By John Gilstrap

For the 29th time in 29 books in a row, I find myself in the same predicament: roughly a month to go before deadline and woefully behind where I want to be. And not to sound cocky and not to jinx things, I’m confident that somehow, for the 29th time in 29 books in a row, I’m going to pull it all together and cross the line before the buzzer.

The book on the X at the moment is Burned Bridges (Spring/Summer, 2025), the first installment of my new series featuring Irene Rivers, the FBI Director from the Jonathan Grave series. The very existence of the series is a bit of a spoiler for the next Grave book, Zero Sum (August, 2024), but that’s pretty much unavoidable. Because this is the first book in a series, I’m taking my time in building the world in which she lives in West Virginia. It’s bucolic yet corrupt–I write thrillers, after all–but my corrupt players are smart and educated, just like the vast majority of real West Virginians I’ve come to know since we moved here.

Also, the Irene Rivers series will not be Jonathan Grave with a female protagonist. This series will be more subtle. Less explosive. Driven out of Washington by the political implosion she caused, she’s living out in the country now on inherited family land, trying to reconnect with her kids and be as invisible as possible. To give herself a little something to do, she hangs out her shingle as a private investigator.

Last week, as I crossed the 75,000-word mark, I realized that I’d created a problem for myself. I had characters I really liked doing interesting things with snappy dialogue to solve perplexing problems. What I didn’t have was a pervasive sense of menace. No one felt the presence of danger–including the reader, I’m afraid. I had big reveals planned for the third act in the midst of big violence, but I hadn’t given the reader a reason yet to recognize who my bad guys were, let alone dread their presence in a scene. Third act reveals don’t matter if readers aren’t still there to experience them.

Remember, I write thrillers, and one of the chief differences between my genre and mysteries is that it’s fine for the reader to have more perfect knowledge than the protagonist. I realized that instead of saving all the good stuff for the third act, I needed to open up a parallel storyline for my bad guys and transfer some of the violence up front. Right away, the pacing improved, and my bad guys started to feel more real to me. We come to see that much of the bad they do is necessary in their minds to prevent larger problems from being uncovered. Readers might not agree with their methods, but at least they’ll understand their motivations. The additional storyline also grants the impression of time passing between Irene’s scenes as she moves from place to place.

When I teach master classes–as I will be in September at the Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers Conference in Denver–I emphasize that a story is an engineered product. The purpose of the product is to take readers on an emotional journey with characters that feel real to them. The writer is the engineer who makes every decision from yes or no on the Oxford comma to paragraph length to the perfect balance of action, description and dialogue. If I do my job right with these latest changes, the casual readers of Burned Bridges will have no idea that certain plot points exist where they do as the result of late-in-the-cycle structural repairs. Instead, they will feel perfectly organic to the story.

When things don’t feel right on a project, never hesitate to pump the brakes and take a hard look at what might be pulling your narrative astray. If you find yourself working too hard to keep revealing secrets to your reader while still having a story that makes sense, consider a structural change that will allow the reader to know the secret and then concentrate instead on keeping the protagonist in the dark. That could be as simple as a POV change.

If you find yourself drowning in the choreography of a love scene or a fight scene, consider having your characters merely close the door or run away.

The engineering of a story depends on the niche you’re hoping to fill. I drive a very nice Jeep Wrangler while my wife drives a very nice BMW X3. We’re both very happy with our vehicles. Mine is louder and bouncier than hers on purpose, not as a mistake in engineering. A young wealthy neighbor drives a Porsche that is essentially a massive engine with wheels attached. Neither of our cars would scratch his itch. (I’ve never sat in his Porsche because I’m afraid someone would post a video of me trying to get out of it.)

Your turn, Zoners. Does this engineering approach resonate with your own approach to writing? If you’re a plotter, do you always avoid late term panic attacks like mine? Pantsers, can you relate?

By PJ Parrish

Whenever I travel, I read. I mean, like a starving fool. I’ve given up trying to figure out why I don’t have a solid, disciplined reading habit here at home. Maybe I’m too distracted, and as you all know, reading — even for pleasure — requires you to purposefully set aside time. Sort of like being romantic within marriage. Or exercise.

So while in Italy for two weeks recently, I read like crazy. First up, in Rome, was a riveting history of how Michelangelo came to paint the Sistine Chapel ceiling. I’ve been fascinated by this ego-tug between artist and pope ever since I saw The Agony and the Ecstacy in 1965. Charleton Heston and Rex Harrison chewing up the scenery during the Italian Renaissance — che bello!

