Thursday, June 24, 2021

The Book Tour: An Author Looking for a Story

 


I walk across the bridge between the USA and Canada. I’m returning to my starting point, Toronto. Naturally, I’m dragging my feet and feeling dreary because my book tour is over. It would be nice, I think, to have it end, not with a dribble, but with a bang, with a good story of some sort. But on this sunny day, there doesn’t seem to be one in the offing.

 

What most have forgotten, or never known, is that this bustling area of Niagara Falls was once a battlefield, and that, in 1812, Canada and the USA were at war. The war was started by the Americans who were understandably annoyed that the British kept kidnapping American sailors and forcing them to serve in the Royal Navy: in a nineteen year period, from 1793 to 1812, some 15,000 Americans were forced into British service in this way.

 

In May 1813, after a fierce battle and two-days of cannon bombardment, Fort George, on the Canadian side, was taken by the Americans who razed the settlement of Niagara, then burnt what was left to the ground. It was a short-lived victory. Seven months later, Fort George was retaken by the British who marched on to Washington D.C., invaded and burnt the city. The war ended in 1815, but not before 15,000 Americans and 8,600 Brits and Canadians had lost their lives.

 

            In 1885, New York began purchasing the lands around Niagara Falls from developers in order to preserve the scenic beauty and create the state’s first park. In the same year, the province of Ontario established the Queen Victoria Niagara Falls Park for the same purpose. Way back in the 1950s, when I used to come here as a child, this really was pleasant parkland, but things have changed — don’t they always?


 

Commercial interests have managed to chew up great parcels of land and spew out modern developments and completely charm-less tall buildings (most of them hotels) on the Canadian side. On the American side, heavy-handed urban renewal and the destruction of the city center in the 1960s put paid to any local charm.

 

Both sides offer casinos, but the Canadian side is most popular. Its view of the falls is more spectacular, but more alluring still is the legal drinking age of 19; in New York State it’s 21. Also, with its observation towers, high-rise hotels, souvenir shops, museums, indoor water parks, casinos, theatres, neon billboards, golf courses, and fancied-up historic sites, the Canadian side is noisier, livelier, and uglier, therefore more attractive to tourists.

 

Even though it’s still winter and icy cold, those tourists are glued onto slot machines in the casinos, or standing in long lines waiting to change their money and lose it as quickly as possible. Although there are some who haven’t cottoned on to the fact that they can’t win in the long run, others prefer to ignore the fact. Casinos want you to think that the slot machines are “hot” or “cold” but, in reality, each spin is completely independent of the previous one. If you were to win the jackpot on one spin, then the likelihood of winning the jackpot on the next spin is exactly the same. No previous events impact future events.

 

Another thing visitors to the city don’t know is that, in 1950, a treaty limiting water usage by power plants was signed by the United States and Canada, and it allows more water to be diverted at night and during the winter months when there are fewer tourists around. In 1969, the American falls stopped altogether when the Army Corps of Engineers diverted the waters to the Canadian side so they could assess erosion. Which is when they found two bodies, one of a woman, and the second of a man who had been seen jumping over the falls. They also found millions of coins. Half a century has passed since then, and with the increase in tourism and consumerism many other things have been dropped into the falls: more coins, cell phones, cameras, baby strollers, drones, toys, keys, motorbikes, a car or two, and possibly a few more bodies or body parts.

 

            Following the Niagara River, I head out of the town center, leaving the slots, the noise, the bright lights behind, and aim for the area of cheap motels. A few look closed down, perhaps because it’s winter, but I do find a room in one that is run by a woman in a frumpy housecoat who should be called Mamie or Sal. She talks out of one corner of her mouth like an old-fashioned gun moll, has a cigarette planted firmly in the other, keeps her head tipped back to avoid the smoke, and keeps her dyed hair imprisoned in rollers (I never knew people still used those).

 

Hers is one of those classic two story open court motels. I take the top floor thinking it will be calmer without someone walking overhead. Of course, the place seems pretty deserted anyway, so why am I worrying? Except, I’m no sooner settled in and reading comfortably in bed, then a rumbling vroom shakes the whole building. I wait for a while, but the vroom keeps on vrooming, and the noxious odor of exhaust fumes seeps in steadily from around the window frames. Peeking outside, I see there is a pickup truck downstairs and just under my window; its motor is chugging away full force. Abandoning tolerance, I get dressed, furiously charge downstairs and bang on the door of the room below mine.

 

It’s answered by a mild stocky slob of a guy wearing glasses and a baseball cap. He looks surprised as I rave, then apologizes profusely.

