By John Gilstrap

It was supposed to be a short story for an anthology honoring the US Marshal’s Service. Our own Reavis Wortham is the editor. He knows that my great grandfather, US Deputy Marshal Isaac Lincoln Gilstrap has a star on the monument in Ft. Smith, Arkansas, to fallen federal marshals, so he did me the great honor of inviting me participating in this anthology that includes many great writers.

The guardrails on this thing were pretty easy. Short story. US marshal. I even had a preordained main character–Ike Lincoln! I can slam this thing out in no time. What, maybe 2,500 words? Three thousand, max?

Okay, JSB, perk up. I’m going to throw you a talking point here for outlining! (Because I don’t outline.)

Here’s the premise: In 1906, Marshal Ike Lincoln has to escort a witness from Salina, Oklahoma Indian Territory (the area where my kin was shot and is now interred), to the territorial courthouse in Muscogee. There, he will testify in the murder trial of Zebadiah Wycliffe (the family name of the gang of renegade Cherokees who killed the real deal.)

Now, a premise is not a plot. I discover the plot by starting the story and seeing where it goes. Here’s the first image that came to mind:

            Deputy United States Marshal Ike Lincoln smelled the blood before he saw the body. He drew his Winchester Model 92 rifle from its scabbard near his right knee and laid it across his lap. Chambered in .45-40, the lever action repeater could drop any threat. He carried it with the chamber loaded and the hammer on half-cock. Out here in Indian Territory, most gunfights were settled with the first shot.

That felt like a solid start. No idea who the body belonged to or who shot him, but I figured it had to be a bad guy shot by good guys. Why? Well, because someone wanted to kill the witness.

Ah-hah! I had it! Zeb Wycliffe had family, and they didn’t want to see him hanged because of the testimony of our witness. So, they attacked this place and the attack was repulsed.

I said to myself, “Wait! Ike is the hero of the story. He can’t show up after the climactic gunfight.” Lightbulb moment: I’d started the story in the wrong place.

“Screw the lightbulb! I really like that opening!” I deeply wanted to make it work. So, I didn’t change anything. I forged ahead. That repulsed gunfight turns out to be just the first. Not all of the attackers die. And they didn’t run away. They retreated and regrouped.

Regrouped to do what? I didn’t know yet. Some sort of trap, obviously, but other than that, I didn’t know–though I did know that the story would crash and burn unless Ike and company didn’t somehow deal with that upcoming trap on their 30+ mile trek to Muscogee.

By now, I was a solid 1,000 words into a story that didn’t yet know what it was. That’s okay. I’m a professional. I’ve done this before. I did deeply wish that it didn’t read like a cliched high school writing exercise. You know, sometimes an original idea is good for a story.

I found story salvation in my literary comfort spot, which is placing a kid in jeopardy. So, now our witness had name. Tommy Farmer. Now, what about his age? Well, he had to be vulnerable, right? But he also had to be able to ride and shoot, given the story elements that likely lay ahead for him.

Yeah, okay. Okay, we’re on the move now. The 2,000-word mark is far in the review mirror, but that’s okay. Three thousand, 3,500 . . . those aren’t horrific numbers for a short story.

Our little posse is now Bonanza-ing along and I’m thinking. No, this isn’t quite right yet. What to do?

Got it! We’ll make Tommy totally friggin’ crazy with a homicidal streak.

DING! DING! DING!

All right. We’re on a roll now. Is 5,000 words too long for a short story? But it’s really, really good. And now I’m into the final action scene. we’ll get this puppy wrapped up in no time.

At 6,200 words, I’m thinking I might have an issue. Like, a really big problem.

Ooooooh. That would be a really good twist. Yeah, let’s see where that goes.

Twists lead to turns, don’t you know. Fictional actions have fictional consequences.

Dear idea factory: Please stop, already!

Then, finally, it happened. I found the ending. Final count at the end of the first draft: 8,569 words. (Note for the record: this is the first time Reavis is hearing this.)

Clearly, I have editing to do. Perhaps some restructuring, but not a lot of the latter. Fact is, I don’t have an assigned final word count, so that could be either good or bad.

