AoMS

by

Suspense on WIP Wednesday

Sweets to the Sweet by Edmund Blair Leighton  

I am currently working on a romantic suspense. It’s a contemporary, and a novella, for the Authors of Main Street Christmas Wishes volume, due out in November.

Abbie’s Wish has a woman who has retreated to a country town to keep her daughter safe, and three men who’d like to change her mind about letting a man into her life. The tag line says: Abbie’s Christmas wish draws three men to her mother. One is a monster.

How do you create suspense in your story? Give us an example in the comments.

Here’s the second scene from Abbie’s Wish. (The first has Abbie at the fair, making her wish.)

He followed the seller into the garage, which was as filthy, cluttered and disorganised as he’d feared. But the man owned a matching piece to the genuine part he had come to see, and the pair together were worth four times the asking price. Not that he’d let on. Far from it. He had every intention of beating the price down, if only because he was inside this disgusting hole risking septicaemia or worse.

He cast a disgusted look at the sink bench, where car parts, tools, greasy rags, and other bits and pieces lay scattered among plates with congealed food scraps, dirty cups half-filled with cold liquid substances, and a tottering stack of fast-food boxes. He curled his lip at the pinups above the bench — little girls, none of them over ten, the pictures home printed and ornamented with hearts and comments.

Where was the man? He craned to see over a pile of boxes of parts, some labelled, most anonymous but as he did, something about the disturbing montage registered in his mind, and in two short strides he was next to the bench, peering at the little girl with the dark curly hair and the delighted smile.

The same girl was on the next clipping, which had been pinned up first, and half covered so he could see there was someone else in the picture, but not who it was. He checked again to make sure the owner couldn’t see him, then unpinned the top photo. He would have to scrub his hands, but it was worth it. “So that’s where you are,” he murmured to the woman, quickly scanning the paragraph or two of text that went with the image.  He slipped both clippings into his pocket and was back by the doorway by the time the seller had emerged from his search, triumphantly waving the part.

He returned the smile with one of his own. Genuine, indeed. Just what he needed to complete the restoration of his classic motor cycle. A couple of weeks of evenings, and he’d be ready for a road trip. And — he patted the pocket that held the stolen pictures — he now knew just where he wanted to go.

 

by

Correspondence on WIP Wednesday

 

For an author, correspondence can be handy, letting us tell the reader a bit of backstory without beating them around the head with it. Of course, this presumes a certain context — literacy, for a start. But in the historic novels I write, I use notes and letters quite a bit. In contemporaries, the equivalent would be a text message or an email.

This week, I have a piece for you from my latest contemporary, a novella for the Authors of Main Street summer collection: Summertime on Main Street Volume 1. In Beached, my hero has become estranged from his family, but is writing to his father.

Feel free to post your extracts in the comments. I’d love to read them.

The email took a long time to write. Zee knew what he needed to say, but the words didn’t come easily. Twice, he deserted his laptop to do other things — take Oliver out for a walk, do a bit of cleaning around the apartment, catch up on his laundry, set dinner simmering in the slow cooker. In the end, he thought he had it. Reading it over carefully, he adjusted a few words here and there, went to send, then changed his mind and resaved as a draft.

Stop procrastinating, you idiot.

It was as good as it was going to get. He opened the draft and clicked on the send button before he could have second — no, nineteenth or twentieth thoughts.

 

Hi Dad

It’s Drew here. I should have been in touch long ago. In fact, I shouldn’t have stormed off without first talking to you. And I’m going to admit straight up front that I’d still be putting off writing if I didn’t want something.

First, the apology. I knew fairly early on that you couldn’t have been involved in Pat’s conspiracy with that guy at Global Earth Watch. It just isn’t your style, or Michael’s either. I’m sorry I didn’t figure that out before I blew up.

That wasn’t why I left, though it was the trigger for the timing. I’d been thinking of trying something else, outside of O’Neal Hotel Corporation, for quite a while. I needed to see if I could make it on my own. I should have talked to you about that, too. Looking back, I can see that you’ve always supported all of us to do what we thought was right for us. You might have argued — probably would have. But just to be sure I’d thought things through, and then I would have had your blessing to make my own decision.

I’m sorry for judging you and getting it wrong.

I’ve been living in New Zealand, which I expect you knew. And I’m guessing you knew I’ve gone back to my old name. Zachary Henderson, not Andrew O’Neal. When Grandma and I decided to change my name back when I first came to live with you, you understood it was part of me trying to fit in. I hope you’ll understand that I needed to be that guy again, and see what he could grow into without the corporation and the O’Neal history behind him.

But, as Grandma always said, family is family. I like being Z. Henderson of Valentine Bay, New Zealand. But I’ll also always be an O’Neal. I needed some distance and the good friends I’ve found here to understand that.

Which brings me to my request. There’s a developer here who is building a hotel in a beautiful spot not far from where I live. Not a bad idea. The local economy would benefit from a properly designed and targeted project, one that respected the local community and the environment.

I have fears about the project as it stands, especially since Chow xxxx seems to be involved. I overheard him talking to the developer about bringing in his own labour, but his name appears nowhere in the publically available documentation, which is attached.

I have tried following the trail from the named investors to Chow. I’m sure there’s a connection, but I can’t find it. Would you put some people on to it? I’m happy to cover any costs.

Dad, I’d like to keep in touch. Give my love to the rest of the family, and feel free to pass on my email address.

 

How to sign off had bewildered him for a while. Just his name seemed far too cold. ‘Kind regards’ was too business like, and ‘Love’ was a step too far. He did love his father, and he knew his father loved him, but a male O’Neal didn’t talk about such things. In the end, he settled on ‘I miss you all, Drew’.

He hovered over the laptop, berating himself for expecting an instant reply. His father was a busy man, and might — in any case — need some time to come to terms with an out-of-blue contact from the prodigal son. But in less than fifteen minutes, the laptop dinged for an incoming message.