All Fall Down

As promised almost a year ago, I have finished the first version of All Fall Down....

All Fall Down is the story of Dr. Seeley Jones, an ED doc whose husband Michael** is shot and killed. Seeley finds him, bleeding out on the floor of their den. Shot by an intruder is what he tells her, then begs her to protect their daughters while Seeley fights to save him.

While Michael is undergoing surgery to try to save his life, Seeley discovers that Michael wasn't shot by an intruder, that his last words were a lie. The shooting was, in fact, a terrible accident, the shooter their four-year-old daughter, Alison. Having already inadvertently lied to the police, Seeley keeps the truth to herself...


All Fall Down is the story of that secret, the truth behind the tragic and fatal accident that kills Michael, a father, son and husband. The story tracks the impact of one lie, covered up then never corrected. It tracks that lie over 25 years and unveils the aftershocks the truth have on the survivors....

**Yes, his name was John before...

...Phew. Now, it's off to revisions......

A new friend...

I met a new friend recently...

Whoa, you say? Is that the way to begin a blog that’s about ten or eleven MONTHS late? I suppose not. It doesn’t really get to some of the more pressing questions, such as why I’ve been absent another WHOLE year from my own blog? (Even as a newsletter, it’s marginally--okay, totally--pathetic. The only thing I could possibly be doing that is more important than updating you on my life is writing a book, right? And if that’s what I’ve been doing, then where the heck is it? Ahh...Right.

So, I met a new friend recently. A couple of them actually. And this friend was checking out my website. He commented (quite jovially) about my much-outdated blog and it got me reflecting on what I’ve been up to this past year. Out comes the natural onslaught of ‘Oh, the kids are doing this and that. We went to see my husband’s parents at the beach. We remodeled a house. We’re planting our own garden...’ But me? What have *I* been doing? Well, that’s quite a different thing--related, of course, but separate also.

What have I been doing? And where is that darn next book? Many of you have emailed (thank you!) to tell me you’ve enjoyed the Rookie Club and have asked about the sequel. What did happen to the Dennigs? It’s a question I’ve been meaning to answer, really....but I’ve gotten a bit off course.

Some call the time writers take off “filling the well.” For others, it’s truly “writer’s block.” For still others it’s truly terrifying, the “day job.” I guess I can claim a little of all of those, but this last year has been less about writing than any year since I wrote Savage Art....which was more than a decade ago.

Maybe it was necessary after coming off the intense experience of my masters. Or perhaps it’s because I’m writing something different. But there’s something else there, too. At the moment, writing this different thing has required me to live a bit more, write less. Makes for a great excuse, eh? But to a great extent, it’s true.

All Fall Down is the story of Dr. Seeley Jones. The child of a single mother, a stripper in Reno, Seeley hasn’t known a lot of stability. She hasn’t been protected. But it hasn’t made her into someone hard either. Instead, she’s extremely self-reliant. She put herself through college. On her free nights, she worked the front desk at a gym to pay for taekwondo lessons. At 22, she was a black belt. She put herself through medical school, married an attorney and had two children. Her husband is an only child of a wealthy family, working for the D.A.s office. As with most couples, they are opposites in some respects. John worries while Seeley’s already seen the worst there is; she sees it most days at work.

Getting threats has always been part of John’s job. The D.A.s office is hardly the hub of popularity among many inhabitants of the city’s underbelly. This latest one is no different. Except that John’s father brings him a gun, just in case. If it makes him feel better, Seeley doesn’t have a problem with the gun. Get a trigger lock, so it’s kid-safe. There’s nothing to worry about.

Nothing to worry about until their four-year-old accidentally shoots the gun...and kills her father.

So, what does a writer do to prepare for such a role? I have been doing some work around Seeley’s story. No shooting of fathers or husbands, I promise. I’ve spent a lot of time talking to a couple of ED docs about how they view their jobs, how it fits into their lives, and I spent quite a bit of time at San Francisco General where the book is based.

I’ve also started taekwondo, which is an interesting and often sharply uncomfortable endeavor for someone who relishes control and who has a keen talent for worry. The master (that sounds extremely odd, even to my own ears) is working hard to help me kick the habits (a bad pun for those of you who know anything about taekwondo). The truth is, there’s something to it. Some empowerment to feeling less afraid, if that’s what this feeling is. I’ll keep you posted (perhaps even before next year--we should remain optimistic).

But back to that friend I started with. You couldn’t have thought I’d leave you hanging. Six years ago, my husband and I decided to split our time between San Francisco and a small town in the Northern Rockies. There are so many things to love about a small town. But one of the hard ones for me was what felt like the absence of an artistic community. I’d always had writer friends calling for lunch or coffee; “brainstorming sessions”, we call these and sit down for a morning, across a table, and work out a character foible or a plot point.

