What do you think makes a good story?

I once joined my local writers' group purely for the pleasure of meeting fellow wordsmiths. Yet I came away with a whole new appreciation of what it means to write. It seemed, after just two stints with the group, that my view of what makes a story great varied widely to others.

It was both a revelation and an inspiration that still echoes years later.

But first the revelation…

It was some years ago now. I had been toying with the idea of writing a crime novel for a long time but needed a kick up the proverbial. Always a very solitary writer, I have never really enjoyed collaborating with others on written pieces, and this despite over a decade in the media industry. This time, however, I decided I needed to shake things up.

It was time to stick my head out of my cave and connect with others.

So I looked up the number of my local writing group and gave them a buzz. I was quickly and enthusiastically welcomed to come along to their next session, the following week, at a local cafe. Which I did.

Now, I'm not sure how most writers' groups work, having never been to one, but this one followed a fairly simple routine. We would all settle in at the caf', order our preferred poison (latte and choc brownie for me in case you're curious) and begin to discuss what we'd been writing that previous week. Eventually a few brave souls would offer to read a bit of theirs out, and the rest of us would offer words of encouragement, wishing we had the courage to do likewise. Then, when that was over, someone would offer up a 'writing exercise'.

This happened each week, apparently, but always had a different focus. Today the focus was a postcard someone had brought along. It was of a field of poppies, a shed in the far distance, and a bleak sky. We were to use that as inspiration to write, giving ourselves 10 minutes to do so before each reading our offering at the end.

I was nervous but excited. Invigorated, too. So off I scribbled! I wrote with fervour and ferocity, scratching down the tale of a child lost, of a shed that offered redemption from the threatening night, of a bird that helped the child find her way home.

There was a beginning, a middle and an end. I thought I had done good.

Then, the 10 minutes up, we each took turns to read our stories out. Turns out I had not done 'good' so much as 'different'.

The first woman who read hers had latched on to that shed and described it in minutiae, every rotting timber floorboard and cobweb-covered crevice. Another writer rambled about the clouds above in vivid, florid detail. A third was fixated with the mood, the ambience, the bleaky bleakness of the night sky.

Not one of the eight writers had an actual story of any kind. Or none that I could see. They had words, they had adjectives, metaphores and similes. But none went anywhere. None did anything.

Nothing bloody happened!

Had I misunderstood the exercise? Were we just supposed to describe the postcard but not actually tell a story?

It was now, finally, my turn to read aloud and I was almost too scared to do so. For a few terrifying minutes I felt like a failure. I hadn't stopped to spend too much of my ten precious minutes on description. I had simply created a story, set up a conflict, and resolved it at the end.

They all listened politely, nodded their heads and smiled. I don't know if any of them even noticed the difference but I sure did.

The following week the focus for the free-writing exercise was a small, pink crystal someone had brought in, and I tried very hard to be descriptive, really I did. But ten minutes later, eight writers had described the crystal in exquisite detail and one had told of how an unassuming crystal had saved the diamond queen from the demon rocks.

That was the last time I attended that group.

It's not that I thought myself better than those writers, or worse for that matter. It's not that they weren't talented. It's just that their idea of writing differed so markedly to mine.

Prose vs plot

I learned that day that there are at least two types of writers: those who focus on prose and those who focus on plot. And I am so clearly—so unapologetically—in the latter. I love words, really I do, but in my world they have a purpose that goes beyong describing stuff. They must advance a plot. They must present a story. They must DO SOMETHING! Otherwise, they're just, er, words.

Words are like bricks in a wall. Pretty bricks make for a pretty wall, but I'm more interested in where that wall leads, and what the hell lies behind it.

It's little wonder, then, that I went on to forge a career as a mystery writer (which must be second only to sci-fi in the tightly plotted genres, surely?).

Yet sometimes, in quiet moments when I find my writing verging on the florid, I think back to that group and those descriptive writers. And I know that they inspired me in ways I never realised at the time. They showed me that while I may be no poet, no siree, I sure know how to tell a decent story, and isn't that what good writing is really all about?

It is in my book.

