The flowers that bloom in the spring...

 by Carola Dunn

I love flowers, and growing things in general, and I always use plants as part of the setting in my books. Whether it's hedges wreathed with sweet-scented honeysuckle or scarlet poppies in a field, a meadow abandoned to stinging nettles or a wood carpeted with bluebells, using specific names adds life and colour.


Sometimes, plants can be used as more than part of the setting. In Anthem for Doomed Youth, for instance, a garden suggests the character of one of the victims--and that his widow isn't exactly heartbroken by his death:

UK cover

Colonel Pelham had lived in a stuccoed post-war bungalow, painted a bilious shade of mustard yellow with a dreary olive-green front door. The contrast with the typical Kentish red-tile roof was particularly distressing.

The front garden was laid out with military precision. A rectangular patch of lawn on each side of the brick path had rectangular flowerbeds centred in each lawn, edged with low, rectangular box hedges, as was the path. The beds were planted with rigid rows of magenta rose-campion and sternly staked red-hot pokers....

...their ears were assailed by a well-bred but determined female voice floating out through an open window.

"Everything," it insisted. "The lawn, the box, the campion—hideous colour!—the lot. I'm putting in a forsythia, and rambler roses, and... What else sprawls all over the place?"

"But madam—"

"What else?"

"Well, buddleia, madam, an'... But they be mortal untidy, madam!"

"Just what I want, a bit of untidiness in my life. Nasturtiums! Trailing geraniums! You can start digging everything up, Johnson, and I'll get a book to help me decide what to plant." 

 

Even the most beautiful garden can harbour a threat. Dead in the Water begins with Daisy's arrival at her aunt's riverside house where she goes outside:

Looking down, Daisy saw a spotted brown-linen rear end backing cautiously out of the rosebed, followed by a broad-brimmed straw hat.

"Hullo, Aunt Cynthia."

"I keep telling him chopping off their heads won't kill them." Lady Cheringham, straightening, brandished a muddy-gloved and clutching a dandelion with a twelve-inch root. Her lean face, weathered by decades of tropic climes, broke into a smile. "Hullo, Daisy. Oh dear, is it past four already?"

Daisy started down. "Only quarter past. The train was dead on time and your man was waiting at the station." On the bottom step, she nearly fell over a garden syringe.

"Careful, dear! I was spraying the roses, dealing death to those dratted greenfly, when I noticed the dandelion."

"Not deadly poison, I hope? It seems to have dripped on your

blouse."

"Only tobacco-water, but perhaps I'd better go and wash it off. It does stain horribly." Lady Cheringham dropped the dandelion's corpse by the sprayer. "Bister simply won't admit that hoes are useless against these brutes, but that's what comes of having a chauffeur cum gardener cum handyman."

"I rather like dandelions," Daisy confessed.

"Never fear, however many we gardeners slaughter, there will always be more." She stooped to pick up a trug, loaded with pink and yellow cut roses, which lay on the grass at her feet. "As a matter of fact, I really just came out to deadhead and cut some roses for your room--"

 

Nicotine is, of course, a deadly poison...

Gardens are a traditional place to hide a body. In The Winter Garden Mystery, I not only have a body buried in a flowerbed, but the flowers themselves draw attention to its presence:

"And that bush?" She gestured at an unhappy-looking shrub in

the middle of a bare patch of ground. "What's that?"

"Azalea, miss." He frowned, puzzled. "They bloom early in here, too, but..."

"What's wrong?" 

"It's terrible it looks. And where's the irises around it? Myself I planted them, the kind that's flowering now, and hardly any has come up." He stepped over the low kerb and picked his way carefully to the small bush. Most of its few remaining leaves were brown, except for one bronze-green sprig.

Daisy saw that the dark soil of the bare patch was broken by a few scattered iris shoots. "Perhaps a dog got in and dug them up and buried them again too deep," she proposed, though there was no sign of the earthworks usually left by an excavating canine.

"The azalea is dying." Owen Morgan turned, panic-stricken. "All the buds are dead. What'll her ladyship say? Please, miss, I must find Mr. Bligh."

........

Owen had dug a trench right across the bare patch of soil. He and Mr. Bligh stood at one end, gazing down with fascinated revulsion.

"Go on, have a look," urged Mr. Bligh. 

Owen knelt in the dirt. Reaching down, he moved something at the bottom of the trench. "Oh God! Oh God!" He flung himself backwards onto his heels, his arms across his face. "It's her. It's my Grace."

We haven't even begun to consider the many beautiful deadly blooms: foxgloves, angel's trumpet, oleander, lily of the valley...the valley of death!

PS. You may recognize the title as being from Gilbert & Sullivan's Mikado. After all, Mikado is all about deciding which of the characters is to be executed...

Overwriting Is Just That

By Chester Campbell

Early in my novel-writing career, if I may be so bold as to call it that, I signed with a large New York literary agency. I had submitted my third book to them, the last in a three-book post-Cold War trilogy, as yet unpublished. The first two novels had agents who fell by the wayside, but this one was written so it would stand alone.

After sending off the manuscript, I received a letter saying they liked the story but it needed a line edit by a professional editor. The main problem was “overwriting.” At that point, I had no idea what overwriting meant. And I had no clue about where to find a professional editor or what a line edit involved. I talked to the agency and was told the manuscript needed cutting. It was too wordy. Among other things, I indulged in too much description. As best I recall, it ran well over 600 typewritten pages.

I didn’t find a professional editor, but I sat down and started cutting. Whole chapters at first, then pages, then paragraphs, sentences, and, finally, words. I sliced it down by about 150 pages and re-submitted the manuscript. That’s when they accepted it and sent me a contract. What happened after that is another sad story. Suffice it to say they never sold the book (plus a couple of others I sent them), and I asked out of the contract.

