Writing from a Rich Point of View

My mom is visiting us this week/weekend, which means several things:

1. The house is cleaner than usual (yesterday she went after the kitchen cupboards and counters with sponge and cleaner).

2. The cats are a bit mellower than usual because they have another warm and affectionate body to snuggle up with, cutting through some of the sibling rivalry for Dave's and my affections.

3. We watch at least one MGM musical (this time it was The Pirate with Gene Kelly and Judy Garland).

4. We play tourist a bit.

For number four, we were going to do a drive up to Fort Bragg yesterday, but since I've had a nasty head cold (the kind where you can't really do anything but blow your nose, drink hot toddies, watch TV or sleep) and only just started feeling better Friday evening, we decided to do something closer to home. We went to lunch at a little cafe in the Richmond district, then parked the car near the Legion of Honor and went strolling through the affluent neighborhood of Seacliff.

Seacliff used to be Sharon Stone's neighborhood, and Robin Williams is a current resident, just to give you an idea of what type of affluence I'm talking about here. You can tell which house is Robin Williams because of the topiary brontosaurus sticking up above the stone wall surrounding the property. The head of the brontosaurus is still just a wire frame, waiting for the topiary to catch up. On Halloween night the line of trick'or'treaters stretches out down the street.

I've driven through Seacliff many times - it's my back route to the Golden Gate Bridge, a much prettier route than 19th Avenue. But I've never actually walked through it, so my house ogling has been quick and surreptitious from the driver's seat of my car. Walking through it allowed us to really take our time and study the architecture and landscaping on some pretty amazing residences. Relatively cozy 'cottages' nestled in between palatial mansions. Marble, painted brick, wood, turrets, arched doors, courtyards, gardens, ocean views (there's a reason it's called 'Seacliff), you name it. Pretty much anything money can buy, including a few butt ugly modern homes that looked more like hospitals than homes.

We walked down one street and stopped to ogle an amazing estate at the edge of the cliff, a huge turret dominating our view from the top of the gated driveway. A towncar was parked out front and the driver lounged against the car. "It's for sale," he said, nodding towards the mansion.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yup. Twenty five million." He grinned at us as Mom, Dave and I started laughing.

"Yeah, we'll take two," said Dave.

We walked on, unable to even imagine earning that much money in one life time, let alone paying that much for a house, no matter how beautiful. "It'll fall into the ocean one of these days anyway," I said by way of group consolation. And that is probably true, considering the rate of erosion on the California coastline.

As we continued our walk, I thought about how impossible it is for me to get into the mindset of someone that rich and wondered if I'd be able to write from the point of view of a character used to being able to buy anything they wanted on a whim. I could write from the point of view of what it would feel like to suddenly come into money because I have a good imagination. I've written from the POV of characters who interact with people with lots of money because I've met a few of 'em. But I don't know if I could do a believable first person POV of someone like, say, Paris Hilton. Or Robin Williams, for that matter. Although the topiary dinosaur would be a nice starting point.

What about you? How much experience versus imagination do you think is necessary when creating believable characters and writing from their point of view as opposed to having them as supporting players in your stories?

A Compulsion to Write

by Jean Henry Mead

I wonder whether some of us are born with a compulsion to write. Many writers have created not only elaborate stories, while still in elementary school, but novels and three or four-act plays.

But why do we write?

Mignon G. Eberhart once said: “I write because I like to, sometimes hate to, but I have to write. I started when I was very young, almost as soon as I could put pencil to paper.”

Fellow mystery writer Lawrence Kamarck added: “I suppose I have a storyteller’s compulsion. I want to tell somebody what’s happening to all of us. I’m convinced nobody really knows but me. And because I want to keep the [reader’s] attention, I tell my story with as much force and drama as possible, within credible limits.”

Pulitzer winner A. B. Guthrie, Jr. told me during an interview that “the fun is having written well.” But he confessed that he didn’t enjoy the actual process of writing. “At the end of the day, I go back over it and say to myself, ‘By golly, that’s right, that’s right.’ And then I’m rewarded.”

So why do we write mysteries?