If there’s a takeaway for you, TKZ family, from this post it’s my recommendation that you always let a story drive itself. Especially during that first draft stage, just let it rip. Don’t squander any drama and chase the plot down every rabbit hole. Some will work out, others won’t, but that’s okay.

You can always fix it in post.

What say you? Have you lost control of any stories lately?

Dear crime dogs. Due to an unexpected family emergency, I am en route today to New Jersey. Not sure when I will be back or when I will have extra time. Didn’t have time to finish my planned post on anti-heroes. Will save my notes for my next round. So forgive me today for re-posting an old topic dear to my heart. Will try to weigh in during layover in Chicago. Thanks for your patience!

By PJ Parrish

“Talent is insignificant. I know a lot of talented ruins. Beyond talent lie all the usual words: discipline, love, luck, but most of all, endurance.”–James Baldwin

I wanted to be a ballet dancer. This was way back in grade school, when I was as round as a beachball and rather lost. So I bugged my dad until he let me enroll in Miss Trudy’s School of Dance and Baton Twirling.

Did I mention I was chubby? Did I mention I had no talent? Neither stopped me. I had a ball trying and to this day, I can remember every step of my first recital dance. I eventually lost the weight but never the desire to dance. So around age 30, I took up lessons again. I did pretty good. Until I got to pointe. You know, the part where you shoe-horn your feet into those pretty pink satin shoes with a hard box at end and then you’re supposed to just rise up on your toes?

It hurts like hell.

So I gave up. Did I mention I had no talent?

Flash forward. I became a dance critic. Those who can, do. Those who can’t, well…

I got to meet and interview almost every famous dancer of my era, including Barshnikov, Margot Fonteyn, Bob Fosse, you name it, I also got to cover the birth of the Miami City Ballet, and became friends with the artistic director the late Edward Villella. One day, he asked me if I wanted to be in The Nutcracker. In the first act party scene where the parents do a little minuet-type of dance. I accepted. So I danced, in front of 5,400 people. I didn’t screw up. It was one of the most memorable nights of my life. To quote one of my favorite writers, Emily Dickinson:

I cannot dance upon my Toes—
No Man instructed me—
But oftentimes, among my mind,
A Glee possesseth me,

This is my round-about way of getting to my topic — talent vs technique. See, I had the desire, but I didn’t have the body type, the turn-out of the hip joints. I knew the steps, sure, but I didn’t have that vital muscle memory that comes to all dancers after years and years of learning their craft. I didn’t have the music inside me that separates the mere dancer from the artist.

So it is, I believe, with writers.

Years ago, my friend Reed Farrel Coleman wrote an article in Crime Spree Magazine titled “The Unspoken Word.” It was about his experience as an author-panelist at a writers conference. Reed was upset because he thought the conference emphasized technique to the exclusion of talent.

Reed wrote: “To listen how successful writing was presented [at the SleuthFest conference], one might be led to believe that it was like building a model of a car or a jet plane. It was as if hopeful writers were being told that if everyone had the parts, the decals, the glue, the proper lighting, etc. to build this beautiful model and then all they needed was the instruction manual. Nonsense! Craft can get you pretty damned far, but you have to have talent, too. Writing is no more like building a model than throwing a slider or composing a song.”

At the time, I was the president of the Florida chapter of Mystery Writers of America, and our board decided, after much debate, to purposely steer SleuthFest toward the writers “workshop” conference. We did it because attendees told us they didn’t want any more authors getting up there just flapping their gums telling tired war stories. They wanted authors to pull back the green curtain and show how it is done. They wanted to hear authors talk about how they created memorable characters, how they maintained suspense, how they built a structure, why they chose a particular sub-genre. That’s what we gave them.

You know, sort of what we try to do where at The Kill Zone.

But Reed did raise an interesting question in his article — can novel writing really be taught? I think it can and should be. I think unpublished folks can go to workshops, read books, and learn the basics about plotting, character development, the arc of suspense, the constructs of good dialog.

Does that mean they have the stuff they need to be a successful writer? No, it only means they might — if they work hard — have a chance of mastering their craft. And I don’t care how talented you are, you aren’t going anywhere without craft.

