You may have heard writers describe moments when their characters take over the story. This has certainly happened to me. I’ll think I know which way a scene needs to go, only to have the folks on the page inform me they have other plans.
Something that gets less attention is what happens when a book’s setting starts taking over the plot.
I certainly didn’t expect Geneva Bay, the charming Wisconsin lakeside resort where my books take place, to start murdering people. But—surprise!—it did just that.
When I first pitched the Deep Dish Mysteries, I had no intention of setting the books in small-town Wisconsin. The books feature deep-dish pizza and a detective descended from Al Capone, so obviously they belonged in Chicago. I envisioned my fictional pizzeria in Hyde Park, where I could draw on the neighborhood’s fascinating history and the city’s unseemly connection with organized crime.
My publisher had other ideas. They loved the concept, but wanted it set in a small, tightly knit community—a place where readers could take a mental vacation.
I tried to argue that Chicago is, in fact, a great place for a vacation, but finally relented, moving the whole shebang to “Geneva Bay,” a lightly-fictionalized version of Lake Geneva.
As it turned out, my publisher had done me a huge favor and the books took a direction none of us could have expected…
For about a decade, I’ve suffered from persistent, sometimes-debilitating insomnia. After many years of strategies, drugs, tinctures, doctors, therapists, etc., I have found a method that (mostly) works to help me sleep. Each night, I’ll read for a bit, then recline on my couch, cuddle up with my dog, put a boring British docuseries on extremely low volume in an otherwise dark room, and watch it until I fall asleep. Then, at some point during the night, I stumble into my bedroom and continue to sleep for whatever hours remain.
Before you start sending me your recipe for homemade sleepytime tea or evangelizing about CBD oil or telling me screens/blue light are disruptive to sleep, allow me to save you the trouble. I’ve tried ALL. THE. THINGS. For me, the bit of nonfiction reading + boring British TV + cozy dog system works as well or better than cognitive behavioral therapy, sleep medications, hypnosis, meditation, strict sleep hygiene, or any of the myriad other remedies I’ve experimented with.
I prefer to read nonfiction before bed, since even cozy fiction tends to engage my writer brain and ramp up my imagination (and my anxiety, if the main character is imperiled).
Here’s where we get to the rabies and canal boats.
One night, I picked up the book I’d been reading—Rabid: A Cultural History of the World’s Most Diabolical Virus, which I will grant you, may not be a common choice for a relaxing bedtime read. I personally enjoy knowing that the subtypes of rabies are called “paralytic” and “furious,” due to the predominant symptoms they produce, and that we all owe a debt of gratitude to Louis Pasteur. Seriously, raise a glass of bacteria-free milk to that guy. What a mensch.
But back to the blog post. The section I read that night discussed rabies subplots in Charlotte Brontë’s novels, wherein the disease serves as a metaphor for various human anxieties about the natural and social worlds. I dimly registered the footnotes, which contained a quote from a woman named Ann Dinsdale, the principal curator of the Brontë Parsonage, former residence of the famous sisters and their less-famous brother.
I closed the rabies book and flipped on one of my favorite fall-asleep docuseries: the program Great Canal Journeys, in which a pair of adorable elderly British thespians (you’ll recognize them if you’ve watched as much Britbox as I have) tootle around Europe’s canal system in a narrowboat, having extremely low-stakes adventures.
In one such episode, hosts Prunella and Tim visit Haworth, a quaint hilltop village in Yorkshire. There, they tour the Brontë Parsonage. Low and freaking behold: they are given a personal tour by none other than Ann Dinsdale.
Twice in the space of an hour, I encountered the curator of a small English house museum—while I was at home in Virginia and decidedly NOT doing any Brontë-related research whatsoever.
The next time a reader complains that a coincidence in one of my books is unrealistic, I will point them to this blog post, or to one I wrote years ago about LBJ’s dog meeting Colonel Sanders.
Full disclosure: I don’t like any of the Brontë’s books, not Jane Eyre, not Wuthering Heights, not the other one that the other sister whose name I can never remember wrote. (Even fuller disclosure: I never read that one by the other sister). However, the Ann Dinsdale Singularity struck me as so delightfully uncanny that I immediately dashed off an email to the museum telling them all about it.
