The Plot Thickens... and sags and dips and curves...

If you don't know where you're going, how will you know when you get there?

The black-and-white side of my brain believes that. You need a direction to get where you're going. A+B=C. But this other side of my brain wanders into the subjective, and then I get frustrated. When you put me into the realms of unknown quantities, I can go crazy.

Yet when it comes to writing, I can't do it any other way. Years ago, I took a creative writing diploma program through correspondence. And when it came time to touch on novel writing, we were taught to plot out the book and prepare an outline before starting. Years later, in a critique from a published author, they told me much the same, and even showed samples of prepared character bios that they made before they started writing the book.


It was back then that I started SUSPICIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES. I had character bios. I had an outline. I had a plan. Everything was great.

And then I moved, misplaced my files, switched computers, and months went by after I convinced myself the project was crap and quit working on it.

When I returned to the manuscript I'd started almost a year earlier, I made a few discoveries. It wasn't crap. It was good. But I'd lost the outline and didn't have a clue where the story was going anymore.

The greatest thing about that was, I started re-reading what I'd written, and decided to listen to the characters. I got to know them. It was like peeling the layers off an onion, and as I learned more and more about them, the story fell into place.

I'm not one of the writers who thinks you have to know everything about a character before you start writing about them. I also don't think the reader should expect to get a nutshell synopsis of a character's whole life. We don't know everything about anyone when we first meet them. It is through our interactions and our time spent with them that we discover all the interesting little things. Just a few weeks ago, I said something offhanded to Patrick. It was so offhanded I don't even remember what it was. I was doing laundry, and he was talking my ear off, and I made some comment and he said, "I never knew that about you. Every day I learn something new about you."

I said that's what a relationship is, like an ongoing discovery about another person.

Occasionally, when I sit down to start a manuscript, I do have something that's inspired the general story. There will be a topic I want to touch on, and I'll put that in the pot and stir it around and see what comes out. I did that when I wrote The Frailty of Flesh. I'd been working in the GVA, and was the director of a child care center and summer camp program, working with over 100 high needs students annually, as well as two dozen staff I was responsible to train and oversee.

And something happened to one of my kids. Something that prompted the school staff to ask me to support a report to social services against the parent. On our own, we didn't have enough, but together, we finally did. We made the report, and as soon as the parent found out she moved a few blocks over city lines. Since she was now out of our jurisdiction, our report wasn't investigated.

I spent that whole book working out my frustration with the system. And in the midst of it, I read about the deaths of some children in the system, who'd been removed from their homes. Natives. Or Aboriginals, as we call them now. Native kids dying in foster homes at the hands of white people.

Suddenly, Tain clicked into place. I started that book knowing I was going to rip Ashlyn's life apart, but the unfolding of Tain's story gutted me personally.

My greatest compliment ever was hearing from Sean Chercover after he'd read the book, and learning it had reduced him to the edge of tears. That was the translation of all that emotion I had, onto the page.

I occasionally have a specific event or scene in mind that I think will be in the book. That was also true with THE FRAILTY OF FLESH, but I won't give you spoilers.

There is only one book I've written where I knew what the last scene would be before I started. Some people call that Distant Shores. It's when you know where you're going, in general, but as you navigate across the river you might go upstream or downstream a bit instead of straight across. You might have to dodge driftwood or hazards under the water... but you have the general idea in mind when you start.

For all the rest of my books, they've centered on characters and ideas. In the case of HARVEST OF RUINS, I started the book in 2007. The book went through about four incarnations. It was retitled BELOW THE LIGHT at one point. I had to revisit the whole manuscript at one point and restructure the framework.

In short, I never know what the journey from start to finish will look like. Joelle and I seem to both feed primarily off the characters and their dialogue and listen to them for direction. It works for me. When I have tried to write with an outline, it's felt stilted and forced and I feel like I'm holding the characters back so that I can check off boxes instead of let the story unfold.

For other people, the meticulous planning works perfectly. I've learned there's no one right way to develop the plot or approach your writing. As a writer, you have to learn to recognize your own strengths and weaknesses, and tailor your approach to be most effective for you.

The Fine Line Between Heeding Wisdom & Selling Out Creatively

You have a vision for your story. It's been building to a steady boil in your mind for years. You feel you know where you want this to go, and you work at it. A little here, a little there.

Gradually, the story takes shape on the page, and you feel you've done your job. It's the story you set out to tell.

And then you send it to your beta reader or editor or agent. And the response is not overwhelming praise for your brilliance.

