Author: C. Michele Dorsey

 Cussing. Swearing. Cursing. Blaspheming. Call it what you want. Many people do it, some don’t. Writers know how important word choice is. Dialogue is more authentic when it sounds like how ordinary people talk. So what is a writer to do about “The Seven Dirty Words You Can Never Say on Television” made famous by George Carlin when arguably all but one of those words are heard frequently in the conversations of ordinary people.            My father had a master’s degree in English from Boston University, uncommon in his generation. He worked in promotion and advertising throughout his career, beginning with a stint in the Navy under Admiral Halsey working on the Victor at Sea series. Believe me, this man knew his words. An excerpt from a little parent bickering: “Kay, don’t be so banal.”Would this man ever start a sentence with “Gosh”? Hell, no. Kay, on the other hand, replaced words she considered “vulgar” with ones acceptable to her. Sh*t became “burp.” “When are you going to pick up all that burp in your bedroom, Michele?” I’ll save how she renamed body parts for another day.            How we use our words is a reflection of who we are and what we have experienced in life. This should also be true of the words our characters speak in a novel. Would Sabrina Salter, my protagonist in No Virgin Island and Permanent Sunset, ever drop an F-bomb? After being abandoned as a toddler by her mother, raised by an inebriated father, betrayed by a husband she managed to shoot, and then exiled to an island, you bet she would. All the time. But does she on the pages of the books containing her story? No.            Here’s why. Editors and agents advise that readers may be offended or distracted by cussing, affecting sales. No sane author wants to contribute one more obstacle to selling books. Unless you are a New York Times best selling author with an established faithful audience, the conventional wisdom is that it is best to exercise restraint. My father might still buy your book with its salty language, but my mother probably wouldn’t.            I find it frustrating to eliminate the words that my characters seem to spill naturally onto the page. Sabrina’s pal, former lawyer, now bar keeper, Neil Perry doesn’t want to say, “What’s going on here?” He wants to say,”WTF?” and spell it out. And I want to let him speak his own words, not stymie them, so I do. On the first draft. The one just for me and my beta readers, who know I will take out the scalpel and excise them during the next edit. It’s the only way I know how to write the dialogue a character is whispering in my ear without losing who she is.            So until I hit the NY Times Best Sellers list, gosh it’s been nice talking to you. Golly, how do you handle cussing with your characters?    

  HIDINGis a way of staying alive. Hiding is a way of holding ourselves until we are ready to come into the light. Even hiding the truth from ourselves can be a way to come to what we need in our own necessary time. Hiding is one of the brilliant and virtuoso practices of almost every part of the natural world: the protective quiet of an icy northern landscape, the held bud of a future summer rose, the snow bound internal pulse of the hibernating bear. Hiding is underestimated…HIDING 
From CONSOLATIONS: 
The Solace, Nourishment and Underlying Meaning of Everyday Words.
2015 © David Whyte:  There are days when I just want to hide. I don’t want to talk, share, text, like, tweet, or blog. I don’t want to engage with anything other than what is going on inside of me. It may be in my head. A new book brewing, a character showing herself to me. Or it may be in my heart. A memory, a loss, or a brute affront. Or it may be undefined without a location. On these days, I just want to crawl inside me. I don’t necessarily retreat under the blankets, although I may if I choose.  Often, I hide in nature where the trees and the ocean seem to understand. The wind whistling through the pines, the pounding of waves on the sand as relentless as breathing. These are the only sounds tolerable when I am hiding. I am not being hostile when I am hiding. I am healing. I am fortifying. I am retreating. I am energizing. Think refueling. I am not hiding from anyone or anything.  It’s nothing personal to others. It’s personal only to me.  Is hiding a “writer’s thing”? I think it’s probably a human response or instinct, although writers may be more inclined to indulge in it. When I give myself permission for some limited isolation, I’m just being nice to me. And I’m also being kind to the people whose lives I share because I am a much better Michele after I’ve given myself permission to hide. How about you? Do you give yourself permission to periodically hide? Share in comments or on Facebook https://www.facebook.com/missdemeanorsbooks/ If you’ve never read the brilliant work of poet and writer David Whyte, you have a wonderful gift waiting for you.  

