Here I am, looking properly smug for completing my #NaNoWriMo2017 project, a very rough first draft of The Spoils of War, a mythic fantasy novel.
JK’s NaNoWriMo 2017, Part 1
I’ve done National Novel Writing Month twice before, in 2014 and 2015*, and completed my 50,000 words both times. But I skipped November 2016 because I was deep into revising Mischief in March, my NaNoWriMo 2015 project, the third book in my calendar historical mystery series, so I could get it out in March 2017. (It’s a darling book, so much fun, the favorite of the dozen or so novels I’ve at least drafted over the last thirty+ years. I highly recommend it.)
*Confession of a NaNoWriter: I sort of cheated on my words in 2015. I copied and pasted quite a few of them from research sources, and the whole 50,000 words or so turned out to be more of a huge brain storm than a draft. But still that worked for me.
Once I’d finished writing, editing, publishing, re-editing, and republishing Mischief in March, I entered the ‘tween book doldrums that I despise. A sign of this was that I started Camp NaNoWriMo in July 2017, but I bailed after I’d rewritten fewer than 7,500 words of a stand-alone novel set mostly in something like a Renaissance Festival that I first wrote back in the ‘90’s in two very different versions with different protagonists. And you know what? I thought the book wasn’t strong enough to do well in today’s highly competitive market. Plus, I just wasn’t enjoying working with those characters. Still, I’ve always liked the title for the original version of the book, a fairly standard detective mystery novel—Death in Shining Armor—and the slightly less fun, but fairly catchy title for the highly revised second version, a stand-alone woman-in-jeopardy book—Die by the Sword.
After I abandoned that false re-start, I went back into my ‘tween books depression again as I dithered around with four different possible NaNoWriMo projects.
Should I try again with Death in Shining Armor/Die by the Sword?
Should I return to my 2014 NaNoWriMo project, Fall into Murder, a contemporary mystery focusing with a community college setting? (Actually, I started taking notes on this one with an eye to an autumn 2018 publication date.)
Should I press on to the April book in the Calendar Mystery series? That possibility spoke to me. I have a strong concept for that novel and the characters were still talking to me in some fun calendar mystery short stories I’ve started writing and publishing. But I rather doubted that I could finish the book in time to publish it by the end of April 2018.
Or should I go way, way back in my files to a project I first completed in the late ‘80’s—an epic historical novel set in China of the Warring States period with a Greek male and a Chinese female leads?
And then something interesting happened during one of the walks my daughter and I take most mornings. I was whining on and on about which project to pursue next when my daughter said, “Stop! Turn around! Look at me!”
“Okay?” I said once I’d followed her orders.
“Look at yourself!”
“Okay? What am I supposed to see?”
“When you were talking about those other books, your shoulders got all slumped over. But when you talked about the big China book, you straightened up and you got excited.”
And so, the epic historical novel will be NaNoWriMo 2017 project. I’ll tell you more about my process and my project in later blogs.
P. S. I have a ton of delicious fiction available as eBooks and trade paperbacks through Amazon. Check them out on my Amazon Author Central page at https://www.amazon.com/s/ref=dp_byline_sr_ebooks_1?ie=UTF8&text=Juliet+Kincaid&search-alias=digital-text&field-author=Juliet+Kincaid&sort=relevancerank
An Old Kansas City Story
Tuesday, July 5, 1898, shortly after noon
Kansas City, Missouri
As Minty Wilcox hurried home, she mentally reviewed the symbols from Mr. Gregg’s shorthand system she’d studied that morning at the Kansas City Business College. A pretty woman of nineteen years, she wore a white jumper dress with navy blue trim around the square neck—over a shirtwaist of course for modesty—that gave the dress a nautical air. A jaunty seersucker sailor hat with a blue and white band sat on top of her light brown hair and she carried the old waterproof black bag she’d used in high school over her shoulder.