Here’s their reply:
Good morning Mindy,
Thank you for your email and for sharing this anecdote. Our senior curator Ann Dinsdale is often involved with many projects at once, and it’s wonderful to hear how you encountered her work twice in one hour!
We look forward to welcoming you to the Brontë Parsonage Museum in the future.
So, dear reader, I took them at their word. My husband and I made a special detour to Haworth when we were in the area.
Sadly, Ann Dinsdale wasn’t there the day we visited, but we did get to see a handwritten manuscript of Wuthering Heights. The original manuscript’s disappearance is shrouded in mystery, but in 2017 the museum launched a project to have visitors copy out the entire book, one line at a time.
The first entry– “I have just returned from a visit to my landlord” — was written by… Ann Dinsdale.
I, like many of my fellow writers, discovered earlier this week that piracy is alive and well in the 21st century.
For most of my writing career, I’ve been on the losing end of the Whack-a-Mole battle against book piracy websites. These sites purport to offer free PDF downloads of popular titles like mine, sometimes framing their criminality as something noble. Here’s the “mission statement” of one such website: “We believe that knowledge and information should be free and accessible to everyone around the globe.“
In reality, though, websites like this aren’t Robin Hood, stealing from “rich” to give to the “poor.” They’re frequently fronts for criminal activity, redirecting the already-meager royalties most writers receive into their own coffers. They distribute malware that turns infected devices into bots for larger criminal operations. They steal and sell user data. Often, they charge users a monthly subscription fee for access to stolen books, essentially fencing copyrighted IP from authors and pocketing the profits.
You know where readers CAN get a lot of free books, including mine? The Freaking Local Library! Digital! Audio! Print! They have it all–for FREE. And if they don’t already carry a book you want, it’s usually just a matter of asking them to order it. (The recent assaults on local library content and funding is a rant for another day.)
Anyway, I’ve come to accept these bottom-feeding pirate sites as the inevitable price of having my work widely available. If readers want to subscribe to fringe websites to get access to cheap/free books, on their own heads be it.
But that uneasy truce was broken last week.
The Atlantic ran an exposé on Meta’s efforts to find well-written prose on which to train their new AI model. Meta employees, apparently, looked into sourcing the material legally, but found their options too “expensive” and inconveniently “slow.” Instead of compensating authors, they decided to hoover up the vast catalog of books available via a piracy site. That’s right. They straight-up stole my entire body of work, along with that of just about every other published author I know.
That’s not even the worst part. This multi-billion dollar company then used my own work to train an AI model whose explicit aim is to replace authors like me.
I actually like generative AI. I’ve already seen the benefits of it in my own life, and I’m excited about what it can do for fields like transportation and healthcare. I’ve recommended it to people – even other writers! – as a useful tool for brainstorming, getting unstuck, and automating tedious tasks. Increasingly though, I feel anxious about how quickly things have spiraled and how unfettered (and seemingly amoral) these companies are. I’m angry that these fat cats of Silicon Valley have stolen something so precious.
For the time being, I’m still using Meta platforms. There are few good alternatives. I hope writing to Meta, as I have done, to express my outrage “as a concerned user and content creator” will carry more weight than me leaving the platforms in a quiet huff. Other actions writers can take are outlined by the Authors Guild.
Meanwhile, though, I’ve started to build a little escape pod: an author mailing list. Starting next month, I’ll be sending out a quarterly newsletter directly to readers. A new marketing and communication channel that isn’t mediated by the mendacious tech bro-ligarchs who just ganked the contents of my heart and soul.*
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*I’m aware that even my humble MailChimp list is indirectly within the grasping claws of tech giant Intuit. But since hand-delivering written notes to each of my readers seems impractical, this feels like the best option.
With the launch of my latest Deep Dish Mystery, Sleep in Heavenly Pizza, I’ve been getting ready to trot out Ye Olde Dog and Pony Show once again. I’ve observed previously that being a professional writer is essentially running a small business. Things like creating social media content, preparing for events, doing my taxes, and tending to relationships with booksellers, editors, bloggers, and readers—are necessary parts of the job. A lot of writers especially hate the task of pimping a new release, figuring out ways to get it on readers’ radar screens without looking like a shameless huckster.
