG, AND NATALIE COLLINS IS THE QUEEN OF THE KEYBOARD AND SHE IS THE VERY BEST WRITER EVER AND SOON SHE WILL BE ON THE NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER LIST AND BY THE WAY, ONCE UPON A FAIRY TALE SHE WAS HOT.

Don’t you love writing? I do…..

One of the pitfalls of getting critiques from excellent writers is that I must trust my own gut. As everyone in the world knows by now, this latest books I’m writing has been a struggle. A real love/hate piece of work. And I mean WORK. I love this book, I really do. I think it has real potential.

Which scares me because I immediately go into doubt mode—do I have the talent/skill to write the book? I just read a book that I thought had an excellent premise and poor execution. That is enough to make me break out in a cold sweat of fear as one of the many voices in my head whispers, “What if that’s me?”

But here’s the truth. In the end, it’s my book and I must have the courage to go with my gut. These are my characters and if they don’t ring true to me, then they won’t ring true to anyone. I’ve spent a lot of time this last weekend pondering this. I have a couple people I rely on pretty consistently for feedback. Natalie is one of them. She gave me a list of items to help me on about two-thirds of my first draft and I’ve used everyone one of them to some degree. She’s invaluable to me. She spots stuff that doesn’t even cross my mind.

But…

And this is the part that’s scary. Sometimes, her suggestions aren’t going to work for me. The problem is that I respect Natalie, or trust me, she would not be reading my work. I have learned the hard way to shut out input from those I don’t respect or who have a mean streak. Natalie has real talent and skill and she is generous with her help. She told me why something I want to do won’t work. She listed reasons that make sense.

But…

Here it is. I’ve tried to fix this every way I can. But when I do it MY way, I can see my character. I can hear his voice. I can feel his conflict and goals pumping real lifeblood through the story line. He makes sense to me.

But…

What if I’m wrong? See I don’t think Natalie is wrong, I think she has very logical, solid points. But sometimes, what a character believes is what he believes. He was born that way in my head and he’s not going to change. And this is the part or writing that takes courage. I might be wrong, but I have to take the chance or I’m not writing the book that belongs to the writer deep in my gut. That’s the writer that’s going to take me from mid list nobody author to the ranks of best seller.

But…

If I’m wrong, I’m going to sink in the mire of struggling authors. Failure is always scary. Risk is always scary. But you know what is scarier? Not going for it. So win, lose, fail…whatever, I need to walk away from this book knowing I went for it. I took a risk, I went with my gut. That’s what courage in writing is all about.

Now as a *reward* for putting up with my whining, and since I’m trying to get into the holiday spirit, I thought I’d share a few of my Monday Murder Chick’s Thoughts on the Holidays…

Christmas Cards. I’m going to hunt down the Hallmark freak that started that guilt ridden, stress-producing, hand-cramping, little tradition and fry their chestnuts on my George Forman Grill.

Holiday Baking. Yes, please, my thighs just aren’t spreading fast enough. Frankly, I think Betty Crocker should be seriously medicated, then re-educated into the joys of refrigerated rolls of slice-n-bake cookie dough. Betty, take off your apron and pick up a good book. You’ll feel much better!

Holiday Decorating. Invented by Hoover. Just when you finally vacuum up all the freaking grass from Easter baskets, then next thing you know, it’s time to drag a dead tree into your house to drop a daily dose of pine needles on the carpet. What kind of moron drags a dead tree in their house? Seriously, ever heard of Fire Hazard? And just to prove we’ve lost our minds, we keep watering a dead tree. THE TREE IS DEAD! GET IT OUT OF MY HOUSE!

Fake trees. What next? Fake spouse? Fake children? What else are you people faking out there, hmmm???

Caroling. Absolutely, just what I want after spending all day running around from store to store where they force feed endless loops of Christmas Carols but don’t have any of the items on my Christmas List. When I finally escape the madness, and get home to indulge in a good book, I am thrilled when the doorbell rings and a group of tone deaf yahoos scream out Christmas Carols. The garden hose in my hand is just a coincidence…why are you all running away?

Holiday Parties. Otherwise known as MARTHA STEWART’S REVENGE for not getting invited to the cool parties in high school. These little doozies are specifically designed to give you weeks of stress beforehand—you need the right outfit, the right hair, lose ten pounds, shoes—I need shoes! And a purse to match! Wait, do I have to bring a hostess gift? What do you mean my credit card is maxxed out? By the time you actually go to the holiday party, you have developed a twitch in your trigger finger every time someone mentions Martha Stewart in passing.

All right, I’m done messing with you all! My sincere suggestion is to do something nice for yourself this year.

It appears that there needs to be training courses for criminals. While we Murder gals make our villains pretty smart, usually, and capable of all sorts of nefarious trickery, most criminals are just dumb.

For example, today’s nominee for Criminal Behavior 101.

This bright gentleman killed a woman, cut up her body, stuffed it in a suitcase, but neglected to remove the ID tag from the suitcase.

LONDON – A British man was convicted Wednesday of murdering a prostitute after he dumped her torso into a canal in a suitcase but forgot to take off a label bearing his brother’s name and address.

