Murder Mystery Madness

Here's where things start to go wrong: At the start! 

I haven't written crime fiction before.  I want to expand my skillset though,  so I want to enter competitions that challenge me to build on what I'm good at. A two thousand word story may not seem like a challenge to some but to me, in that genre, I might as well be starting from scratch.

OK, not exactly from scratch but I don't know much about structuring crime thrillers except that there has to be a twist. The twist is both very specific and wide open. Anthony Horowitz says it should be possible to see it coming or you are cheating the reader. But if it's too easy to get you have also cheated the reader. Mysteries, especially murder mysteries, are best when they're seen in the rear view mirror as you speed away, hoping that you have done enough to cover your tracks.

But I have an idea and I think it's a pretty good one. I have written 2/3 of the first draft and stopped.

Why did you stop?!

Good question reader. I stopped because I realised I didn't have enough space to write the ending I want. Then the doubt crept in and devalued what I had already written. Now I have to re-evaluate the entire thing for my peace of mind.

It seems foolish.

If I'd had my wits about me I probably would have pushed through the draft and worries about the final story later, but doubt is a heavy thing to carry through a story, so I find I need to put it down before I go on.

Bury it, as it were, where nobody will ever find it...

... until next time.

Time to go A-Sleuthing

I discovered via an acquaintance that there is a crime writing competition being run for crime stories set in Scotland and it is far too tempting.

A Soul for Hilda Mainwaring

This is another story that didn't get me through the first round. It's not a bad story but I'll admit I needed more room to investigate the theme properly. Hope you enjoy.

A Soul for Hilda Mainwaring

When reaching her limits, Donna has to face what it is that makes her hate her charge so much.

 

Hilda Mainwaring wasn’t ill or old. She smoked 20 fags a day, but her lungs toughed it out. She ate truckloads of cakes and chocolates that her neighbours snuck in but wasn’t diabetic. Hilda was over 30 stone and could do nothing for herself. Woe betide anyone that didn't do things exactly how she wanted. She would rip into them. By the time I got sent over, Hilda had gone through 18 nurses in six months.

"Do you know nothing about arranging a sleeve?" Hilda snapped, as I put laundry away.

"No, I don't, Hilda," I answered her back. "Are you going to come over and show me?"

She glared from 10 feet away, her pronate ankles incapable of supporting her.

"I didn't think so. I'm on a time limit, if you don't mind."

She didn't say another word. I had to get out. I was gasping for a smoke.

As I dressed her next day, she was silent as the grave. I winched her into the reinforced wheelchair and got her settled in the living room. Once I’d done breakfast, I headed for the door.

"Someone has to clean that kitchen floor."

"Then you better call domestic services, Hilda. I'm a nurse, not the help." The line was blurrier than that. By rights I could have done it, but I felt like being argumentative. Let Home Care take care of it.

I was seething as I walked towards the car, scrabbling in my bag for a lighter. I needed a smoke to calm my nerves. I inhaled deep, letting the anger go. This was my life: house to house, blankets, bathe, breakfast. Men putting hands on me. Women accusing me of theft. Do the small stuff. Hand them a cup of tea. Make sure their medication was in order and that they weren’t storing it up for a quick exit. I could sympathise with that.

But Hilda got to me. I dreaded walking up her path in the morning or going back for lunch. I hated doing her evening meal and putting her to bed. One entire week she didn't speak to me except to tut if I hadn’t done something. No matter dismissive I was of her, she never complained.

“Your dinner’s in the dumb waiter,” I called up the stairs, an unlit cigarette already in my hand. We had that in common I suppose.

I heard a grunt and the click of the electric motor carrying the food upstairs. Good enough.

Hilda died that night.

"I'm glad she's dead."

"Donna!" Mam glared at me.

"Mam, I don’t give a shit?"

"You should."

"Why?"

"She died alone. That’s awful for anyone."

Mam had a point. Hilda was stubborn. She knew what she wanted and didn’t hold back in getting it. A trait I would admire in others.