Ross MacDonald said: “Mystery stories have always interested me because they seem to correspond with life. They deal with the problems of causality and guilt that concern me.”

Loren D. Estleman wrote as an adolescent and sold his first novel at 23. He saw little of his parents because he spent so much time in his unheated, upstairs room, his only companion a typewriter. "I lived in my study and I didn’t have much of a private life,” he said. “It revolved around my writing . . .”

I like Estleman’s description of a mystery. “For me, a good mystery places story and character ahead of all else, yet never loses sight of the simple truth that in order to be a mystery, a question must be asked. It needn’t be a whodunit, and might be something as simple and maddening as why the murdered man had three left shoes in his closet and no mates. If the writer has done his job well, the reader will forget the question as the story draws him in. But there had damn well better be a mystery involved if he’s going to call it one.”

I pulled an aging copy of Mystery Writers Handbook from one of my book shelves and found the following quote from the editor, Lawrence Treat:. “Great ‘mysteries are great novels, like Crime and Punishment, A Tale of Two Cities and The Scarlet Pimpernel. And they’re clearly mysteries.”

I then asked my fellow Murderous Musings blog team members why they write mysteries. Ben Small, during one of his more serious moments, had this to say:

“I write mysteries and thrillers because I love the high stakes competition between good and evil, the uncertainty of justice, and the suspense of the ticking clock as the protagonist puzzles out a solution. Good stuff, escaping into a make-believe puzzle-world where I push the reader to beat me to the solution.”

Beth Terrell said that she loves the fact that the detective puts his own life at risk to protect others. She also loves the fact that “the good guy always wins--or almost always--even if it’s at a terrible cost. I feel like mysteries work on so many different levels. They are ripping good stories, thought-provoking puzzles, and wonderful vehicles to write about real human problems—things that matter. They’re a challenge to write; a good mystery or thriller has to do all the things a literary novel does and weave a gripping plot as well.”

Pat Browning concluded that a mystery is the oldest form of storytelling--with a beginning, a middle, and an ending. Sometimes there's a moral, sometimes it's a cautionary tale. It reassures us that good triumphs over evil. It satisfies our need to know that everything turns out all right in the end. Contemporary mysteries often have a romantic angle, and a humorous twist In short, the mystery offers something for every reader.

A quick look at The Surest Poison

Since this is mystery excerpt week, I'll share a snippet of my latest book, The Surest Poison, first in my new Sid Chance series from Night Shadows Press. The following excerpt introduces the two main characters.

It was still dark when Sid Chance pulled off I-40 at the Old Hickory Boulevard exit. He turned his vintage brown pickup toward Madison, a rambling middle-class suburb on the northeast side of Nashville. A big man, every bit of six-six, he had a headful of black hair and a short beard to match, both laced with threads of silver. The last time he had glanced in a mirror, the glower he saw made him think of a troll. He recalled an old admirer saying he looked like a Hollywood hero when he smiled. He wasn’t so sure. He hadn’t done all that much smiling in recent times.

Though most of the area’s workers remained asleep or just getting started on breakfast, traffic moved at a moderate pace on the circumferential highway. After crossing the Cumberland River, Sid took the cutoff north to Gallatin Pike, Madison’s Main Street. His office, a grudging requirement of his new life, occupied a corner in a glass and stone building near RiverGate Mall, anchor for the community’s primary shopping area. One strip center after another lined both sides of the street, deserted mini-cities at this time of day.

He glanced at his muddy boots and smudged jeans as he ambled toward the front of the building. He needed a shower and clean clothes, but that could wait. He figured his chances of encountering someone now little better than those of holding a winning lottery ticket. Nobody was fool enough to come in at this time of day except a habitual early riser, something he’d been since service with Army Special Forces in Vietnam. That’s where he learned to exist on a minimal amount of sleep. Inside, he turned toward his office and glanced at the “Sidney Chance Investigations” sign on the door. It brought one of his infrequent grins. How cool would it have been if they had named him Random instead of Sidney.

