Showing posts with label Kathleen George. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Kathleen George. Show all posts

Tuesday, August 7, 2012

SIMPLE by Kathleen George


Last year, I interviewed and profiled Kathleen George on this blog as part of my ongoing Literary Mystery Novelists series. Read it here.

Kathleen George, Simple (Minotaur Books) 333 pp. ISBN: 0312569149


Kathleen George’s sixth police procedural featuring Commander Richard Christie and Detective Colleen Greer takes a different turn. A political thriller dealing with extreme measures taken to prevent scandal from derailing a high-level political campaign,  Simple still features the authentic characters, fine writing, and shrewd plotting that have characterized all of George’s books.

Cassie Price, a beautiful, smart young woman working as a paralegal with the prestigious Connolly law firm before starting law school, gets involved in an affair with her boss, Michael Connolly, who is about to be named Republican gubernatorial candidate. Todd Simon, Michael’s handler, is ordered by the party to make sure Cassie will never become an embarrassment to Michael’s campaign. He gets her drunk and tries to seduce her himself. When that fails, Cassie’s fate is sealed.

Two detectives on the Homicide Squad who haven’t had a high-profile case in years are called to the murder of the young paralegal while Christie is returning early from vacation with his wife and children. In an effort to close the case successfully and early, the detectives pressure Cal Hathaway, the local handyman who found the body, into a confession. Deaf in one ear and mildly brain damaged from a vicious attack when a child, Cal is thrown into jail like a minnow into a shark tank. Upon seeing the taped confession and interviewing Cal in jail, Christie insists that the Homicide Squad make a more thorough investigation. This leads to bristly defensiveness on the part of the team that obtained the confession while the Homicide Squad is already tense over the romance developing between Greer and her partner Detective John Potocki.

Michael Connolly, the political golden boy, is emotionally crushed by the strangling of his young mistress and the arrest of Cal, the son of Michael’s beloved housekeeper. He soon begins to suspect Simon of the murder but lacks the will to confront him. The case quickly becomes a contest between Simon’s clever plotting and Christie and his squad’s methodical unraveling with the fates of innocent, vulnerable Cal and wealthy, charismatic Michael at stake.

This thriller offers the reader the fully realized characters, intricate plot, and accomplished prose that are George’s strong points, but it also uses powerful, telling detail to offer a subtle interrogation of power and class in American society and the collision of our political ideals with our political realities. The subtlety and assurance of this richly realized portrait of American politics sets Simple above the usual police procedural.

KATHLEEN GEORGE is the author of The Odds, which was nominated in 2010 for the Edgar for Best Novel. She is also the editor of the short story collection Pittsburgh Noir. A professor of theatre at the University of Pittsburgh, she and her husband live in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

Next up is a new post in the Books of Interest by Writers of Color series. Also, I'm guest-blogging on Molly Greene's blog today, talking about putting a little malice in your life. Come join in the conversation.

Tuesday, July 31, 2012

The Excitement of New Projects—With Story Excerpt


I turned in the final edits on the second Skeet Bannion novel, Every Broken Trust, to my editor at St. Martin’s at the beginning of July, but I haven’t been idle since then. (Even though we’re having a summer-long drought and heat wave here in Kansas City that’s the worst since the Dust Bowl with some temperature highs even breaking those records.)

I’ve done a number of guest blogs and interviews—and next week I’m going to put up a page on this site with the links to all of those plus all the reviews of Every Last Secret. I’ve continued my regular blogging at the Writers Who Kill group blog and added a monthly post at The Stiletto Gang groupblog. I’ve finished the freelance jobs that always show up this time of year, including preliminary judging for several national book contests. I’ve set up the opening situation of my next Skeet Bannion novel and am letting it roll around in the back of my head while I work on other projects, like the final version of a new book of poetry that I really like. I’ve been sending out individual poems in that book, Dark Sister, to be published in journals and elsewhere. Now, it’s time to start the manuscript of the book on its way toward publication.