No. Instead, the response is something more along the lines of, "Some potential here, but we need to find the story."

Proposals include massive scene cuts, a shift in focus to a different main character.

Do you: a) stand your ground and refuse to edit your story, or b) make the changes and feel like a sell-out?

The other night, watching America's Got Talent, I watched someone face this dilemma on TV, with music. The singer in question had wowed the judges and audience with her audition.



She made it through to Vegas, where she decided she would perform an original song.

The judges didn't think that was a good idea, and when she blew it, they gave her a second chance. To leave the stage, take a few hours and prepare a cover of a popular song they'd know. In the discussion between the judges, Howie said something about how this wasn't a writing competition.

I found myself wondering about that. Isn't it a TALENT competition? Isn't writing a talent? I mean, if all you can do is cover other people's material, you'll never actually be a star yourself.

That's one side of the coin. The other is that it would be unappealing to spend a season watching singer after singer perform original songs you didn't know. I mean, when I watch The Voice, I have to admit that I don't know all the songs being covered all the time. And thank God for Adam Levine, who actually admitted he didn't know all the songs being covered by contestants, either. He and I can at least agree that you can't solely base judging the contestants on comparing them to the original artists.

Howie was right for that point in the competition. The judges gave Dani a second chance, and Dani had to decide if she would stand her ground on her principles.

Or if she'd take the second chance.

She did. And the end result was that she made it through to Hollywood, while the other female singers in her category were both sent home.

Now, some might say that's unfair, and that she shouldn't have had a second chance, or that she had an unfair advantage over the other contestants. But I think a big part of what counted for her was her professionalism, and her willingness to take direction.

We artists have to know our place. Sometimes, it's appropriate for us to stand our ground.

And sometimes we have to find Option C) The ability to see your own story on another level and make changes to the work that meet your needs artistically as well as an editor or publisher's needs commercially.

I went through this writing HARVEST OF RUINS. From the inception of the story, it centered on a young girl, and how things in her life that happened shaped her, and ultimately tore her apart.

As the story evolved through rewrites and revisions, and massive cuts in content and the introduction of new scenes, the book no longer centered on Vinny Shepherd. Instead, Hunter McKenna emerged as the central character.

And as more layers were stripped away, the book no longer centered on an investigation and the outcome. Instead, it put Hunter's future in the balance, with the detective sergeant facing criminal charges in court as her personal and professional lives are ripped apart one witness at a time.

The end result is a streamlined, 65,000 word story about a detective sergeant who's on trial for negligent homicide, whose partner takes a leap of faith as he tries to uncover the truth about the investigation they were conducting that led to tragedy, and whether the answers he finds will be enough to sway the jury.

Beneath the surface, HARVEST tells several other stories without losing the threads. It's about how parents shape their children, how susceptible teenagers are to the influence of their peers, how we all bear some responsibility for the choices we make and how those choices affect others, and where to draw the line between personal responsibility and criminal responsibility.

And ultimately, it's a story about forgiveness. Of others. And of ourselves.



Readers have a unique opportunity. Anyone who emails proof of purchase of HARVEST OF RUINS to snubnosepress at gmail dot com by September 1, 2011 will be sent a free copy of the prior version of the book, titled BELOW THE LIGHT, including an afterward by the author about how the book was ultimately revised, and why. You can block out your address and phone number from the purchase receipt. :) Your information will not be shared or disclosed with anyone. Copies of BELOW THE LIGHT will be available early August.

Purchase HARVEST OF RUINS from Amazon.com

Harvest of Ruins

I've been sick the past few days, and haven't been operating at peak efficiency, so this seems like a great time to share with you a little piece of my new manuscript, HARVEST OF RUINS.



No Crime Scene


They say the last thing you see before you die is recorded in your eyes. Hunter McKenna wondered if this was what Adam Fields’ eyes would show if they could see that image. His body surrounded by a white porcelain bathtub surrounded by marble tile, water pelting down at him from above?

“Goddamn CSI shit.”

Hunter McKenna, a detective sergeant with the provincial police, watched her partner swear, turn, stomp across the room and swing his foot at the trash can. When Noah Wilmott’s toe connected with the steel bin it rose into the air before it tipped sideways and the contents spilled all over the floor.

He limped and cursed for a few steps, although he kept the words under his breath. Hunter knew him well enough to know what he was saying, though. It seemed like Noah hadn’t thought kicking the can would hurt as much as it apparently did. His hair was black as coal but he had the temper of a redhead, a temper he tried to rein in and offset with a groomed appearance, but there were times his nature defied the suit-and-tie charmer image he worked so hard to project.