Let’s go to the easy metaphor here — sports. A person may be born with a natural ability for basketball. They may be tall, able to shoot hoops with accuracy and be a fast runner. But that’s not enough. There was this guy who played for the Chicago Bulls…I forget his name. He didn’t make his high school’s varsity basketball team until his junior year, and when he got to University of North Carolina, he told the coach he wanted to be the best ever. Yeah, he had talent. But he worked like a dog. He became the best.

When I teach writing workshops, I preface everything with this one statement: I can teach you the elements of craft but I can’t teach you talent. Anyone can learn to hit a baseball. But only a few are going to have Ted Williams’ eye. The rest are going to be the John Oleruds of the world — competent major league role players. And what’s wrong with that if you can at least get to The Bigs, have a healthy backlist and maybe take the kids to Disney World on your royalties?

Which brings me back to James Baldwin’s quote. There are, indeed, many “talented ruins” out there. And there are many not-so-talented writers making a good living from their books. Some even become bestsellers.

So where to I come down on the talent question? I agree with Reed. All good writers have some talent. But I also believe you can’t have talent without craft and desire. Peter Benchley once said: “It took me fifteen years to discover I had no talent for writing, but I couldn’t give it up because by that time I was too famous.” True, Jaws is a little cheesy, but it was one of the greatest serial killer thrillers ever imagined.

I just returned from Boucheron in New Orleans. The first time I was there in 1975, Mardis Gras was in full swing and most folks were juiced to the gills. I say most, because I only remember bits and pieces of that six-day trip. Today, people still drink there, heavily, and not just at night. As the sun lowers in the thick, humid air, neon still shines bright, reflected in puddles of fluids I don’t care to ponder.

But back to Bouchercon. This mystery thriller gathering of writers and fans is likely the largest in North America. There were panels, presentations, and lots of authors. Many of them drinking. Other than going out for meals (and they were all splendid) I spent most of the time in the bar, talking with other attendees, who may or may not have been partaking of spirits and club soda.

If you’ve never been to any writers conference, the bar is where business takes place. No matter if you drink or not, it’s like a Serengeti  watering hole and almost everyone gathers there at one time or another in the evenings.

For some of us, it’s early afternoon.

Besides networking as we call it, I was on a panel along with four other excellent authors who shared their thoughts on “setting.” as a character. We’re all nice people, and everyone agreed that settings can  become a character that can, and will, drive a story.

If you don’t think so, read Fear in a Handful of Dust by John Ives, the pseudonym of a prolific author, Brian Garfield.

I picked that title up back when it was released in 1978 and was blown away by Ives/Garfield’s gritty dialogue and the reality of people struggling to survive in the desert. The cast is limited to essentially five characters, an insane mental patient, and four doctors.

The sixth character is the Mojave Desert.

But that’s not what this blog is about…sorry.

It’s also not about making sure your microphone is turned off. One of the panelists almost said something that would have followed her for years. Remember. All mikes are hot, whether they’re turned on or not. And now, finally, back to my original subject.

During the course of our panel discussion that wandered nearly as much as this blog, fellow participants mentioned that in one of his own novels, a troll emerged at an earlier conference to bring up what that individual thought was an important mistake in let’s say, Mr. Smith’s novel.

“At one point in your latest work, you write that it rained on May 25, 1964. Well, that’s incorrect. I looked it up through Goggle, ChatGap, and an old man who siad he was there, but I’m not sure, because he’d been at a conference and couldn’t remember much about what happened, but the point is, through rabbit holes and research, I discovered that it in fact didn’t rain that day like you said. Did you realize that?”

Personally, I would have suggested that the troll kiss my…

However, Mr. Smith was shaken by that point. He shouldn’t have been.

He should have said in a loud, firm voice, “It’s fiction, you moron!!! Take it as entertainment and not nonfiction.”

So maybe Mr. Smith wanted it to rain that day in his book in order to accomplish some plot point, mood, or setting. Who’s to say a tiny little cloud didn’t pop up in Nebraska and drop an inch of rain in about an hour.

Case in point. Here in the Dallas/Ft. Worth metroplex, the National Weather Service office is at the DFW airport. That’s where records and airplanes are kept, but Texas is such a strange animal that it has rained at my house only thirty miles away while not a drop fell at the airport.

Therefore it was recorded as a rain-free day.