Happy plotting everyone!

xo Christina

The Ikea Theory on Writing (it's just as unfathomable)

I was chatting to a neighbour the other day, groaning about a particularly badly written novel I was in the middle of editing.

"Some people just shouldn't write books," I said. "It's woeful and I'm struggling to make sense of it."

"Oh dear," he replied. "Hopefully she'll just self-publish and be done with it."

I was gobsmacked.

What did he mean? Was he saying that self-publishing is only for woeful writers? Was he saying that self-published books didn't go anywhere so it would get lost in a giant black sludgepile and save us all the agony?

Whatever my neighbour was saying, it didn't bode well for me.

While I have had a book traditionally published, I now self-publish my own novels, and have nine indie books available on all the major channels. I sold over 3,000 copies last month on Amazon alone and have an average four star rating. I DIY, and I do so proudly.

Or at least I did, until we had our little roadside chat.

Despite my humiliation, I didn't call my neighbour on his words because I didn't want to embarrass him. He's actually a decent bloke and I knew that he knew I self-published books, so would be mortified by what he'd just said. I couldn't bear the look in his eyes when he realised his faux pas, the frantic backpedal, the attempt to swallow words and attitudes that were, frankly, indigestible.

Come on, guys, let's remove the scales from our eyes and modern up.

We no longer believe that the produce sold at Woolworths and Coles is better than produce from the farmers' market. That's laughable. We accept that mass produced furniture from Ikea usually fails in comparison to bespoke pieces made by a local carpenter. Yet we still cling on to the idea that if there's a Big Publisher behind a book, it must be somehow better. Surely we're better than that? Surely we're smarter? Surely we've read anything by Tara Moss, Mary Higgins Clark or Lynda La Plante?

Now before you get up in arms and accuse me of my own bias, allow me to qualify: I know all three traditionally published mystery authors are HUGELY successful and have an enormous fan base, and all power to them. I'm not saying their work is crap, not at all. But I could name at least 50 indie mystery authors I've read who do a FAR SUPERIOR job. These lesser-known authors create prose that is so much richer, characters who are far less cliche, and plots that leave you gripping the edge of your bed each night.

Yet by destiny or design, they have gone the independent route, and while some are doing really well, others are struggling. And they're struggling thanks to the attitudes of people like my neighbour who clearly wouldn't give them a whirl because they haven't got the words Pan Macmillan or Penguin or Harper Collins somewhere in the opening pages.

How short sighted of him, and oh how he's missing out!

The changing tide
The indie book publishing world IS changing, and it's changing fast. Sales are zooming, profits are booming, and many writers now choose to go it alone. Yet the general population has a looooong way to go to catch up. My neighbour was not trying to be insulting, he just has a bias that should be left in the 20th century where it belongs.

Stories are stories are stories. It shouldn't matter about format or publisher. That's an irrelevance.

All I ask today, dear readers, is that you give a book credit based on its content, not the imprint at the front. Take a look at the star rating. Look at the reviews. Read the first few chapters before you diss or dismiss. It's that simple.

Oh and be careful what you say to your neighbours. They might have just published another indie novel and be feeling pretty proud of themselves. Let's give them a pat on the back not a silent slap.

Happy (unbiased) reading everyone.
xo Christina

When one door shuts...

I knew the second our eyes met that I was doomed.

The young woman glanced up from her iPhone 6, caught my eye, frowned slightly (ever so slightly) then kept glancing around, her eyes boring into the younger women gathered in the foyer around me. She had a kind of pleading, desperate look about her.

Trying not to frown in response (lest the crow's-feet scare her further) I wedged my lips into a bright smile, hid my old Samsung mobile phone in my handbag, and strode confidently across the room towards the leather sofa where she was now perched.

"Amber?" I called out as I narrowed in.

The website editor looked up at me and blinked a few times before it hit. "Christina?" she asked, dubiously. I nodded, extending one hand to shake hers. "Oh! Right. Sorry, I didn't see you there, please take a seat."

As she waved me into the chair beside her, I wondered whether I should save us both the time and simply turn around and walk away. Then I internally slapped myself for being so defeatist, sat down and attempted to redazzle her with my extensive resume.