I’m working on a new novel, a Sekrit Project (to borrow the brilliant nomenclature of Lilith Saintcrow). That’s going well, and it’s exciting, but I can’t give any details yet on that. I’m also working on some short stories. Those of you who’ve been following my blog for a while know that short fiction is a stretch for me. I admire those who write lots of great short stories. I have friends who are very, very good at short fiction. I find the short form of fiction a real challenge—mostly because every promising character and background I come up with starts to open out into a narrative too complex and long for a story.

I have a good short story publishing soon in Kansas City Noir (Akashic Books), as I’ve mentioned before on this blog. That story offered no spreading complications, nor did the few other literary short stories I’ve had published in the past. Now, I’m working on a short story that may eventually turn into part of something larger, but this part of it has built-in limits to make it work very well as a short fiction. It came about in a peculiar manner.

A good Twitter friend of mine, another lupus sufferer, is facing major, expensive reconstructive surgery on her jaw. Until she gets it, she must mash anything she eats to pudding consistency. Not a very happy way to live. Unfortunately, her insurance company doesn’t want to pay for this surgery. For all the details behind this, checkher blog entry about it here. Sabrina has a lot of friends who are writers. Not surprising because she’s a huge supporter of writers on her blog, My Friends Call Me Kate, and on Twitter and Facebook. Much as we might want to hand over thousands of bucks to her for her surgery, as writers we don’t have it. Some of us came up with the obvious idea of writing stories about feeding, jaws, or with a character named Kate for a fundraising anthology that we’ve titled Feeding Kate.  You can contribute to the effort here.

I originally planned to do an urban fantasy story with a vampire of sorts (no sparkles!) named Kate because I thought Sabrina would get a big kick out of it. Of course, as I set up my story world and Ekaterina/Kate’s character, it opened out into something that will be novel or novella length. Won’t work for this. So I noodled around with a feeding, nurturing character I’d long wanted to use (but that I knew wouldn’t carry a book) and up popped another character who cared about her. The story began to take shape. So here’s part one of my story for Feeding Kate. For the rest, you’ll have to get a copy of the anthology by contributing to this great cause.

Rivka’s Place

Rivka’s place at 39th & Paseo is the only remnant of the postwar time when this stretch of Paseo Boulevard was prosperous—and white. As the area changed in color and class, the other shops and restaurants of its day moved or closed. Now this old Jewish lady’s bakery and deli huddles next to a tattoo shop, nail parlor, and liquor store, directly across the street from The Hot Jazz Lounge with its board-covered windows, live jazz, and occasional dead bodies late on weekend nights. Next block down squats Snake Eyes Music, best known for rap, porn, hookers, DEA shutdowns, and SWAT team visits. Rivka’s is the only survivor of better times.

I call myself CJ Nash. I work here behind the old-fashioned glass counters, making sandwiches, cooking, cleaning. Rivka Schinski’s my boss, and she’s about a hundred, a hunched old lady all twisted up by arthritis. She should have retired and sold or closed this place a long time ago. Her family sure wanted her to do that. Her grown kids and grandkids are rich, and they keep trying to get her to close this place and go someplace where they won’t have to worry about her getting knifed or shot. But Rivka’s tougher than gunmetal.

When they come around in their cashmere coats, driving their Lincolns and Lexuses, with their fears of crime and Blacks and bad publicity, she always says, “Hitler tried to kill me. The Nazis couldn’t kill me. Why should I be afraid of anyone else?” And she shakes her tiny wrinkled arm with its ugly tattooed numbers in their faces.

Truth of the matter is it hasn’t really been all that dangerous for her here. In its own way, the neighborhood looks out for its own. Rivka’s good to folks. She’s always got free treats for kids and food for the poor. She lets homeless street people, like Weedy, El, and The Rev, hang out inside the shop when it’s bitter cold or killer hot, along with the working girls. I’ve never known her to turn away anyone hungry who couldn’t pay. So, folks watch out for Rivka.

I know I do. I was homeless when I first met her, homeless, penniless, and on the run. Rivka’s been real good to me, gave me a job and a room in the back of the shop. Never asks awkward questions. I appreciate that.

My old man would hate to see me today, working for a Jew and hanging around with Blacks and Latinos. He thought he was the white man’s messiah, or that he’d raise my brothers and me for the job. We believed it, too, didn’t know any better. Back in those hills, I’d had no contact with anyone outside my family since I was six years old. My dad ran the world I grew up in, and his was the only truth I knew. It was a combination of boot camp and special forces training throughout my whole childhood.