She’d just crossed Tenth Street when shouts up ahead on the avenue pulled her out of her reverie. On the steps of a vast white Victorian pile near the other end of the block, a woman in black held up a broom as if it were a baseball bat. It looked like she meant to take a swing with it at two children standing on the sidewalk below.
“My gosh!” Minty said when she recognized the children as her youngest siblings and the woman as their neighbor as Agnes Shackleton. Minty promptly lifted her skirts to mid-calf and ran sprinted the rest of the way down Penn.
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In this prequel short story to her calendar mystery series that feature mystery, romance, and touches of humor here and there in old Kansas City, Juliet Kincaid introduces Minty Wilcox, her female protagonist. Intent on gaining the skills she needs for a career as a business girl, typing and taking dictation in short hand, Minty nevertheless runs into considerable interference with her goal. A mean-spirited neighbor accosts Minty’s younger brother and sister and a sweet little lost dog. Minty’s mother doesn’t approve of her daughter’s plans to have a career. And several flirtatious gents distract Minty from her tasks.
Read the story as an eBook for only $0.99 (or for free on Kindle Unlimited) at www.amazon.com/dp/B0752SWBG1
Whenever we went for a drive on Sunday afternoons and on long trips, too, back in the 50’s, Dad stamped white horses. If he spotted a white horse in a field by the side of the road, he’d lift his right hand from the steering wheel, lick the end of his index finger, punch it against the palm of his left hand still on the wheel, and slam his right fist against his palm to seal the deal.
On our rides, Dad and I competed to see who stamped the most white horses. So he liked to wait until we’d almost passed the horse and it was almost out of sight to stamp it, so I’d miss it and he’d win. He’d chuckle like crazy as I’d turn my head to look for the white horse and say, “Where is it? Where is it? I missed it. Oh darn it, Daddy.”
(Two can play that game.)
I don’t imagine we stamped too many white horses on a drive in Clarion County PA that we took close to the Fourth of July in 1955.
My dad’s mother, Grandmother Willman, wearing a faded, short-sleeved house dress, but as stiff-necked as usual, came with us. She wanted to find the house her husband grew up in. Though the area hadn’t changed as much as it would in the next decade with the building of the interstates and the subsequent development along them, it had been a very long time, sixty years or more, since she visited that house. You forget lots in sixty years, something I understand much more now than I did when I was fourteen going on fifteen, a supple young thing who didn’t understand how age stiffens necks.
Our usual seating arrangement in the car was Dad at the wheel. Mom rode shotgun. Our dog, a short-legged beagle mix with a big brown spot in the middle of her white back, sat in Mom’s lap. I rode in the back.
On that particular ride, Grandmother Willman sat in front, so she could give Dad directions. Mom, Dotty, and I rode in back.
Mom was obviously pissed off about the seating arrangements. She glared through her glasses with her snapping black eyes at the back of her mother-in-law’s head, covered with silky white hair pinned in two braided crescents that crisscrossed each other just above her seamed neck.
Mom always said Grandmother Willman was a bitch because before Dad married Mom, Dad sent most of the money he made working for the CCC home to his mother to save for him.
Or so he thought until his wedding to Mom on 7/11/37, he asked his mother for his money, and Grandmother Willman said, “Money? What money? I don’t have any of your money.” Whenever Mom told this story, she bellowed those exact same words in the exact same way. And so my dad had to take out a loan of $200, a substantial sum back then during the Depression, to start his married life with my mom.
I’m certain Grandmother Willman disapproved of my mom just as much. They were so different, the one a stern, church-going, teetotal countrywoman and the other a city girl with a New Jersey accent who didn’t attend church much, not even on Easter and Christmas, except for the social stuff like the annual picnic. Also Mom used words like “bitch” and “shit” and didn’t mind the occasional beer or cocktail.
Grandmother Willman’s disapproval of the girl Dad married the second time around passed down to me. Though my mom was a world-class housekeeper and kept a far tidier house than any of my dad’s sisters and his mom, she wasn’t teaching me crucial womanly kitchen skills. (She didn’t want me underfoot when she was in the kitchen fixing supper.) Also my mom earned her living as a nurse before she and Dad got married.
