About Elaine Viets

Elaine Viets has written 30 mysteries in four series, including 15 Dead-End Job mysteries. BRAIN STORM, her first Angela Richman, Death Investigator mystery, is published as a trade paperback, e-book, and audio book. www.elaineviets.com

Real vs. Fictional Justice

Posted on August 11, 2016 by Elaine Viets

By Elaine Viets

Mysteries give us more than a cracking good story. They give us the justice we can’t get in real life. Consider what happened to me:
Brain Storm is my new Angela Richman death investigator mystery. Like me, Angela went to the ER after four days of blinding migraines. Angela and I didn’t go to any hick hospital. Oh, no. Our temple of healing proclaimed itself one of the “50 best hospitals” in America. The neurologist on call was a respected and honored physician. He told Angela – and me – that we were “too young and fit to have a stroke,” then ordered us to come back four days later for a PET scan.

Never happened. Angela and I had six strokes, including a hemorrhagic stroke, and were hauled back to the hospital. The ER doc told my husband I’d be dead by morning. The paramedics said, “Sorry about your wife, man.” But a brash brain surgeon said he could save us, and he did. Angela and I were in a coma for a week, and spent three months in the hospital. It took me nearly four years to fully recover.

During that recovery, Angela and I were buried under an avalanche of bills. We discovered that top-ranked hospital excelled at billing scams. The billing office charged Angela and me $3,000 for a hysterectomy we didn’t have. I can’t tell you how many blood tests or X-rays I had in the hospital, but a womb is a body part a woman keeps track of.
And that’s where our stories diverge. The truth, I’m sorry to say, is far less satisfying than fiction. If you want to write accurate mysteries, you need to know what happens in real life. Then you can decide how realistic you want to make your fictional world.

The hospital was indicted for scamming me, right?
Nope, they’re still ripping off patients. When I saw the insurance company’s Explanation of Benefits (EOB), I called the hospital billing office, figuring they’d made an honest mistake. I told the BO woman,”You’ve billed me $3,000 for a hysterectomy. I was in for brain surgery. Wrong end.”
Ms. BO said, “Oh, honey, we didn’t bill you. We billed your insurance company.”
Wrong answer, sweetheart. I wrote a letter to every member of the hospital board and then filed a complaint with the insurance company. The insurance company requested a copy of every paper, record, and file with my name on it. The paperwork filled a double-wide copy-paper box. The hospital removed the names of their board members from their Website. If you call and ask for the board’s names, they won’t tell you.
In Brain Storm, the feds come down on that hospital like a ton of bedpans, and lawsuits popped up like dandelions on a spring lawn.

The brain surgeon who saved my life was commended by the hospital and the neurologist who misdiagnosed me was suspended and lost his privileges to treat patients.
Nope. In real life, the doctor who misdiagnosed me is still a respected physician at that same hospital. In his spare time, he happily testifies on behalf of insurance companies. His colleagues refused to testify against him. I hope he’s on call if they show up at the ER with stroke symptoms.
The brain surgeon who saved my life was banished from the hospital. Granted, Dr. Tritt, as I call the brain surgeon in Brain Storm, didn’t have the best bedside manner: He confessed that when I was in a coma he’d come into my room at night and say, “Elaine! Wake up! This is God!” The nurses made him quit. But hey, the man saws open skulls for a living and he did an incredible job when he opened mine.
In Brain Storm, Dr. Tritt is rewarded and I kill the doctor who misdiagnosed me. I wish his death wasn’t so quick. He should have suffered more.

So why didn’t I sue the bastard who misdiagnosed me?
It’s not that easy. Remember this when you write your novels: It’s hard to sue doctors and win. I went to every malpractice lawyer in South Florida, from Palm Beach to Miami, and then consulted out-of-state attorneys.
The main problem? I’d made too good a recovery. I didn’t look or sound damaged. I could walk, talk, and write again. “Now if you’d died,” one lawyer told me, “we would have had one hell of a case.”
Excuse me for living.
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“Haunting and creepy, with a fast-paced twisty plot, and a protagonist you will not soon forget – this is Elaine Viets at her most deliciously dark.” – David Ellis, Edgar Award winner and author of Breach of Trust.
Brain Storm is on sale for $9.99. Buy it now: amzn.to/2awPsIe

Point of View: First versus Third

Posted on July 14, 2016 by Elaine Viets

By Elaine Viets

When I wrote Brain Storm, the first novel in my new Angela Richman, Death Investigator series, I went through ten rewrites and a year-long debate: Should this novel of psychological suspense be first person or third person?
Brain Storm is a very personal story. Angela, my death investigator, had the same medical crisis that I did – six strokes, brain surgery and a coma, plus months of rehab. I thought first person would reflect that. But third person is better for conveying information, and this new, darker series has complex forensics that would be impossible in a first-person narrative.
I worked out a compromise: the first two chapters of Brain Storm were in first person, which I thought gave the novel a personal introduction. The rest of Brain Storm was in third. And that’s how I sold it.
When I sent out the manuscript for blurbs, thriller writer Jeff Abbott said, “Do you really want to switch POVs like that?” Jeff almost never – and I mean never – gives blurbs, and I admire his writing. After many emails, phone calls, and meetings with my editors, they decided I should recast the first and second chapters into third person, so the whole novel was in third person.