Next to her partner, Hunter felt frumpy. He had a nicer wardrobe, a more recent haircut and most of the time he appeared polished. Her hair wisped around her face, her curves threatened to push her out to the next clothing size, and she never had felt like dress pants fit properly anyway.

Noah staggered out the door, down the hall.

“Where the hell is Heineman? That goddamn spit-for-brains no-good sack of shit.” There was a pause as Heineman was located, and then Noah’s voice returned with a roar. “Prove you aren’t totally useless. Tell me it occurred to you for even just a split second to turn the water off and stop running evidence down the goddamn drain.”

Under other circumstances a smile might have tugged at Hunter’s lips, but on this occasion she could understand her partner’s anger. The discovery of a body had been reported around the time early risers ate breakfast. The late risers had been deprived of their opportunity to sleep in, at least in this cul de sac, unless the growing chorus of sirens that had reached their crescendo outside this otherwise normal home hadn’t piqued their curiosity and their curtains were thick enough to block out the swirling lights of the half dozen plus emergency vehicles that had converged there.

By the time Hunter and Noah had arrived the slipper-and-robe brigade had swelled to such a size that she guessed the bystanders included residents from as far as three blocks away. The joggers and dog-walkers interspersed with the sleep-deprived explained the spread of information throughout the quiet community.

They’d been on the front step when the first camera crew arrived.

Hunter looked down at the body in the tub, felt the heat of the steam on her skin as she snapped a plastic glove over her hand, reached for the tap and turned the water off. Goddamn CSI shit indeed.

The reported body lay in the tub of what was undoubtedly the master bath, adjacent to a massive bedroom that a one-bedroom apartment could fit inside, with room to spare. Considering the size of the room, and the fact that the door to the master bath had reportedly been left open, the house must have had one hell of a hot water tank. The steam had fogged the mirror and she’d felt the heat when she’d twisted the spigot. Hunter stepped aside for Dr. Eaton, although the bathroom itself was as large as a standard bedroom, and she was hardly in his way.

The wizened doctor prepared himself to examine the body and knelt by the tub. “Apparent cause of death would be from a gunshot wound to the temple.” Dr. Eaton’s voice was gruff but hinted at no emotional response. He carefully lifted the decedent’s hands and examined them.

They’d been folded neatly across the boy’s naked body, resting on his stomach, where the spray of water from the shower nozzle had been directed.

Deliberate or coincidence?

“We’ll check for gunshot residue, but the water…” Dr. Eaton stood up and shook his balding head. “Obviously, core body temperature and rate of decomposition has been affected.” He bent over and lifted the victim’s leg a few inches, grunted, and nodded. “He’s pretty fresh. I can’t even swear to cause of death until I get him on the table.”

Hunter nodded. It was what she’d expected to hear. “Hot water was still running. We might be able to establish a window based on the size of their tank, how much hot water remains…” She’d have to have someone shut the system down so that it didn’t start replenishing the supply. “Glad you were in the area.”

He grunted again. “Convenient when I live across town.”

Or not so convenient, Hunter thought as she watched him glance at the body again. “Recognize him?” she asked.

“Adam Fields.”

Adam Fields… Where did she know the name? It clicked. Her former partner Tom’s daughter. Adam was a boy Vinny had played with. Hunter could remember a few times, when she’d been in the neighborhood where Tom’s ex-wife still lived, and seen Adam as a young boy. Blond hair, and truly white skin. He’d stood out almost as much as Jonah.

Jonah, a gorgeous boy with light brown skin, huge chocolate eyes, and clothes that bordered on rags. Somehow, as children they’d overlooked the obvious differences.

But with age came the loss of innocence, that taint of the world and the distorted views so many held.

Hunter remembered what had happened to Jonah.

Wondered if Adam had been there.

“Did you know him?” Dr. Eaton asked.

“Never struck me as the type to play Russian roulette,” she said.

“Won’t know what killed him until I get him on the table,” Dr. Eaton repeated. “Any blood’s long since swirled down the drain.”

Meaning that there may not have been sufficient blood loss to indicate the head wound was the cause of death. They hadn’t found Adam Fields’ clothes, they hadn’t found the gun, and there wasn’t any blood spatter on the walls. That meant that even if Adam had pulled the trigger himself, in that room, someone else had been there to clean up. Someone sophisticated enough to put him in the tub and turn the water on, and they may have been smart enough to use a gun to try to conceal the real cause of death. A gunshot wound was just a gunshot wound, until the doctor said otherwise.