Despite myself, I realised I would miss her. There but for God’s Grace…

As I left the church, fishing out a cigarette, I prayed for the soul of Hilda Mainwaring.

P.S. All constructive criticism welcome 

Oh! The Horror!

It's that time of year when pumpkin spice latte is all the rage and people who hate Christmas are getting overly excited about Halloween. I should know. I'm one of those people. 

It's also the time when horror and ghost story competitions are all the rage. What makes a good horror? I have no idea. I know what I like in a horror story. I want a monster that hides until the final reveal. I want creeping dread at every turn. I want a twist that genuinely takes your breath away. 

But I want hope! 

Too many current horrors create terrible situations that there is no hope of the protagonists escaping from. This leads to ultimately dissatisfying endings where the badguy has won and to no purpose. Did the protagonists have character growth? Yeah, but so what? They won't get to do anything with their newfound knowledge of how the world works, because they died.

One of my favourite horror films of recent years was Paranorman. Not only was it a great story with an amazing BBEG, it showed how the world can grow as a result of a shared horror. That's what I want my stories to be.

So, I'm writing a horror. I'm trying to create a feeling of dread, where there is potential for innocence to be lost, for a real hero to rise, but for a community to grow as a result of the shared horror, even if someone has to make a sacrifice to "win" in the end.

I finished the first draft today and some of that is missing. I have some spare words that I can use to build some more into it. I want the threat (Triangle Man) to be unsettling and dangerous. I want the hero (Alex, age 10) to be weak but determined. What I'm lacking at the moment is a reason for him to be considering dying to save others. That's what's not there at the moment. I just need time to fix it, and I will fix it.

I Submit

Another story went in at the weekend. It felt good to be back on the wagon after a messy summer.

I did submit stories over the holidays. I just didn't seem to have the time to talk about it. My job gets busy in the summertime and I do have to put a lot of fun things on the back burner. 

Things are finally starting to quiet down, including the stressy buzz in my head. 

Unfortunately, the competitions I have been entering have strict "no publishing" rules, so I have nothing creative to share this month. I can tell you that the last competition I entered wanted me to write a drama with a character craving something and featuring a dumb waiter.

I got a story written and submitted. I think it's ok? But the chargers are not likeable. We'll see how the judges receive it. 

A Little Story

An embarrassingly quick exit from my last competition. A shame really, because I quite liked the story. It seems that the ones I really like don’t do as well as the stories I have reservations about. 

For your reading pleasure:

Cold Comfort

Erin locked the basement, muting the wailing and smashing crockery.

“Síona?”

The door rattled on it’s hinges. Erin climbed downstairs.

“Síona, please.”

Tomorrow, Mam would do something ‘nice’, papering over the cracks in their family. Why didn’t she leave? Instead, she was up there, placating him.

“He’s looking at me the way he looked at Dearbhla before he...”

Erin almost said ‘touched’; too forgiving a euphemism. The word sickened her. She wanted comfort. None came.

“I’m leaving tonight. Dearbhla will take me in.”

Deep cold embraced her, exuding pride and sadness.

“I’ll miss you too.” Erin wept in the darkness.

Tracing a Story

Have you ever started a story and realised that you were rewriting something else? I'm sure you've heard that euphemism that there are only 7 stories. If that's the case, how are there so many books?

I'm here to say that there's nothing wrong with writing a story that has already been written. Most of the story is window dressing. There are so many Hero's Journeys out there bedecked with wands and dragons and light sabers, but they are essentially the same story.

If I have an idea for a story that is, at its core, a rewrite of Hamlet, am I stealing Shakespeare's story or am I writing a story that has a similar outline?

And that's what I mean by 'tracing'. The basic outline of two stories can be the same while producing two very different and equally valid stories.

For a tongue-in-cheek example, click here!

I'll be posting my latest "story that didn't make it" tomorrow. I came 11th in my group but only the top 10 go through to the next round.