 I just realized that I have been suffering from a case of the “Terrible Twos.” I haven’t thrown a tantrum, kicked or bit anyone,  or refused to share while shouting, “Mine.” No, my version of the terrible twos has to do with being what I call a “bi-professional,” someone who has belonged or still belongs to two different professions. In my case, this means that I am a lawyer/mediator and that I am also a writer. No big deal, right? You might rightly suggest I keep my day job until the writing pays off a little more. But, the problem isn’t having two professions; it’s how the job as lawyer/mediator can affect the writer’s writing.  Here’s what I have learned about writing as a lawyer. I need to write clear, concise, and persuasive words to sway a judge to my client’s position. The reality is that judges are overworked, underpaid (yes, they make far less on the bench than in private practice), and don’t have time to read through a lot of pages. If I don’t get everything I want to say in by the end of page two, I’m in trouble. So I have learned to pack facts and arguments into sentences that still flow, but do not thrill a fiction editor. When I was first asked to examine my sentence structure, I was surprised and almost insulted. I spent eight years in parochial school and can still diagram a sentence in my sleep. I’ve often been praised by judges and clients, who have appreciated my legal writing in both trial and appellate courts. One of my favorite compliments is that I write a “killer affidavit.”  But I am also a fiction writer and I want to be the best fiction writer I can be. I put ice on my bruised ego and did what I always do when I am in a quandary. I bought a book.  “It was the best of sentences, it was the worst of sentences,*” by June Casagrandeturned out to be a very funny and liberating book. I got to feed my inner grammar nerd, which had apparently be starving for topics like Dangler Danger, The Truth About Adverbs, and Size Matters: Short versus Long Sentences. Armed with examples, Casagrande doesn’t just tell you, she shows you where a sentence can go wrong.  I discovered myself becoming a tad self-congratulatory while reading the book. I knew this stuff. I loved studying grammar like some kids like doing math equations. But then I had to ask whether I was practicing the sound principles the author was advancing. It turned out I was writing fiction like a lawyer. Not stories about lawyers, but as if I were writing for judges in courtrooms who needed succinct information in well crafted, but crammed sentences. My journalist friends tell me they fall prey to the same trap when they switch from who, what, where, when, and why to telling a story that is not true. Here’s where I became liberated. I realized I don’t have to jam information into a sentence. I can vary length and structure and take my time as long as I keep the reader engaged and entertained. When I returned to my manuscript, I had fun unraveling sentences that were too clunky for my novel. I think I’ll survive the terrible twos as long as I remember what I am writing and who is my audience. Any confessions from other bi-professionals out there?             “It was the best of sentences, it was the worst of sentences. A writer’s guide to crafting killer sentences” by June Casagrande (Ten Speed Press, Berkley) 2010 

   Five months can be a long dry spell. I’m not talking about writers’ block. I’m describing five months of unintentional isolation from my tribe, the people who share with me the same inexplicable passion for writing. After attending the fun-filled, event-jammed New England Crime Bake in November, which I also co-chaired, I was ready for a little solitude. But not five months.         Through circumstances not of my choosing, namely two monstrous hurricanes, I found myself on Outer Cape Cod, Puerto Vallarta, and St. John in the U.S. Virgin Islands. I am not complaining. Those are destinations where any writer could find inspiration and I did. But did I ever miss my tribe, the folks who still like to debate the Oxford comma and know what I am talking about when I am at a conference and excuse myself from an event because “I am peopled out.”         By the time I arrived at Malice Domestic XXX on April 26th, I was ravenous for the company of other writers. I wanted to talk about rejection, setting, character development, publishing trends, and soak in what others had to say. Because I was so hungry, I attended almost every event at the conference. I watched a new episode of Vera while munching on a real Cadbury candy bar from the U.K., wondering was there a limit to the plot turns Ann Cleeves can conjure in a single story. I went to the opening ceremony, the closing Agatha Tea with scones and real clotted cream, and just about everything in between. I listened to panel after panel, interviews with Louise Penny, Ann Cleeves, Brenda Blethyn, Nancy Pickard, and Catriona McPherson, hanging on to every word. I celebrated the victories of those who won the Agathas at the banquet as well as those who had received nominations. I was honored to moderate a panel on “Unique Settings,” thinking how lucky am I to get to ask these fine writers questions. It was one of the best conferences I’ve ever attended. My creative well was refilled. I had time with my peeps and I was all better.           I drank it all in from the moment when Malice Toastmaster Catriona McPherson said, “Welcome to the mother ship.” I knew then that I was home.   