We truly CAN’T make this stuff up….

By a show of hands how many of you admit to being neurotic? see definitions below. OK, grudgingly, I raise my hand—half way. I am neurotic but only in one aspect of my life–the writing part. I’m shocked really to learn I have this disorder. I am usually the clam cool collected one, the person who allows no one’s opinion to matter. I am the go to person for others who need a pep talk. I have never bothered with what others think of me or even say about me. My reaction has always been a shrug of my shoulders and the mantra, everyone is entitled to their opinion and theirs doesn’t matter to me so why get upset about it? I am in a nutshell a pretty damn secure and confident individual. But this whole writing thing has brought to surface a part of me I had no idea existed, and I do not like it! Here’s the thing: several writer friends and I have often snickered behind the neurotic author friends we know, backs. Why? Because we would never become so, cringe, insecure.
Do you know what I find myself doing oh, say at least 25,000 times a day now? I google my name and the title of my novella STAKEOUT to see what reviews have popped up. Is that sick? I tell myself I don’t care what the reviewers say, bring it on, let me have it with both barrels. They are just one person’s opinion. I don’t know them so why should I care about what some stranger says about my book? I don’t care, I don’t, I don’t. Riiiight. I guess, I do care. And it bugs the crap out of me. I don’t want to care. I’ve pondered this. Why do I care about what someone thinks of my stories. Hmm, maybe it’s because in every story there is a part of me woven into the characters or the plot. Maybe if enough people don’t like what I write it will affect my sales. And if it affects my sales it will affect whether or not my publishers are going to want my next book. Maybe there is just this teeny tiny part of me that wants to know I done good. That I entertained, that I took someone out of their reality and into my fantasy, and with that gave them pleasure. I want to pleasure my audience. I don’t want to let them down. If you plunk down 14 bucks for my book, I don’t want it to go flying against a wall at any time. I suppose when it is all said and done, maybe opinions aren’t such a bad thing. I know I like it better when my CP’s get out the whip and ride my ass when I’m being lazy. Maybe reviews are the same. Letting an author know you done good or you’d best get back to the keyboard and make your next story better or you’ll be looking for a day job pretty soon.
I love writing, and I know I will survive my neurosis, and it will make me stronger and a better writer. I hope one day to shrug it all off and not care what the reviewers think, but I’m afraid if that happens I may lose touch with my readers. There is nothing worse than arrogance in this business. So maybe, I’ll keep that little neurotic side of me close enough to have control of it, but far enough away to allow it to keep my arrogance at bay.

Main Entry: neurotic
Function: noun
1 : one affected with a neurosis
2 : an emotionally unstable individual (Hey! I resemble this remark! But only when it comes to the writing industry!)
Main Entry: neu·ro·sis
Pronunciation: nu-’rO-s&s, nyu-
Function: noun
Inflected Form(s): plural neu·ro·ses /-”sEz/
Etymology: New Latin
: a mental and emotional disorder that affects only part of the personality, is accompanied by a less distorted perception of reality than in a psychosis, does not result in disturbance of the use of language, and is accompanied by various physical, physiological, and mental disturbances (as visceral symptoms, anxieties, or phobias)

One of my favorite movies is the musical 1776. Ken Howard played Thomas Jefferson, Howard DaSilva played Benjamin Franklin, and William Daniels (the voice of KITT in the old eighties show Knight Rider) played John Adams.

If you’ve never seen it, you should. My hubby and I went to see it on stage in Sacramento and had fourth row center seats. The stage production was fantastic, too, but I never tire of seeing the video.

1776 recounts the events leading up to the signing of the Declaration of Independence. I’ll admit that I love John Adams, who was “obnoxious and disliked.” Over and over he demanded a vote on independence. And he was thwarted. But he sends Richard Henry Lee back to Virginia to get the support of the first southern state in the cause of Independence.

When Lee comes back and says that he has Virginia, a committee is created to write up a “declaration of some sort” to be voted on.

BTW, there is romance here. Not only John and Abigail Adams from afar, through letters, (I love that story because Abigail was NOT a whimpy chick); but John Adams brings Martha Jefferson back to take care of Thomas Jefferson’s “needs.” (Yes, Karin, there’s sex in this musical.) Jefferson was supposed to go home to visit his wife until Adams roped him into writing the declaration. But Jefferson couldn’t do it because he wanted to see his wife. It’s after his romantic evening that he writes the brilliant document.

Which brings me to one of my favorite scenes in the movie.

Before Jefferson, Franklin, and Adams walk into the congress to present the resolution, they have a conversation (they also sing, but I’m sure they didn’t really sing in Philadelphia.)

Adams says it’s a masterpiece. Jefferson is worried. Franklin sees immortality.

Franklin sings:

A farmer, a lawyer, and a sage
A bit gouty in the leg
You know it’s quite bizarre
To think that here we are
Playing midwives to an egg

Now they have a conversation . . . what kind of egg? What bird should be the symbol of a new country?