I say 'redazzle' because Amber was already familiar with my work. We had met via email the month before and "awed" by my extensive writing experience (which includes editing national magazines, freelancing for 15 years, and running bureaus in London, NY and LA), she had given me four internet articles to write in just two weeks. I did them promptly, there were no complaints and that's when I let my guard down. I suggested we meet in person. I was coming to town and thought it would be lovely. But as soon as I saw the trendily dressed 20-something glance straight past me in the foyer of her office block I knew I had misstepped.

The woman was polite, she was responsive, she promised me more work. And then, after just ten minutes, she began to fiddle nervously with her iPhone and made her excuses. I thanked her for her time, returned home and proceeded not to hear from her. As I feared I wouldn't. 

Such is the life of an ageing female* journalist. 

Why am I so negative I hear you ask? 

You do the maths: 

Before meeting me in person = 4 freelance articles in 2 weeks

After meeting me in person = 0 freelance articles in 12 weeks (and counting)

"She was startled by my age," I told a friend who rolled her eyes in reply. "No, seriously, she seemed almost shocked to be chatting to a 40-something about writing for her hip new website. She was polite enough but she couldn't get rid of me fast enough and has not replied to a single email since I returned home. Not even a 'thanks anyway'. She's blocked me, dumped me. Thrown me on the scrap heap."

"Oh you're being pathetic," my friend scoffed. "Maybe she's just busy."

"For three months? I think not."

I don't blame Amber, not really. I was a young editor once. I probably dismissed older people, too, without even realising I was doing it. When I was 21, 30 seemed ancient, so to sit across from a 48-year-old must have felt prehistoric.

I wonder how 50-, 60- and 70-somethings do it, and I take off my hat to those who've survived and flourished in an industry that's hard enough no matter what your age. To them I must sound like a classic 'cry baby', and I apologise for that. I know I'm not old, not AT ALL, but in Amber's eyes I was well past my prime. It's all relative, isn't it?

Of course my defeatist attitude would not have helped. I understand that, too. Perhaps I had given up before I even sat down, but a decade of dwindling job offers and gradually quietening phones has done that to me. And I am not alone.

It IS harder to find work as you get older, especially in young industries like the internet and dying industries like journalism. But I don't hold it against Amber and I don't hold it against the industries because the very thing that has been killing off my traditional writing work, has enabled my new career as a fiction writer. And for that I am eternally grateful.

Thanks to the 'world wide web', I can self-publish my own books from home. I can reach out to my own audience (hello there!), promote my own work, and make a really lovely living without leaving my living room.

It has nothing to do with my age or my looks or how funky my phone is. I don't need the Ambers of the world to get ahead in the indie publishing world, and it's a liberating feeling.

So it's swings and roundabouts. When one door shuts... and all that.

I write this blog, not for a pity party but as a reminder to all that while age shouldn't matter, it probably does. But it must never hold us back. My short-lived career at the hip website may be over, but there's a silver lining: I now have more time to focus on my fiction, and you can guess who's getting slaughtered in my next crime novel (cue sinister laughter now).

The upshot of aging

Readers at Amazon and Apple and Nook don't seem to care what I look like or what I'm wearing or what mobile phone is in my daggy handbag. They just want great stories, and here's the kicker—the older I get, the better my stories become. That's the great thing about getting older: your writing matures right along with you.

So thanks for all your support over the years, dear readers, and happy reading everyone, no matter how old you are.

xo Christina
*NB: I don't know whether this is a phenomenon exclusive to women, I sincerely doubt it, but I'd love to hear from men on that score. In fact, I'd love to hear from ALL of you - men and women, old and young. Just drop a comment below and let me know if you've ever experienced ageism at work or in life.

What writers do when the power goes out

The darkness drops again...

If I was a deeply religious person, I'd think that it was divine intervention, or a message from above. Instead, I'm beginning to wonder whether it's my creative muse giving me a little zap.

Several times this month my Power Supplier has informed me that the electricity will be switched off for eight hours, in a few days time. Let me just repeat that. EIGHT HOURS! That's 480 minutes or  a full working day.