I never read Irving Stone’s bio-novel on which the film is based. Should have, but glad I didn’t because the book I did read, Michelangelo and the Pope’s Ceiling by Ross King was unputdownable. I found the book at one of our neighborhood library boxes two days before I left for Rome. Serendipity, indeed. One passage:

The pope grew so incensed at Michelangelo’s slow progress and impudent replies that he thrashed him with a stick. Michelangelo had wished to return to Florence for a feast day, but Julius stubbornly refused him permission on the grounds the artist had made so little headway on the project.

“Well, but when will you have this chapel finished?”

“As soon as I can, Holy Father,” replied Michelangelo.

This exchange turns up in the movie thusly:

Pope Julius: When will you make an end?

Michelangelo: When I am finished.

I think the screenwriter improved the dialogue here some, no? Which brings me to my point today. It never ceases to amaze me how much a movie and its book can differ. Sometimes the movie is a sad shadow of a book. But very often, the movie surpasses its source. Not in this case because for me, as much as I love the movie, King’s non-fiction account, as one review put it, wipes away the smudges from the story.

Once out of Rome and into the countryside, I delved into my second Italian literary adventure — Patricia Highsmith’s The Talented Mr. Ripley. We were in Tuscany, not Venice, yet being in tiny Italian aeries, I felt at times like I was hearing Ripley’s footsteps echoing on the wet cobblestones.

Now I really like the movie with Matt Damon and Judd Law. But I was riveted by the new Netflix series Ripley. The latter’s black and white cinematography (above) is just stunning. Chiaroscuro — a lovely Italian word that translates as “light-dark” — is a film technique wherein contrasts are sharpened to a haunting effect, often to stress a character’s moral ambiguity. Ripley reminded me of one of my favorite characters, Harry Lime in The Third Man. It’s another noir masterpiece that uses the chiaroscuro technique.

But it also brought to mind The Godfather. Though shot in color, the movie’s contrasts of light and dark symbolize the battle of good and evil waging not just in the Corleone clan but in all men. Cinematographer Gordon Willis was renowned for this style. Director Coppola said of Willis: “Like a Renaissance painter, his images are bold, striking.”

Chiaroscura is a Renaissance concept, of course. Da Vinci used it to turn Lisa del Giocondo into a cheshire cat. Caravaggio, who Ripley is obsessed with, used it to bathe his religious figures in holy light in contrast to lowly humans. But I digress…

I am still finishing Patricia Highsmith’s novel. This is from her book, just after Tom has bashed in Dickie’s head and scuttled the boat in an isolated cove:

At sundown, just the hour when the Italians and everybody else in the village had gathered at the sidewalk tables or the cafe, freshly showered and dressed, staring at everybody and everything that passed by, eager for whatever entertainment the town could offer, Tom walked into the village wearing only his swimming shorts and sandals and Dickie’s corduroy jacket, and carrying his blood-stained trousers and jacket under his arm.

Has there ever been a more captivating sociopath? I am loving this book, just as I have loved all three Ripley movies. Yes, there is a third — Alain Delon as Tom Ripley in the 1960 French thriller Plein soleil (Full Sun). No one knows what it’s like to be the bad man, behind blue eyes.

Highsmith’s book is one example, I can attest, where the movies equal the book. And the book does not disappoint.

Whew. Just re-read this post. A little winded and wandering again. Hope you don’t mind. But I had a great time in Italy with Michelangelo and Tom. I leave you all with an open-eneded but related question:

What books have made for really bad movies? Or more intriguing, what movies turned out better than their books? I’ll start: The Bridges of Madison County. Which is a long long ways from Rome.

_________________

Postscript: Archie the condo-bound chihuahua, having a field day in the hills of Tuscany.

Back in my larval stages, which occurred in the mid-1960s, my buddy Gary Selby and I were partners in a field day event called the Three-Legged Race. Field Day was how they ended the school year back then, and the late May air was perfumed with fresh-mown grass, gardenias from some lady’s yard across the street, and dill pickles.

Beneath the scraggly elm trees outside our old school, the teachers sold those delicious green mouth puckers as a fund raiser for the next year. After I was grown and became a middle school teacher, I figured out they used the money for a much-needed end-of-the-year happy hour. They also sold cheap homemade Cokes and Dr Peppers (syrup from clear gallon jugs hand-mixed with tap water), weakly flavored snow cones, and popcorn that didn’t sell the year before.

There were other drinks of course. Water in a five-gallon metal water cooler they filled from the hose, and if an elementary student was brave, a Suicide (Coke, Dr Pepper and pickle juice).

All for a dime each. Even the hose water, because it had ice in it.