Here is the original first-person Chapter 1 of Brain Storm:

The doctor who nearly killed me was buried today. The Missouri medical establishment turned out to honor him. The eulogies were heartfelt: doctors, nurses and patients praised Dr. Porter Gravois s compassion and skill as a neurologist. Their tears were genuine. His funeral cortege was nearly a mile long on the road named after his powerful St. Louis family. Everyone called him by his nickname, Chip, as if they were all part of his inner circle. Chip made them feel that way.
I didn’t attend his funeral. I was still in the hospital, recovering from the damage he did to me. I’d been in there three months. But I was glad he was dead, and so were the people who knew the real Dr. Gravois. None of us called him Chip.
As I lay on the scratchy hospital sheets, I wondered how Dr. Gravois looked in his coffin. He had a long pale face and a knife blade nose, like a stone figure on a British tomb. Did the mortician manage to duplicate the fatherly smile that fooled so many? That smile didn’t quite reach Dr. Gravois s hard blue eyes, but those were closed forever.
Which suit was he buried in? Chip wore Savile Row suits from Kilgour in London. Chip pronounced it Kilgar, and said only parvenus called the tailor Kilgore. His Kilgour suits were lovely silk and light wool. It was a shame to put one in the ground. But I had no qualms about shoveling Dr. Gravois six feet under.
What about Dr. Gravois s bitter enemy, Dr. Jeb Travis Tritt?
He and his awful off the rack suits were barred from the funeral. No matter how much he paid for his suits, he still looked more like a small town insurance agent than a neurosurgeon.
His unwed mother had named him after her favorite country music star. Dr. Jeb was a country boy, from his badly cut hair to his thick-soled brown shoes.
Was he wearing a jail jumpsuit now? We’d all heard Dr. Jeb threaten Dr. Gravois. He called him a crook and a killer and said the best thing Porter Gravois could do for his patients was die.
The next day, Dr. Gravois was murdered.
*********************************************************************************************
That’s the voice of my protagonist, Angela Marie Richman. She was misdiagnosed by Dr. Gravois as “too young and healthy to have a stroke” and sent home, where she had the medical catastrophe that nearly killed her. Dr. Gravois, the man who misdiagnosed her, is the bitter enemy of the talented, gauche Dr. Tritt, who saved Angela’s life. Bald, crippled, and hallucinating after her surgery, Angela has to use to her death investigator skills to save the man who saved her life.

Here is the rewrite of that same Brain Storm chapter in third person:

The doctor who nearly killed Angela Richman was buried today, and the Missouri medical establishment turned out to honor him. The eulogies were heartfelt: doctors, nurses, and patients praised Dr. Porter Gravois’s compassion and skill as a neurologist. Their tears were genuine. His funeral cortege was nearly a mile long on the road named after his powerful St. Louis family. Everyone called him by his nickname, Chip, as if they were all part of his inner circle. Chip made them feel that way.
Angela didn’t attend his funeral. She was still in the hospital, recovering from the damage he’d done to her. She’d been in there three months. Angela was glad Porter was dead, and so were the people who knew the real Dr. Gravois. They didn’t call him Chip.
As she lay on the scratchy hospital sheets, she wondered how Dr. Gravois looked in his coffin. He had a long, pale face and a knife-blade nose, like a stone figure on a British tomb. Had the mortician managed to duplicate the fatherly smile that fooled so many? That smile didn’t quite reach Gravois’s hard, blue eyes, but those were closed forever.
Which suit was he buried in? Chip wore Savile Row suits from Kilgour in London. Chip pronounced it Kilgar and said only parvenus called the tailor Kilgore. His bespoke suits were lovely silk and light wool. It was a shame to put one in the ground. But Angela had no qualms about shoveling Gravois six feet under.
What about Dr. Gravois’s bitter enemy, Dr. Jeb Travis Tritt?
He and his awful, off-the-rack suits were barred from the funeral. No matter how much he paid for his suits, he still looked more like a small-town insurance agent than a neurosurgeon.
His unwed mother had named him after her favorite country music star. Dr. Tritt was a country boy, from his badly cut hair to his thick-soled brown shoes.
Is he wearing a jail jumpsuit now? Angela wondered. Everyone heard Tritt threaten Gravois. He’d called him a crook and a killer and said the best thing Porter Gravois could do for his patients was die.
The next day Dr. Gravois was murdered.
********************************************************************************************

My editor felt that writing those two chapters in first person, then changing them to third, gave the book a more intimate feel. What do you think? Is reversing the points of view a way to add depth to your writing?
PS: Jeff Abbott gave Brain Storm this blurb: “Elaine Viets’s newest is both a timely medical drama and a compelling mystery. Brain Storm gives us a detailed look at the shattered life of a determined death investigator. Readers will want more of Angela Richman’s adventures.”
TKZ’s PJ Parrish said, “I’m stoked to see Elaine venture into darker territory with Brain Storm, a multilayered mystery that is rich in its sense of place and character and propelled with medical intrigue. Brain Storm has everything I love in crime fiction – complexity, intelligence, pretzel plotting, and a touch of dark humor.”