But after the feds charged in, and we fought back, Dad looking like a pincushion for bullets, Mom and my brothers dead, too, I couldn’t keep them from taking me captive with two slugs in my gut. Once I healed and went to prison—I was barely eighteen, see, but I was eighteen—I got a whole new education.

Now, I just keep myself to myself, low profile. Don’t leave this building much, except to ride the bus once a month to the nearest used bookstore down in Westport. I stay in the front of Rivka’s, slicing meat, vegetables, and breads, or work the mixer and oven in the kitchen or just lie on my cot in the back and read at night instead of sleeping. I’d just as soon no one realized I was even around.

I live in a whole different world from the one my crazy old man preached with its brotherhood of the white man. Truth is, hardly anybody white ever helped me after the troubles, except for this crazy little twisted-up Jewish woman.

I knew we had a new kind of trouble the day Kev Mackey came around to flirt with pretty little Trini Hernandez, like he always does, and brought that new gangbanger with him. Trini’s tiny, half Mexican, half Dominican. She keeps her hair cut short and wears jeans and sloppy T-shirts all the time. Trying not to look sexy and available like her hooker sister. Trying to say she’s something different from what every man who sees her wants her to be. Sometimes I give her a book to try to read between her several jobs. She’s studying for her GED. Her secret hope is to go to school to become a nursing assistant and then maybe a nurse.

Kev’s a kid on the brink. He could come up with extraordinary guts and strength and go down the good road or do the easy thing and claim a gang and that short, brutal life. His new pal made that decision a long time ago. Big, tough, head shaved, pierced all over with silver knobs and rings, tats all over, especially on his fingers. Saw plenty of those in prison.

“They call me Dom, little girl. That’s short for Dominator ‘cause that’s what I do. No one disses me. No one refuses me. That’s the way it’s got to be, sis.” He went after Trini right away. “Now, you are fine, girl. Just as fine as my homes Kev told me. You and me going to be real close friends. Real close.”

A cloud of menace hung over him. He wasn’t from here, and it wouldn’t make any difference to him that Rivka was good to people or that Trini was working hard to get out of this neighborhood where her dad and brothers wound up in the joint and her big sis on the streets. It sure wasn’t going to make any difference to him that Trini was a good girl. He’d just break her. That’s the way those eaten-up, lost ones work. They don’t give a shit about anyone or anything.

Trini just ignored the punk, but Kev stood there with his mouth open like he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. “No way, Dom. Trini’s mine.” Brave words, but he sounded as scared as he looked, all skinny brown-skinned teen with acne and nappy hair, trying to look bad with his jeans hanging around his knees.

Dom twisted his mouth. “But you want to share, right, homes?” His voice cut the air, harsh and dangerous. He glared at Kev with real threat. Dom wasn’t more than seventeen or eighteen, like me when I killed those feds. Like me, he’d been bred and trained to be dangerous. I knew his type. I’d been his type.

“There won’t be any sharing of me.” Trini looked across the glass counter at the two of them. She couldn’t help that her voice was small and soft, but she made it as firm and strong as she could. “I belong to no one but myself. Certainly not to you, Kevin.”

“Shit, Trini, you know you’re—“

“No bad language here, Kevin,” said Rivka, walking in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishtowel at her waist. “You know the rules. You boys get something to eat and then leave Trini alone. She’s working.”

She came behind the shorter counter where Trini sat at the cash register. She reached over in the back of the high glass-front counters next to her and plucked up two doughnuts. “Here you go, boys. Nice and fresh and sweet.”

Dom glared at her and leaned over to get right in her face. “Listen, you old bitch! I—“

Rivka reached up and stuffed one of the doughnuts right in his open mouth as he was laying into her. His eyes flew open in shock and then panic as he started to choke.

“Chew,” Rivka said. “Chew and swallow. It’s good for you. Sweeten your temper. And no more bad language. You can’t frighten me.” She pointed to the tattoo on her wrist. “Scarier men than you will ever be have tried and failed.”