The answering machine chirped its practiced greeting as he walked in. Welcome back to what most people would call the real world, he thought. Maybe a few more months of civilization would rekindle his appreciation for the marvels of modern technology. Right now they seemed more an annoyance. A computer glitch that had gobbled up three days of painstaking work was the kicker that sent him back to the cabin for a cooling off period.

He found six messages on the machine. Two from Jaz LeMieux wanting him to return her calls, two from guys he didn’t know and doubted he wanted to, one from a process server, and one from a lawyer seeking his help. He played that one again.
“This is Arnie Bailey, with the law firm of Bailey, Riddle and Smith. Jasmine LeMieux highly recommended you for a job I need done. She said you were good at finding missing persons. This is a little different, however. It’s a missing company. My client faces a major financial disaster if we can’t find the organization involved. It’s a chemical pollution case around Ashland City. I’d appreciate your calling me as soon as you can.”

He glanced at his watch. It was way too early to call a lawyer, even somebody who sounded as anxious as this one. He decided to go home and shower, eat breakfast, then come back and have another go at it. No doubt the calls from Jaz related to Bailey’s problem.

Sid lived in the ranch-style brick house his mother had called home for twenty-five years. She died around the time his career as a small town police chief crashed and burned. The house stood near the river at the end of a quiet street in a neighborhood of mostly young couples and a few retirees. The sky had begun to brighten by the time he pulled into his driveway, though dirty gray clouds seemed to hang within arm’s reach.

He reveled in the soothing spray of the shower. It drummed against his back like a masseur’s fingers, easing some of the troubled thoughts that had knotted up his mind on the drive back from his hillside retreat. Despite a lot of jury-rigging, he had never come up with a reliable way to get a hot shower in the backwoods. He dressed and settled into the compact kitchen for breakfast. As he poured milk onto his cereal, the phone rang.

“Glad you finally decided to answer.” Jaz LeMieux’s voice had an edge.

“I just got home a little while ago.”

“From where?”

“The cabin.”

“Don’t you answer your cell phone?”

“When it’s turned on.”

There was a pause. “I think you’re reverting to your mountain man persona, Sid.”

He said nothing.

“Have all my efforts been wasted?”

“I did a lot of pondering last night,” he said. “But I came back.”

At first he had credited his financial mentor, Mike Rich, with the responsibility for luring him out of self-imposed exile. Lately he had begun to lean toward Jaz.

“Have you talked to Arnie Bailey?” she asked.

“I went by the office around 5:30 and got his message off the answering machine. What’s the story?”

“You’ll have to get the details from Arnie.”

“He a friend?”

“He’s a good guy. He’s done legal work for us.”

At forty-five, she served as chairman of the board of Welcome Traveler Stores, a lucrative chain of truck stops her father had founded. She was also a sharp, attractive, persuasive woman who knew how to get what she wanted. Sid wondered how much pressure she had put on the lawyer.

He settled back in his chair. “Bailey says you told him I was good at finding people.”

“You are. You’ve navigated those databases like an old pro.”

“Fine, if the computer would quit eating the results.”

“I told you I could fix that.” Jaz held a computer science degree as well as an MBA. She knew the inner workings of the machines as well as arcane methods of mining the Internet’s secrets. “Is that why you went traipsing back up the mountainside?”

“Partly. There were other issues.” Sid rumpled his brow. “Bailey mentioned a pollution case.”

“There was a story in the paper, but I didn’t get a chance to read it. Do you plan to call him?”

“Yes. But I doubt he’d be around this time of day.”

“I know he gets to his office early. Maybe not this early, but he likes to be well prepared before court opens.”

“Okay, Jaz, I’ll talk to him. That’s a promise.”

“Good. Let me know what he says.”

The pollution case led to the book's title, The Surest Poison. It's available from any bookstore, all the online sites, including for the Kindle, and at my website, ChesterDCammpbell.com. Crimespree Magazine called it "a top rate mystery by a gem of a writer."