Since the move, though, I haven’t known any local writers. Naturally, then, writing became more insular, more solitary. While more time was spent writing, there seemed to be less real progress.

There’s something to be said for feeding the extrovert, for spending time away from the work but around those engaged in like-minded pursuits. Between a few friends I communicate with online and a few I’ve met locally, I’m starting to feel some community to my writing life again. Perhaps it's been distracting for the work, but it's feeding it, too. And that's a good thing...

And there is a new book coming...slowly. Too slowly? Most likely...

In the meantime, I have a short story coming out in Press 53’s “Versus” anthology in July. The anthology is a collection of fights.

“And not just any fights, fights between our most iconic characters and forces, or even between extraordinary, original characters, or with people from our very real pasts.

In this book anything goes. Some of today’s most innovative writers and artists did just that in this book: each picked a conflict, made it come to life, and now present the aftermath to you here in the first anthology to take up this challenge, Versus.”
For more information, go to: http://www.press53.com/

Until next time....whenever that is.

Getting down to business....

I think I've set some sort of new record for time lapses between blogs. Clearly, I'm not winning any blogger-of-the-year awards. There are those writers who write everyday (writing other than their books, I mean) and I'm not one of them. I don't keep a journal, I write as little correspondence as possible. I write a lot of checks but I don't suppose that really counts, does it?

And here I am, ready to report. Much has happened since my last entry, which I'm embarrassed to admit was almost a year ago. YIKES! This is even less like a newsletter now...I've got to pick up the pace.

Okay, on to what I've been up to. Two years ago, I entered a masters program for a MFA (Masters in Fine Arts) for Creative Writing. I graduated in January. I chose a low-residency program. Because of the pesky business of life and children (not pesky children, to be clear), I needed something that didn't require my attendance daily, or even weekly. I looked into all of the ones offered and applied to a few, but I chose Queens University in Charlotte, NC. Check it out: http://www.queens.edu/graduate/programs/creative_writing.asp

I'd actually selected a different one when the acceptances came in, but the director at Queens called and he changed my mind. Over two years, I worked with 4 different, brilliant, instructors. Each has written more than one incredible book. Check them out: Elizabeth Strout, Jane Alison, Naeem Murr and Fred Leebron.

Most "genre writers" (that's what they call us suspense authors, lumping us in with romance writers, mystery writers, sci-fi writers) don't pursue an MFA and I had my share of nerves when I headed out to Charlotte the first time. There is a fairly prevalent disdain for genre fiction among some literary writers and I was a little concerned about that. Also, I don't aspire to write high-brow literature (a good thing since I couldn't do it to save my life). But my worries were unfounded. If there were people with disdain for my style of writing, I didn't run into them. It was an incredible two years, something I'd encourage serious writers to pursue. It's changed how I write.

To graduate, one most complete a thesis. For many, this is a collection of short stories. For others, a novel or part of on. I wrote a novel. It's not a suspense novel. It's a story of a woman with three children, an attorney by trade, torn between her desire for a career and her desire to be present for her children. In it's own way, it's still very much my sort of book. There is suspense, the prominent woman character I usually find at the center of my books.

At the same time, I worked on One Clean Shot. But the process of writing two books is considerably slower than the process of writing two. But I have a finished draft of each. Now, because my agent of nearly ten years and I have parted ways, it's time to dig into the business of writing. The business begins with an agent....

If it's quiet in here, the good news is that I'm working on a new novel. And because I'm not patient either, I'm giving you the very first snippet of One Clean Shot, Hailey Wyatt's story. Back soon, I hope....

Hailey

My back pressed to the cold, gray exterior of the Hall of Justice, waiting for Hal to pick me up, the lessons of this past year still feel like wounds freshly-stitched, bones that ought to be encased in plaster. Of course, there is no suture or cast for these injuries, only the steady flow of time dulls the pain's sharp edge until it becomes a memory that, like old breaks, only aches occasionally. We talk a lot about that in therapy, what I have learned, where I went wrong, and how that awareness can bring me back, if back is where I want to be.

Around me, officers stream in and out of the department doors and though I know none of their names, we are as close as siblings, closer. In each set of eyes is the truth of our world, that set against the grim reality of this building and the jobs we do inside it, understanding what went wrong doesn't bring us back. Hindsight has no value for the lives that have ended, and it is worthless to those who feel nothing but hollow grief or oppressive rage.

This may be as good a place as any to begin, the point where one extreme melted with the other and became what we considered normal, whatever invention that is. Back then, the murders were not lit with the glamour that radiates from the story now, a spurious glow only Hollywood can shine on something otherwise simple and tragic.