I moved out from the corner table behind the tall counter where I stayed most of the time, sharpening knives, making up bags of doughnut holes, whatever. I drifted over to stand next to Rivka. Mutt and Jeff. I’m almost tall enough to include two of her, one on top of the other. I still held the big butcher knife I’d been sharpening.

Dom was chewing as fast as he could and still choking some. Rivka waved him toward the door. “Go on home. Come back when you feel better.”

I started to move around the short counter behind Trini. I thought I’d whack him on the back since he was having such a hard time, but he turned and dashed for the door to the street before I could.

“Come on, Trini,” said Rivka, grabbing her purse. “I will drive you home.”

“But I’ve got two more hours to work.” Trini looked as if she might start crying. “I need the money.”

“Kevin can work your hours. I will still pay you.” Rivka turned toward Kev. “Why would you bring such a meshugganuh…?” Her hands tried to grab words from the air. “Such a crazy one. Why bring him here to torment Trini?”

Kev started to sputter in anger. I raised my eyebrows at him. I know the effect that can have on a kid, what with the scar that runs from one brow down to my jaw.

Trini whirled to face Kev. “You stupid! You better not bring that punk around me again, Kev, or I’ll never, never speak to you anymore.”

“Come, Trini, let me drive you home. I don’t want you to walk tonight.” Rivka pushed her toward the back door. “You keep your phone by you tonight. Call me if anyone comes bothering around your place.”

“Call 911,” I shouted after them. “They might not get there as fast as Rivka, but they’ll have more firepower.”

When I turned back to Kev, he was staring at the butcher knife in my hand. “What? This?” I shook it at him a little.

He pulled his head back as his eyes grew bigger.

“Kev, I was sharpening knives when your pal got so out of line. I just happened to have it in my hand.”

“You sharpen knives a lot of the time. I’ve noticed that.”

I shrugged. “I was taught to take good care of my tools. A dull knife is dangerous. You’re much more likely to cut yourself or someone else accidentally with a dull knife. And I never want to do something like that accidentally.” I walked back to my corner butcher block table and laid the knife on it.

I had the knives laid out in a line on the table, ordered by size. I put away my sharpening stone and its bench. I’d finished that part of the drill. Next, I’d take my butcher’s steel and hone the knives so it would take the barest touch of their edges to open the skin or surface of almost anything.

“You know, Kev, the time comes when you got to think for yourself and not just move in the direction everyone seems to be pushing you to move.” I looked at him directly, making direct eye contact though I usually avoided it. I wanted to make sure he was hearing and understanding. “This Dom guy may seem cool, but he’s not. He’s bad news for someone like you. Anything you do with him will bring him what he wants because you’ll be left to take the blame and punishment. Never let someone else control what you feel and do.”

I knew it was probably useless to talk this way, but I was talking to myself at his age more than anything, that kid who’d blown away two feds thinking he was protecting his family, thinking he was doing the righteous thing, only to learn after too many deaths that he’d been misled and would now have to pay forever for letting someone else control his emotions and actions. I was talking to the boy who’d set me on the course I’d been on ever since that day the feds showed at our home compound.

“Nah, Dom’s okay. He just doesn’t want anybody to feel like they can mess with him.” Kev’s face suddenly looked troubled. “I sure wish Miz Rivka hadn’t done that to him. You know, she dissed him bad. He’s going to have to come back on her hard.”

I nodded. I knew that the minute Rivka did it. I’m not sure she didn’t know it also. Rivka’s a lot smarter than people give her credit for. Dom was going to have to come back in and put the hurt on her big time. I didn’t want to see that. I hoped he’d get smart and go somewhere else.

I had to keep myself as low and out of sight as possible. Just because the search for me wasn’t active any longer didn’t mean it wasn’t ready to leap up any second the feds heard of a sighting or whenever my fingerprints showed up in some case or other. So I avoided trouble always. Now, Rivka had walked herself right into some really bad trouble. I didn’t see what I could do about it.

Coming up in the next week, a review of Kathleen George’s upcoming Simple, a political thriller, which is something new for her, with her trademark plotting, suspense, and beloved Pittsburg police officers, and another Books of Interest by Writers of Color post with Ruth Behar, Stanley Banks, and Xánath Caraza. Stay cool out there!