An Excerpt from Dispel the Mist

The excerpt I've included is a dream that Native American Deputy Tempe Crabtree has which is a warning about what is to come in Dispel the Mist.
* * *
Her first dream was about her grandmother. Once again, Tempe was a child, cuddling against the soft warm body. Grandma’s nut brown wrinkled face, always expressive when she told Tempe the Indian stories. Love for her granddaughter apparent in her dark eyes. Tempe smelled the lavender that grandma always sprinkled into her dresser drawers. In the dream, she told a story Tempe had never heard before.

In the old days, women learned never to leave their acorn meal unattended. All day long they made ground acorns on the big rocks near the river. Then they took the meal down to the water to wash out the poison. They left it in the sun to dry, but when they came back it was gone.
Grandma paused dramatically and Tempe gasped. Who could have taken the acorn meal?
None of the women took it. None of the children took it. When they looked around they found big footprints in the sand where they left the meal, so they knew the Hairy Man had eaten it. He liked Indian food too and was smart enough to know he needed to wait until the acorn meal was leached of its bitterness before he took it. After that, they always set aside a portion of the leached meal for the Hairy Man. The women always wondered if the sound of them pounding the acorns let him know when it was time to come for his share of the food.

Tempe wanted to ask her grandmother questions about the Hairy Man, like did he still come for the acorn meal, but she faded away.
The only reason Tempe remembered this dream was because she had an urgent need to go to the bathroom. On her way back to bed, she noticed Hutch hadn’t joined her, so it must still be evening. Still sleepy, she thought briefly about the dream deciding it had absolutely no relationship to Supervisor Quintera’s death and promptly returned to her slumber.
Her next dream was a nightmare. Tempe knew she was on the reservation, but it was different looking as familiar places often are in dreams. The buildings all seemed dilapidated and badly in need of repair though she couldn’t see them clearly because of a grayish-yellow swirling mist surrounding everything. Jagged black mountain peaks poked through the clouds. Though she was alone, a feeling of menace was so prevalent, she could almost smell it.
In fact, she did smell a sour aroma mixed with smoke, like someone was burning trash with something toxic in it. Not knowing exactly what to do or where to go, she walked down the road which instead of being paved was dirt, and filled with rocks. No vehicles were around, either moving or parked.
Without warning, a large man who resembled Cruz Murphy stepped out of the fog. He held up a hand, palm out. “Stop. Danger ahead.”
“Maybe I can help,” Tempe said, moving closer to him, but as she did, he faded into the mist.
“Chief Murphy. Cruz, wait. Tell me what’s going on. I need to know.”
He didn’t answer, but another figure appeared from the gloom, Daniel Burcena dressed all in black. His features sharp and menacing. “You should heed warnings that are given to you. You may have native blood flowing through your veins, but your heart isn’t on the reservation. Everyone who lives here can see that. Go back where you came from.”
“I loved my grandmother,” Tempe said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t proud of my Indian heritage. Let me make it up to her.”
“It’s too late. Way too late.”
A warning siren blew. People ran from the buildings, spilling out onto the road and crowding around Tempe. What was going on? The siren stopped for a moment. It sounded again. More shrill this time. It stopped and then shrieked again.
It was the phone. Tempe shook the nightmare from her mind and picked up the receiver. “Deputy Crabtree.”
A strange voice, one that sounded like it was electronically altered growled, “Stay away from Painted Rock.”
“Who is this?”
No answer.
“Hello?”
Again no answer, though she could hear breathing.
“This isn’t funny. If you want to tell me something, speak up.”
The connection broke. Tempe stared at the receiver before she replaced it.
Hutch raised up on an elbow. “What was that all about?”
“I haven’t a clue. Someone warned me to stay away from painted rock. Do you know what that is or where it is?”
He shook his head. “Nope, never heard of it, but sounds like something that might be on the reservation.”
“Maybe.” Tempe looked at the time on her digital clock. Four a.m. What fool would call a deputy at four in the morning with such a cryptic message? She never heard of a place called painted rock, so why would she go there? Maybe that was the idea, to entice her to go. She’d certainly had some interesting dreams but had no idea what they meant. Hopefully when she slept again, no more dreams would interrupt her rest.

* * *

Dispel the Mist is available at all the usual bookstores, but until December 31 it's 20% off at the publishers website, Mundania Press, if you use the code SANTA.