What have I learned? What lessons could I pass on to the next rookie who asks for a roadmap to follow? Only the most seemingly useless of advice: that what looks straightforward may be complex, something that appears so steeped in politics may be wholly apolitical, and a piece of evidence may be trash or it may be the very marrow of the case. Should I have recognized it sooner, seen what was coming? It is a question that can only be asked afterward when an answer has no value.

Summed up, the lessons learned fall terribly short of clear and useful. There is no wisdom to cling to in the world of crime and criminals, no hard and fast rules that can be applied. Some call me a seasoned inspector, but the seasoning adds only flavor; it does not invent ingredients nor does it prepare the dish. Each case must still be created from scratch, each officer no better than an amateur delinquent making her first pipe bomb and one small miscalculation means someone may lose a finger or her life.

So I am asked: why would you pick a career where there is no learning curve, only a straight flat line, where the only tangible lesson is to learn nothing so well that you are blind to anything? Why would you insist on clinging to it, as I have, even when it seems to want nothing more than to eject you? Maybe that is all I have learned, that no one picks this career; it picks you.

Just as it did me.

For the moment...

For those of you who keep track of things like books released, you might notice I'm a bit behind. Quite a good bit, actually. And falling further by the moment. But, I'm doing something new, a little different, something I've wanted to do for some time. I'm still writing suspense (no need to start sending angry letters), but I'm writing them a little differently. It's sort of a hard thing to explain, exactly, but as soon as I am able, I'll post a bit of the new one so you can see what I mean. At any rate, I've been working very diligently at it but have, at the same time, felt a little out of my element.

Just before a wonderful week in Palm Springs for spring break, I sent off the first third of the new book, ONE CLEAN SHOT, to my editor. Fingers crossed and breath held (at least for the first few minutes of our trip), I hoped she'd have good things to say. And for a few days, I have to confess, I actually forgot about it....okay, not FULL days but parts of them.

Returning home, I was swept into the minutiae that come with returning from vacation: mail, laundry, the yard and it was a full week later when my editor and I finally spoke. Her first words were, "This is going to be an awkward conversation..." And I thought, "Oh, no."

"All I really have for you is praise," she said and went on to express how much she had enjoyed the pages, how the characters had grown and developed, the writing...Halfway through our conversation, I notced that my notebook, which had been open to write down her suggestions and criticisms, was blank, and soon, I found myself taking notes on her kudos. A full page of thing she'd liked. Wow. At the end of our conversation, she said that she'd finished reading the pages for the first time at night, sitting in bed with her husband. And when she'd turned the last page, he'd asked, "How was it?"

And she'd said, "It's damn good."

Those were the last words on that page in my notebook. "Damn good. Damn good. Damn good." I've been repeating it like a little mantra.

Then, she asked me, "How much more have you written?"

Eek! I thought. NONE. But I am determined not to worry with that. The beginning is damn good and that is perfect for the moment...the rest, I can only pray, will follow....

When you can't shut them up...

Lately, I'm finding I am experiencing something opposite to writer's block. I'm in the middle of two books simultaneously (something I've never done before) and find that whenever I'm not writing, I'm still writing. That is, the characters are up there, talking away: bickering, negotiating, some times all out brawling. This is particularly the case when I'm trying to get some sleep. The moment the room is quiet and dark, they're like mice who crawl out of their holes and start tearing things apart.

I am not exactly complaining. I've been on the other end of the spectrum, sitting in front of the computer when nothing comes, trying to cajole them, tempt them, arm-wrestle them into one pithy line. On the other hand, as you can see from this post, I'm up at all hours and while the characters are running hard, I'm not sure I know where they're going.

And all those voices, well, it can be a little disconcerting...

Book Clubs....

I have a confession. It's ugly, I've buried it deep, but here it is: I detest book signings. Some authors are wonderful at sitting at a table in the middle of the bookstore, grinning with the stack of her books beside her and happily chatting with passersby, answering questions about the latest Grisham novel or directing customers to the lavatory. But, I cannot stand them. I'm not a salesperson. It's why I sit in a dimly lit room behind a computer all day!

But one thing I've always loved doing, from day one, is visiting book clubs. It's such a kick, talking to people who have read the book, answering questions about the characters, the plot, the process. Now, that is fun.

One time, someone at a book club noticed that the book's villain had a little ritual be performed just before each crime and she'd only realized afterward, complimenting on such a clever clue. I sat dumbfounded. "Huh?" Blushing, I confessed that I had no idea what she was talking about. But sure enough, as we went back through the book, she was right!