Win Brain Storm, my new Angela Richman Death Investigator mystery. Thomas & Mercer is giving away 100 free Brain Storm e-books on Goodreads. Here’s the link: https://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/show/191474-brain-storm

As You Know, Bob

Posted on June 9, 2016 by Elaine Viets

By Elaine Viets

As you know, writing dialogue is not for sissies. It has to sound believable, yet be informative and move your story’s plot forward.
This is hard to do. Recently, my editor called me on a clunky section of dialogue in Fire and Ashes, my second Angela Richman, Death Investigator novel. Angela works for the medical examiner in mythical, ultra-wealthy Chouteau Forest, Missouri. At a homicide, the death investigator is in charge of the body and the police handle the crime scene.
In my new novel’s first chapter, I tried to slip some important information into what was supposed to be casual dinner conversation between Angela and her colleague, Katie.
My editor caught me. She wrote: “Angela has lived in the Forest her whole life, right? This conversation with Katie seems a bit unnatural, like it’s only for the reader’s benefit (an ‘as you know, Bob’ conversation).”
Never mind what Angela said. It’s gone for good. But “as you know, Bob” dialogue – commonly called AYKB – is everywhere. It pops up on TV daily, and is especially popular in soap operas and medical dramas. Here’s an example:
Surgeon 1: “As you know, Bob, the patient is turning blue and choking, which could result in brain death unless the obstruction is removed from his mouth immediately.”
Surgeon 2: “Okay, I’ll take out his foot and he’ll still be able to run for election.”

In novels, AYKB results in clunky dialogue like this:
Dude 1: “Bunny is engaged to Esmeralda Gotrocks.”
Dude 2: “You mean the Massachusetts Gotrocks, who came over on the Mayflower?”
Dude 1: “The very same. Their great-grandfather owned Gotrocks Railroads, and in 1898 he married Adelaide Overbite, sole heir of the powerful oil family. Esmeralda’s father is Senator Gotrocks.”
Dude 2: “Good old Bunny. When’s the wedding?”

Huh? There’s no need for those middle sentences about Esmeralda’s family. Everyone in those circles already knows it. That dialogue is there to let the readers know Bunny’s fiancee is rich and connected. AYKB dialogue states the obvious. It tells your readers what they need to know, but has nothing to do with what the characters need to know.
Our own James Scott Bell in his book, Revision and Self-Editing (Write Great Fiction), warns about awkward information dumps. The key is to make your dialogue sound natural.
I like the technique Nelson DeMille used in his thriller, Wild Fire, to deliver a lot of information. Detective James Corey and his wife, FBI Agent Kate Mayfield, are working to unravel a terrorism plot in the Adirondacks. They are city people and know nothing about this vast, wild area in the mountains.
DeMille has Corey driving on a nearly deserted mountain road, while Agent Mayfield reads him information they need to know about the park and the private land where the Custer Hill Club may be plotting to start nuclear Armageddon.
DeMille writes: “Kate had picked up a few brochures from the airport and was perusing them. She does this wherever we go so she can enhance her experience; then, she regurgitates this stuff back to me, like a tour guide.
“She informed me that Saranac Lake, the town and the airport and this road, was actually within the boundaries of Adirondack State Park. She also informed me that this area was known as the North Country, a name she found romantic.
“I commented, ‘You could freeze to death here in April.’
“She went on, ‘Large parts of the park have been designated forever wild.’
“‘That’s pretty depressing.’
“The area designated as parkland is as big as the state of New Hampshire.”
You get the idea. DeMille is smart enough to make this a habit of FBI Agent Kate Mayfield. He delivered the brochure information without sounding like a brochure. You’ll have to read Wild Fire to find out if Mayfield and Corey save the world, but DeMille saved us from the dreaded AYKB.

Brain Storm, the first Angela Richman, Death Investigator mystery, debuts August 2. Pre-order at http://tinyurl.com/hgbott5

TKZ First Page: THE CASE OF THE MISSING PAINTING

Posted on May 26, 2016 by Elaine Viets

By Elaine Viets

THE CASE OF THE MISSING PAINTING is TKZ’s monthly First Page critique, submitted by an Anonymous Author. Congratulations, AA. You need courage to submit your work for evaluation, but it’s a major step toward publication. Here’s AA’s first page. My comments follow.

The Case of the Missing Painting

My cellphone startled me from a pleasant although dreamless sleep. The phone fell to the floor when I groped for it in the dark. Awake now, I grabbed the offending object. “Hello,” I said, sure someone had died.

“Jenna, it’s Toni,” my cousin’s voice rang out. “Someone stole Granddad’s painting,”

Granddad’s painting? Could she mean the Impressionistic landscape he’d painted long before I was born? I switched on the lamp and sat up in bed to the utmost annoyance of Stalin, who loved to sleep nestled against my back. The cat growled in protest.