            “I didn’t know anyone else was staying here. This is the slow season.” (Does this place really have a busy season?)

            I storm back upstairs mollified and even faintly ashamed. He was so nice about it.

 

Five minutes later there’s a knock at my door. It’s the slobby guy from downstairs.

“Look,” he says, “I want to apologize. I didn’t know I was driving you nuts.”

“You already apologized.”

“Yeah, but I’d like to make up for it. Would you agree to go out for a drink and some dinner? I know a simple but really good restaurant just around five minutes away.”

“No, thanks. I have to have an early night.”

“Aw, come on. It’s early and this place I’m taking you to has great food.”

I let him (his name is Rick) convince me. Of course I do. I have very little survival instinct, he seems a nice enough man, and now I’m feeling very hungry.

 

We drive to the “really good restaurant” in his pickup (isn’t it raring to go?) and the joint turns out to be a neon-lit storefront dive with two tables and a cluster of fat men slugging back beer. The food is the usual fast food glop I never eat, but the salad sandwich is decent and the beer is cold. Everyone is pretty friendly, and Rick obviously knows them all.

 

When we leave, Rick drives past a huge parking lot filled with trucks.

“That’s my place,” he says.

“Your place? The place where you work?”

“My own company.”

“You own the truck company?”

“Yup. I started out thirty years ago as a driver and put my money to the side, worked long hours, did international travel, scrimped and saved, did two jobs instead of one, but it paid off.”

“Obviously.”

“You know Niagara-on-the Lake.”

“What’s that?”

            “It’s a gorgeous town just down the road. We can drive there now. I’ll show it to you. I used to live there. Still own a house there, too, but I’ve put the place up for sale.”

 

I have no way of knowing that Niagara-on-the-Lake isn’t just down the road. That it’s some twenty kilometers away, but what the hell. I’m not going to leap out of the truck because it’s dark, cold, and lonely out there. Besides, what’s there to worry about? Rick is a mild sort of guy, not a serial killer (how many murdered women have said the same thing?) He owns a big company, seems like responsible sort of guy. Besides, wasn’t I looking for something interesting to do on my last night on the book tour? Okay, driving someplace isn’t wildly interesting, but at least it’s something.

 

We drive through the quiet streets of Niagara on the Lake. Yes, it’s a pretty town. Then Rick takes some back country roads. “I’ll show you my house.”

The place he calls home is a huge sprawling thing set back from the road, just the sort of newish pretentious place the owner of a trucking company would own.

“Why are you sleeping in a motel?” I ask. It does strike me, quite suddenly, as being a rather odd thing to do. The dark country roads we’re rolling down aren’t comforting places either. I’m wondering if being here with this guy is a smart move.

“Because I can’t sleep in the house anymore,” says Rick. “My wife died a year ago, and I can’t stand being there alone. I really miss her, and that big place just gives me the creeps.”

Which sounds reasonable enough.

 

Soon enough we’re back on the main road again, roaring along the Niagara River and heading towards the falls and our motel, which is a comfort. Of course, the conversation isn’t exactly cheery. Rick tells me about the two bodies they found back in ’69, about other bodies they’ve found since. “Guys always murdering people, dumping bodies here in the river. It’s a pretty lonely place and they think they won’t get caught.”

 

Yes, this is a pretty lonely place, and with the little elements of gore he tacks on to the conversation, I can tell he’s enjoying himself. Things are definitely strange, but I have the sneaking suspicion things could get even stranger, so I keep asking him questions about the falls, about the tourists, about life here. Good neutral subjects that won’t bring up strangling, shooting, knifing, disemboweling, and hacked up bodies. He answers politely, but I sense he’d rather go back to horror and fear.

 

We reach the motel, finally. I wish Rick goodnight. He asks me if I’d like to meet him for breakfast at eight—there’s a crazy place just down the road that I have to see. I say I’ll be leaving way before that. One evening of Rick is about all I can handle.

 

In the morning I make sure Rick’s pickup is gone, then I go knock on Mamie/Sal’s door to pay for the room. When she opens up, I see all is still in place, the hair rollers, the cigarette, the frumpy housecoat.

“Didja have a good quiet night?” she asks.

“Well, after Rick turned off his motor, I did. But he was nice about it.”

“Yeah, him. He’s a strange character. He always stays here.”

“Always?”

“Yeah, he don’t got nowheres else to live, I guess.”

“He told me he used to live in Niagara–on-the-Lake?”

Mamie/Sal snorts with derision. “Oh sure, dream on. Guy’s been staying here in this motel for years. A real loner.”

“Told me his wife died around a year ago.”

