CONFESSIONS OF A SERIAL GIRL

So, I’m a confessed serial reader. I love the long story that ends and then picks up again with the next book. It’s why I’m already thinking about books five and six of the Kennedy Reeves series. I can’t find the end of the story.

My love of serials started early with Encyclopedia Brown. I couldn’t wait to get to the end of the short story and turn to the back to see if I had the answer right. When I was given my Aunt Eileen’s set of Nancy Drew books, I devoured them. Yep, right there on the spot, I plunked down on the rag rug, my back against her bed, and began reading The Secret of the Old Clock. I’m sure she was less than thrilled. I can still remember that book. It was a yellow hardback with Nancy on the front wearing a green dress and holding a big rectangular clock in her lap. But what I loved best about the fifty-odd books was that even though there was an ending, there was a beginning right around the corner with Nancy solving yet another mystery for one of her father’s oddball clients with the help of Bess and George, her cousins. I loved the town of River Heights; it seemed so quaint, but boy, there was a lot of drama in that little village. Then Nancy spread her wings and began to see the world, and I traveled with her to France, Egypt, Nairobi, and Japan.

I’ve always been addicted to serials, and I re-read books constantly to find some little nugget I missed the first time. In the many, many moves I have made and the unknown to be faced, there is comfort in knowing the characters and locations will always be the same for me between the pages. There are books and short stories I’ve read by Stephen King where a reference is made to an event in another town or happened years earlier, and I smile and think to myself, “Yep, I remember when that happened,” like an old man reminiscing with his friends about the good old days. The comfort of solving crimes with Lillian Jackson Braun in The Cat Who series took me on a whirlwind adventure as Jim Qwilleran, a down-on-his-luck newspaperman, became wealthy, but to keep the money he inherited, he had to live the quaint country life up north. Thank goodness he found some crimes to solve to stay busy. Even the more gruesome books I’ve read by Patricia Cornwell have left me with a satisfying amount of comfort, knowing that even the serial killer had become somewhat familiar. I discovered the Diane Mott Davidson series along the way, and…well… I’ll apologize now. Those books got damaged during reading because I had to try to make the recipes, she not only described in mouth-watering fashion but provided how to make the delectable dishes in the story. Some of the pages are glued together with egg white, there is flour in the binding of a few, shiny spots here and there with butter stains, and there was one recipe you can barely read due to a bowl of chocolate spilling on it. I was sad but satisfied when I finished the last book. It was a good run.

I think that is why I began writing a series with Kennedy Reeves. From the very start, I intended this to be an ongoing story, even if it was just for me. And I’ll continue the series until the story plays out. I wanted a story similar to the books I’ve read, with memorable, quirky characters that weave in and out. Major ones like Kennedy, as well as minor ones like Billy the Bellman, Vera Jameson, and Mr. Phyfe, as well as ones we’d like to strangle. (I won’t mention any names, but umm...hello? Omar?) I think in this modern world we live in, we need that sense of comfort—of the familiar. It’s like tomato soup and grilled cheese on a slushy day. Writing about Kennedy, her co-workers, and the passengers gives me a sense of belonging in a world that often feels aloof and uncaring.

And care? Oh my goodness, if you could only understand how much I worry about these characters. I felt the indignation and terror on the first cruise as an outsider tried to rip the team apart. I stood beside Kennedy on the gangway, my heart breaking with her as Omar walked down the pier. I watched Bert wipe the smear of ketchup off Art’s cheek and felt his nervousness when they went to dinner, and I spied on Rosemary and Franklin as they danced in the moonlight. When the Velveteen Rabbit asks the Skin Horse what real is, he sums up how I feel about my characters perfectly. “‘Real isn’t how you are made,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.’” (Sniff…sniff…I’m not crying. You’re crying. Pass me a tissue, please.)

I just finished writing book four, A Sleaze on the Seas. There is some tweaking still to do, but the gist of the book is finished. It’s been a difficult one to write. I started too soon, immediately after finishing A Heist on the Ice. I had so many ideas and avenues to explore…and I had to know what happened next. We all did, and honestly, I had no idea what would happen in the next book. All I knew I had was the title the hubster and I had come up with a year earlier and some ridiculous joke about lawyers and sharks. Other than that, I had nothing, nada. Then writer’s block hit, and it hit more than once. There were many days that writing this book reminded me of trying to drive up the icy and steep hill where I worked in Pittsburgh. Some days I made it. Some days, I ended up in the ditch. And then there were days when I silently handed my keys to the security guard wearing wet shoes. The same thing happened this time, although my toes weren’t numb this go around. So, I did what a good writer does…I waited for my characters to speak. We’ll see what you think of the dialog. But don’t worry. The story doesn’t end with book four. A good series should be like a cruise—stepping on board wide-eyed with wonder, cute towel animals left on your bed, some sunburn and seasickness, exotic ports of call to explore, a patch of rough weather, and as you are walking down the gangway, already booking your next trip.