“Did you hear me? Granddad’s painting’s been stolen.” More hysteria.

“I heard you,” I choked out. “But…” clearing my throat. “I’m not sure if I’m awake or dreaming. Why the devil are you calling me at…” I glanced at my phone. “At two-thirteen in the morning? Besides, I thought Aunt Lucy had that painting, safely tucked in her Florida condo.”

“Mom gave it to my brother, Joey. He says it’s disappeared, and let me tell you he’s frantic. Mom’s going to kill him.”

“Why would anyone want it? It’s a copy, an artist’s impression of a master. Priceless to us but worthless to anyone else.” My mind cleared and my voice sounded almost awake. That painting symbolized everything I loved about my dad and his Italian roots.

“That’s what I thought. But, apparently there’s more to it than that. I really don’t want to go into it on the phone and anyway…Neal, quit that.”

“What’s going on?”

“Neal keeps trying to cut off the AC. I’m calling from the car. We’re on our way to see you after we stop in Columbus to pick up Joey—”

“At this hour?”

“Joey can tell you all about it. We should roll in sometime this afternoon. Get the extra bed ready. I told Joey we could count on you. Cousins sticking together and all.” She clicked off.

Roll in to see me? This afternoon? Extra bed? What extra bed? This had to be a dream. Or a nightmare.

I switched off the light and closed my eyes. Visions of my granddad’s painting floated across my consciousness—the muted colors reflecting on the surface of the water. The building sitting on the bank as if submerged. A cherished painting I hadn’t thought about in years. But why had Toni called me in the middle of the night? What couldn’t she tell me over the phone? I tossed, repositioned my pillow, tossed again and finally drifted off to sleep.

Elaine’s Critique: Your novel has an intriguing start, AA, but too much information is crammed into your first page. You can deliver that information throughout the chapter, even later in the book. Your work is clean and free of typos, which is important. Here are a few other points to consider.

There’s an overlooked opportunity for a more dramatic opening. We all fear late-night calls. They usually mean someone’s dead, as you mentioned in an aside. Make that your beginning and ratchet up the tension. You can still have the cell phone wrestling scene, but I’d pare it down.

Where is your novel set? Cousin Toni tells Jenna, “I’m calling from the car. We’re on our way to see you after we stop in Columbus to pick up Joey . . . We should roll in sometime this afternoon.”

That’s an easy fix. Toni can say, “We left MY CITY AN HOUR AGO. We should roll into YOUR CITY sometime this afternoon.”

Hysteria? You do a good job of moving the action forward with dialogue, AA, but the first time you mention Toni you write, “my cousin’s voice rang out.” Then Jenna thinks in italics, “more hysteria.” “Rang out” does not indicate “more hysteria.” If she’s hysterical, show us. Have Toni talking extra fast, sounding frantic, tripping over her words, using a high-pitched voice, or other indicators of hysteria.

Give a clearer description of Granddad’s painting. It’s the key to the novel. AA writes, “Could she mean the Impressionistic landscape he’d painted long before I was born?” And “Visions of my granddad’s painting floated across my consciousness—the muted colors reflecting on the surface of the water. The building sitting on the bank as if submerged.”

Do you mean “Impressionist,” a school of painting? Or “impressionistic,” with a lower case I? What is the “building sitting on the bank”? A church? A mansion? Granddad’s home? Something else? And the bank of what? A river? A stream? Where is the painting set? The US, Italy, Britain? More specifics will give your novel a vivid start. Also, the painting is “an artist’s impression of a master.” Which master? Tell us.

Too many people in the first page. This is a common reviewers’ complaint. Jenna, Toni, Joey and Neal are crammed into one page. It’s over-crowded. Neal is never identified. Is he Toni’s husband? Son? Another cousin?

What’s the season? Is it in the chilly winter? A sticky summer night? A phrase can settle that question.

Tell us a little more about Toni and Jenna. How old are they? What kind of person is Toni? Right now, she sounds more impulsive than hysterical. Is she Jenna’s “crazy” cousin? Is she normally level-headed, so Jenna has more reason to pay attention to her alarm? A phrase or two can help us out. Somewhere in the first chapter, let us know what both these women do. Are they employed? Students? What are their last names? Are they married or single?

That darn cat. AA writes, “I switched on the lamp and sat up in bed to the utmost annoyance of Stalin, who loved to sleep nestled against my back. The cat growled in protest.” Don’t let your readers guess who Jenna’s sleeping with. Try this: “I switched on the lamp and sat up in bed to the utmost annoyance of my cat, Stalin, who loved to sleep nestled against my back.”

And do you really want to name your cat after a mass-murdering dictator? That’s like calling the cat Hitler. Not funny, and painful for some readers.

Do you need that last line? AA writes, “What couldn’t she tell me over the phone? I tossed, repositioned my pillow, tossed again and finally drifted off to sleep.”

Would Jenna really be able to go back to sleep if she got a worrisome phone call at two a.m.? I wouldn’t. Your first page will have stronger impact if you cut that final sentence.