I was headed down the same wrong path of wanting to go to college and to earn my living instead of getting married, making babies, and keeping house.
But that day, given a choice between staying back at the family farm with Dad’s relatives that she barely knew and going somewhere, anywhere, in the car, Mom shut her mouth and glowered at her mother-in-law from the back seat. She was probably just waiting for Grandmother Willman to say something or do something Mom could bitch to my dad about for days, weeks, months, and years to come. (“And that’s another thing that burns my ass off about your mother, Homer,” she’d say.
The drive, maybe punctuated by Dad and me stamping a white horse or two, took a while because Grandmother Willman was unsure of the directions. It must have been a point of pride that in the end she did remember where the house was and finally the car bumped along a lane past a new farmhouse, white with bright blue shutters, till we came to an old house inside a square of dirt with a rickety barbed wire fence around it. Even I who’d never seen the house before was shocked by its condition.
“This must be it, Mother,” Dad said as he pulled the car close to the fence. He turned off the engine, opened his door and got out without closing the door on that side. He stared across the top of the car.
Mom squeezed against me as she looked out the window on my side of the car. “Is that really it?” she said. “I can’t say much for it.”
Staring at the old house, I tried to figure out what was wrong with it. Well, for one thing, it was the gray of weathered wood without any paint at all. There wasn’t anything green around it. Unlike my father’s mother’s family farmhouse, it didn’t have a pond sitting in front of it. And then I realized what I didn’t see, too. It sat alone inside that fence without a single outbuilding, spring house, outhouse or corn crib, shed or barn.
After a while, Grandmother Willman said, “I believe the people that own the place now are using the old house as a barn.”
“I think you’re right, Mother,” Dad said, his voice a little distant from outside the car. He turned and poked his head back in. “I tell you what. Why don’t we look around? The cows aren’t in the barnyard and I’m sure the new owners won’t mind.”
“Yes, let’s,” Mom said. “I hate to think we came all this way for nothing.”
Mom opened the door. The floppy-eared Dottie spilled out. My mom slammed the door and I jumped out my side. Grandmother Willman was the last out, helped by my dad though I don’t think she stopped looking at that falling-down house the whole time.
Dad went ahead and unlatched the wide gate, shut by a loop of wire, held the gate open while we trooped through, then closed it. A little closer, I saw that the windows didn’t have a bit of glass anymore though a rag of a curtain blew through a window on the second floor.
Glad to be out of the car, I ran ahead of the others, up the narrow stone steps and through the doorway (no door left) straight into the house. Momentum carried me through what must have been the kitchen and parlor, up narrow steps to a hall and into a bedroom. Finally, the sight of faded wallpaper shredded down the walls, straw littering the floor, mouse droppings, and the stink of must and decay stopped me. This is horrible, I thought. Finding the house in this condition was worse than not finding it at all. It was like walking inside a corpse.
I heard my mom and dad marching around downstairs, as they tried to figure out the layout of the house, but I couldn’t stand breathing the close, rotten air of that house anymore. By the time I got back outside, Grandmother Willman was there, too, gazing at the house through wire-rimmed glasses that reflected the sunlight so I couldn’t see her eyes.
I heard her voice shake, though, as she pointed toward a nearly leafless, thorny plant growing by the steps. “That’s a blackberry bush,” she said. “My mother-in-law made the best pies with the berries from that bush.”
Suddenly, I felt sorry for Grandmother Willman, in her faded house dress, stiffly corseted underneath, in her black granny shoes and stockings, as she remembered all the people she’d known and loved who’d lived in that now dead house, alone and solitary in a barren field.
About a quarter of the way into January Jinx, the first book in my calendar mystery series, my heroine Minty Wilcox and the mysterious Daniel Price, who boards at her house, visit a cigar factory in the West Bottoms of Kansas City. It’s a very short scene in which “the deftness of the young girls rolling aromatic tobacco into smooth cylinders impressed [Minty]. A half hour later and clutching a newly made cigar in a glass tube . . . , she emerged to find Daniel Price waiting for her.”