When I was a kid playing softball at my uncle’s house in the country, a cousin knocked a fly ball over the roof and into the front yard…where it was raining, though not a drop fell in the back yard. So we all ran around to the other side to get soaked, much to our mother’s pleasure.

And while I’m rambling around here on several subjects, let me point out to everyone that the thermometer at DFW is surrounded by concrete! It’s hotter there than at my house where we have trees and grass, so in my humble opinion (and that’s the only one that counts right this moment, in my opinion), the days when we reach that magic (gasp) number of 100 only counts in the middle of all that concrete!

Envision me shouting this fact like Sam Kinison.

So with that, please return to your writing. Be accurate with real places (one way vs. two-way streets for example), tell your fictional story (maybe change the name of your town so your streets can run the way you want them to), and don’t worry about the minutiae!!!

Pronounced muh-NOO-shee-ee, it refers to the small, precise, and often useless details or trifling matters of something, often in a literal sense.

Sam Kinison again, worrying about these things will only give you an ulcer!!!!

By Elaine Viets

You knock on your neighbor’s door, and it swings open. Funny, Melanie always locks her door. You step into the hall, and see Melanie on the living room rug, dead as a mackerel. The police say Melanie’s death was an accident. She tripped.

But you know Melanie was no klutz. You’re sure she was murdered. The suspects could be her soon-to-be-ex-husband, her new boyfriend, or her boyfriend’s wife.

How do you investigate Melanie’s death if you’re a cozy detective?

You don’t have access to local, national or law enforcement databases, AFIS fingerprint databases, and other official sources.

Many writers cozy up (sorry) to someone in law enforcement. Even that shrewd spinster, Miss Jane Marple, had Sir Henry Clithering, a retired Scotland Yard commissioner, to make sure the local cops didn’t kick her off a case. Dame Agatha’s other creation, Hercule Poirot, had Inspector James Japp.

There are other ways to get information besides befriending a cop.

Check the suspect’s official biography.

Look at verifiable facts such as the suspect’s parents’ names, marriages and divorces. Check for brothers and sisters. Crooks can make up entire fake families.

Better yet, maybe your suspect doesn’t get along with their real family, and those relatives will happily spill the tea to your cozy detective.

Check the suspect’s birthplace and birthday, education, marriages and divorces.

College and high school yearbooks may have information about the suspect’s early years, as well as some mortifying photos.

You’d be surprised how many serial killers are well educated. The Unabomber went to Harvard. At age 16, no less. The Roadside Strangler graduated from Cornell.

Amy Bishop graduated from Northeastern and was hired at the University of Alabama. When she was denied tenure and her appeals were turned down, Amy was furious. At a faculty meeting Amy shot six people and killed three. Anyone who’s sat through faculty meetings might have some sympathy for Amy.

Check the suspect’s military service.

What does it mean if your suspect served in the military?

Not a whole lot. At least 20 serial killers served in the military, from Oklahoma bomber Timothy McVeigh to David Berkowitz, the Son of Sam. Uncle Sam gave serial killer Jeffrey Dahmer an honorable discharge after two years because Dahmer’s performance was impaired due to alcoholism.

Check the suspect’s social media, including LinkedIn, Twitter and Facebook.

Dozens of killers have confessed on Facebook or Twitter. Some even livestream the murder.

Check the local police records, if they’re available.

 Not just for arrests, but for incident reports, including neighbor complaints, reports of thefts, noise, and more. Your suspect could be the complainant, witness or suspect. Never underestimate fights between neighbors. In New York, Houston and other cities, people have been shot dead over parking spots.

Check with the Better Business Bureau. If the suspect has a business, you may find out he’s a cheat and a liar.

Check with delivery people.

 Do you have a friend or a relative who’s a delivery person? FedEx, UPS,  Amazon, as well as Lyft and Uber drivers, have all kinds of useful information. They  know who gets a fifth of Scotch delivered every Thursday, and who had to go to the hospital because her boyfriend broke her arm.

In one of my novels, a pizza delivery person gave my amateur detective the information to solve a murder, thanks to the delivery person’s dashboard cam.

Last but not least

don’t forget to Google the suspect’s name.

“Sex and Death” on the Beach, the first book in my new Florida Beach series, is on sale at Thriftbooks.com. Save $7! https://tinyurl.com/57wkt7e5