Marilyn

Excerpt from Killer Career by Morgan Mandel

This week, I'm doing an excerpt from my romantic suspense, Killer Career, here at Make Mine Mystery, and another on Wednesday at Acme Authors Link. Hope you like them.

Here's the first -
Six blocks later, on the twelfth floor of her white stone office building, Julie unlocked the darkened door and smiled. She’d beaten Dade in. Not easy considering his Lake Shore Drive condo sat only a few miles away.


She flipped the overhead switch in the reception area to reveal the four butter-colored leather chairs, love seat, and round table with popular magazines, all waiting for the day’s clients.

Her catalog case squeaked as she rolled it along the variegated design of the short carpet leading to her side of the suite. Once rid of the case and her purse, she darted into Dade’s office, where she hung the decorations and hastily retreated down the hall to her own file-filled office. She had to do something about all this work. Only a few inches of her walnut colored desk were visible. Blocking that thought from her mind, she awaited Dade’s arrival.

Five minutes later, she heard the unmistakable sound of his quick stride. Her heart sped. Any minute now he’d discover her handiwork.

Then came the expected, “Julie McGuire, I’m going to get you.”

She smiled at the success of her efforts then counted one, two and three.

There he was, filling her doorway, charging the room with his energy.

Glancing up from her work, she wagged a finger at him. “You didn’t think I’d forget, did you?”

“I hate this kind of stuff, and you know it.”

“And I know you’re a fake. Come over here. I’ve got something you’ll like.”

He raised his eyebrows. “An interesting variation, but I’m game.”

A typical Dade remark. Julie snorted.

“I’ll let that pass. Happy Birthday, Dade.” She handed him the wrapped gift. Her heart raced with anticipation. Dade was bound to be floored. Though he was usually a “doer” and not a reader, he did have a weakness for Jensen’s books. Wait until he saw this one, which hadn’t even hit the shelves.

Still standing, Dade ripped open the wrapping. His whistle hurt Julie’s ears.

“How did you pull this off?” He switched the book back and forth in his hands.

“Oh, let’s just say I’ve got connections.”

“We’re in trouble now. This baby will seriously jeopardize client time for at least two hours.”

Julie felt the warmth spread throughout her, as she gazed at her law partner, taking in his azure eyes, the corners etched with thin wrinkles, and his untamed dark hair which stuck out in all directions as if he’d run a finger through it instead of a comb. That was Dade for you. He never concerned himself with trivialities. Then again, he didn’t need to, not with his God-given looks and his outgoing personality.

Dade had been a member of her honorary family for ages, even before her parents had passed away. He was a vital part of her past and present. Thanks to their law practice, she saw more of him than of his sister, Avery, whom she counted as her dearest friend.

“Sit down and read me the autograph,” she said. “I’m dying to hear what he wrote. I forgot to look.”

Dade flipped open the book atop Julie’s desk, then raised his eyebrows. “You know Jensen?”

“I just met him at the conference yesterday.”

“So you don’t know him that well?”

“Not really.”

“This autograph says different.”

“Let me see that,” Julie said, spinning the book around.

She stared at the tight script, her face growing warmer by the second. It read, “Dade, your partner is worth stealing. Watch your step.”

“That’s strange. Well, he is a mystery writer. He’s probably staying in character.”

Dade snorted. “No, it’s more than that. He wants you, Julie.”

“I told you, we just met at a conference. He couldn’t be after me. I doubt if I’ll ever see him again anyway.”

Dade stared at her with knowing eyes.

He had to be kidding.

“Don’t give me that look.” Reaching around the desk, she poked him in the arm.

“I want you to stick around here, that’s all.”

“Well I’m not around for everything. Remember the agreement.”

“Oh, that,” he said, making it sound of little consequence. “You wouldn’t break it for once, would you?”

“And ruin a good thing?” Although outwardly laughing, inside she was serious.

She had something better than marriage. She could do whatever she wanted and still see Dade more often than most wives saw their husbands. They’d faced a lot together, business and personal-wise. He was there for her and she for him. They were partners. She didn’t need anything more.