Though brief, it’s in the book for a very special reason. You see, when my mother, Melicent Perkins Smith Willman, was a teenager in the mid-1920’s, she worked in a cigar factory. Her mother, Juliet Perkins Smith, a widow with several young children still at home, needed my mother’s help to make ends meet. Because my mother was so good at making cigars, her mother wanted her to continue doing that work after she graduated from high school. My mom resented this, especially after her mother took the five dollars my mom had saved for new shoes to buy the younger kids in the family shoes instead.
So when my mom was seventeen, she left school and moved out of her mother’s house and into the boarding house run by her maternal grandmother, Laura Wilcox Perkins. (I regularly look to my family tree for character names, so it’s absolutely no accident that Minty’s mother’s name is Laura Girard Wilcox.) Soon after that, my mother started nurses’ training at Middlesex Hospital in New Brunswick, NJ. She graduated in June of 1932, at age 21, and became a registered nurse the next year. My mother was very proud of being an R. N., and for years, up into her 80’s, she always bragged that she let her registration lapse “just last year.”
Besides wanting to be independent, my mother chose to become a nurse for another practical reason. Back then, nurses’ training included room and board in exchange for working in the hospital. This was very welcome to a widow’s kid, especially after the stock market crash of October 1929.
But I’m certain my mom also wanted to become a nurse for a reason much closer to her heart. You see, in June 1921, when my mother was ten years old, her father Miles Smith was walking by the side of a road on his way to his club when a truck hit a car and the car spun out and hit him. He died two weeks or so later, not of his injuries, but of pneumonia. Once when Mom and I were talking about the manner of his death, I said, “You know, these days they could have saved him.” And then she said, quite grimly as she probably thought of losing her father when she was still a child, “I know it.”
My mother practiced nursing for several years until, on a summer vacation with a friend to Mingo County, WV, she met my dad. They married the next year on what my dad always called his lucky day, July 11, 1937.
Once she married my dad, my mother didn’t practice nursing very often outside of the home. But she did nurse my father, Homer Dale Willman, Sr., through eleven surgeries and illnesses, including a serious bout of flu when he was in his late forties, his first heart attack when he was about fifty-one, and the partial removal of a kidney when he was in his early sixties. In spite of his illnesses and thanks to my mom, my dad lived to be eighty-seven.
I wasn’t sick much, but I was an active kid. So Mom patched up my scrapes and tended to me the year I had blisters from poison ivy so bad that I couldn’t walk for ten days.
I also have my mother to thank for a healthy diet throughout my childhood and beyond since, back when she went through training, nurses studied all aspects of the field including dietetics, so they could properly feed their patients. Also she did without a new winter coat most years, so that I could take ballet and other dancing lessons from the age of seven. Because of the healthy diet and plentiful exercise I had during my youth and have sustained into my seventies, I credit my mother for the good health I have enjoyed throughout my life.
She also gave me excellent advice on childcare after I too became a mother.
And so, belatedly not just for the most recent Mother’s Day but many others as well, I’d like to salute my mother, Melicent Perkins Smith Willman, dubbed “Middie” for midget by her dad and “Susie” by mine, as in “if you knew Susie like I knew Susie, oh oh oh what a girl.” Thank you, Mom, for everything.
The Railway Detective by Edward Marston
A Review by Juliet Kincaid
The first in Edward Marston’s Detective Inspector Colbeck Mystery series, The Railway Detective has lots to offer the historical mystery fan.
Marston brings mid-19th century Britain to life with vivid descriptions of places like London’s Devil’s Acre, for one example, and for another, the Crystal Palace, the site of the Great Exhibition in 1851.
Marston’s gentleman detective Robert Colbeck is both capable and clever. Marston presents lower class characters like a moneylender named Isadore Vout with gritty, almost Dickensian detail. Nut he also gives us members of the growing middle class and the gentry. He provides Colbeck with a love interest, the lovely Madeleine, a damsel in some distress.
