Finishing: this subject is much with me as I labor towards the end of
my sixth murder mystery, this one set in a tranquil village in the mountains of
Central California. A sequel to Payback,
the debut of a second series that takes place in a village somewhat like where
I live, it hasn’t come easily. In fact
it’s the most difficult of my six crime fiction novels.
My editor returned my first draft with comments. I knew the
draft had faults but I couldn’t figure out how to fix them. If I was ever going
to write The End I needed to get past
the gaping plot holes and somewhat peculiar motivations for the Killer.
She pounced on all the faults, of course, because she’s a
superb editor. We had a phone meeting and I did my best not to whimper. I know
that critique is not criticism. What
lies ahead to fix the problems is a painstaking restructuring of the characters
and plot.
What is keeping me going at this point? Certainly not the
money. I hear you all laughing.
The fame? I am famous
on my block. They love me here. Not the fame then.
The joy of writing?
Not hardly. I actually considered falling madly, foolishly in love with
an unsuitable man just so I would have the excuse not to finish this wretched
thing.
But something must keep me going. I like my characters. That
must be it. The setting, yes, that too. The novel features a murder in a
well-funded cattery, that’s a sanctuary for cats of all sorts: kittens that get
adopted the same day they come in; cats who are frisky and cute; and senior
cats who have beautiful markings. And it
provides shelter for the sickly and unadoptables.
I have in mind Cat House on the Kings near Fresno,
California, which I visited this summer when I got my American citizenship. I
could not speak more highly of the work they do. That visit was a joy.
I do care about the subject matter
of animal rescue. There are things I want to say.
Writing a book is a marathon exercise. It will drain from
you every scrap of inborn talent, memories, dreams, fantasies and life
experience. You may have come to the point where there’s nothing left but
heart. Raw guts.
I suspect I’m at the 23- mile mark
and can’t see the finish. That’s what I say to myself as I sit down every day
to work on it. I will finish this and it will be good.