  One of the advantages of being a writer is that you can express yourself, ad nauseam. As I sit watching wet snow fall during the fourth storm in 22 days instead of being on a plane to St. John, I plan to play the writer’s card and do just that. No one reads blogs (or newsletters) anyway.Here’s my list of laments: 1.  I miss my dog. Terribly. Cheddar was the last in a line of lovely golden retrievers to join our family. While I loved them all dearly, Cheddar has left a hole in my heart the size of Cleveland. She had the sweetest disposition, gladly joined me on any adventure, and forgave me in a way no human being could ever match. “Want to go for a walk?” got her tail wagging. “Want to go for a ride with Mummy?” made her ecstatic because she knew we were heading for uncharted territory. Maybe a visit to friends who would feed her biscuits without even pretending to consult me. Or a hike through the trail that let to the marsh where she could run wild and flop on her back and scratch against the sea grass in pure dog bliss. As my husband and I travel more, having a dog seems unfair.  We’ve opted to go dogless while we traipse around the planet. But sometimes I miss having a dog more than I love to travel.  2.   I wish I could figure out how to knit. Well, I can knit and even purl a little. But that damn casting on which is the foundation for knitting confounds me and challenges my dexterity skills. I understand that the first row you cast on is as important as the first sentence you write in a book, which is probably why I am so intimidated by it. I’ve watched countless YouTube videos, read tons of chapters, articles, and challenged a few friendships trying to learn to cast on. The crazy thing is I’m not sure I even want to knit a sweater or any other article. I just want to be able to cast on and have the choice.  3.  I long for things to be simple. I know, that makes me sound old. I don’t care. I just want to turn a knob and have whatever damn “device” it is attached to function. I don’t want to worry about blue tooth, Wi-Fi, hot spots, etc. I just want to watch the news (a lament in itself and for another day) or listen to music or a book. I want to call my hairdresser, doctor, or bank and talk to a person, instead of being told to log on to their websites. I want to do laundry without having to read the instruction manual for the washer and dryer each time. Even my freaking toothbrush requires a degree in electronic technology to operate.  4. I’d like to eat food for pure pleasure and sustenance without worrying I am risking death or disease. A small piece of birthday cake shouldn’t invoke terror. Wheat, sugar, butter, we’re all doomed. When did food become evil or virtuous? How did the avocado become a saint and brown rice the arsenic tinged devil? I’d like to stop being fed fear with my food.  Well, there. I feel better. It’s your turn.What are your laments? Is writing about them soothing? Share in the comments or join the discussion on Facebook. https://www.facebook.com/missdemeanorsbooks/  

  Distractions! Those pesky interruptions seem to pop up everywhere when we’re trying to write. It’s even worse when we have a deadline, although facing a blank page of the beginning of a story also seems to attract distractions. Distractions come in many forms. Some are more effective than others.     Take the roosters in Mexico, where I spent two months recently. I had a book to finish, one that was challenging me as a writer more than any I have written. Now I like birds and roosters are birds, right? In St. John in the Virgin Islands where I normally spend my winters until Hurricanes Irmaria got in the way, roosters crow every morning, kind of a natural alarm clock. I consider them part of the island’s natural charm. I’ve even included them in my Sabrina Salter series set on St. John.     But the roosters in Mexico weren’t quite as charming. For eight weeks, they never stopped. Mornings. Afternoons. Evenings. All. Night. Long. There had to be two dozen of them living in the wild below our window perched high on a hill above Puerto Vallarta. I began to be able to distinguish the sounds from some of the individual roosters. There are the young and feisty that engage in an incessant crowing competition. I heard at least one old dude trying to keep up in a pathetic quivering cock-a-doodle-do. Every time I stopped to find the right word or contemplate how my protagonist would react to a particular situation, the crowing would start, irritating my nervous system and shutting down my brain. The bonus was that the roosters incited the neighborhood dogs that were compelled to respond in never-ending choruses of barking. Big deep dog sounds coupled with the yips from the little dogs so prevalent in Mexico. It was the orchestra from hell.              That brings me to music. Don’t get me wrong. I love music. It moves me and can bring me to tears, which is why I don’t listen to it when I am writing. I’m fine with other people listening to music, whenever they want, wherever they like. Just don’t inflict it on me, especially when I am writing. It’s not only that I may hate the music you love. Your music can capture me. I’m no rap fan, but the sound of the SZA song in praise of “Drew Barrymore” coming through my window at a volume that made it inescapable took me far away from what I was writing and into another world. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dp45V_M4Akw     Of course, the most egregious form of distraction is the one that’s letting you read this blog. Whether a laptop, tablet, or phone, a simple ping or the sight of a banner crossing the screen is an invitation to step away from what you are writing. I tell myself it’s only for a moment. A Facebook message from my friend Karen in St. John. It would be rude not to answer it, right? But shouldn’t I first check out the website for the restaurant she was telling me about so I know what I’m talking about? Wow, that’s a really great menu. I never thought of seasoning swordfish with lime and tarragon. Maybe I should check out some menus. Pinterest must have a few. And into that dark hole I fall only to climb out later ravenous after looking at hundreds of recipes I will never make. Meanwhile, my protagonist grows cold and lonely on the page.           Distractions. You know where they drive me? The one place where I know silence is golden and where I can crawl into my own head and write for hours without distractions.     A library.       What distracts you and how to you deal with it? Share in the comments or join the discussion on Facebook. https://www.facebook.com/missdemeanorsbooks/           