Thursday, January 5, 2012

Happy 2012: Jacket copy for EVERY LAST SECRET and EVERY BROKEN TRUST finished

I hope the holidays were splendid for all of you. I was able to spend them with all of my grown kids back in town, and then all of us trekked to Topeka, Kansas, to my sister's for for a warm, lovely Christmas with extended family. I'm so grateful as we start a new year for my wonderful husband, Ben, and my great kids, Crystal, Niles, and Joseph--and my terrific foster-son Gustavo, his partner Erika, and their sweet baby Becquer. And for my sister and her two sons and my brother. That's one of the glories of the season is that it brings us back together with far-flung family.

2012 is making a strong beginning for me. Later this month, review copies of Every Last Secret: A Mystery will be sent to reviewers and other promotional outlets. If you had offered to review the book, please email me your mailing address, so I can make sure you receive your review copy.

It's interesting to look at who is publishing my book. This book is being published by St. Martin's Press/ Minotaur Books and also Thomas Dunne Books. Thomas Dunne Books and Minotaur Books are both imprints of St. Martin's Press, which is, in turn, a part of Macmillan. A little confusing, I admit. But the nice thing is that all of these publishing entities have such a reputation for quality.

I had promised to post the jacket copy for my forthcoming book, Every Last Secret: A Mystery, in late December, but I was so engrossed in finishing the next book in the series, Every Broken Trust, that I forgot to post it. I did finish the draft of Every Broken Trust shortly before Christmas and am now in the throes of the revision process. I hope to have the finished manuscript off to my agent and editor later this month. So here belatedly is the copy that will appear on the dust jacket of the hardcover Every Last Secret: A Mystery.


JACKET COPY FOR EVERY LAST SECRET

Flap:

"Rodriguez’s debut is an action-packed ride featuring an intriguing heroine you won’t quickly forget."--Sally Goldenbaum, author of The Wedding Shawl

Half-Cherokee Marquitta “Skeet” Bannion thought she was leaving her troubles behind when she fled the stress of being the highest ranking woman on the Kansas City Police Department, a jealous cop ex-husband who didn’t want to let go, and a disgraced alcoholic ex-cop father. Moving to a small town to be chief of the campus police force, she builds a life outside of police work. She might even begin a new relationship with the amiable Brewster police chief.

All of this is threatened when the student editor of the college newspaper is found murdered on campus. Skeet must track down the killer, following trails that lead to some of the most powerful people in the university. In the midst of her investigation, Skeet takes up responsibility for a vulnerable teenager as her ex-husband and seriously ailing father wind up back on her hands. Time is running out and college administrators demand she conceal all college involvement in the murder, but Skeet will not stop until she's unraveled every last secret.

Linda Rodriguez’s debut novel introduces a unique and capable heroine. With its intriguing cast of characters and complex mystery, Every Last Secret is sure to delight traditional mystery fans.

Bio:
Linda Rodriguez is a winner of the Malice Domestic Best First Traditional Mystery Novel Competition. As a poet, she has won the Thorpe Menn Award for Literary Excellence, the Elvira Cordero Cisneros Award, and the Midwest Voices and Visions Award.

Linda enjoys knitting lace shawls, spinning alpaca wool, weaving tapestries, and gardening with herbs and native plants. She is currently working on a book of poetry based on teachings from her Cherokee grandmother and another mystery novel about Skeet Bannion. Linda lives in Kansas City, Missouri, with her husband, a Plott Hound, and a domineering cat.