Since the release of The Rookie Club, I've done another handful of book groups and was at one two nights ago when someone suggested that I ought to offer to do them on my website. Right, I thought. I'll just jet between Omaha and Deluth and Mobile and Houston and my husband and kids will be thrilled. "You can call in!" someone suggested. Wow, I thought! What a great idea!! And so I'm going to do it. Call in to book clubs!

I'm in the process of setting up a page on my website where readers can contact me about just that. You name the date and time, give me a phone number to reach you, and I'll call in and join your book club. I hope some of you will think about it. I'd love to hear your thoughts and I know you'll have revelations about the books that I've missed. That's the best part of all....

To find out more, go to: www.daniellegirard.com/bookclub.htm

Hope to hear from you!

Danielle

Older, wiser.....or just older?

Every time I begin a post, I swear it starts, "I can't believe it's already..." So I'm going to skip that part and say it's clearly been WAY too long since I've paid a visit to tell you what I'm up to. The reason I haven't told you is it's kind of embarassing because mostly, I've been shopping. Sometimes I can spend a whole half-day going to Staples for paperclips. There are a lot of different types of paperclips, you know? More recently, though, I've been labeling the shopping "Christmas shopping" but truth-be-told, I'm just staying out of the house to avoid the computer, which is starting to hiss at me. Why is it hissing? Well, I'm not positive but I think it's either because it's feeling lonely or else it's breaking down from lack of use. That's right. I'm procrastinating.

If you haven't already heard, this is a famous writer skill, developed almost before the writer has learned to write. Some of the really great writers like Hemingway and Cheever procrastinated with a bottle, sometimes one in each hand. But for me, a credit card is just as good and it's easier to drive afterwards, safer, too. Now, though, I've been told it's time to stop. Not only is the computer hissing, but my husband is starting up, too. And I got a call from one of my credit card companies and I could've sworn she was hissing, too. So, it's back to the grind.

Honestly, aside from the shopping, how have I spent my last...uh, how many months has it been since I was in here....Yikes! Five months? Well, I have, truthfully, (or almost truthfully) been spending much of my time writing and researching on the next book, and also working on my masters in creative writing, which seems to require reading several very dense, long books every week. (Like Anna Karenina.) I know Tolstoy would agree when I say that this is not a book that was meant to be read in a week, or even a month. At any rate, I still love it, and am still chugging along.

In more exciting news, I'm working on a new idea for the site and promise (now this time, I REALLY REALLY mean it) to post it in the next day or two...so stop back by and in the meantime, happy reading!!

Danielle

The Power of Disney....

I've just come from spending a week at Disneyland and there is nothing quite like the Magical Kingdom to epitomize the power of fantasy. Of my two children, one did NOT want to go to Disneyland because he had NO idea what it meant and no description we could possibly come up with reassured him enough that it truly is the happiest place on earth, at least for five-year-olds. My other child was positively thrilled because, in her imagination, Disneyland was a place where the princesses wandered on rose petals and stopped to remind young girls that they, too, could be princesses. And even when this particular fantasy failed to be realized, Tinkerbell poised on her lily pad in the parade, the roller coasters, the rainbow of cotton candy all served to make up for the fact that the princesses were harder than expected to come by. And while the other adults around me enjoyed the experience, I don't know that they thrived on all the made-up tales like I did. While we started with the ones that Disney had already written--Snow White and her Dwarfs, Alice down in Wonderland, and the never-ending feud between Donald and Mickey, to which I must add that Donald still looks ticked off--these stories were just the tip of Disney's pink iceberg for us. The kids and I imagined where, exactly, Mickey and Minnie lived and whether or not they had gotten married and if they were settled into matrimony, my daughter wanted to know, how many children did they have? My son and I agreed that surely, in Disneyland, Buzz Lightyear and Mr. Incredible were good friends, neighbors, too. The whole place had to have been divided between good and the evil. Who got the pink castle? I asked. Definitely the good guys, both kids agreed. I thought so, too. The pink castle and the It's a Small World ride, too--that place was like a castle, too. Then, we theorized who was meaner, Ursula or Captain Hook, and who would win if they battled. Ursula, my daughter argued because she's so much bigger and Hook only has one hand. But my son countered with the idea that Captain Hook would just pop her like a balloon with his hook. The adults (uh, adults other than me, I mean) took to walking well ahead of us as we made up our stories, but we little folks ate it up. And I, in particular, confess to eating it up. All of it--day after day, even to the point of answering questions on the second leg of our trip home. While I often come from a week of vacation and feel like my "inner writer" is having seizures with the need to express herself, I actually feel wonderfully sedate after Disneyland. I think it had to do with all the storytelling we did....of course, it's also possible that it was all that cotton candy.

Danielle