 Why are writers always cautioned to never start a novel with weather? Overdoing weather, I get, especially if it idyllic. But weather is the perfect metaphor for conflict and story is conflict.            My mother, who was of Irish descent and not inclined to wear her heart on her sleeve as the family called it, would begin singing the classic song, “Spring Will Be a Little Late This Year” from the 1940’s, whenever something took a downward turn or a fight was brewing. I’m sure she was inspired by Deanna Durbin’s version made famous in the 1944 noir crime film, Christmas Holiday, based on the 1939 novel by W. Somerset Maugham. I’d hear her lovely voice, which I didn’t inherit, crooning “And winter continues cold, as if to say that spring will be, a little slow to start, a little slow reviving,” and know something was up. If it was a tiff between my parents, she might segue into, “I’m  Gonna Wash That Man Right Out Of My Hair,” while he responded with “Bloody Mary is the Girl I Love.”            Today, the first day of spring, is frigid here in New England where the fourth Nor’easter since March slammed in like a lion on March 1st is expected to soon blow through. If she were still with us, my mother would be singing “Spring Will Be a Little Late This Year.” But I am a writer, bereft of musical talent, so the weather has me thinking about stories, not songs.            I’m thinking about how I’ve already postponed my return to St. John in the US Virgin Islands once because of the blizzard last week and how I haven’t been there for the winter season because of two horrific hurricanes, dubbed Irmageddon or Irmaria. I hear my own whining story in my head and then remember there are people in Puerto Rico who have been without power for more than six months. I’m certain they have stories more worthy than mine.            I’m reminded about how other people’s stories are affected by weather. The bride and groom during Hurricane Jose waiting on Nantucket for their wedding guests and the officiant, who were stranded in Hyannis with ferry service suspended. Babies born while their parents were trying to get to the hospital. People standing on roofs in Houston, praying rescuers got to them before the rising waters did.I remember the stories of people who were stranded on Route 128 in Massachusetts during the infamous blizzard in 1978, abandoning their cars, seeking shelter with strangers, taking chances only weather could inspire. A man shared with me that he had witnessed a decapitation from a savagely sharp piece of ice. He said he was never the same.            Weather is conflict. Man vs. nature, we know that. But weather also inspires conflict. During my years as a domestic relations attorney, I knew if there were a heat wave or a snowstorm, my telephone would not stop ringing. Three days without heat or electricity is more than many healthy relationships can withstand. But toxic relationships during the isolation and intensity of extreme weather, often tinged with a little alcohol for relief, make conflict is inevitable. Yes, spring will be a little late this year and it will inspire more than a few stories.            What impact has weather had on your stories? Listen to the lovely version of “Spring Will Be a Little Late This Year,”  sung by Ella Fitzgerald while you consider weather and stories. And please share in the comments or join the discussion on Facebook. https://www.facebook.com/missdemeanorsbooks/