At the starting line that warm sunny day, Coach tied my right leg to Gary’s left, and we waited for the starting pistol with our arms over the others’ shoulders. At the crack, we were off in fine rhythm, and had a great lead by the time we were five yards from the finish line. That’s when the knot came untied. We crossed as victors, but were disqualified by a sour old math teacher, and I lost the only opportunity to win a ribbon or trophy in my entire twelve years of public school.

I didn’t win a darn thing for the next fifteen years until I took a college course in photography to supplement my assignment as a middle school photo teacher and placed first in the Silhouette category. I had that trophy in my office until it disappeared in a move several years ago.

All this leads back to one day in the 6^th grade when I came across a Newberry Medal winning book in the school library titled, Across Five Aprils. I picked up that little novel because of the gold emblem on the cover and absorbed it in one sitting, sparking a lifelong interest in the War of Northern Aggression.

Finishing that, I looked for other books Newberry winners such as Island of the Blue Dolphins. Those titles took me to Robinson Crusoe, Swiss Family Robinson, and ultimately, and this is a weird connection, The Old Man and the Sea and my introduction to Hemingway, which intersected with Steinbeck and eventually Robert Ruark, the writing mentor I never met.

Newberry made me aware of Caldecott Awards, and when I got older, Spur Awards on westerns caught my attention. Hugos, Edgars, the ITW, and Pulitzers to name only a few told me these authors, and ultimately their works, were worth reading.

Awards and the resulting recognition are important personal achievements that can stimulate a flagging author. Writer awards are also a great way to fast track a literary career. They provide professional recognition among your peers, and in my case, are a significant source of personal satisfaction.

Awards are endorsements of your book, and therefore, showcase your talent. They tell the world that the novel you bled for is worthy of the price and can be an incentive for online shoppers to add more titles to their list, or cart. They boost self-confidence and self-esteem, and impress the heck out of potential agents and publishers.

Most of those awards I’m familiar with don’t bring in much in the way of instant cash, and I’m not talking about grant awards which is an entirely different discussion, but recognition among literary peers serves as a springboard to help authors rise above the relative obscurity of thousands of books published each year.

My first novel, The Rock Hole, won the Benjamin Franklin Award, and at the time I had no idea what it meant to a budding career. The folks at Poisoned Pen Press had to explain that one to me (as well as the importance of Starred Reviews from Kirkus, Publishers Weekly, Booklist, and a host of others). I had my sights set on others, too. They served as personal goals and milestones, that kept me plugging along.

At one point confidence sagged, and I seriously wondered what I was doing at the keyboard, but a Spur Award from the Western Writers of America came my way, and then another, along with Will Rogers Medallions, and I was back on the mental track to keep plugging along. Because of renewed enthusiasm, I kept at it and that led to several honors and accolades now hang on the walls of my office. When I have any doubts about my work, and all authors do at some point, I only have to look up and am once again energized.

The addition to mentioning awards on your website, Facebook, Instagram, or any other platform that showcases your work, this recognition can lead to an increase in sales. When marketing, they lift your brand, and help others celebrate your success in this race to be recognized as professional authors.

Mentioning that you’re a finalist on social media can put you on a stage in which others share your anticipation and excitement, maintaining interest and conversation for months at a time as everyone waits for that announcement. Those who might know only your name can be prompted to look up your backlist and elevate sales.

Don’t hesitate to enter these contests, even though winning might a longshot in your own mind. Sure you might lose, but you’ve already taken a whale of a step by getting that novel published, so don’t let self-doubt dissuade you. Some of these have entry fees, so research those you’re interested in. Don’t hesitate to reach out to other established writers to make sure they’re legit. There are a lot of scams out there. Other competitions are financed by grants or outside entities, and only require copies for submission and no fees.

Writing contests are also a source of great satisfaction when you place. Some of you might have heard of the late Pat McManus, the legendary and hysterically funny columnist for Outdoor Life and Field and Stream. He and I became friends decades ago, and he urged me to enter a Humor Category in a contest sponsored by the Outdoor Writers of America. I did, and my column came in first with Pat taking second. He called to congratulate me, and the excitement in his voice was worth as much as the paper certificate I framed.

The honor of winning that contest sparked me to work harder on a writing career.

Even seasoned writers are excited to hear their latest novel has been honored with such recognition. I was humbled to stand in front of a banquet hall full of writers I’d read for years and accept my first Spur. It was a goal and dream come true.

But don’t be disappointed if you don’t make the cut right off the bat, or even after several attempts until you finally succeed. Participation ribbons aren’t part of this business, so just square your shoulders, congratulate those who won, and keep trying.

As I always say in all things. Never give up.