Consider changing:

“a pleasant although dreamless sleep” to “a pleasant, dreamless sleep.”
“to the utmost annoyance of Stalin.” Take out “utmost.”
“I choked out.” Consider “I said.” “I choked out” doesn’t add drama. It’s a distraction.
“My mind cleared and my voice sounded almost awake.” How does Jenna know what she sounds like? This can be cut.
“This had to be a dream. Or a nightmare.” Make it, “This had to be a nightmare.” Or consider cutting it.

Don’t be put off by these comments, Anonymous Author. This is a good story. Go forth and write.

Any comments, TKZ readers?

The Art of Murder, Elaine Viets’s new Dead-End Job mystery, opens at Bonnet House, a whimsical Fort Lauderdale museum with rollicking art, exotic orchids, carousel figures, and three squirrel monkeys who escaped from a bar. Elaine worked as a museum volunteer while she researched her fifteenth Dead-End Job mystery. The Art of Murder has been on the Pub Alley Mystery Bestseller list for nearly three weeks. www.elaineviets.com

Using Your Disadvantages

Posted on April 14, 2016 by Elaine Viets

By Elaine Viets

I love movie car chases. Nothing beats “Bullitt,” with Steve McQueen’s Mustang hurtling down the San Francisco hills. Michael Caine’s crafty Mini Cooper mixup in “The Italian Job” is another classic.

But traditional mysteries can have car chases, too. I wanted a car chase in The Art of Murder, my new Dead-End Job mystery. My private eye, Helen Hawthorne, doesn’t drive a muscle car. Good detectives have to blend in. In South Florida, that often means a white car. Helen has a white four-cylinder PT Cruiser.

Steve McQueen would weep.
But I got my car chase, thanks to an equalizer – speed bumps. The extra-wide ones, a.k.a. traffic calmers or “speed humps.” (Cue the risque jokes.)These speed bumps are in a lush Fort Lauderdale neighborhood known as The Landings, where residents dock their yachts out their back doors.

I can’t reveal the killer’s name, gender, or vehicle model, but here’s The Art of Murder car chase in The Landings. Watch that yacht. It will be in the car chase, too.

The Art of Murder Car Chase
The killer roared out of the driveway toward The Landings, blasting across Commercial Boulevard as the light turned yellow. Helen followed, accompanied by a chorus of car horns and upraised middle digits.

This wasn’t a fair race. Helen knew her trusty Igloo was seriously underpowered. The killer’s car had twice as many horses as the PT Cruiser. The killer floored the car and it flew over the north bridge into The Landings. Helen’s Igloo tried its best to keep up, but its workhorse engine was no match for the powerful car. Still, Helen floored her Cruiser.
And saw the speeding car slam on its brakes.

The speed bumps! Suddenly this pursuit was almost fair. The sports car raced forward again, then slammed on its brakes for a bump. Race and brake. Race and brake.
The odd stop and sprint chase continued for four speed bumps, with Helen’s intrepid Igloo managing to keep pace.

Helen struggled to push her car on the straightaway and spot the speed bumps in time to brake. The two cars lurched through The Landings.

After the fourth speed bump, the killer powered through a four-way stop to the angry blare of honking horns. Helen made a full stop.

She waited her turn for two cars, then crossed the intersection and floored the Igloo again. Her finger pressed SEND for 911. I should have called the police sooner, she thought. I can’t let the killer escape.

The killer was turning left at the next block. There were no speed bumps on that street. It bordered a canal. Helen was going to lose the killer.

She could hear the 911 operator saying, “Nine one one, what’s your emergency. Nine one one . . . ”

“Help!” Helen shouted into her. “I’m pursuing a killer in The Landings. I’m almost at Fifty-sixth. Get the police here. I can’t talk.”

Helen slammed the brakes again, and the Igloo jounced over the speed bump. Her cell phone clattered to the floor. Helen could hear the 911 operator and hoped the woman believed her plea for help.

Up ahead, she saw the killer make a screeching turn on two wheels, heading straight for a yellow moving van with its ramp down, parked in the street. The killer swerved to avoid it, and nearly hit a pony-tailed woman walking her fluffy white shih-tzu.

The killer swerved again, narrowly missing the woman and her little dog.

And the accident seemed to happen in slow motion.

The killer lost control of the car on the small humped canal bridge. It sailed over the bridge railing and crashed into the white yacht tied up at a backyard dock. The front end of the car smashed through the yacht’s pristine white hull. The car’s back end was on the dock, sliding toward the water.

A screeching, cracking sound split the air as several million dollars collided.

The Art of Murder is my fifteenth Dead-End Job mystery. Helen Hawthorne and her landlady, Margery Flax, tour Bonnet House, the whimsical mansion-turned-museum in Fort Lauderdale and admire an up-and-coming artist at a museum painting class. When the talented artist is murdered, Helen is hired to find her killer. She discovers the artist’s sketchy past. Was the promising painter killed by her jealous husband? A rival using her artful wiles? All that and a car chase-boat crash, too.

Pre-order The Art of Murder

What Do You Do about Writer’s Block?

