On Transforming Dr. Samantha Owens

(This essay appeared on the Harlequin Blog April 30, 2012)

We writers have voices in our heads. It’s just a fact of life. The voices speak to us, we write their words on the page, and people read the stories and are captivated, drawn into a land of make believe.

All right. Let’s be honest and call this what it really is. Controlled psychosis.

You laugh, but think about it. Where else in the world are you allowed to let the little voices in your head control your thoughts, your words, and your deeds? Hmmm?

Most writers are loners, happily spinning yarns with their imaginary friends day in and day out. There are a few of us who are extroverts, who don’t like being alone, who thrive on connection, and communication with the real world. The rest of us are completely happy left to our own devices. We’re the ones who would survive solitary confinement – there would be so much time to create, to allow characters to develop and ripen into the kind of people we are fascinated with. Whores and heroes, cowboys and queens and teachers, private investigators and cops, and of course, no story in the crime genre would be complete without a medical examiner.

My medical examiner has existed for several years. Dr. Samantha Owens was first written as the foil to my main character, homicide lieutenant Taylor Jackson. In her very first foray onto the page, many books ago, she scrapes something off a dead body into an evidence collection bag and promptly takes a deep long whiff. I knew immediately this wasn’t a weak woman. As her character evolved, she became more than a foil – she was the conscience of the Jackson series. It was inevitable that I’d write a book with her at the center, she’s got too much spark to ignore, or resist.

Thankfully, my agent and the fine folks at Mira agreed, and off I went into Samantha’s world, whistling a happy tune.

But Sam’s story was about to take a turn for the worse. Any time you have a spin off series, it’s good to give the lead character some space from their previous role. In my case, I went to the extreme, and killed off her husband and children. Clean slate. Clean break.

Heartbreaking, though. And very hard for me. I’d grown attached to the characters, was living vicariously through Sam’s mothering of her children. I have none of my own, despite years of trying, and it was fun to have a set of twins on the page to play with. And Simon, her husband, had been a fixture in the series since the first unpublished manuscript, earnest and supportive and smart.

I’ve learned that sacrifices must be made to be true to your art. They do say to murder your darlings. In this case, with a spin-off, set in Washington, D.C. instead of Nashville, that sacrifice had to be Sam’s family.

The loss changes her. Instead of the strong woman from the Jackson novels, this Samantha Owens is delicate. Almost as if she were burned over 80% of her body, and the flesh has grown back a translucent pink; no longer her armor, but simply a sheet covering her pain, one that can be ripped off at a moment’s notice. Her scars may be internal, but she must overcome them daily just to function.

This decision also gave me a chance to have a clear reference to the huge losses Nashville experienced during the 2010 floods. It is a fortuitous sign that the book releases on the second anniversary weekend. We’ve rebuilt, but so many lost so much, and I wanted to have a tribute, a shout out, to my city.

I hope you enjoy the kinder, gentler version of Samantha. She’s still a tough cookie, but now she’s every woman, every man, who’s experienced a loss. Someone to identify with, and to root for. Someone who shows us that hope springs eternal, and you can survive even the worst of experiences.

On the death of a bird

 

Last night, a small bird came to our back deck to die.

We went out to grill, and there it was - old, and clearly in its final moments. We brought it some water, which was refused. I said a prayer, and told it not to fight too hard, and we left it to its course, checking occasionally to see if the time had come. It was not a gentle, nor quick death. The birds sang in the yard, a song of silence, and I was compelled to find something to mark this lone being's solitary and inevitable passage. 

This is what I found, and was somewhat comforted. 

 

Death of the Bird

 by Alec Derwent Hope

 

For every bird there is this last migration;

Once more the cooling year kindles her heart;

With a warm passage to the summer station

Love pricks the course in lights across the chart.

 

Year after year a speck on the map, divided

By a whole hemisphere, summons her to come;

Season after season, sure and safely guided,

Going away she is also coming home.

 

And being home, memory becomes a passion

With which she feeds her brood and straws her nest,

Aware of ghosts that haunt the heart's possession

And exiled love mourning within the breast.

 

The sands are green with a mirage of valleys;

The palm tree casts a shadow not its own;

Down the long architrave of temple or palace

Blows a cool air from moorland scarps of stone.

 

And day by day the whisper of love grows stronger;

That delicate voice, more urgent with despair,

Custom and fear constraining her no longer,

Drives her at last on the waste leagues of air.

 

A vanishing speck in those inane dominions,

Single and frail, uncertain of her place,

Alone in the bright host of her companions,

Lost in the blue unfriendliness of space.

 

She feels it close now, the appointed season;

The invisible thread is broken as she flies;

Suddenly, without warning, without reason,

The guiding spark of instinct winks and dies.

 

Try as she will, the trackless world delivers

No way, the wilderness of light no sign;

Immense,complex contours of hills and rivers

Mock her small wisdom with their vast design.

 

The darkness rises from the eastern valleys,

And the winds buffet her with their hungry breath,

And the great earth, with neither grief nor malice,

Receives the tiny burden of her death.

 

A burden, and a gift.

Namaste.

On Ebooks and Smatterings

 

The digital version of A DEEPER DARKNESS is on sale today! 

Please consider ordering through your local independent, who can get you both a good deal and a version for just about every ereader out there.

And if you prefer books of the more tactile variety, there are signed copies of A DEEPER DARKNESS at both Reading Rock Books and Parnassus Books

Audio, as always, read by Joyce Bean, available as well.