The story includes exciting action like a train robbery and train wreck near the start of the book.
The plot is solid overall, but this reviewer has one slight quibble with it, though. Time and time again, Marston lets Colbeck pursue leads right up to almost catching a bad guy, only for him to be a little too late. At points like those, Marston cuts from the action with the detective to a scene with the current bad guy. To my mind, these are slight plot spoilers that bleed away some suspense and tension here and there. I sort of changed my mind about this, though, when near the end of the book . . . Well, you’ll get no spoilers from me.
If you’re hankering after a visit to Victorian England, I strongly recommend The Railway Detective.
Inside the New England Building
(See my blog post of August 25, 2016, for Part 1.)
When I began researching and writing my calendar mystery series set in Kansas City around a hundred years ago, I decided to place the detective agency my heroine Minty Wilcox works for in the historic New England Building, a handsome brownstone seven-story structure with a distinctive oriel on its southwest corner. It was the first building in Kansas City to have elevators.
Originally, Price Investigations was on an upper floor of the New York Life Insurance Building. But during a site visit several years ago, I discovered that I couldn’t get above the first floor of the New York Life Building, so I decided to move the agency just a little west on Ninth Street to the New England Life Insurance Building on Wyandotte. When I visited that building several years ago, I climbed the stairs inside to the third floor and looked around. But I didn’t go inside any of the offices. Still, taking a leap of imagination, I decided to place the agency in the third floor office that had the oriel.
This location served me well for the end of January Jinx and all of Fatal February. However, once I started Mischief in March, I realized I would have to know the interior layout of that two-room office suite because in the course of the first part of the book, it would become a crime scene! Yikes! The Sanborn Fire Insurance Maps, an exquisite poster of the building showing four of its seven floors, and the original architectural drawings offered limited help. Particularly troublesome was that pesky oriel. Was it big enough for a chair? I wondered, or just for a Boston fern?
And so I decided I simply had to get into that building and walk around in that space. However, by that time, a new wrinkle to my search had developed. The New England Building had become a construction site as it was being converted into apartments and thus was off limits to the public.
Nevertheless, I called the company that now owns the building and they said they’d give me a tour. Another problem arose. When I actually got inside the New England Building, I discovered most of the interior walls were gone, but there still were marks on the floor showing where they’d been, so I got a feeling for the space. Here’s a shot of an original door with the mail slot and one of the fireplaces with a cast iron mantel.
And I got inside the oriel. It turns out it’s big enough to hold an easy chair where the agency manager might sit to read the Kansas City Star, and maybe also a potted Boston fern. But the big surprise to me, something I wouldn’t have known until I actually went there, is the oriel is two stories high both outside and inside as well. Here are some pictures. Isn’t that oriel the coolest thing?
January Jinx is available as a trade paperback and as a Kindle eBook for $3.99 at www.amazon.com/dp/B00HSSSBE4
Fatal February is available as a trade paperback and as a Kindle eBook for $3.99 at www.amazon.com/dp/B017081JHM
Mischief in March will soon be available as a trade paperback and now is available as a Kindle eBook at www.amazon.com/dp/B06XR1STRN for $3.99.
This excerpt from Juliet Kincaid’s third calendar mystery, Mischief in March, presents some of what Minty Wilcox and Daniel Price come to call their “improper courtship.”
Precisely four weeks before on Valentine’s Day, right after they announced their engagement to her family, Minty led Daniel into the parlor and told him about her intention of starting an “investigation into all things Daniel Price.”
That night, after saying, “And there’s no time like the present to start,” Minty removed his tie and unbuttoned his collar and his shirt down a button while he stood there like a lamb, even when, on tiptoes she kissed him on his neck where it curved down into his left shoulder.
Instantly she discovered that the manly Mr. Price was as ticklish as a little boy in that particular spot. He sounded just as silly as a kid when he giggled, too. And so there was nothing for it but for her to yank his shirttails out, reach under his shirt, and tickle his ribs, thus reducing him to helpless laughter on the floor.