Adams says the eagle. Jefferson says the dove. Franklin says . . .

The turkey.

Yes. This is a true story. Benjamin Franklin wanted the national bird of America to be . . . the turkey.

What in the world would we eat on Thanksgiving if the turkey was our national bird?

I’m glad John Adams won the debate.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Whenever a critical issue needs to be addressed in my home, I usually call everyone together for a ‘family meeting.’ These meetings aren’t initiated often, maybe once every other year, so my daughters know when they get the call regarding a FM, a situation has come up that will involve the whole family and their input is needed and vital. Although it’s always been understood that attendance is mandatory, it’s never been a rule I’ve had to strong arm. My daughters are inherently curious and love to voice their opinion on any matter. Plus, they get the chance to collectively raid Mom’s fridge and pantry.

Well, this week a television commercial prompted one of these meetings. Not just any commercial, a Christmas commercial—complete with Santa, reindeer, snow, shoppers with gift laden arms, and gismos and gadgets that no American can possibly do without. All this, and we haven’t even touched Thanksgiving yet. In truth, I think the very end of the commercial is what got to me. The actress held up a credit card, gave the camera a fake, ultra white, toothy smile, then hugged the card to her like it was a best friend. Watching that made me think of the last few holiday seasons, when friends and family, groaned and moaned, rushed and stressed over what to buy for whom and the ever-growing balance on their credit card statements. Then, when Christmas morning finally did arrive, everyone gathered around the tree, shredded through the fancy bows and wrapping paper in a bleary-eyed frenzy, then ooohed and ahhhed over gifts that were either returned, exchanged or stored in a closet. I had to wonder, why on earth do we keep doing this to ourselves year after year?

Then it dawned on me—we DON’T have to keep doing this every year. No one issued an official mandate, constitution, bylaw, or decree that says we have to put up with that kind of stress. All that’s needed is for someone to say, “Stop the madness!”

So I did.

And this is the alternative holiday I proposed to my family: Instead of fighting the crowds and traffic and over spending, let’s give our natural talents as gifts. Let’s use what we’re good at to portray the most endearing quality of each family member or highlight something a family member is passionate about. For example, if one of your sisters loves horses and your talent is drawing, then sketch a portrait of her astride her favorite breed.

At first, everyone seemed skeptical about the idea. What? We’re not going to be one of the sheep following the rest of the blind herd into this holiday hoopla?

That’s right. We’re not.

Fortunately, it didn’t take long for everyone to warm up to the concept. In a matter of minutes, they were talking over each another, laughing and sharing project ideas. I sat back and watched in amazement. The idea alone had the power to draw everyone closer together.

Now, all three of my daughters have a talent for writing, but I don’t know if that’ll be their expression of choice. My oldest writes poetry like a pro, but she hasn’t put pen to paper in years. My middle daughter is remarkable with lyrics, but she, too, has allowed the talent to go dormant. And my youngest has the ability to write prose with such profound depth it leaves me dumbstruck. She, too, though, has allowed it to take a backseat to life’s other issues. However they choose to express themselves, I’m hopeful this new holiday project will not only give voice to those silenced gifts, it will cause each of us to stop for a while and focus on the positive traits of those we love.

As for me, I’ll write something, of course, and in fact, have already started on some gifts. I plan on giving each daughter a letter, detailing how I felt the first time I held her, the beautiful qualities that make her unique, and how she is and always will be my greatest gift.

Never has expressing my thoughts through the written word felt as vital as it does when I’m working on those letters. And never have I felt more inadequate as a writer.

Yeah, that’s me. Ms. Dark and Twisted. Sort of. I was chatting with Jen tonight, as we talked about her latest work in progress, and I suggested something that really wasn’t appropriate for the book she is writing.

Apparently, her publisher likes their murder a little lighter. Does murder ever get light? Should it get light? Welcome to publishing.

And then I apologized, saying I was Ms. Dark and Twisted. No light here. And then I realized that wasn’t necessarily a good thing. I am ALWAYS killing people off in books. And yet in real life if the big, bad, ugly came calling, I’d run like R. Kelly when the sirens come on…. And if you don’t get that reference, do not blame me. Do the research.

So where does this come from? This dark, twisted mind of mine? I’ve long known, of course, that I don’t have a “light and fluffy” personality. Yes, I like to joke, and I have a wicked sense of humor… see, there I go again. Wicked. I do find humor in most situations, but I also am fascinated by the dark side.

Is it bad to have many facets? And can you truly be a “deep” writer if you don’t explore all the facets of human life? I’ve never told my children the fairy tale. You know the one. You grow up, meet your handsome prince, marry him after he rescues you from life and live happily ever after.

Sometimes you do meet the handsome prince. Then you learn he has jealous tendencies. And he farts in his sleep. And his breath smells bad after he eats garlic.

We are all human. Some people are just more human than others, to the point where they can no longer say no to the dark side. How do you get there? How do you find yourself at that point?

Maybe it was the garlic farts. Did I just say that out loud? Jen, murder doesn’t get light, so there….

And that’s MS. Dark and Twisted to YOU, readers…..