Time, Fate and Choices

by Janis Patterson

How did it get to be the end of February already? 2024 is almost 1/6th over, and I haven’t even started some of the things I hoped to have finished already. The Husband says I set my goals to high, that I believe I can accomplish much more than I reasonably can. He’s probably a little bit right. I’m getting older, and though I am not a morbid person it’s quite obvious that there is less time in front of me than behind. Sigh. 

So I am determined to make that time count. The problem is, if I lived another fifty years and never had a single idea from this very minute, I would not be able to write all the books that are currently living in my brain.

But with such a short (relatively - I’m not THAT old yet!) time left, how do I decide which project deserves my attention? There are 2-3 books lined up about my rich older lady sleuth Flora Melkiot, who would doubtless harm me if I called her elderly. There are another 2-3 books already pretty much plotted (as much as I ever plot) about Contract Archaeologist Rachel Petrie. Lurking deep in the shadows is a tentative idea for another story about researcher Mindy McMann. And those are just ideas about my various (some of them embryonic) series. There is the epic family saga loosely based on my own family which has teased me for years, beginning with my great-grandmother who came from Scotland back in the 1850s. There is a decidedly controversial alternative-history murder mystery. There is a non-fiction history I am burning to write. And there are more, many more...

The d*mnable thing is that they are all important! At least, important to me.

There are other things, too. Time with my husband, doing whatever appeals to us at the moment. There are trips we want to take, long, leisurely trips that we have dreamed of for years. Time with extended family, some of whom are older than we and the time we have with them is to be cherished. Obligations to beloved organizations. My political activism. Time to spend with friends. New adventures, too, some we probably haven’t even thought of yet.

My father was a consummate wordsmith who played with the classic Latin phrase “Tempus Fugit” (Time Passes), making it into “Tempus is a fugitin’” Well, tempus is indeed a fugitin’ and I’m not sure I like it.

When I was a child I couldn’t wait to grow up - childhood was so stultifying! The years seemed to drag as slowly as an arthritic snail until the time I could be regarded as a human being with wants and desires and opinions instead of as a mere child to be directed and taught and kept from participating because I was young. The only good thing was that the future, shining and endless, stretched before me in a tantalizing road. 

Now, though, time is on fast-forward, speeding past at a rate that seems to surpass the speed of light. That is not heartening.

I have read of several authors who are officially retiring, a choice I really cannot understand. The thought of a life without writing is beyond my comprehension. I must admit I would like a respite from a continuing onslaught of deadlines, and a softer schedule, but to retire? To quit writing completely? That would be like cutting off a piece of myself. Writing has been a part of my life for an astonishing number of years. I wrote my first ‘novel’ at four; the complete total now hangs somewhere in the region of a hundred. In the intervening years I have written films, advertising, articles, edited a couple of multi-magazine publishing groups... just about anything that uses words. I cannot picture a life without words any more than I can picture a life without breathing.

So why am I sitting here musing instead of creating? Dunno. Guess I gotta get busy. I have a deadline. 

A Decadent Rest Well Earned

by Janis Patterson

I am so happy. And so tired. My republishing blitz is over. Twenty-two books, each re-edited, re-formatted and most with new covers, one released every other Wednesday without fail from 15 January to 25 October. 

Of course, it was a totally mad idea, and about three-quarters of the way through it I was starting to doubt if I could follow through...  as well as about my sanity. That’s kind of silly, since my middle name might as well be ‘stubborn’ and my pride wouldn’t allow me to quit. So I didn’t. But I am so happy it is all over! This project took up so much of my time I only did two new books this year instead of my regular four or five.

So is my husband. Bless him, he has had to put up with sketchy meals, late laundry and seeing nothing for hours but the top of my head as I bent over the computer. 

This year we did manage a few excursions, though - a conference for him in Hot Springs, a speaking engagement for me in Arkansas, a long-delayed couple of days visit with my dearest friend in the world, the NINC conference in Florida for both of us, a day of diamond-digging... and no, I didn’t find anything except a few muscles I didn’t know I had. Ouch!

As an early Christmas present, my wonderful husband is taking us to Germany for a week-long tour of Bavarian Christmas Markets. We’ve done this tour before, so I’m really looking forward to it. I also know it will be exhausting. And The Husband has laid down the law - I cannot take a computer. 