I get it. For some writers, doing publicity smacks of lacking writerly integrity. Surely, James Joyce would never do an Instagram reel where he pretended to be several different varieties of cheese??? For many others, promoting your work feels too much like promoting yourself, which can be a terrifying prospect. Writers are often sensitive, introspective, and introverted, qualities that are at odds with the demands of publicity.
Can I tell you something?
<<looks from side to side>>
<<lowers voice>>
I actually like doing publicity.
Yes, sometimes promotion feels like time stolen from the actual writing. But mostly, I regard it as a welcome break, a chance to build my creative muscles in a different way. Plus, as my sisters will surely aver, I’ve always been an attention-hogging ham (aka middle child) and almost nothing embarrasses me. Thus, I will gladly enlist every resource at my disposal in the service of getting the word out. Puppies, adorable children–it’s all fair game.
All this is to say that I was delighted to appear recently on the Midwest Writers Room podcast for an episode of Chapter Break and do funny character voices. I hope you enjoy it!
Here’s a little taste of that. You can click the link above to read more.
Most likely to be an agent of chaos?
Butterball the cat! This chonky orange mischief-maker is a staple in every book. Whether he’s knocking over crucial evidence in SIX FEET DEEP DISH or unexpectedly leading the way to a clue in ASHES TO ASHES, CRUST TO CRUST, Butterball’s accidental heroism is legendary. Just don’t be fooled—his real priorities are snacks and snuggles, solving murders is just a side gig.
Thanks for reading. Now it’s time for me to harness the dogs and ponies (and adorable children), because we’ve got more shillin’ to do!
I was interviewed a few weeks ago for writer Tara Laskowski’s blog. In addition to being quick-witted and kind-hearted, Tara is also a master of twisty suspense. Her novels include The Weekend Retreatand The Mother Next Door, which the NYT Book Review called a “polished and entertaining read.” As it happens, Tara herself is also polished and entertaining. She’s won the Agatha Award, the Macavity Award, and the Anthony Award and has been a finalist for a butt-ton of other fancy awards.
And now, on to the interview!
Tara: What is your greatest fear as a writer?
Me: Where to start? That everyone will hate my books. That I’ll become mentally or physically ill and not be able to meet my deadline. That I’ll forget how to write. That I’ll write something that pisses people off and then they’ll hate me. That I’ll be a failure and have wasted my life pursuing this dream. That I’ll be a success and not know how to handle it. That the mild arthritis in my fingers will become debilitating and I won’t be able to type my books. That my poor eyesight will become even worse and I won’t be able to see the computer screen. That I’ll make a stupid mistake in a book and no one at the press will catch it and it’ll go to print that way and everyone will think I’m dumb and careless. That my writing peers will hate my books. That readers will hate my books. That my family will hate my books. That I’ll die alone and stray cats will gnaw at my decaying corpse for weeks before someone calls the cops about a suspicious stench and they come and shovel what remains of me into a five-gallon bucket. Wait, what was the question again?
Tara: What’s your favorite horror movie or television series?
Me: When I was younger, I was obsessed with Dark Shadows. Maybe that’s more of a gothic romance than a pure horror show, though? Anyway it’s got sexy vampires and a governess-wealthy dude romance à la Jane Eyre, and a dual timeline sitch that’s akin to Outlander. BUT DID I MENTION THE SEXY VAMPIRES?
To find out my plans for world domination and learn why I’m careful what I say into a mirror, read the rest of the interview on Tara Laskowski’s “What Scares You” blog!
If you write for a traditional publisher, you get paid twice a year. That payment covers a period that’s up to twelve months prior to the date of the check. The sales are lumped together in various line items, some illuminating (e.g. Canadian e-book sales), some… less so (I’m looking at you “Additional Earnings” line item).
So yeah, you may be wondering what LSD-dosing psychopath invented such an arcane business model. And you may find yourself asking why any self-respecting literary artiste such as moi would put herself through it all. Maybe for the fame and fortune?
