Why do we write? One answer

I've been mulling over thought on why authors write. For money? (Hah, lots of luck with that!) For prestige? (about as much luck with that.) For self satisfaction? To entertain others? Because we have stories to tell? Because we can't not write? How much ego is involved?
Well, today I had a partial answer. Two lovely ladies I'd never met before drove from Sulphur Springs and Dallas to have lunch with me because they like my books. They'd recently discovered them, through word of mouth (the best kind of publicity)--a friend of a friend told one of them. They thought it would be interesting to talk to me. I asked them what else brought them to Fort Worth, and they said nothing--I was the purpose of the visit.
Before we met, they had driven around "Kelly's neighborhood,"--Fairmount--and they were familiar with the architecture, etc., from pictures on my web page. Finding Old Home Supply was a special treat for them. We lunched at Lili's Bistro on Magnolia, in the heart of Fairmount.
 I answered questions about my books, tried to explain some things about writing and Fairmount and Edom (the real version of fictional Wheeler in the Blue Plate Mystery Series) that I thought might interest them. Conversation never lagged over a nice, lazy lunch. Afterward, they followed me in their car to see the house that inspired Skeleton in a Dead Space and I told them the story of how I'd been stopped at a stop sign, looked at the house, and suddenly thought "There's a skeleton in a dead space in that house." That was how the book began to take shape. They seemed to really enjoy that.
So what did I learn? I learned that I do entertain readers, that they liked my books and look forward to the next ones, which means I am, as I've always said, a storyteller. I also admit that there's a bit of ego involved--it's an amazing feeling to have people come all that way to talk to you. I hope they went away enriched, satisfied, and eager for my future books--and some backlist. I know I went away feeling good about my writing, and on down days, I'll remember them and the visit.
Thank you, Sarah of Sulphur Springs and Suzanne of Dallas. You gave me a boost--and a bit of insight into why I write.

Blue Plate Cafe Mysteries...and how they grew

The first book in my Blue Plate Café Mysteries series launches next week as an e-book, with print to follow shortly. Such fun to introduce a new series, and I’m particularly excited about this series, because it is deeply connected to some rich and wonderful times in my family’s life. When my children were little, we began to visit Reva and Charles Ogilvie at Arc Ridge Ranch, outside Ben Wheeler, Texas—about an hour east of Dallas. It was a glorious place for city children—forests, ponds, alligators, beaver, pastures, sometimes horses, occasionally a rescued wild burro, paddle boats from which the boys could fish, and for a while a small sandy beach where the kids could swim (with careful supervision, because of the alligators, who mostly stayed hidden in a cove).

Reva and Charles soon became Aunt Reva and Uncles Charles, and we spent what weekends we could there as well as at least one two-week vacation. We had our own cabin, with a full kitchen and two bedrooms. I would arrive with so many groceries that Charles said I was fine if the creek rose. Reva and I cooked together a lot, and both of us thoroughly enjoyed it. Then we’d eat on their front porch (a Florida room with louvered shutters) and stare out at the small, peaceful lake.

Charles was raising a steer in a pen between our cabin and the main house, and he named it Houdini because it was an escape artist. The kids loved Houdini and always stopped to pet him. One night at dinner, Charles asked them how they liked their meat. They chorused that it was delicious, and he said, “You’re eating Houdini.” Charles was not one to mince the facts of rural life. Another time I watched an alligator stalk a baby duck, and I said, “Do something, Charles.” He shrugged and said, “It’s the law of nature.” The children had a fine upbringing at the ranch, and they were disappointed to learn that our cabin wasn’t really ours—other people also rented it.

When Reva and I didn’t cook, we often went to a café known as The Shed in the nearby town of Edom. We had grand and glorious times, especially on Saturday nights when catfish was the special. I remember once chiding Charles, who was very conscious of what he ate, for ordering lemon chiffon pie. “It’s all air,” he said. “Not the custard part,” I replied, and he said, “Shut up, Judy.” In later years, we laughed about that.

When my marriage failed, we didn’t go much until the kids could drive, and then we resumed our trips to the ranch. Later, when the kids had mostly moved away, Jamie and Mel, now his wife of fifteen years, used to take me out there for weekends.

Life changes. Reva gradually slipped into Alzheimer’s, and the last time we were there, Charles was living alone. We went for my nephew’s wedding in Tyler, maybe ten years ago, and that Sunday morning we all had breakfast at The Shed. Then son-in-law Christian said his grandmother had a house in Edom where he’d spent a lot of time as a child and he wanted to see if he could find it. It doesn’t take long to drive every street in Edom, and we did but with no luck. When he got home, his grandmother told him the house was right next door to The Shed.

So that’s where the background comes of the Blue Plate Café. I changed the name of the restaurant and the town (though barely), and the book is dedicated with love to the memory of Charles and Reva Ogilvie, now both gone. I miss them sorely. And the book is my small tribute to their love and all they did for my family and for me.

Some of Reva’s recipes are included at the back. Another tribute.

Revisions, agony, despair--and light at the end of the tunnel

It's no secret that I've struggled with the fourth Kelly O'Connell mystery--struggled, agonized, torn my hair, given up and gone back and decided it was all awful. You name it, I did it. But at long last I finished the draft, read it through a couple of times, revising, correcting as I went. Then I gave it to Fred--I keep explaining who he is, but Fred was the prof who saw me through graduate school when I wanated to specialize in western American literature. He taught genre fiction classes among other American lit subjects--westerns, mysteries, sci fi. And in the years since--would you believe 40?--he has remained friend and advisor. He reads everything I write--or almost everything.
I knew that after all that struggle I had sort of galloped across the finish line in a rush. Fred spotted that and made some suggestions, and throughout he saw things that I simply needed another pair of eyes to see. He sent one single-spaced page of suggestions, mentions of time warps that weren't meant to be, discrepancies, etc. I thought it would take weeks of work.
This morning, after a late start, I turned to Fred's list--and finished all but one huge major part. It went much more smoothly than I anticipated, and I had fun doing it. Now I have an important concluding scene to write...but I decided enough was enough for one day. Then I'll re-read a couple of times--but by now I'm afraid I know the thing by heart. It will take a brand new proofreader to catch errors.
While rewriting and correcting, I noticed a couple of things: I thought I had proofread this manuscript until it could not possibly contain an error or a typo--and yet today, even in casual glancing, I found all kinds of both. In one place, early in the book, Fred suggested that I pick up some information from previous books--for the reader who hasn't met Kelly. I went back and the best passage I found was in the very first book, Skeleton in a Dead Space, so I copied it, put it in place and went in to edit it to fit. I was amazed aat how my style has changed--dare I say improved--since that first book. After all these years, can it be that I'm learning to write? Fred says this is a more complex book than the previous ones, which surely is a step forward.
Being back in Kelly's world has revitalized me. I'm seeing ahead and finding more Kelly stories in my head. My editors had asked how many I planned, and I didn't have a clue. At the time I was struggling with number four and more seemed hopeless, but now I have several ideas. I like Kelly, and I like the people around her. I had even considered--sort of--giving up mysteries and writing about Scotland, perhaps a time travel novel (I know, Diana Gabaldon did it and can't be equalled) partly because I thought such a book would have more depth than my cozies. Certainly it would require more research. But Fred's use of the word "complex" made me think twice. Sure, I may write about Scotland some day--always a dream--but for now I'm happy with Kelly and her soon to-be-introduced counterpart, Kate, of the Blue Plate Mystery Series. Watch for Murder at the Blue Plate Cafe in Feburary.
Meantime, Kelly number four is tentatively titled Dogs, Drugs, and Death. I'd love your comments on the title.