She watched him shuffle out the door, through the adjoining bedroom, and saw Noah return. He ran his fingers through his hair the way he did when he was frustrated. He saw her watching him, took a breath, lowered his hand, straightened his tie.

A quick nod at one of the uniforms was all she needed to get him to approach her. After relaying her instructions, she turned to her partner. “Remind me why we’re here?”

“Because we’re dealing with all youth crimes these days.”

“And this qualifies how?” she asked.

“Suspicious death of a kid.”

She made a face at him. “We’ve got the vandalism from a few days ago, not to mention the drug leads we're chasing up. Musquash High’s been flooded with a new supply.”

“And this is going to take priority.” Noah shook his head. “It’s a teenager. A local boy. Drugs are just like God and the Tooth Fairy; they don’t really exist until your kid’s stealing money from your wallet to feed their habit, or the junkies are dropping like flies on the sidewalk in front of your house. But this is a body.”

He was right. All that mattered was that this was a teenager who was dead and shouldn’t be.

The drug case would have to wait.

“The doctor can’t be certain about cause of death.”

“Big surprise.” Noah scowled.

“What else have we got?”

“The keystone cops bungled every part of the scene they could get their hands on. I sent Heineman outside, on perimeter duty. Too bad there wasn't an Arctic outpost to send his ass to."

"He'd still find a way to screw that up somehow.”

Noah cracked a smile.

She’d already surveyed the master bedroom, and quickly exited, followed the hall to the main bath, checked it, and proceeded to the other bedroom.

All the furniture was pushed to the walls, the black and steel desk and shelves containing nothing more than a computer and a few books and boxes. The white carpet didn’t appear to have so much as a speck of dust on it.

Still, she did a full 360°, pushed the closet door open and confirmed it was also clear.

As she stepped back out into the hallway, Noah shook his head. “No gun. No bits of brain splattered against a wall. No blood stains.” They walked towards the stairs. “And courtesy of a timed sprinkler system the front and back yards are as wet as the bathtub.”

“Sprinklers? In October?” This was a year when drought hadn't been an issue. Enough rain had fallen throughout the spring to keep the grass growing steadily, green as the leaves on the trees, and with the arrival of fall the rain had returned.

The officer Hunter had tasked with checking the hot water heater stopped short, three quarters of the way up the stairs, when he saw them at the landing. Elijah Two-Rivers was tall, fit, with a booming voice that he somehow managed to soften appropriately whenever he was on the job. Hunter rarely visited the bar with her colleagues – not with a daughter waiting for her at home – but when she had stopped in for a few moments, she’d taken note of Elijah. He was the one who kept the party in check, which was why she’d selected him for her assignment. He was a young officer who was going places, and not just because of any affirmative action policy those passed over would blame.

He looked her straight in the eye. “You’re not going to like it,” he said. “They have a tank and an on-demand system. Damnedest thing…” He shook his head. “If that was the only water running and it wasn’t full pressure it could have been on for hours and the water would still come through hot.”

Hunter cursed the homeowners silently but thanked the officer. Elijah turned and looked as though he was about to descend to the main floor, but then stopped. “I also looked at the sprinklers outside,” he said.

Noah frowned. “Why?”

Elijah glanced at Hunter, then faced Noah as he answered him. “To see where it connected and what time it came on. The timer wasn’t activated.” He glanced back at Hunter. “I just thought you’d like to know.”

Hunter nodded and thanked him again. She raised an eyebrow as she glanced at her partner. “Remind me. How did this call come in?” They walked down the stairs.

“Anonymous 911 call from a pay-and-talk cell phone.”

“And who lives here?”

Noah flipped back a few pages in his notebook. “William and Eileen Shannon. Neighbors say William’s in finance, and Eileen works at Soldiers' Memorial Hospital in Orillia.”

“A couple with a lot of money.”

“And no kids, never mind teenagers.”

At the bottom of the stairs there was a door that presumably went to the garage. It took no more than a second to confirm that, and to verify that there was no vehicle parked inside. Hunter closed the door.

Noah smiled as he tapped his fingers against his notebook. “Neighbors say they’re on vacation. Crete.”

So far they had a naked dead boy in a bathtub, in a house he seemed to have no reason to be in, no murder scene, no witnesses, no certainty about what had killed him and not a whole hell of a lot to go on.

They were off to a great start.