Of course Minty’s discovery required that Daniel be permitted to look for the ticklish places upon her person as well. It was only by the firmest discipline and the thickness of her corset that she remained unmoved by those attempts.
In the days since Valentine’s Day, what Daniel came to call their improper courtship and their mutual investigation into each other’s physical persons had progressed from tickling to kissing to general, all-purpose canoodling, and finally to examining each other’s scars.
Minty started that phase of the investigation by showing Daniel the curved scar on her left index finger she received when she first tried to skin a potato with a paring knife.
And then Daniel rolled up his right sleeve so Minty could see the scar on his bicep he got tangling with the barbed wire on a fence in his flight away from a neighbor’s pumpkin patch one fall night long before.
In the weeks following, she pulled up her skirt, rolled up her pantaloons, though only as far as her knees, and rolled down her left stocking so he could touch the deep pit on her shin she got when she fell on a rocky hillside back home at the ranch. She also let him examine the scar on the edge of her right hand that came from tripping on a paving stone, dropping a jelly jar she was carrying, and hitting a pointed shard of glass with her hand.
He in turn over the weeks guided her discovery of his scars . . .
Now, on the evening of March Fourteenth, when they returned to the Wilcox parlor from their fruitless search for Miss Shackleton’s will, they lit only the lamp on the table in the center of the room before they retreated to the sofa in the shadows. This served as a preventative measure so they could set themselves to rights in case someone burst into the parlor without knocking on the door and caught them in disarray.
That evening, Daniel sat so close to Minty in the corner of the sofa a gnat couldn’t squeeze between them. His left arm lay across her shoulder and his mustache tickled her cheek.
Minty had thought Daniel had no more injuries to investigate until she reached into his shirt he’d unbuttoned for her that night and felt yet another scar on his collarbone on the right side. “What’s this?” she said.
“It’s nothing, Minty. Please stop.”
She unfastened the next button, opened his shirt wide, and felt the long, furrowed scar. “That must have been a severe injury,” she said. “A little higher and the blade or whatever it was might have cut your throat. What happened? How did you get that scar? Why didn’t you tell me about it before?”
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As their wedding day rapidly approaches, Minty Wilcox still has many questions about her fiance, Daniel Price. Could he really have killed a man? What else is he hiding about his past? Why has he never told her he’s rich? And for goodness’ sake, where are they going on their honeymoon?
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Mischief in March, Book 3 of the Calendar Mystery Series, is now available as a Kindle eBook for only $3.99 or free on Kindle Unlimited at www.amazon.com/dp/B06XR1STRH
Praise for January Jinx, Book 1 of the Calendar Mystery Series
The delightful, creative, and charming January Jinx introduces a terrific character in Minty Wilcox, a good old-fashioned cozy mystery persona who will surely be able to carry the planned-for series. It’s Minty who drives the readable narrative, and author Juliet Kincaid keeps the pace steady and fast at the same time for quite a readable experience. The writing is appropriate for the historical setting without ever being gimmicky or archaic . . . The unique setting of 1899 Kansas City is full of flavor that never overwhelms the story and the characters. With a terrific, original, but still comfortable series concept, there are certainly big things afoot for Juliet Kincaid and Minty Wilcox’s Calendar Mysteries.
Buy January Jinx for $3.99 (or get it for free on Kindle Unlimited) now at www.amazon.com/dp/B00HSSSBE4
Praise for Fatal February Book 2 of the Calendar Mystery Series.
In the year 1900, Minty Wilcox has been hired by a private detective agency, her on again/off again beau’s employer, as a stenographer. For this spunky gal, typing and taking shorthand aren’t enough. She wants to be an operative. So, of course, author Juliet Kincaid, accommodates her protagonist by letting her delve into a missing person/murder case, sometimes sanctioned, but often not, by her boss. The ins and outs of the investigation, Minty’s romantic ups and downs, and her inside out family situations are fun to follow. It’s also interesting to learn about the physical layout and the social customs of Kansas City at the turn of the last century. Good follow-up to January Jinx, the first mystery in the series.