“What wife is that? Guy’s never been married in his life. Drives a truck, doesn’t have much of a life.”

“He doesn’t own a truck company?”

“What truck company is that then?” Mamie/Sal shrugs, takes a deep drag of her cigarette, has a long phlegmy coughing spell, then stabs out the fag in the ashtray she is clutching in one hand.

“That Rick? You ask me, he’s sort of a weirdo. You never know, these days, what with…” The incomplete sentence hints at depredation, blood, and darkness.

 

And so my book does tour end with a story. And a happy end…for me, at least.

 

 

More about my books and passionate life can be found at http://www.jill-culiner.com

http://www.j-arleneculiner.com

and on my story podcast at https://soundcloud.com/j-arlene-culiner

 


Friday, June 18, 2021

New Release - Never Trifle with Murder by Livia J. Washburn

It’s early summer in Weatherford, Texas, and retired teacher/amateur sleuth Phyllis Newsom and fellow retiree Carolyn Wilbarger are taking British cooking classes at the local senior center in this suspenseful Fresh-Baked mystery.

In the latest from Livia J. Washburn, the nationally bestselling author of the Fresh Baked Mystery Series, Phyllis Newsom learns to make a trifle that’s to die for…

While Sam Fletcher is playing dominoes with the guys, Eve Turner is busy flirting with the English chef since she has a fascination for English accents and handsome men who can cook. This puts her in competition with a couple of other ladies from the senior center, who also have their caps set for Chef Alfred Dorrington.

The third and final class features desserts, and more than the stove heats up when the trifle is poisoned! Once again Phyllis finds herself involved in a murder case filled with hidden motives and colorful characters.

Includes recipes!

Trade Paperback contains the short story, "The Coconut Bunny Butt Caper".

EXCERPT:

Phyllis Newsom watched as her friend Sam Fletcher intently studied the dominoes arrayed in front of him. He frowned in thought, put the tip of his index finger on one of them, then moved it to another. After a couple of seconds, he picked up that domino and placed it with the other two that had already been played in the center of the table.

The man to Sam’s left slid one of his dominoes out to join the others. Sam’s partner, seated across the table from him, sighed and turned all six of his dominoes face down, then began shoving them to the center. Sam and the other two players did likewise. The sound of the dominoes hitting the table and then clicking together was almost musical.

“That was the first play in that hand,” Phyllis said. “And it’s over?”

“Well, we were set,” Sam said.

His partner, former hardware store owner Ansel Hovey, shook his head and said, “I shouldn’t’a bid on sixes. I knew better.” He gave Sam a mock glare. “I figured you’d have somethin’ better than what you threw out there.”

The man to Sam’s left, who had played the decisive domino, grinned and said, “Now, don’t give Sam a hard time, Ansel. You can only play the dominoes you’re dealt.”

“Thanks, Patrick,” Sam said. He turned his head to look up at Phyllis, who stood behind his left shoulder. “You see, once Patrick took that trick, there was no way we could make what Ansel bid. There wasn’t enough count left.”

Carolyn Wilbarger, who stood behind Sam to the right, said, “You don’t have to mansplain the game of Forty-Two to us. We’re all from Texas, you know.”

“And I’ve been playing Forty-Two for as far back as I can remember,” Phyllis added. “I understand the concept of what you’re saying, Sam. My brain’s just never been able to work fast enough to see how the whole rest of the hand is going to play out based on the first one or two tricks.”

“Your brain works plenty fast,” Sam told her. “If it didn’t, you wouldn’t have been able to solve all those murders.”

     

Tuesday, June 15, 2021

 

The Show of “Show don’t Tell”…Ruben D. Gonzales

Showing not telling takes many forms in good writing. We’ve all read about the show don’t tell dictum of good writing so that’s not new to us and we are constantly on the lookout for it as we edit our manuscripts. Not too long ago I got a manuscript rejection after a query acceptance and a chapter review. The manuscript as a whole didn’t make the cut. I was certainly disappointed but at least the rejection came along with a few encouraging words and a few disappointing words as well. The disappointing ones amounted to … the show don’t tell problem. Of course having gone through the manuscript many times to eliminate any glaring examples of this amateur writing problem, I must have missed some since it was identified as a concern with my book.

Show don’t tell also can be a case of your characters physical actions. For instance:

“The cop looked like he didn’t believe me.”

That’s telling.

“The cop turned to me, his eyes wide, an eyebrow arched.

This is showing.

The difference can be subtle to an inexperienced writer, even after a couple of published books, and it takes some creative effort to work your way through your manuscript line after line looking for “tell” and replacing it with “show”. But if it was easy everyone would be a successful writer.

