I'm Just Getting Started (Updated)

Pretend this is me.

Hi there! Yesterday, I gave myself (or maybe my dead father gave me) a pat on the back for possibly doing well this year.

I’m thrilled to say I’ve already started work on the fourth Sam McRae novel. The working title is DEEP SIX. Yes, my writers group is familiar with this one. However, I’ve learned so much since I first wrote it. Basically, it’s a shitty first draft that can be published.

Because writing isn’t just writing stuff down and publishing it. It’s rewriting it, until it sings.

I assure you DEEP SIX is, as my funny sister would say, “a highly punishable” story. And I will punish it for all it’s worth, until it’s ready to be published.

Meanwhile, please “like” the Sam McRae Mystery Series FB page.

Which is not a trilogy. You can help make this a four-book series by contributing to this crowdfunding project.

I have 28 days left to meet my $5,000 goal. Yikes! Will you consider making a small contribution?

I’ve also launched another campaign in which all donations will go to the Red Cross disaster relief effort. I’m giving out my books in exchange for contributions, in order to promote literacy, while supporting the Red Cross.

Got that?

And now, because I’m way too gimpy busy happy to type any more, here are some links of possible interest:

Philip Roth has called it quits.

Philip Roth quits.

At 97, Herman Wouk still has a book or two left.

Herman Wouk hasn’t quit.

At 101, Martha Ann Miller publishes her autobiography.

Way to go, Martha Ann!! You’re awesome!!!

Happily ever after? Not always the best ending. (Thanks, Tim Sunderland!)

Tim Sunderland

Okay, normally, I don’t share my shitty first drafts with anyone other than my writers group. But just to show you I’m serious about starting the fourth novel, here’s the shitty start. See what you think, okay? Remember it’s just a shitty first draft, okay?

Prologue

I once spent the night with six prostitutes.

It’s not what you’re thinking. In fact, I’m probably not who you’re thinking either. I’m Stephanie Ann McRae, better known to most people as Sam, the nickname I created from my initials. As you may have gathered, I’m a woman. I’m also a lawyer, in my late 30s and single, but not inclined to use the services of the world’s oldest profession.

The prostitutes and I spent our night in mutual discomfort in a holding cell in Landover, Maryland. It was my first, and hopefully last, time in jail.

If I learned one thing from the experience, it’s that I wouldn’t last a minute in prison. I also learned that I can’t pee when other people are watching.

Once I was in lockup, I spent a good deal of time pacing along the bars. Then I tried leaning against the bars. They started wearing grooves in my arms, so I switched to a wall that might have been beige somewhere under the grime and obscene graffiti. How did the graffiti get there? Smuggled crayons?  I mulled this over a bit, then went back to pacing. I avoided eye contact with my fellow inmates, having no desire to strike up a conversation. I think the feeling was mutual.

After a few hours of this, I tried to get what little sleep would come sitting on the cold concrete floor, knees up and huddled, keeping a shirtsleeve between myself and the filthy wall. I managed a half-doze, but kept getting snapped back awake by one of the prostitutes, who had a cough of tuberculin vigor, and a retching drug addict who’d joined the party late, but gotten a head start on celebrating.

Walt finally managed to spring me around 4:30 a.m. Even Walt Shapiro, one of the county’s finest criminal defense attorneys, must have had his work cut out for him that night.

You see, several hours before, I’d shot someone.

1

Ten days earlier

I could think of better things to do on a sunny morning in early May than to sit at a shabby desk in my small, sublet office waiting for the phone to ring and going over my severely diminishing law office’s financials. But the latter made the former necessary. So I opened the window to allow myself a taste of the mild spring, which would soon enough transform into a sullen, hot Maryland summer.

Law can be a seasonal business. Thanksgiving and Christmas are often a bust—people are too busy to bother with legal matters—but afterwards, look out. There’s usually a run on divorces wrought by dysfunctional holiday “cheer” and both criminal and personal injury cases resulting from too much holiday drinking. For whatever reason, I’d been experiencing an extended drought in business since the end of last October. Where are all the drunk drivers and assault perpetrators, I grumbled to myself. Or, much as I hated handling divorce and custody cases, I’d settle for a miserable spouse or two. Or someone hopelessly mangled in a car wreck. I grimaced at my thoughts. Only a lawyer would suffer such longings. But I was struggling to cover my overhead, plus unanticipated repairs to my car. My billables were a joke, but I wasn’t laughing.

I looked out the window onto Laurel, Maryland’s historic Main Street, all beautifully restored with brick and flowering trees lining the street. This part of town was the heart of old Laurel, what remained of a time that had long given way to suburban sprawl and houses of ticky-tacky, as the song goes. I could stand here looking out the window all day thinking about that or I could sit at my desk and think about that. But I couldn’t go out and chase ambulances or hand out business cards at funerals. I could advertise on the Internet. I could tell people all about myself and what I do. But I couldn’t force them to hire me.

So I did what I could to pay the bills. I sat at my desk, kept my books, ran an honest business and waited for the phone to ring. I turned from the window, went back to my desk and landed in my chair. Thud. Then the phone rang.

When the phone rang, I nearly answered, “Sam McRae, will represent you for food.”

I settled on my usual greeting instead. “Law offices.” Like I have more than one. One that I sublet, no less. Funny.

“Sam? Sam McRae, is that you?”

The voice was vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Was it a former client? “Yes,” I answered. Hopefully, not a former client with a complaint.

“Oh, my gosh, Sam. It’s been forever, but this is Linda Parker. Remember me?”

***

Okay, that’s it. But I’m just getting started, and the fact that I can type at all is awesome.

No joke.

And thank you Robert Crais! You really are my hero!

I’m not the doofus anymore.

And thank you everyone at Bouchercon this year! Including Carla Buckley. OMG! I forgot to mention Carla, who I hadn’t seen in like forever. So I’m mentioning you now.

Remember your first book signing?

Yeah, I was the doofus, all right. Ha ha ha …

BTW, I learned only today that my husband’s cousin knows Rob Siders, who owns 52 Novels. Small world, huh, Paul?

So … Rob, if you talk to Joe Konrath, please ask him if we can set aside our differences, if they exist.

Pretend I’m holding an olive branch or a drink.

I also submitted my screenplay to this contest. Isn’t that awesome?

Pretend this is me, writing.

RIP, Valerie Eliot.

The naming of cats is a difficult matter …

But I loves me some cats!

Finally, let’s wind up with this most appropriate quote from Nik Nak’s Old Peculiar:

“We are attempting to survive our time so we may live into yours.”

Part of President Jimmy Carter’s message on the Voyager 1 and 2 records.

Not to mention this highly appropriate song.

UPDATE: One more thing. Here’s an Indiegogo campaign “Send my cancer-mother on holiday”. Eric’s mom lost her breast to cancer, she’s gone through chemo and so on. Please click the link, so I don’t have to type anymore, because it explains everything. Thank you!