Tonight I am sitting at my computer, staring at the screen, and listening to the rain pour down outside. After three years of false starts, countless months of self doubt and several weeks of honest work, I have just finished my first draft of my first novel. It’s 58,642 words of Scottish-flavored, cozy mystery goodness, and I’m taking a moment to bask in the accomplishment. Continue reading
Driving to Nashville last week, a friend asked me, “Why a mystery? Why choose to start your writing career with a cozy?”
Simple. There’s something viscerally satisfying about a mystery novel. We encounter murder, intrigue and misdirection. As in life, we face problems that seem to have no answers. Unlike in life, each death or mishap is (eventually) followed by a tidy, fulfilling resolution. And I discovered this gratification early in life within the pages of Ellen Raskin’s devilish The Westing Game.
I am heavy into the writing and revisions of Thou Shalt Not Kilt, and the body count has been impressive. To my surprise, there have been two more suspicious deaths. Turns out, this time I was the killer. Honestly, I didn’t like it one bit.
This past weekend I spent five days in a rustic camp on the banks of the Suwannee river. The impact was immediate. I am more relaxed, my energy is flowing and writing has regained its focus. This balance came at a cost. Since my return home, I have mentally revisited the camp several times. Something very fundamental about the experience connected with me; I suspect it may have a place in the next tale.