Out with the Old?

As 2024 draws to a close, I've been throwing out paper. Tax records are easy (only required for seven years), as is most medical material (which can be accessed online now).

What about writing ideas? I have a drawer of them. (Well, half of one. Other files are for books I'm working on or contain research materials.)

A few years ago, I scanned the contents of some folders, but that was using an older computer. I doubt I could put my hands on the digital files. Should I start over? What are the chances I will write those pieces? 

Of course, I've convinced myself that if I toss any of the material I will later decide I should have kept it. 

I've developed some "keep or toss" criteria, though I won't commit to applying them. Ask yourself:

1) If finding the material in a file does not make you remember when (or why) you wrote it, will you really use it?

2) When is the last time you added even a paragraph to the sample chapter or proposal?

3) If the ideas were jotted on napkins, is the paper still intact?

4) Do you want anyone else going through the folders after you die? (This is a more relevant question for older writers but, heck, that bell can toll anytime.)

Answers will vary, but my guess is the process will get easier when you run out of filing space or you trip over a pile that's too big to put in a drawer.

Happy New Year!

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Sometimes a Phrase Strikes You

My husband always has a book of poetry in the bathroom. He would probably not like that I mention that, but he doesn't read my blog, so it's safe.

A poem (in the book Good Poems for Hard Times, edited by Garrison Keillor) by Ted Berrigan closes with, "Let none regret my end who called me friend." 

It implies so much. The poet (if he's writing from his own point of view) had friends. He chose to comfort them by making clear he would be at peace when he passed. Though that would be hard to predict with total accuracy, the chances increase because he expects to be at peace.

Having had successful cancer surgery this year, I have no thoughts of my own demise. A phrase has not felt so perfect to me since one from Robert Louis Stevenson's The Swing. 

Up in the air and over the wall,

Till I can see so wide,

Rivers and trees and cattle and all

Over the countryside—

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Thinking about Ancillary Characters

In my current WIP (Fired Up and Feisty), suspicion swirls around a group of seniors in town for the annual alumni weekend at Ocean Alley High School. My mystery series books always introduce new characters or "pull to the forefront" people who were incidental in prior books. But they don't usually have a group of outsiders coming into town.

I'm thinking through what to reveal about each of them -- appearance, high school experience (good or bad?), attitude (snooty or friendly?), type of humor (endless possibilities there), and more. If I spend more time on one character than others, readers may think I'm establishing that person as the villain or future victim. If I say an even amount of fairly little about each person, they'll all be flat.

I decided to say or show one distinctive thing about each one the first time they appear. Sometimes it takes few words, sometimes more. For example:

Madge walked toward them. “Did anyone see Catherine? And what about Sandy Cotton? They were both on the third floor.”

The woman with red curls said, “Someone in an SUV came to get them. Sandy told a policeman where they were going.”

“Ah. Good,” Madge said.

“Too good to stay with us?” a man asked.

Two or three people said, “Shut up, Harvey.”

That tells you Harvey is a smart-aleck and others don't hesitate to let him know that.

As guests who had to leave the hotel because of a fire sit in city hall, they show their impatience. Who wouldn't?

The woman with iron-gray hair asked, “Can we get this show on the road?”

A grumpy looking man asked, “You wanna drive the bus?”

“I could do it better…”

“Hey, folks.” The man had an air of authority about him. “Doesn’t help to grouse.”

Madge remembered him as the man dressed as a college professor at last night’s diner gathering. She didn’t recall that he’d introduced himself. He had at least managed to wear shoes, slacks, and a collared shirt, albeit wrinkled.

The grumpy man said, “Put a cork in it, Redford.”

What you most learn from this brief banter is that Redford is not popular. And is perhaps precise.

I've slowed down a bit to develop better back stories for the B&B guests, all of whom are new to the series. I don't think I want the level of detail as for continuing characters, but I may surprise myself.

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From Bird to Butterfly: Transition to Blue Sky

By Elaine L. Orr

I feel as if I should hold a funeral for my Twitter (X) presence. Twelve years and more than 11,000 followers! I'd been contemplating this switch because of the growth in negative postings. Until recently, I'd held out hope that Elon Musk would get bored with losing money on the platform and sell it. No such luck.