Oh. My. Freakin' God!

Now, before you start sending cheques, let me clarify: It's not because I haven't paid my bill, heaven forbid, but because they're doing maintenance on the lines. Or something. And each time I have cursed the aforementioned heavens and had to get better organised.

Preparing for the Stone Age

Being in the final throes of the first draft of my second Agatha Christie Book Club, has meant charging up the laptop the evening before said Power Outage so I can at least get a few decent hours of work in before my world turns Stone Age.

It's happened twice already and I have two more 'Off Days' scheduled before the month is out. Arrrgggh!

Except, really, if I think about it, it's a blessing in disguise. Because no power means no WiFi and no TV and no kettle and all those other modern distractions that drag me from my typing and help me to procrastinate.

And as every author knows, it's so easy to procrastinate when you're writing a book. Hell, it's practically mandatory. That and copious supplies of coffee.

Without power, however, both things become a lot more difficult, and the world becomes very, very small. Suddenly all I have is a tiny window of opportunity to get some typing done—four hours if the laptop battery is behaving itself. Suddenly I need to focus as I've never focused before. Every second counts. I don't muck around. I don't check Facebook or put the washing on or phone a friend. I just sit and I type and I type and I type — for four hours straight.

Without a single coffee break, mind.

And then—gasp—the laptop goes black and I am left with nothing but a dead screen and my thoughts.

And that's okay, too, because as every writer also knows, there's nothing better than some 'dead time' to really let your brain come to life. On both occasions I use that time to ponder what I have written, tighten a few plot points, and reconfigure several characters who weren't quite dancing off the page. 

And I do it all with these weird gadgets they call 'pencils' and 'notepads'. And things do not fall apart! The centre does hold! Mere anarachy is far from loosed upon the world. In fact, efficiency and calm appear to descend and my brain is as lit up as a light bulb.

By the time the full eight hours is over and the power is miraculously back on, I am fully recharged, my book is humming along and we are both the better for it.

So, bring it on oh Power (Company) That Be. Your maintenance work on the power lines is powering up my focus and creativity.

As for you, dear readers? Look out for my new book in the coming months. Just a few more power outages and it'll be done.

Until then, happy reading.

xo Christina

Out of the (cozy) cupboard and proud!

I knew they were crime. I knew they were fairly benign. But I never had a clue my murder mysteries were 'cozy' until I began uploading them to Amazon. 

Despite my best efforts—'suspense!', 'international mystery!', 'humor!'— I was quickly relegated to the 'Cozy' genre. Didn't bother me, of course. It just confused me.

What the hell is Cozy Crime?

The name, of course, gives the game away. Look up a dictionary, any dictionary, and you're likely to find the words: "comfortable, snug, warm and friendly".*

And, yes, that is one way of looking at my books. Kind of.
I mean, there are a few murders in the mix, but for the most part The Ghostwriter Mystery Series and The Agatha Christie Book Club can be read in the dead of night without looking over your shoulder and checking the locks.

They're not dripping in blood and lurking with vicious rapists or child killers. There's no gory autopsies and psycho serial killers.

They're mysteries with an edge of menace. Puzzles with a little peril. A good story with some secrecy and problem solving thrown in. And, yes, okay then, they are best read cuddled up in a cozy armchair, preferably with a cute dog/cat/cuppa by your side.

Guilty as charged!

Of course many authors, readers and publishers go even further than that, and suggest that 'Cozy' means 'small town', means 'amateur sleuth', means compulsory addition of a cat/dog/craft/hobby. And for some it does. But it needn't be that defined.

For me, 'cozy crime' just means a bloody good mystery that's enjoyable to read, fun to solve, has a very clever plot and quirky, lovable characters, and still lets you sleep at night. Or, as they say: Comfortable, snug, warm and friendly.

So, to celebrate the genre that was thrust upon me but which I have quickly grown to adore, I wanted to give a thumbs up to some other wonderful cozy authors with whom I share Amazon digital shelves and a facebook writing group. I haven't read them all but I can vouch for their sincerity and devotion to the genre, whether they intended to write cozy or not.

Take your pick...