Overall, there’s almost no way to track whether a specific promotion/appearance/snippet of media coverage had a measurable effect on sales.*
*Unless you obsessively track your Amazon rankings and Nielsen Bookscan numbers and try to extrapolate your weekly sales numbers from there. Which I for sure don’t do on a regular basis. ‘Cuz that would be batshit crazy. <<deletes browser history>> 😬
I, like most of my writerly brethren, have zero job security and little understanding of how to make this modestly-profitable hobby/poorly-remunerated career work for me. I end up saying “yes” to almost every marketing opportunity, constantly afraid that I’m not doing enough, that my next project will implode like a billionaires’ submarine. Thus, over the past few years, I’ve found myself running on a relentless hamster wheel of social media posts, guest blogs, newsletter articles, giveaways, and appearances, trying to find success. I live in fear that the Spigot of Modest Recognition could, without warning, stop dribbling out the little droplets of validation that sustain me.
And that’s because I’m lucky enough to be afforded those opportunities. I have a series of mass market paperbacks with a Big Five publisher. They sell, if not like hotcakes, at least like very warm cakes. I’m well aware that not every writer is so fortunate. So I also get to feel guilty for being ungrateful! Yay! The shame cherry on my fear sundae!
For several years, I’ve been burning the candle at both ends, trying to justify this career choice. And, inevitably, I have a mini-existential crisis whenever a new book comes out or a major deadline looms or my royalty check comes in lower than I expected it to. I’ve been living in a constant state of low-grade existential panic.
A few things have happened over the past couple months that caused me to start to recalibrate. My beloved grandmother, the bedrock of our family, died. My entire nuclear family got sick, some of us more than once. My aunt was struck by a car and nearly killed on the front steps of the post office. (Yes, you read that right. A car went out of control and up a flight of stairs.) I’m realizing that all the career-related, mini existential crises were just a prelude to the real deal.
It got me asking myself why I do this writing thing. Here’s what I came up with:
A “pizza” the gift box my friend Desiree sent to me.
This little pizza friend was part of a cheer-up gift box my friend Desiree Di Fabio sent to me recently. Desiree and I, along with fellow mystery writer Korina Moss, bonded over cheese fondue during last year’s Mechanicsburg Mystery Book Fete. I’d never met Desiree before that event, but we had an instant connection. That happens a lot in the mystery writing world. You’ve spent your whole life searching and suddenly HERE ARE YOUR PEOPLE.
Maybe in school, you were the only weird kid reading a book during outdoor recess. Maybe, while your high school classmates were out doing whatever normal high schoolers do (drugs, probably? IDK), you were that nerdy teenager the public librarians all knew by name. Maybe you were that oddball who spent decades wondering if other people thought about death as much as you do. Welcome, my friend. The world of crime fiction is your happy place.
My life is infinitely richer because I have written and published my books and stories. The community of readers and writers I am a part of is wonderful. Telling stories is a joy and a privilege. Through this work, I learn so much about myself and what it means to be human. Also, I FREAKING LOVE WORDS. They are so powerful.
I’m still in the midst of a pretty rough season of life. But when I look at this fuzzy little pizza, I’m reminded of the joys of my life as a writer. Joys that cannot be quantified on any bestseller list or with a six-figure check. Pleasures that defy external metrics. When it comes to a full creative life and sustaining personal relationships, I am very rich indeed.
Earlier this week, I had the pleasure of being interviewed by CanvasRebel Magazine. Read below for my take on Eighties parenting, Norman Lear, and writing lessons learned (and unlearned)….
CR: Mindy, looking forward to hearing all of your stories today. Do you think your parents have had a meaningful impact on you and your journey?
MQ: My childhood spanned the 80s and 90s, when benign neglect was the dominant parenting style. My mom and dad didn’t micromanage my schoolwork or bog me down with organized extra-curriculars. For a good portion of my childhood, they probably didn’t even know where I was.*
That parenting style freed me to read and watch TV for countless hours every day, unfettered by parental expectations. The fact that they worked the kinds of jobs people without college degrees tend to work—secretary, restaurant server, auto parts store manager, etc.—was also a blessing. When it came time for me to get a job, I chose work that interested me, with no fear that my parents would judge my choices and no expectation of making giant sums of money.