The final straw came with last Friday's change in Twitter's Terms of Service, specifically, "Twitter's new terms of service allow the company to use users' content to train AI, even if the user opts out." I don't think so.

So, as of yesterday, I've switched to Blue Sky, a similar (but very positive) social network that functions in a similar manner. My profile is https://bsky.app/profile/elaineorr55.bsky.social. 

As with the old Twitter, I'm following people with similar interests to encourage them to follow me back. I may never get to 11,000 followers, but I think it will be easier to interact with other authors and readers. I also found a pretty butterfly-with-blue-sky graphic. 

I read years ago that severely ill children draw butterflies because they can go anywhere unencumbered. I like that idea. That's a concept that can work for anyone who feels stifled.

If you want to learn how to use Blue Sky, which is truly a friendly place, I have one suggestion. When you sign up, you can choose subjects you are interested in. Posts related to those topics will appear in your feed. To keep your sanity, don't pick politics right now. You can see all those posts by putting a subject or name in the search bar, but  you won't be met with an onslaught of opinions when you open the site.

Finally, as I have no expert qualifications, you'll want to learn how to get started from someone else. They have help info on Blue Sky, but I also found another easy-to-understand resource:

 https://publish.obsidian.md/debbieohi/why-bluesky

To constructive commentary.

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Making Your Fiction Matter

 By Elaine L. Orr

Mysteries that draw in readers do so not because the crime is intriguing and the sleuth skillful. They grab attention because what happens matters. 

In You Can Write a Mystery, Gillian Roberts presents the dictum that the fundamental element of drama is conflict. Mysteries embody a crime that means, "Live vs. death, law vs. order are now in conflict with the another, and the magnitude of of the offense forces action, either in the pursuit of justice for deeds already done or the pursuit of evildoers because of deeds they intend to do." The detective (amateur or professional) has to be passionately involved in the case.

As I continued to work on the first Senior Shenanigans novel (Fired Up and Feisty), I realized that while I loved the series concept and enjoyed the characters arising from it, I couldn't care enough about figuring out how someone died in the hotel fire in the opening segment. If I couldn't, why would anyone else? (See my October 31st post for portions of the early scenes.)

I realized I started the book in the wrong place. I mean, really the wrong place. I hadn't shown enough about the characters before the fire. What could pull on heartstrings? Where were the old grudges? 

Because Madge is the primary sleuth, the murder (or at least its resolution) had to matter most to her. I remembered (in Book 10 of the Jolie series, The Unexpected Resolution) reference to a friend of Aunt Madge's, whose scrapbooks from years teaching 2nd grade had a photo of Scoobie as a young child. That teacher (named as Mrs. Anderson) could not appear in the current book, because she had donated the scrapbooks to the library after she died. 

But what if she had a sister who was coming to the high school reunion fort he first time since Mrs. Anderson died? Helping her would give Madge a better stake in the story. And was Mrs. Anderson's death a purely accidental car crash? If not, who had something to hide?

Now I have the story that can leap forward. With that in mind, here are the first few paragraphs of Fired Up and Feisty.  

New Opening for Fired Up and Feisty

MADGE RICHARDS AND HARRY STEELE made their way through Arnie Newhart’s Diner toward the woman who sat alone at a booth in the back. The raucous atmosphere would befit Halloween or spring break at the Shore, but patrons were all senior citizens or, as their nephew Scoobie would say, Super Seniors. The annual Ocean Alley High School Reunion Weekend had begun.

Arnie stood behind the counter and raised his arms at them. “Mayor Madge, you never come to this bash, what’s up?”

Madge nodded toward the back of the diner. “We’re keeping Catherine Anderson company.”

Arnie’s nod was a knowing one. Catherine and her sister had been regulars at reunion events since graduation decades ago, but after Lenna’s death in a bad car accident during reunion weekend a few years ago, Catharine had stopped coming.