Buy Fatal February for $3.99 (or get it for free on Kindle Unlimited) now at www,amazon.com/dp/B017081JHM
Making a long distance telephone call in 1900 was pretty complicated.
For instance, in Mischief in March, the third in my Calendar mystery series, when Minty Wilcox wants to make a call from Kansas City to her uncle Charles in St. Joseph, MO, she can’t just grab her cell or even pick up her home phone and do it. Instead, she has to go through a fairly long process.
1) A day or so before Minty wants to make her call, she goes to the Coates House Hotel to make an appointment. She also pays for the call up front. At 50 cents, or about $50 today, it was expensive, too.
2) In the interim between making the appointment for the call and making the call, the operator sets up the connections on the lines to the destination for the call. (When the first commercial telephone exchanges opened began providing service in 1878, the operators were young men or boys. They soon proved to be too impatient for the job, so by 1900 most telephone operators were women.)
3) The next day Minty returns to the hotel and goes inside a telephone booth, also called a “silence cabinet.” When the telephone rings, she picks up the earpiece from the wall phone. And finally, after the operator completes the connection, Minty talks to her uncle Charles.
We can count our blessings that long distance calling is so easy these days.
January Jinx, the first Calendar mystery, is available for $3.99 at www.amazon.com/dp/B00HSSSBE4 and Fatal February, the second, is available for $4.99 at www.amazon.com/dp/B017081JHM. Both eBooks are free from Kindle Unlimited. Look for Mischief in March coming in 2017.
WiP Report # 18
What I’ve named “my week from H3LL” threatened to turn me all Scroogish as I began the annual trek through the holidays this year.
You see, during the first week of every month, I usually have four meetings and a lunch in addition to my usual weekly activities of attending an art class; teaching a novel writing class; self-maintenance like going to four Jazzercise classes; running a household; and continuing my career as a self-published author.
But the first week of December 2016 became a week from H3LL for me even though I cut a meeting and a class.
Here are the extra things I did during the first week of December 2016.
1) I went to lunch not once but twice. (I spent the second lunch worrying about completing chore # 4 listed below in a timely fashion.)
2) I copyrighted and promoted the last book in my Cinderella, P. I. fairy tale mystery series.
3) I participated in an indie author event. Here I am, dressed up as Minty Wilcox, the heroine of my Calendar Mystery series, with fellow indie authors Joyce Ann Brown and Terry Showalter at Readers World in Lees Summit, MO, on December 3, 2016.
4) Recently, we bought a new car that I licensed on December 5.
5) I had to appear for jury duty at federal court. (I’m happy to report that I was dismissed so that I didn’t have to cancel any more of my novel-writing classes.)
All these tasks didn’t help me at all as I struggled to find time for the goal I’d set for myself—completing the current draft of my WiP, Mischief in March, the third novel in my Calendar Mystery series.
To add to the stress of performing these tasks, even the fun ones like a very special holiday dinner book club meeting, I developed insomnia. My novelist’s habit of creating worst-case scenarios at every turn compounded the stress. (You don’t want to hear the worst-case scenarios I’ve come up with since Donald J. Trump got elected.)
Still, I hung in there and I completed it though on the second Monday of the month, not the first. At 102,000 words, this draft is a bit longer than I like. But I’m pretty pleased with it otherwise. (An early reader said, “Mischief in March had a delightful sauciness to it.” Thank you so much, Peg.)
So now I’ve cast bah-humbugs aside and set myself free to enjoy holiday tasks like signing and addressing greeting cards and decorating a tiny Christmas tree.
Happy holidays to all of you, my friends.
P. S. You’ll find Cinderella, P. I., First Case to Last for $2.99 and free on Kindle Unlimited at www.amazon.com/dp/B01MXC0MED
P. S. S. My New Year’s resolution is to cut way back on extra commitments in 2017, especially those scheduled for the first week of the month, so I can write more. What’s yours?