Yummy Words

On a gorgeous October evening, right in the middle of a warm spell, I am riding in the back of a comfy van, gazing at city lights, swirling leaves, snaky roads and piercing headlights. There are five of us: women who span the ages from teen to senior.

Yet all of these women have something in common. Words. The compulsion to hear them, read them, and write them. An obsession that forces us to work without wages more often than not. Sometimes, once we push our creations into the world, they even get ridiculed. But those times when someone reads the words we’ve written and loves them – well, that’s what keeps us addicted.

We’re on our way to hear the Governor General Literary Award finalists. I’m a bit nervous, since it’s my idea, and sometimes I have to admit: the GG and Giller novels are a little…different. Often, great writers are not great speakers. However, we’re together, and I enjoy the company of these females immensely.

Not only are they very accomplished and smart, but they are also kind, witty and gracious. Their energy makes conversation interesting and challenging. We nudge each other along the continuum of the creative process with encouragement, suggestions and constructive criticism. I am their coach, but I am also their student.

The Governor General Literary Awards reading is a step on that continuum. We like to immerse ourselves in literature of all kinds. We are writers, but we are readers, too, which I believe is a huge requirement for success.

The evening is orchestrated by Shelagh Rogers, the hostess of The Next Chapter on CBC (a show that I can only dream of being invited to). This is an auspicious beginning.

The first reader is Phil Hall, a poet who won the GG for poetry last year. I am thrilled that he mentions the Great Canadian Poetry Weekends in Collingwood. My friend Merci and I still have vivid, pleasant memories of those years.

Tamas Dobozy wrote Seige 13 “because of the silence”. The victims are reluctant to speak of demeaning events, naturally. Dobozy says he is interested in the “inexplicability of real life”. How this resonates with me! I have used the genre of mystery to explore the nature of evil, injustice, the “inexplicability of real life”. I love this.

Robert Hough, author of Dr. Brinkley’s Tower, is hilarious. He’s thrilled to be on stage, he says, because he suffers from the usual writer angst: “If so-and-so doesn’t like me, no one likes me”. How true – when I see those one star, mean-worded reviews, I can’t help but feel that very way. His story is about a real person who invented a one-million watt radio tower that he placed in Mexico, inadvertently turning every home within miles into conduits for constant noise. He describes life in Mexico as a “luscious torment” and “sad and miraculous”. How perfect a description of our beloved Mexico.

Vincent Lam reads from his second book, The Headmaster’s Wager. It’s set in Vietnam and China. His soft-spoken, poetic delivery is mesmerizing.

Carrie Snyder is young and vivacious. She reads from The Juliet Stories, agonizing tales about war from a child’s point of view. “Decrepit and magnificent” she intones: what a lovely phrase on the dichotomy of life.

Linda Spalding is the only one whose outfit I notice (since I’m quite unobservant of fashion). But she’s striking in her scalloped skirt and black boots. Her book, The Purchase, tells the story of Quakers in the US in 1798, exploring slave ownership. Again, I am thrilled: my fifth book explores the same topic, also from the POV of people who ostensibly abhor ill treatment of others.

Oh, what words we devour!  The writers are all great speakers and readers, too, which only enhances the meal. We are nourished by the phrasing, the idea, the intelligence that radiates from the stage.

On the way home, we’re quiet, digesting the experience. We all agree that the readings make us want to rush back to our respective writing nooks and pick up a pen (figuratively, since we all use laptops).

Inspiration is the end result of an evening chomping on yummy words. I highly recommend this eatery, whether you are consumer, producer, or both. My Books

A Mysterious Night in Cleveland

There were so many reasons to go to Cleveland for Bouchercon. First of all, it’s the biggest mystery conference in North America, and I am a mystery author. Author Page

 

Secondly, my aunt and my cousins live there and I haven’t seen them for a long time.(OK, maybe not as long as the pic to the left might suggest.)

