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.