We've had a bit of a perfect storm of publicity in the past couple of days, so instead of inundating you with link after link, I thought I'd pull them all together in one place for you to peruse at your leisure, should you be so inclined.

If you're in Nashville, I'm appearing on WSMV More at Midday today at 11am 

From LitStack - a featured author interview 

From Bookreporter - a hella good review and contest

From the Harlequin Blog - How I took Samantha Owens from supporting character to protagonist 

Reading a poem for the 5-2

AuthorLink Interview with Paige Crutcher

From ITW, a Between the Lines interview with Brett King

On what I'm currently reading

The Page 69 Test

Q&A on The Reading Frenzy with Debbie Haupt

And my favorite -  My Book, The Movie is now showing

 

Phew! Let the games begin. 

On Om Shanti Shanti Shanti

 

Do you yoga? I began back in the fall, a twice weekly practice that has ebbed and flowed over the past several months. When I started I could barely do a downward dog, pigeon wasn't at all challenging but I couldn't stand in mountain pose with my eyes closed, and I wondered if I would ever be able to do tree, as balancing on one leg was honestly a joke.

Six months later, my guru finished our session Saturday morning with a delighted smile. "You just did an intermediate to advanced level class." she said. "You don't even realize how far you've come."

I pondered that statement as I drove home. Without a doubt, I am physically stronger. I've added a solid fifteen to twenty yards to my golf drive, for example, so I know there are more muscles in the somewhere.  I dream about poses I haven't even tried yet, much yet mastered. Last week I took an online class that was exceptionally challenging and only pondered quitting twice, because the poses were well beyond my current abilities (balancing poses still give me fits. I blame the top-heaviness.) Each time, I persevered, adapting poses until we returned to a more manageable situation. When I finished savasana, I was pleased with my effort.

Pleased, but not satisfied. Because yoga is more than mastering poses for me. It is about the transcendence that I feel, the peace, the sheer connectedness with my being. It's almost a state of hypnosis. It is somthing I strive for in my meditation as well, which in and of itself is wrong, striving guarantees you won't find what you seek. You must be. Yoga is the same way. That transcendence doesn't happen every time, but it is glorious when it does.

My guru reminds me that we approach our practice as we approach our life. And as I grit my teeth and try to force my body into positions that it most likely was not meant to go into, I think about that adage. I unclench my teeth, soften my gaze, smile. "It's just yoga, baby," my guru coos at me. And we giggle when I lose my balance, and try, and try, and try again.

I can say unreservedly that yoga has changed my life. My perspective. Like writing, days when I don't do yoga aren't good days. Days when I write and yoga are stellar. And when I find myself leaning over my laptop, gritting my teeth, I soften my gaze, and smile, and remind myself that determination is a good thing, but relaxing and letting it flow is always more preferable.

Today, as I march into another year, I look back on the previous birthday and ask myself - are you happier now than you were then? Are you doing what you love? Are you finding ways to make those you love happy? The answers are invariably yes. But this year, I add a new question.

Are you at peace?

And the answer is found in my mantra. Om shanti, shanti, shanti.

Everything peace, peace, peace.

 

 

On Solitude

This essay appeared April 21, 2012 on Meanderings and Musings

We writers have voices in our heads. It’s just a fact of life. The voices speak to us, we write their words on the page, and people read the stories and are captivated, drawn into a land of make believe.

All right. Let’s be honest and call this what it really is. Controlled psychosis.

You laugh, but think about it. Where else in the world are you allowed to let the little voices in your head control your thoughts, your words, and your deeds? Hmmm?

Most writers are loners, happily spinning yarns with their imaginary friends day in and day out. Some of us are extroverts, getting a rush from interaction, gratified by teaching, or simply refilling the well on a night out with friends.

I’m one of those bizarre introverts who can unveil my personality at will, as necessary, for groups. The public me is a version of myself, the me I want to be. It’s like actors on the stage, playing a role. Or, for those of us who are terribly shy, it’s a bit like going to war.

You embellish yourself a bit. So you can make it through the night. You put on pretty clothes – armor. You do your makeup and your hair – helmet. You take a pill or have a glass – shield. And then, head to toe in metal and mail, you swan about, hoping you aren’t putting your foot into it too badly.

But that’s life, isn’t it? We all feel that momentary cringe when we think we’ve said something off, or insulting, or embarrassing. 99% of the time, no one takes your words the way you think they came out. As a matter of fact, everyone is so busy cringing that no one really hears what’s being said.

I hope.

Many of you know that Randy and I recently lost our beloved kitten, Jade, aka Thrillercat. Things have been very, very quiet around here. I’ve always seen myself as a quiet writer – I like the silence of being alone with my thoughts and my laptop – but it wasn’t until Jade passed away that I realized just how much I talked to her during the day. I ran bits of dialogue past her, or ideas, or questions. And she sat there, quiet as a mouse, and accepted all my thoughts. It is so bizarre not to have that sounding board anymore. And it’s been lonely.

I’m starting the tour for my newest novel, A DEEPER DARKNESS, April 17. I will be strapping on my armor and sallying forth into the world to talk about the book, and hopefully not put my foot in my mouth too many times. But this novel is about loss, and since I’ve been experiencing so much of my own lately, I’m girding myself to speak in public about that very issue.

It’s the commonalities that make each of us connect with a book. Even quiet, solitude-loving writers need to come out of their shells every once in a while and connect with people. I hope to see you on the road. And maybe we can make each other feel a little less alone. 

If you're in Nashville, join me tomorrow at Parnassus Books in Green Hills at 1pm for a reading and signing of A DEEPER DARKNESS!