What I gained out of the experience was an understanding that too many words can be a bad thing. I know, some big name mystery writers get away with describing everything their characters observe in great detail. And a few do it with such lyrical prose that I enjoy it. But very few.

When most writers get carried away with their descriptions, I start skimming. In writing the Greg McKenzie Mysteries, I honed my style to tell stories using only enough detail to paint a clear picture for the reader. I try to keep my dialog short and pithy. Such measures designed to avoid overwriting have resulted in shorter, faster-paced books. Page turners, as they say.

Overwriting also requires getting rid of duplicate explanations that sneak in when it’s necessary to clue in another character on a past event. Do it the easy way by saying something like she told him what she had learned from the visit to Mr. X. Another point I learned from my editor on the first McKenzie book was not to underestimate your reader. It isn’t necessary to explain every little point when you’re dealing with stuff they should already know.

Chris Roerden has a good chapter on overwriting in her book Don’t Murder Your Mystery. I wish I’d had it when I submitted that manuscript back in 1992.

James Lee Burke Is One Scary Dude

by Ben Small

For the longest time, I didn't read James Lee Burke. A friend had portrayed his writing as describing frogs on a bayou log. "How many times can you describe that frog?" my friend said.

Then I read Burke. Had some spare time, and one of his books appeared as if by magic. Okay, so I was curious: What was so great about a frog - Budweiser ads excepted - that merited description in oh so many books?

Well, wow! That frog does dance.

Most "How To" books urge the writer not to go overboard on description, to keep the picture portrayals strictly relevant to the story, lest the reader get side-tracked or bored. And many writers violate that rule, and are shot as a consequence. But Burke gets away with using descriptions to fill about a third of his page count.

How does he do this?

Simple. He puts the reader in the bayou, swimming in the muck and quicksand, swatting the mosquitoes, sweating like Kirstie Alley in a sauna, and stinking like a Kathy Reichs' bloated-body-bugfest.

And evidently, a lot of people like to experience that: mucking, swatting, sweating and stinking. Or is it that they don't; that they want to experience Louisiana without actually going there? I'd say count me in that post-Katrina group except for one thing: the food. My god, the food. Why can't Arizona make a decent facsimile of Louisiana gumbo?

Well, I've gotten side-tracked here. The mere thought of Louisiana food always does that to me. Back to James Lee Burke and his writing.

What kind of nutbag is this guy?

Stephen King and other writing authorities suggest writing what you know. If James Lee Burke is doing that, I can learn from this man. More or less, every one of his books I can remember has featured a cast of people you never want to meet: degenerate preachers; evil rich bad guys who lust after pretty young and innocent things; pimps and prostitutes; druggies and boozers; tattoed boob-ettes; gunbulls; prison rapists; mobsters; gamblers; hitmen; crooked cops and politicians, and last but not least, Clete Purcell.

Can there be a more degenerate character than Clete? Forget the gut, the unhealthy glow of 220-over-140 blood pressure readings, and his pock-marked and sweaty sun-burned neck. This stuff just makes Clete look like Larry, the cable guy. No, Clete's got the personality to match these wonderful characteristics. Pop your fingers and count: 1) Clete's always drunk and sweaty; 2) He can be counted on to say and do the dumbest of things to all the wrong people; 3) He's killed a federal informant; 4) He enjoys drugs and prostitutes; 5) He was a corrupt N.O. cop; 6) He's murdered a bunch of people in a plane crash; 7) He's probably left more teeth in toilets than a dental convention, and 8) He's been known to attack with innovative weapons such as hammers, fully oiled frying pans, and tire irons. (These tools are just for novelty; Clete likes guns, knives, saps and baseball bats, too.) Clete actually enjoyed Vietnam, thought it was a hoot. So, of course, with all these charms, how can Clete help but be a babe-magnet? His latest conquest: an FBI agent. Smart guy, that Purcell: Go with a chick who can bust you for lying. What's next: Playing medicine ball with a hornet's nest?

But seriously, how could Clete not be a stud? He's so vulnerable, isn't he? What that poor man has had to endure. Clete's seen more hospitals than Doc Kildare. Poor S-O-B had his hand squashed in a car door; he's been smashed with enough iron to make him fearful of magnets; he's been shot so many times he could strain spaghetti, and in the latest Burke masterpiece Swan Peak he was tied to a tree, blindfolded, doused with gasoline and forced to listen to a Zippo's spinning wheel.

Doesn't Clete ever wonder if it's smart having Dave Robicheaux as a buddy? Seems to me the only thing more hazardous is having Jessica Fletcher around.

And what about Dave? Poor ole Dave Robicheaux stands for truth and justice, and it's cost Dave plenty. He's had wives murdered and a daughter threatened. He's been suspended numerous times, suspected of murder over and over. He's been beaten, stabbed, shot, haunted by Vietnam nightmares, and don't ask about his parental issues. The guy's a drunk. And is it any wonder? Dave's hollow inside; he's not just got worms in his head, they're full-bodied snakes. In Swan Peak, Dave - the good guy - threatens to throw a preacher into an airplane propeller. My goodness, we thought water boarding was bad. And, oh, did I mention, he married a nun? Dave best do some serious repenting.

So getting back to my point: If what Stephen King and others say about writing what you know is true, James Lee Burke is one spooky dude.

But can I learn from this man? Hell yes, about description and the depravity of man.

Do I want to be his pal?

Hmmm...

Why not. I just bought a Total Gym. Chuck Norris is my buddy.