*Definitely not climbing into that broken storm drain by Jenny’s house! Nor “borrowing” Christine’s brother’s chinchilla and trying to make it live in a Barbie camper van! Those things for sure didn’t happen.
My favorite kind of reader feedback is when someone tells me they laughed out loud at something I wrote and scared their dog/spit their soda/made fellow passengers on the subway doubt their sanity.
LOLs are my love language.
So I was especially heartened when Holly Adams, the awesomely talented narrator of my Mount Moriah Mysteries and my Deep Dish Mysteries, sent me this outtake of her recording a scene from Ashes to Ashes, Crust to Crust.
For reference, the dialogue in question involves sous chef Sonya talking to her uncle Avi, an attorney who has come to Geneva Bay to help a friend caught in a sticky situation with the local police. The scene is supposed to read as written below.
“Why did you let her talk?” Sonya said. “You named your dog Miranda, for God’s sake. The only dog in existence named after a constitutional procedure. You always told me not to answer questions if I ever got arrested.”
Avi threw up his hands. “So I’m supposed to tackle your lady friend and stuff a gag in her mouth? I told her to shut her yapper. She didn’t listen to me. Just like your Aunt Ruthie, or little Miranda for that matter. She ate a full tube of your aunt’s red lipstick, did your mom tell you? Now I gotta buy new carpet for the rumpus room.”
Ashes to Ashes, Crust to Crust
I admit that I, too, sometimes get a giggle out of my characters. The reaction is weirdly detached. I don’t feel like I’m chuckling at my own cleverness or patting myself on the back. I’m laughing at this hilarious group of people who happen to be fictional and live inside my head.
My husband walked by my office one day and caught me in the act–alone, laughing at my computer screen. “You won’t believe what Butterball did!” I said, pointing to the Word document. When I set out to write that scene, I had a vague idea of where it was going, but I had no inkling that Butterball the cat, out of nowhere, would decide to pull off some guffaw-worthy acrobatic antics. That scene is near the end of book three in the series, Public Anchovy Number One, which hits bookstore shelves on December 26th. Hope you’ll find it as LOL-able reading as I did writing.
A few weeks ago, I lost the ability to breathe. Usually, I think about breathing about as often as I think about making my hair grow or making my blood circulate through my body. Which is to say, never. Breathing is supposed to be part of a body’s standard operating system. Like how when you buy a car, you shouldn’t have to specify that you want one that includes wheels. However, for days on end, I found myself yawning uncontrollably and struggling to take deep breaths. The yawning may have something to do with me having a toddler who currently likes to ninja into my room in the middle of the night and wake me up with a horror movie whisper of, “I need a pee.” But the fact that the yawning was coupled with other physical manifestations of stress made me suspicious that this was about more than what was happening in the “wee” hours.
My subconscious, as usual, was alerting me to an inner issue with all the subtlety of a submarine klaxon. I called my therapist.
Me: So, I think I’m stressed about something, but I can’t figure out what it is.
Her: Tell me what’s going on in your life.
Me: Everything’s good. Kids are healthy, parents and extended family are vaccinated, work is great. I’m waiting for some feedback on writing stuff, <<briefly ceases to breathe>> but… it’s… fine….
My therapist is wonderful, but even if she had the intuition and listening skills of a pickled beet, she would probably have picked up on the fact that my issue related to writing.
As I began to talk more about that aspect of my life, it became obvious that I hadn’t acknowledged that it was causing me stress. On the surface, things are great. I’ve got a sweet three-book deal from a great publisher, and I’m working with a fabulous agent and editor. Out of nowhere, I got a cool opportunity to pitch for another writing contract. Everything’s coming up Mindy!