Posted on March 10, 2016 by Elaine Viets

By Elaine Viets

My grandfather was a security guard. He worked weekends, holidays, and nights when temperatures plummeted below zero and frozen winds blasted the empty parking lots. He never said, “I don’t feel like guarding the warehouse tonight. I’m blocked.”
My grandmother babysat. She never said, “I’m not watching those brats today. I’m blocked.”
When I spoke at Fort Lauderdale High School, a student asked, “What do you do about writer’s block?”
“Writer’s block doesn’t exist,” I said. “It’s an indulgence.”Writing is a job, and working writers cannot afford writer’s block. It’s a luxury. Pros know that inspiration won’t strike like lightning. We can’t wait for it to hit us. We have to write.
I wish I had a dollar for every day I didn’t feel like dragging my sorry carcass to the computer. I could retire.
But I write because it’s my job. Even on the worst days, I love being a writer.
Many former newspaper reporters become mystery writers, including Michael Connelly, Kris Montee (PJ Parrish), and me. We’re trained to respect deadlines. Writing is our work and we sit down and do it.Early in my newspaper career, I told my editor, “I’m blocked. I can’t write this story.”

“Write something,” he said, waving the blank layouts. “We have pages to fill. We’re a newspaper, not a high school theater program: We can’t leave blank spaces on the page with ‘COMPLIMENTS OF A FRIEND.’ ”
Some days, the words flow, gushing in fertile streams. I feel alive and electric. Other days the words trickle out like water in a rusty, clogged pipe.
But I still write.
What do I do when the words don’t come?

I remember what Daniel Keyes, who wrote Flowers for Algernon, said at a speech:
“When I feel blocked I start typing – anything,” he said. “It doesn’t have to make sense: ababababsjsjsjfjfjfhhshshshkaka.
“Then I start typing words. Any words. The first words that come to mind.
“Next I start writing sentences. Again, they don’t have to make sense. But I keep on typing and eventually they do make sense and I’ve started writing. I may throw out ninety percent of what I wrote that day.
“But I wrote.”
You can, too.

Win Killer Cuts, my 8th Dead-End Job mystery set at a high-end hair salon. Read about Helen Hawthorne’s wedding. www.elaineviets.com and click Contests.

Listening to Your Characters

Posted on February 11, 2016 by Elaine Viets

By Elaine Viets

What do your characters sound like? Can you hear their voices?
If they aren’t speaking to you, you may not be writing fully developed characters.
I thought I knew my characters for Brain Storm, my new hardboiled Angela Richman death investigator mystery. They’d been in my head for two years. I was working on the copyedited manuscript when the questionnaire for the Brain Storm audio book landed in my e-mail box. The audio version of Brain Storm will be out this August.
The producer’s questionnaire has six questions.
Naturally I whined. I’m a writer, right? But when I answered the audio questions, I realized I’d been given a gift.
The first question said, “Is there anything about the main character or other significant characters in your book that you would like us to know before we begin the casting process?”
Sure, I could describe my characters – all 19 of them. I knew what they looked like, who they married, how many children and divorces they had. I knew their successes and disappointments. I’d created them.
Then the audio producer asked, “Please describe the specific accents (regional, national, international) you expect to hear.”

Easy. Brain Storm is set in mythical Chouteau County, Missouri, ten square miles of white privilege near St. Louis. This is the eastern side of the state, where Missouri is pronounced “Missour-ee.” It’s called “Missour-uh” on the other side. I once heard a tape of a guy campaigning for governor. The slick called our great state Missour-uh when he was speaking in Kansas City, on the west side, and Missour-ee in St. Louis.

I wrote to the audio producer that Missouri was a border state in the Civil War, but my local characters would have Midwestern accents, not Southern ones.
I described the tone and the narrative point of view. Then I went back to the copyedits.

And continued reading about Dr. Jeb Travis Tritt, a brain surgeon. I‛d described this important character as having a soft Kentucky accent. Except at least once in the book, I said Dr. Tritt was “loud.” He’s not supposed to talk that way. I got rid of that misleading “loud,” and Dr. Tritt was once more himself.

Then there was the hair stylist, Mario. In the questionnaire, I described him as a “talented, compassionate man who wants to do make-overs on every woman he meets. Gay and extremely handsome. Speaks English with a slight Cuban accent.”
But as I read the manuscript, I realized that description wasn’t clear enough. How would the voice talent read Mario‛s part? The hair stylist was important to Brain Storm. In my mind, I saw Mario, dressed in fashionable black. Then I heard him speak — and hoped the voice talent wouldn‛t fall for the gay hair stylist stereotype. So I explained Mario was gay, but not stereotypically flamboyant.

As I read through the copyedited manuscript, I not only saw my characters – I heard them. And noticed sometimes they didn’t quite sound like themselves.
This was not a major rewrite, just little tweaks. Katie the assistant medical examiner cussed constantly. I had to explain that she wasn’t really foul-mouthed – her swearing “was more stylish than obscene.”
One by one, I listened to each character. And decided that audio questionnaire wasn’t extra work.
It was sound advice.

