The good, meaty inner-conflict stuff was taken
Posted: January 14th, 2010, 11:18 pm
Have you ever done anything in your writing that you thought was so clever and that turned out to be so incredibly stupid? Yup. That’s me. About a million years ago, when I decided to write a mystery, I looked around and all the good, meaty, inner conflict stuff was taken. Drugs, booze, sleeping around, even serial killer point of view. What was left?
Along with the inner conflicts and addictions, all the occupations were taken as well. Doctor. Lawyer. Indian. Chief. Name a job and some series character already had it, and then there were the crafts, the hobbies, the suburban moms solving murders in the minivans. There were even housecleaner mysteries.
I banged my head against my laptop trying to think of something new. Then, like the Grinch, I had a wonderful terrible idea. Nobody had a series sleuth who, like, committed the big A, the Hester Prynne of sleuths. Nope. Nary a one. But how to make her sympathetic? Shouldn’t be too hard.
My sleuth was modern, too—no Emma Bovary or Anna Karenina. She had to have a cool occupation. I worked in Information Technology and knew a lot about computers and even a bit about computer crime. I would create a new kind of sleuth for the modern era, a cyber-sleuth. With a big “A” on her Wonderbra.
I wrote the first novel, the one that never sells, and then a second novel, which an e-publisher picked up and then went belly up, like a big dead carp. Wrote three more since then, and they line my office shelves. Everyone says the writing is good, but. . .
The big A is starting to look like the big goof. Some lines still can’t be crossed. Even now. And as an agent observed, ”mystery readers like people, not computers.” Strike two and strike three.
Have you ever done anything in your writing that you thought was so clever that turned out to be just incredibly stupid? I feel your pain.
Along with the inner conflicts and addictions, all the occupations were taken as well. Doctor. Lawyer. Indian. Chief. Name a job and some series character already had it, and then there were the crafts, the hobbies, the suburban moms solving murders in the minivans. There were even housecleaner mysteries.
I banged my head against my laptop trying to think of something new. Then, like the Grinch, I had a wonderful terrible idea. Nobody had a series sleuth who, like, committed the big A, the Hester Prynne of sleuths. Nope. Nary a one. But how to make her sympathetic? Shouldn’t be too hard.
My sleuth was modern, too—no Emma Bovary or Anna Karenina. She had to have a cool occupation. I worked in Information Technology and knew a lot about computers and even a bit about computer crime. I would create a new kind of sleuth for the modern era, a cyber-sleuth. With a big “A” on her Wonderbra.
I wrote the first novel, the one that never sells, and then a second novel, which an e-publisher picked up and then went belly up, like a big dead carp. Wrote three more since then, and they line my office shelves. Everyone says the writing is good, but. . .
The big A is starting to look like the big goof. Some lines still can’t be crossed. Even now. And as an agent observed, ”mystery readers like people, not computers.” Strike two and strike three.
Have you ever done anything in your writing that you thought was so clever that turned out to be just incredibly stupid? I feel your pain.