Know something? I don’t really mind. The idea of a rest from words is irresistible.

So - I have decided to take the rest of the year off. (Doesn’t that sound decadent?) I won’t even be doing a blog in December... but I will be back in January, rested and full of tales... and probably ideas for new books!

Hope you all have a bountiful Thanksgiving, a very Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year! 

Good Grief! Today is What???

by Janis Susan May/Janis Patterson

This year the Christmas elves have morphed into malign gremlins, entangling me in strings of tinsel and lights and sending me crashing flat on my face. I try not to post just one essay to both my first Wednesday blogs, preferring to do two different posts on two different subjects, but this time I really have no choice. You see, I forgot. It is now almost half an hour after they should have gone up online, and I am sitting desperately writing in a dark cold office while every other creature in the house is contentedly sleeping, including The Husband.

I do have good excuses/reasons – many of them. Christmas shopping. Out of town family come to visit. Self-indulgently, parties. A couple of meetings that could not be missed. Two hard deadlines breathing fire down my neck – one to finish a book, the other to finish edits. A chronic physical health problem flaring up, as usual at the most inconvenient time. And, perhaps the most annoying of all, this is our seventh week of having no internet at home, meaning that I will be breakfasting at my favorite internet café as soon as it opens in order to get this posted. I really don’t know whether to go ‘sigh’ or ‘grrrr.’ Or both.

As I have said before, do not marry an overly-analytical man. It does get ugly.

So now what shall I say to redeem myself? Nothing, because the forgetting of such a long-standing and treasured responsibility is unacceptable. Hand to heart, I promise to be better.

With any luck at all, all our Christmas shopping will be done this week. Except for my own present, I do all the shopping for the family, but I have been known to have to buy my own occasionally. In both The Husband’s and my families we only give token gifts as we are all blessed with what we really need, but the list is long and it is hard to find even tokens that are not outrageously expensive. As I lurch from store to store, happily shrinking list and traumatized credit card in hand, it is a painful mental gymnastic to think of something appropriate to give each individual. I predict that the gift-card people will be getting most if not all of our business this year.

So, dear reader, the hour is wee, the office is cold, and I am tired. Again, I beg your pardon for such culpable behavior, do promise to be better, and wish each and every one of you a very Merry Christmas!

(And if you see a couple of elves with sinister expressions carrying ropes of tinsel and lights, please don’t tell them that you’ve seen me!)

First or Third? On the Choice of Narration

My romance writer self, Janis Susan May, just released a new book, a traditional Gothic romance entitled FAMILY OF STRANGERS. While I was doing the publicity for it, a fellow writer – who had bought the book and gushed over how good it was – then asked me a serious question. Since the book was written in first person (which is pretty standard for traditional Gothic romances) did I think there was a return to first person as an acceptable narration? She was hoping there was, as were a number of her friends. According to the universal ‘they’ who know everything, first person narration has been ‘out’ for a number of years. News to me.

Disclaimer : I personally love the first person narrator and find it the easiest to write, so perhaps I might be just a little bit prejudiced.

There’s a couple of sure ways to start a good round of verbal fisticuffs among writers, and one of them is the question of first/third narration. Proponents of first will wax lyrical about how it brings the reader closer to the protagonist and makes the reader a part of the story, that it gives a feeling of intimacy and immediacy to the story. Proponents of third say third gives a well-rounded picture of the story and the varying points of view allow the reader to see all sides while first is stultifyingly narrow.

And they’re both right.

Without meaning to wiffle-waffle, I say that the story itself should dictate the choice of first or third, or in these modern times, sometimes a combination of both. Some stories just cry out to be written in first, others in third and the choice isn’t always the writer’s. My own historical mystery THE HOLLOW HOUSE was never even thought of as being in anything but first person, but my contemporary cozy  BEADED TO DEATH was from the beginning written in third. As to how I knew this when starting out, I can’t tell you – I just know that when I sat to write, that’s how it was and I couldn’t change it.

I don’t know if other writers experience this ‘semi-automatic’ declaration of first or third, but then all writers are different. Certainly every writer – if they can legitimately call themselves a writer – should be equally as facile with either point of narration. Having a favorite is one thing; having an inability is another!

I’d be curious to know how other writers settle the first/third question. Do they choose it, or does it choose them?

But – as long as it’s done well – does it really matter?