On Saturday, Vince and I take off from the conference and drive to my cousin Kathleen’s lovely home in a beautiful neighbourhood just outside the city. I am a little dazed as I walk in the front door. I know I’m often blond headed, but tonight I have a couple of really good excuses.

I mean, I have spent two and a half days in the presence of best selling mystery authors. Some of whom I have worshipped for many years. I have listened to panels on justice: the roles that wealth, race and influence play on verdicts in the courts; comparisons and contrasts among justice systems throughout the world. How a writer can realistically portray the opposite gender in his/her novels. Sitting beside Elizabeth George’s husband. How authors can make a morally challenged character likeable. Meet the Canucks. Creating suspense, giving out clues without tipping your hand. A chain of reveals about the character and the plot while heading for the crescendo. The thought that ordinary people can be evil. How can the villain be the hero of a novel? Listening to Sara Paretsky, Mary Higgins Clark, Rhys Bowen, Robin Cook, Charlaine Harris, Derrick Haas… and trying to behave like a moderately known or at least well dressed and polite Canadian author. O Canada, Anthony Bidulka, Linwood Barclay, Howard Shrier, Vicki Delany, Mary Jane Maffini – I can’t list them all so go to www.crimewriterscanada.com when we’re done here: must we really set our books in the US to obtain an audience (our American friends in the audience say NO). Our own Lou Allin getting a ride to the liquor store in a Cleveland police officer’s patrol car. Talking on a panel of my own and forgetting what I was saying in the middle of my convoluted statement (at least they laughed). Sitting beside Elizabeth George’s husband.

Linda as Bud and Kathleen as Otto.

If that’s not reason enough to be dazed, when I walk into Kathleen’s front door, her sister Linda greets me in a rather odd outfit (see picture). At first I don’t recognize her, and when I do, I figure she’s either come out of the closet or has gone a little dotty. Either way, I don’t think I should mention it until she does.

Sean is dressed rather jauntily, but he often is, so I think nothing of that. Suddenly, our hostess comes downstairs in lieder hosen and a mustache. Now I’m pretty sure something is up.

The mystery is explained once I get my costume and my script. My amazing family is putting on a murder mystery dinner for me and Vince! Can you imagine having such creative, thoughtful, brilliant people as cousins? Am I not a lucky lucky bastard (said in a British, Monty Python accent)?

John and Bonnie Lassie

We get into our roles pretty easily (scarily so, really). I am Hedy Shablee. I perfect my accent of British-Irish-Canadian mash so well it almost gets stuck.

Tiny Bubbles and her mom ( I mean Bud Wiser)

 Carolyn is a Bonnie Lassie in her kilt and John is her lines coach (he doesn’t do a great job which leads to more frivolity); Rachel is a smartly-dressed Tiny Bubbles and Sean is Ralph Rottingrape. Aunty Betty is the dead body, just so she doesn’t have many lines. She acts it out very nicely. And finally Linda’s outfit is explained; she’s the detective, Bud Wiser. If you are doing some detecting of your own and notice a theme of alcohol in this mystery play, heavy on the wine, you would be correct. Which tells you once again how well my cousins know me!

Kathleen must have rehearsed that German accent for Herr Otto: it’s pitch perfect. 

Tracy, in a slinky red dress that highlights her gorgeous blond hair and figure, is, of course, Marilyn Merlot.

Vince is a natural for Papa Vito, with his Guido Sarducci accent.He looks pretty naughty, don't you think?

 We have a ball. I don’t guess the correct murderer – it’s Papa Vito, not Herr Otto – but I blame that on Vince. After all, who would guess their own husband? (See, I can rationalize anything.)

I write down two phrases from our fun: “the familiar-looking dwarf” and the “opera-singing Nazi Vampire”. Those are two lines that must end up in one of my stories somewhere.

I am tired (I’m old, which explains the brain fart in the middle of my panel) as we drive home Sunday, but I am pumped too.
The conference was a source of nourishment, but the evening with my cousins was phenomenal. I love those amazing, smart, loving, creative, inspired people. They were my childhood best friends. They are a part of who I am. Lucky lucky bastard me.