Hello Darkness, My Old Friend

Posted on January 14, 2016 by Elaine Viets

By Elaine Viets

After 15 years of writing cozy and traditional mysteries, I‛m back writing hard-boiled, forensic novels. I‛ve signed a two-book deal with Thomas & Mercer for the new, darker Angela Richman mysteries.
Angela is a death investigator in mythical Chouteau Country, Missouri, stronghold of the overprivileged and the people who serve them. Brain Storm, the first mystery in the new death investigator series, will debut at Thriller Fest this July.
The death investigator mysteries aren‛t too gory – not like Patricia Cornwell‛s “I boiled my dead boyfriend‛s head.” This series is more like the TV show Forensic Files, without the commercials.
I‛ve come home.
My first series, the Francesca Vierling newspaper mysteries, was hardboiled. When Random House bought Dell and wiped out that division, I switched to the traditional Dead-End Job mysteries, featuring Helen Hawthorne. The Art of Murder, the 15th novel in the series, will be published this May.

I also wrote ten cozy Josie Marcus, Mystery Shopper mysteries.
I love both series, but wanted to write dark mysteries again. But I didn‛t want to do another police procedural or a private eye with a dead wife or a drinking problem.

Other writers had done those and done them well.
But death investigators were a profession many readers didn‛t know about. Janet Rudolph, founder of Mystery Readers International, agreed. She believes Angela Richman is the only death investigator series.

Last January, I passed the MedicoLegal Death Investigators Training Course for forensic professionals at St. Louis University. I wanted the training – and the contacts – to make the new series accurate.
Now that I‛m writing dark again, my writing has changed. Here‛s what happens when I jumped from cozies to hard-boiled:
My characters can cuss. Angela Richman‛s best friend and colleague is Katie, Chouteau County assistant medical examiner Dr. Katherine Kelly Stern. Pathologists tend to be eccentric, and Katie is based on a real pathologist who‛d perfected the art of swearing. Her profanity was a mood indicator. I could tell how angry she was by whether she used “fricking,” “freaking,” or the ultimate F-bomb and how often she employed these and other cuss words. Oddly enough, when she swore, the words didn‛t sound offensive.
Katie cusses with style and grace in Brain Storm.

Body counts. In cozy and traditional mysteries, the murders take place offstage. In the new death investigator series, readers aren‛t forced to take a blood bath, but they will see crime scenes and forensic procedures. They‛ll get a firsthand look at the sights, sounds, even the smells of death.
Real weapons. In cozy mysteries, when Josie Marcus battles killers, she resorts to “domestic violence,” using kitchen tools, gardening equipment, and whatever she can grab for weapons.
Helen Hawthorne in the Dead-End Job mysteries is a little bolder. She‛s armed with pepper spray to take down killers, though in Checked Out she did get sprayed with her own weapon.
In Brain Storm, when Angela confronted the killer, she was in an office, surrounded by the standard supplies: waste baskets, chairs, coffee mugs, letter openers.

I was prepared to have Angela grab one, when it dawned on me: Wait! This isn‛t a cozy.
You can use firepower.
So Angela shot the killer in the head. It felt so good.

Strippers, Suicide, Kidnapping and Murder

Posted on December 10, 2015 by Elaine Viets

By Elaine Viets

Were the nearly 150 tweets from a stripper nicknamed Zola, a wild tale about strippers, suicide, kidnapping and murder, true?

Is Zola a real stripper who spent a wild weekend in Florida “trapping” – ie, hooking – with Jessica, a woman she met at Hooters?

Or was this a hoax?

These questions have set the blogosphere a-Twitter ever since Frazier Tharpe wrote a blog called “Zola’s Twitter Tale of Strippers in Florida Is Easily the Wildest Thing You’ll Read All Week.”

All week?

Zola’s story wins for the year, fact or fiction.

Warning: This story is X-rated. So be careful reading it at the office.

Tharpe writes, “It starts when Zola, a loquacious Hooters waitress, strikes up a friendship with a ‘white bitch’ customer (Zola’s words, not mine) who several tweets later is revealed to be named Jessica. The two ‘girls’ (Tharpe’s words, not mine) get to vibing over their shared ‘hoeism,’ forming such a bond that the next day said White Bitch Jessica invites Zola to travel to Florida with her. Zola, despite reservations over having just met ‘this here bitch,’ agrees to go because apparently Florida is ripe for dancing and ‘hoeism,’ and one can rake in as much as $15k.”

Tharpe’s blog was only the start. Rolling Stone wrote: “Zola Tells All: The Real Story Behind the Greatest Stripper Saga Ever Tweeted.” There were thoughtful commentaries, serious stories about sex trafficking, moralizing, grandstanding and movie deal rumors. Bloggers denounced Zola as a hoax – possibly a hoax to promote Beyonce. Although that hoax story may be a hoax, too.

Whether this “insane, epic story” Tharpe wrote about is a hoax or not, here’s what’s real:

It’s damn good story telling.

I’ll give you the first few tweets from @_zolarmoon, aka Azaih King. You can read the rest here.