She had all that, yet she was thinking of deserting him. Could she do it?

Dade stood up to leave. “As usual, partner, you’re right. I wouldn’t think of reneging on our agreement. On that note, I’ll scram. I do have cases up.”

“And I’ve got Miller on trial,”Julie said. “Hey, don’t forget your present. It should be a good read. Oh, and again, happy birthday.”

Dade’s face looked grim as he swiped the book from her hands. “Thanks,” he said curtly.

Julie stared at Dade’s stiff back as he lumbered off. Disappointment washed over her. She’d just given Dade a terrific birthday present. He should be happy. Was he upset about getting older or was it something silly like Jensen’s innocent autograph?

* * *

“That son of a bitch.” Dade heaved Jensen’s book onto the chair in his office. It bounced off the black leather edge and landed open on the floor.

If you like this excerpt, come on over on Wednesday to another of my group blogs at http://acmeauthorslink.blogspot.com/ for another excerpt.


Thanks for letting me share.

Morgan Mandel
http://www.morganmandel.com/
http://morganmandel.blogspot.com/
Signed copies for Killer Career are available for EZ Order at The Digital-Bookshop , in print & ebook, also in print at Amazon (unsigned) and on kindle.

Warped...

by Ben Small

As some of you know, I just returned from touring Croatia and a bike tour of parts of Slovenia, Italy and Austria. And of course, my mind turned to murder. I don't recall anybody writing a murder mystery involving a bicycle tour, but why not? Seems to me one could develop a story very Agatha Christie-like on a bike tour.

So many methods for the killer to use. He could oil a sharp turn on a downhill switch-back. Or she could reach down and thrust a stick or rod between someone's spokes. Or he/she could bat someone across the bean while passing.

Great. Now I'll be thinking about bike-murder all day...

Consider this: We had eleven people in our twenty person bike tour (not including two guides) who were part of one group from Ormond Beach, FL. Who knows the relationship these folks had before the trip? Maybe one has been cheating with another one's wife or husband. Maybe two of them are related and there's a will contest going on. Maybe one is the parent of a child arrested because of drugs supplied by another tour member. Whatever. These folks knew each other before the bike tour, and they'd had interactive lives.

What a chance for murder.

Just try to account for twenty people on a bike tour. Who's where at any time? Folks ride in different groups, and mix it up after rest stops or meals. Trying later to reconstruct who was with whom and when would be difficult -- again, just like an Agatha Christie murder.

Riding on paved or hard-pack gravel trails in beautiful valleys underneath the Julian Alps is a dreamlike journey. The air is crisp and cool, fresh, and spirits are high. The heart is pounding and the muscles are burning. Who's paying attention to details? Oops, somebody missed a turn. Okay. We'll catch them later. Or will we? What if they don't come back? What if somebody bumped 'em off at the last turn?

Okay, I'm sick. But so are you. C'mon, admit it. You go places and think about murder too, don't you?

Don't be surprised if there's a bike in my next book...

Happy Thanksgiving Everyone! by Christine Duncan

I was going to do a post on Christmas mysteries to continue my posts on holidays reads that help get me in the mood. Maybe I'll do that for my next post here on MakeMineMystery. But you know what, gang? It's Thanksgiving and although the year has been difficult and the economy has hit all of us hard, I've got a lot to be thankful for.

@Jan VerHoeff tweeted a few weeks back about finding one thing a day to be thankful for in the days leading up to Thanksgiving. She suggested using it as a status update. Although I have not always been faithful with posting it as my status, I have been finding that I have a great deal to be grateful for.

I've got what most of us have and take for granted: A great marriage to a wonderful man, healthy, intelligent (grown) children whom I am proud of, a home, a wonderful extended family which includes a couple of sisters who let me call and whine and then help me pick myself up again. I've got work and enough money to pay the bills this month. I've got a good church home, good friends and I've got a new book out.

Just for a minute today, go over your own list. Then rest and be thankful.

Christine Duncan is the author of the Kaye Berreano mystery series. Safe House, the second book in the series was released in September.