Using appropriate body language to show character motives improves your writing. Your character’s body language let’s your readers interpret your character’s motives without having to tell them what your character is all about.

But don’t overdo it. Don’t use a succession of meaningless mannerisms, especially if they don’t  move the story forward or provide foundation for the future story. If in chapter one you spend some time describing your main character as left handed, then in the end the dead body should have a fatal wound on the right side of his face.

In the end make sure all your characters gestures serve a purpose. Use your characters body language to communicate attitude. Let your characters body language show clues to their emotions.

How?

Let’s sharpen our people-watching skills.

www.rubendgonzales.com


Tuesday, June 8, 2021

Writing Perspective and Tense

I’ve been working on a writing project where I feel like I’m not connecting with the main character.  And if I’m not connecting, it’s a safe bet a reader won’t connect.  Another problem I’m worried about is that the pace isn’t quick enough and the action is dragging.  So I wondered what I could do to make the character more relatable and tighten up the pace.  

I started the project writing in the past tense from a third person point of view, which is common in mystery and fiction. I enjoy reading books written in the first person, however, so I thought that might be something to explore.  I skimmed through a few books written from the first person perspective and decided I was onto something.  With first person, the character tells the reader their story directly.  The reader can get into the character’s head and experience his or her thoughts, emotions, and actions along with the character.  One drawback is that this is a somewhat limited style in that you only have the character’s point of view rather than an omniscient viewpoint.  You can only tell about what the narrator knows and experiences.  But I thought it would help give my character her own distinct voice.  I decided I would give it a try and convert what I had already written into first person.  


I noticed that most of the books I reviewed involved the narrator speaking from his or her own perspective about events that happened in the past.  However, the book I happened to be reading at the time was written from the first person point of view, but in the present tense.  I was already on chapter three of the book before I realized this.  As I continued to read, I noticed that the present tense helped move the story forward by giving the reader a sense of events as they were actually happening.  


I thought this might be just the thing to help quicken the action in my WIP.  I read a little bit about first person present online, and was surprised to find that this POV and tense can be annoying to some readers who find it awkward or uncomfortable.  It definitely didn’t bother me since I had gotten through three chapters of the book I was reading without it begin obvious to me.  I liked the immediacy of it and the fact that it keeps the plot moving forward at a good pace.  So, I’m giving it a try on my WIP.  If it doesn’t work, then at least I’ve enjoyed the exercise and the experience.  


What POV and tense do you enjoy reading or writing in?





Angela Crider Neary is an attorney by day and writer by night. She is an avid mystery reader and especially enjoys reading novels set in interesting locales. She was inspired to write her first mystery novella, Li'l Tom and the Pussyfoot Detective Bureau: The Case of the Parrots Desaparecidos, by one of her favorite areas in San Francisco, Telegraph Hill.  Her second book, Li'l Tom and the Case of the New Year Dragon is now available.  To learn more, visit her on Facebook and Amazon.

Friday, June 4, 2021

Confessions of a Crap Stacker

 

Hello, my name is Izzy and I am a crap stacker. What sort of crap do I stack? Basically, all of the things I don't want to deal with. I find this to be an odd trait for someone who doesn't like clutter. However, "they" say that the first step to fixing a problem is acknowledging that you have one. So, I am taking steps to break myself of this habit.

I recently took the time to organize and file the pile of receipts from the vet's office that had been accumulating on my night stand for months. The entire process took less than an hour and left me with a clean nightstand. 

A few months ago we bought a new-to-us 2018 Toyota Tundra (Ruby the Big Red Truck) and gave our 15 year old Toyota Highlander to our daughter-in-law. Part of cleaning out the Highlander included dealing with the pile of paper crammed into the glove box. (My husband insisted we keep every receipt for anything involving the vehicle.) While the responsibility for the original stack belongs to my husband, responsibility for the second is all on me. I just took the stack of paper along with a variety of other items from the Highlander and shoved them in a reusable shopping bag which hung on the back of my dining room chair until last week. Going through the bag and separating items into Keep, Shred, and Toss piles took less than 15 minutes. The tossing and shredding also took less than 15 minutes. Another stack conquered in less than 30 minutes. 


Me and Ruby
 

I'm pretty proud of myself for starting to handle my stacks. I still have a couple to deal with and then I can tackle the last of the things that belonged to my parents. (I've gone through most of it but I'm now down to the things that I just don't know what to do with.) Now, if I can just teach myself to stop making the stacks to begin with. Baby steps Izzy. Baby steps.

Until next time, take care and happy reading!

 

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