Madge often though of Lenna, a retired second-grade teacher who had been a close friend. When Catherine asked Madge and Harry to keep her company when she came to her first event without her older sister, they couldn’t say no, even though they usually avoided the so-called Golden Grad reunion events. Madge wasn’t one for partying in the past.

*     *     *     *

I think the new scenes will draw people in better than roaring firetrucks, and the diner scene can show key players through their actions and comments better than simple introductions later, at the B&B.

I'm on a roll.

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Aunt Madge and the Civil Election Wishes You a Good Day

By Elaine L. Orr

In 2020, I wrote a 17,000 word story about elections in the fictional Ocean Alley, New Jersey. As you can tell from the title, it was a friendly election and a good example of how to talk about issues. Plus, I had a fun time writing it. 

In honor of the 2024 election in the United States, I'm offering the book free for a couple of weeks. 

Keep calm and carry on.

Google https://bit.ly/3UoZJJ7

Amazon https://bit.ly/4fhVqan

ibooks https://bit.ly/3YnrKSe

BN https://bit.ly/3YcEPOc

Google https://bit.ly/3UoZJJ7

Enjoy!

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Senior Shenanigans Coming Up

By Elaine L. Orr

 In July, I asked readers if they would read a book with a senior sleuth. The blog post on the topic didn't engender much conversation, but a request to my mailing list drew some interest. The response was the universal one -- if it's a good story, we'll read it.

So, I kept writing. The co-protagonists (if that's a word) are Mayor Madge and George of the Jolie Gentil series. The premise is that the Aunt Madge and Harry's Cozy Corner B&B could host small tour groups of seniors who get into...interesting predicaments.

The books will likely be closer to novella length, though I've long since learned that stories go where they will. The first book is "Fired Up and Feisty." Ocean Alley High School's annual reunion weekend celebrates classes with five-year anniversaries, and always has a group of 'Golden Grads,' individuals who graduated more than forty years ago.

A fire at the Beachcomber's Alley Hotel puts its guests on the street, and local police ask Madge and Harry to bring the most senior members ti the the B&B. Problem is, one of them can't be found. 

Here are the opening paragraphs, in Madge and Harry's bedroom.

WHEN THE FIRE TRUCKS raced by the Cozy Corner Bed and Breakfast, Madge Richards had just shut her book and turned off the lamp by her side of the bed. Usually, she would drown out sounds by turning up the volume on her white noise machine, but she couldn’t ignore four or five trucks roaring by.

She nudged Harry’s shoulder. “Hey husband. Do you hear those sirens?”

He grunted. “I do now.”

They each raised on an elbow. “Can’t be good,” she said.

Harry put his head back on his pillow. “Sounds like something Mayor Madge should investigate.”

“Maybe her husband could drive her to the fire, in case there’s no place to park. You don’t have to stay.”

He sat up. “How many times have I heard that line when we head out to a parade or barbecue?”

She swung her feet to the cold floor and found her slippers. “You like the barbeques.”

And the morning after the Golden Grads arrive at the B&B:

MADGE AWOKE TO a rhythmic rumble under the bed and clicking dog collars as Mister Rogers and Miss Piggy turned in rapid circles. She opened her eyes more widely. “Is that an earthquake?:

They sat up and Harry swung his feet over his side of the bed. “Could be. We should…”

A loud voice said, “You have to stomp in rhythm!”

Madge threw back the quilt. “Good God. It’s five-forty-five. People are sleeping.”

Harry thrust his feet into slippers. “You have got to be kidding me!”

The same man’s voice called, “Five, six, seven eight. Shake your touche to find a mate.”

A woman yelled, “Cut it out, Harvey.”

As Madge and Harry lunged toward the bedroom door to get to the kitchen, footsteps thundered down the main staircase and a man, maybe Grayson Redford, shouted, “Don’t you idiots know what time it is?”

Where to Go from Here?

I've written 10,000 words. While I'm not struggling, I keep thinking I need to make everything funny. I have a quick wit for situational humor, but I need to stop worrying about the humor and tell the tale. Some humor will flow naturally, other comedic situations will grow with the story.

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