Back cover:
Advance Praise for Every Last Secret

"There's a new cop in town and she has smarts, courage, and a good heart. Mystery readers will find a new favorite in Chief Skeet Bannion."--Nancy Pickard, author of The Scent of Rain and Lightning

“Every Last Secret offers that rare and startling thing in the universe of thrillers: a truly fresh voice. Rodriguez's tale spares nothing. Skeet is an all-too-human heroine, and we just want more, more, more.”--Jacquelyn Mitchard, #1 national bestselling author of The Deep End of the Ocean and Second Nature: A Love Story

“Linda Rodriguez has created a captivating female detective with a mind for justice and a heart for those who’ve been unfairly treated.  Skeet navigates university politics and a nest of deadly secrets to find the truth, even when it means investigating people she cares about.”--Carolyn Haines, author of Bones of a Feather

“Murder on a college campus, plenty of bad people, and all kinds of puzzles to solve. Linda Rodriguez has written a highly enjoyable procedural introducing a rough and tender heroine, Skeet Bannion.”--Kathleen George, author of The Odds and Hideout

I'm very excited about the prospect of holding an advance copy of Every Last Secret in my hands soon. I'm also thrilled and relieved that my beta reader thinks the second book in the series is as strong as the first. Any time you're writing a book after the earlier one received an award or won a competition, you're always fighting the fear that this book won't measure up to the last one. So hearing that Every Broken Trust is up to the task is a great relief.

How is your 2012 beginning? What are you excited about seeing or doing in the early months of the new year?

Friday, September 9, 2011

Literary Mystery Writers—Kathleen George

For the initial profile in this series, Kathleen George seems perfect. Her fiction career started with a critically praised collection of literary short fiction, The Man in the Buick. George, who is an academic, did not follow that with a literary novel in the usual manner of academic writers. Her first novel was a tightly plotted, well-written thriller, Taken, which has turned into a highly regarded series of thrillers set in Pittsburgh. Her latest, Hideout, has just been released, but George kindly took time in the middle of book tour to do an interview for this series.

Kathleen George was born in Johnstown Pennsylvania. As a child, she wanted to be a writer. She wrote stories and plays in high school and in her undergraduate years as a creative writing major at the University of Pittsburgh. She went on to earn a Ph.D. in Theatre (also at Pitt). By then she had made her home in Pittsburgh. For eight years she taught theatre at Carlow College, where she directed many plays. Then she accepted a teaching position at Pitt where she continued to direct and teach dramatic literature and playwriting; in the early 80s, she began to add fiction writing back into the mix. In 1988, she earned an M.F.A. degree in Creative Writing (also at Pitt!) on the side. She is a Professor in the Theatre Arts Department.

Book-length fiction publications are: THE MAN IN THE BUICK, a collection of stories, BKMK press, 1999; TAKEN, a novel, Delacorte 2001 (also translated into French, German, Japanese, Dutch, Danish, and Norwegian); FALLEN, Dell 2004; AFTERIMAGE, St. Martin's Minotaur 2007; THE ODDS, St. Martin's Minotaur 2009, PITTSBURGH NOIR, Akashic, 2011, and HIDEOUT, St. Martin's Minotaur, 2011.

George has been granted fellowships at artists' colonies, including the VCCA and MacDowell. Her short fiction has appeared in journals and magazines which include Mademoiselle, Cimarron Review, North American Review, New Letters, and Alaska Quarterly Review. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and one story was listed among the Distinguished in Best American Short Stories.

Her theatre publications are: Rhythm in Drama, University of Pittsburgh Press, 1980, Playwriting: The First Workshop, Allworth Press, 2008 (first in print with Butterworth (Focal Press) 1994), and Winter's Tales: Reflections on the Novelistic Stage, University of Delaware, 2005.




For those new to your series, can you describe the Pittsburgh Richard Christie mysteries?

Yes. Christie is a Commander in the Homicide Squad. He’s very well loved by his workers. He has a natural charisma. He’s not a party guy. He drinks but only in moderation. He once thought he would be a priest. So he’s bit of an odd bird. He’s naturally drawn to people and their stories, their needs. But he’s not as dull as that might sound. He has a big ego, which he’s always wrestling with. He has to force himself to toe the line when he often feels he knows what is best for people or for a case.

Other regulars on the squad and in the novels are Artie Dolan, a really good detective, and also Colleen Greer (new, smart, workaholic, sexy), and JohnPotocki, very smart, very literate.

Pittsburgh provides a rich setting for the series. There are so many interesting places—from parks to restaurants to ethnic neighborhoods. We have more bridges than Venice, lots of great old mansions, and whole neighborhoods with boarded up buildings. A lot of everything.