Http://www.complex.com/pop-culture/2015/10/zola-twitter-insane-epic-story

(1) AZIAH KING: Okay listen up. This story is long. So I met this white bitch at hooters. I was her waitress! She came in with this old ass big ass black dude

(2) So you know as a hooters girl we have to talk to our customers. So I sit wit them & we get to talkin & she tells me she dances! So I’m like

(3) Oh yes bitch me too! Then she tells me this hulking black man is her sugar daddy. & I’m like oh yes bitch me SD at home. I feel it I feel it

(4) So we vibing over our hoeism or whatever. & we exchange numbers!! & we like “next time u dance hum ima come dance wit you1” & they leave

(5) So THE NEXT DAY I get a text like “BITCH LETS GO TO FLORIDA!” & I’m like huh??? She’s like “I’m going to dance in Florida, let’s go!!”

(6) Now I’m skeptical like DAMN bitch we just met and we already taking hoe trips together???? BUT I had went to FL 2 months prior & made 15K

(7) So lowkey I was down. So I was like “okay I’ll go. Who’s all going & when we leaving.” All this bitch says is “be ready by 8”

And they’re off to Florida for mayhem and murder.

What can we learn?

I love Zola’s direct style. She told a quick, clean story.

I’ve read too many mysteries with philosophical drug dealers and killers rationalizing their brutal crimes. “Philosopher crooks” are mystery writing staples, popular in crime fiction, TV shows and movies.

But how real are these characters?

I’ve lived in iffy neighborhoods on Capitol Hill and in St. Louis. I’ve been stopped by enterprising locals, who said, “Give me your money, bitch.”

Direct and to the point.

They did not lament their poor education, lack of economic opportunity, sick mothers (as in parents) or hungry children. They did it – and paid for it later.

Maybe.

Members of the demimonde, like Zola, have poor impulse control. They’re never sorry, unless they’re caught.

Too often, we clutter our mysteries with low-rent crooks who agonize, apologize and justify their crimes because that’s what WE would do.

But what would THEY do?

Is Zola’s Twitter saga real? I can’t say.

But it sounds real.

And that’s what’s important.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Want something sweet for Christmas? I’m giving away Murder With All the Trimmings, my fourth Josie Marcus Mystery Shopper mystery. To win, click Contests at www.elaineviets.com

Every Word Is Gold

Posted on November 12, 2015 by Elaine Viets

By Elaine Viets

1. “He felt like a panhandler who had just seen his first speck of gold.”

That lucky dog. Most panhandlers never see any gold. They’re lucky to scrounge pocket change.

But panners have a real chance of finding gold.

During National Novel Writing Month, aspiring writers, as well as hard-working pros, are pounding the keys. It’s easy to make mistakes when we’re cranking out copy at high speed. Here are few phrases that have tripped up good writers for major New York publishers. Don’t let them happen to you.

2. “I don’t believe it was money your mom squired away.”

I don’t believe it, either. Bet Mom squirreled it away, like this furry devil hid that acorn.

3. “There was something she couldn’t bare to look at.”

We couldn’t bear to look at the naked abuse of that word.

4. “His jaws were taught and clamped.”

The Terminator taught us what taut jaws look like.

5. “South Carolina was the first state to succeed.”

At what? Leaving the Union? In that cast, the state was the first to secede.

6. “This is why you should wear a helmut.”

A helmet would protect your head better.

That’s a German Donald Duck holding up the winged golden helmet. According to the Wall Street Journal, in Deutschland the beaked Donald is a philosopher. “Germany, the land of Goethe, Thomas Mann and Beethoven, has an unlikely pop culture hero: Donald Duck,” says the paper. “Just as the French are obsessed with Jerry Lewis, the Germans see a richness and complexity to the Disney comic that isn’t always immediately evident to people in the cartoon duck’s homeland.”

7. Some phrases are impossibly twisted. Consider the police officer with deep seed suspicions.

I suspect the writer meant deep-seated suspicions and mixed up deep seeded plants

with the tennis term top seeded, planted at the top of the heap.

8. “He and his wife are strange.”

Possibly. But when they separated, they were estranged.

Consider this couple. Hugh Hefner and Crystal Harris were engaged Christmas Eve, 2010. They were all set for a June wedding in 2011. But Crystal called off the wedding five days before Hugh walked down the aisle for the third time.

They were estranged. But the couple reconciled and were married New Year’s Eve, 2012. Hugh was 86 and Crystal was 26. Love is strange.

***

Suspense Magazine named Checked Out, my latest Dead-End mystery, a top cozies of 2015. I’m celebrating by giving away a large print Checked Out. To win, click Contests at www.elaineviets.com

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Author Archives: Elaine Viets

About Elaine Viets

Real vs. Fictional Justice

Point of View: First versus Third

As You Know, Bob

TKZ First Page: THE CASE OF THE MISSING PAINTING

Using Your Disadvantages

What Do You Do about Writer’s Block?

Listening to Your Characters

Hello Darkness, My Old Friend

Strippers, Suicide, Kidnapping and Murder

Every Word Is Gold