However, my first book has been with the editor for months, due to a combination of my delivering the manuscript months ahead of deadline (overachiever alert!) and her heavy workload. I have no idea if she likes it, hates it, or is using it to line the bottom of her parakeet cage. I have a book contract, but no physical book yet. The other cool new writing opportunity involves a head-first leap into the unknown, with absolutely no guarantee of a soft landing. I literally have no idea if I’ll hear back about it tomorrow or in six months or possibly never. For all I know, that pitch is currently being ground up and used to make Grape Nuts. (Assuming Grape Nuts aren’t just grown in a Russian lab??)
If you’ve ever sent off a query letter to an agent, you’ll know that the publishing business is glacial. I had a friend who got a manuscript rejection from a literary agent after almost two years. After she’d already self-published her novel and started working on the sequel.
Like most people, I really hate uncertainty. My therapist helped me realize that the long periods of dead air were playing into my imposter syndrome and insecurity in a big way. Because my Deep Dish Murder series came about during the pandemic–literally I got the offer on March 9, 2020–I’ve never even met my agent or my editor in person. I barely know them. I don’t know what’s normal in this business. And this has allowed me to project every fear that has ever sashayed across my brain into that absence. Take that stress salad and sprinkle on the uncertainty of a global pandemic. I totes get how Schrödinger’s cat felt. Like, has anyone read what I wrote? Do I have a literary career? How did I get inside this box? Why am I a cat? Do I even FREAKING EXIST?!
Putting a framework around my hyperventilation has helped tremendously (thanks, therapist!) and I’m happy to say that my breathing has mostly regained its default autopilot setting. This is crucial, and not only for the obvious reason of breathing being an essential function of a living mammal. If I’m going to make it as a writer, I’m going to need to learn how to hold my breath and wait.
In fact, I’m not even sure I know what “becoming a writer” is. When I published the first Lindsay Harding novel, did that make me a writer? Or was it the brief and shining moment when the first book climbed to the top of Amazon’s cozy mystery rankings for a couple of days? Or when I got my first royalty check? Maybe it was when I won my first writing contest. Does the fact of having published three novels and half a dozen short stories mean that I’ve permanently achieved writerdom? Or if I cease to publish but still write, do I remain a writer?
These questions plagued me toward the end of 2018. (Remember 2018, when existential angst could involve mundane things like career aspirations?) I’d decided that 2019 was going to be a decisive year for my writing. I vowed to “become a writer” by age 40. Despite my progress toward that goal, by October 2019 my 41st birthday loomed, and I still felt like an impostor. After a few decent earnings years, my royalty income had dwindled to pocket change. I’d finished a manuscript for my middle-grade adventure novel, MINERVA MURGATROYD AND THE VERY OLD BOY, but after several near misses, I was unable to find representation for it. I blew out the candles on my 41st birthday with a heavy heart. Forty had come and gone with no real progress toward my writing goal. My day job had ramped up and I felt pressure to follow the steady paycheck and turn my back on my writing hobby.
And then, two days after my 41st birthday, I got a message from Lyndee Walker, a bestselling mystery novelist I’d met at a few conferences over the years. Lyndee had heard from her agent that St. Martin’s press was looking to develop a new mystery series. She didn’t have time to pitch for it herself, but she remembered me and thought I might be a good fit for the project. All she knew was that it was on the very cozy end of the mystery spectrum–it needed to be set in a pizza restaurant and to prominently feature a cat. The marketing folks had already road tested the concept and found that “Pizza Cat Mystery” was a niche that needed to be filled. Now, they just needed to find a writer who could pull the project off.
When I told my sister about this unexpected opportunity, she reminded me how only weeks earlier, I’d decided to throw in the towel on my writing dreams. “You never know when your pizza cat mystery will come along,” has since become our family’s version of “Persistence pays off.”
Fast forward to March of this year. After a couple of setbacks, including the departure of a key editor at the press, I was offered a three-book deal for a new series set in a deep-dish pizza restaurant. The first book, tentatively titled SIX FEET DEEP DISH, is set to come out in Summer 2022.
The advance still doesn’t justify giving up my day job and becoming a full-time writer, but it’s a respectable supplement to our family’s income that might allow us to redo our tacky master bathroom next year.
So am I a writer now? <<shrugs>> Ask me when I’m 50.