What was your inspiration for this series?

Some of the older crime novels. I’ve recently been aware of how much I was influenced by Marjorie Allingham’s The Tiger in the Smoke, and by Graham Greene’s Brighton Rock. And look what happened recently? Brighton Rock has been updated and adapted to a new movie. What I loved about these novels was the depth of character and the mix of good people and very bad people—both sides complex enough to keep the story from being a simple morality tale. I love that.

How would you describe Hideout to someone who has not read any of your previous novels?

There are some quiet sections in which you really get to know the characters and then there are scenes of hair-raising tension, so both moods and paces are part of my palette. The trigger event is a murder/accident. Ryan Rutter, high on drugs, drives to terrorize and when he hits a young mother going to work, he has to be on the run. He is helped in this by his younger brother Jack. Where do they go? Two hours north of Pittsburgh to a lake property where they break in to a house they once rented years ago. Just down the road lives Addie Ward, almost 83, up in her property alone since she wanted to get her garden in early. She’s nice, she’s vital, she’s . . . generous. She doesn’t deserve violence but it comes into her life in the person of Ryan.

What's your writing process? What is a typical writing day like for you? Do you keep to a set schedule? What are your writing habits?

I like to write every day, bad or good--who knows what the sentences are when you first get them down. I prefer to write from 4 a.m. to about 8 am. and then to move on to a regular day, but this schedule means going to bed early and that isn’t always possible. Sometimes the writing day has to be 6-9. Especially now that there is so much journalism about how good sleep is for the health.

What projects, literary or otherwise, are occupying you at the moment?

Soon I will get my editorial letter for SIMPLE, which is the next novel (been done and sold for over a year now) and I will revise that. It’s got a political setting. I never did one of those before. And I actually have a new one drafted which I plan to revise a bit. It’s called BLOOD. I haven’t shown it yet. I have several more projects but I don’t know if I can get to them—essays and a text. We’ll see.

Who were your literary influences growing up? Are there any authors (living or dead) that you would name as influences?

Growing up? Steinbeck, Hemingway, whatever my teachers told me to read. But after that, when I started studying and teaching theatre, the models became Chekhov, Shakespeare, Ibsen. I directed a good deal of Shakespeare and, man, did he know everything or what? I love that he puts the villains on stage and lets them tell you why they are malcontents and whom they want to hurt.

You started with literary short fiction. Your collection, The Man in the Buick, was highly praised. What inspired you to write your first novel, Taken? Had you always wanted to be a writer?

I had always always wanted to be a writer. No question. And I love short fiction. So I was happy writing it. But even though the stories in BUICK are kind of sober, I also wrote a comic story that got published in Mademoiselle and so many people loved my character and wanted me to write her into a novel that I spent many years trying to write a comic novel. One summer I gave up (too many drafts that didn’t fly!) and decided to entertain myself by teaching myself plot. So I began to make notes for a mystery. Then I wrote the mystery. That was TAKEN. It was a two-book contract so I had to write another one. I always do what is expected of me. Two mystery novels under my belt—that defined me.

Do you belong to a critique group of other authors. Or does your marriage to writer Hilary Masters help in that regard?

I hang out with other writers but we don’t critique. We laugh, we grumble, and some try out ideas. Once they did a round of critiques but I bowed out because I do that for a living. I tend not to show Hilary what I am doing unless and until it is very far along. He feels the same way. He likes to work in privacy.

What is your advice to aspiring writers? How important is it for a young writer to be a reader? What would you recommend they read?

I’d say read the kind of thing you would like to write. Not every writer agrees with this advice. Some fiction writers don’t read fiction. I do. I love falling into a story. I’d say read all the time, read every day. It really helps. We’re all in a conversation with other writers. That’s what we’re doing when we write.

What has been the hardest part about being a writer?

Hard? Not enough time. Never enough time. I often fantasized that if I got arrested and jailed I would at least be able to read and write non-stop. But then I visited a jail for research and I lost that fantasy. Jail is stinky and physically uncomfortable. I think I have to stay above the law.


Next post in this series on Friday will be Sandra Parshall. Monday will be the next in the Writers of Color series. Have a great weekend!