And happy (cozy) reading everyone!
xo Christina

* The Concise Oxford Dictionary

C.A. Larmer Author of novels at Self-Employed	Ritter Ames Fictional Escape Artist at Writer
Kathi Daley Kathi Daley Books at Writer	Julie Mulhern Washington and Lee University
Mollie Cox Bryan Mystery Writer at Kensington Publishing Corp.	Tonya Kappes USA Today Bestselling Author at Paranormal Mystery and Women's Fiction Joined about 8 months ago
Dianne Harman University of California, Los Angeles	Leigh Selfman
Julie Seedorf Writer at Self-Employed	Sylvia Selfman
Leslie Langtry University of Illinois at Springfield	Julie Moffett Works at Novelist
Amy Metz Author at Home	Christa Nardi University of Connecticut at Storrs
Celeste Burke Author at Writer	Julie Sarff Works at Community College of Denver
Zanna Mackenzie Works at Freelance Writer and Author	Kee Patterbee Georgia State University
Morgana Best Works at Author	Maureen Kovach Retired English teacher at Carey High School
Duncan Whitehead	Ava Mallory Author at Author Ava Mallory

WTF (Why The Fuss?)

I swear to God, I'm still trying to get my head around some readers' adversity to cursing and profanity in my books, and for that reason, I'm embellishing on an older post I wrote some years ago explaining why there appear to be 'so many' swear words in my novels. 

I hope this goes part of the way to explaining why I drop the odd f-bomb and why I refuse to take it out, but if it still gets under your skin, feel free to get in touch and let me know (colourful language most welcome!)


xo Christina

Every now and then I get an irate reader outraged by the profanity in my books, demanding to know why I need to swear so much and refusing to read anymore of my work until I desist. 

And I don't blame them. 


There are a lot of swear words in my stories, I admit that. And while the vast majority of my book reviewers/fans seem to have no issue with it (one committed reader confessed she never even noticed until I pointed this out!), I do feel compelled to explain myself to those of you who are upset, distressed or shocked. 

It's not premeditated, I promise!


Like the aforementioned fan, I never even realised there was much profanity in my stories until an Australian expatriate now living in Canada got in touch to say she'd forgotten how much Aussies swear until she read my first novel Killer Twist, and it made her feel quite homesick! Obviously it makes some of you just feel sick, and for that I apologise. 


I never set out to intentionally upset, distress or shock anyone when I write. I am in fact just trying to compose stories that are both entertaining and realistic. Just as characters and plot lines develop and unfold as I write, foul language appears out of nowhere (well, usually from the mouths of 'baddies', although not always). It seems to be a natural, fluid process, one I can not control. Sometimes, when I read back through the copy and the bad language feels overdone or jarring, I remove it, just as I remove cliches and descriptions that don't work. But I have to confess, most of the time I barely notice it.


And the reason...


Aussies swear a (bloody) lot!

It's a truth universally acknowledged that your average Australian cusses like a trooper. It's just a fact. Listen in on any conversation on any Aussie street, in any Aussie pub or office block, and you'll hear a colourful variety of words. 'Bloody' is the common one, but they get a lot, lot worse than that. We recently had a court case here where a teenager got off for using the 'F-word' at a policeman. The judge was forced to concede that it's now so common, it can't be construed as offensive. It's everyday language whether we like it or not. And my stories are everyday Australian stories (albeit with a little murder and mayhem in the mix). I need my Aussie characters to not just be colourful, but to sound like, well, everyday Aussie characters. My editor Maria at Glossy magazine (Killer Twist, Last Writes, Dying Words) is the perfect example. She is modelled on two real-life editors I used to work with who swore a hell of a lot more than she does. A hell of a lot. I have, in fact, toned her down for the books.


Murder is okay but swearing is not? Huh?

I find it really strange that the same people who take umbrage at swear words seem to have no issue with people getting murdered in my books. Slicing someone's throat or leaving them in a dank basement to be devoured by rats is okay, but cussing is not? I'll never understand that one. Sorry, guys but these are murder mysteries, not fairytales or children's books. I think you have to expect a bit of grit when you pick one up. 


To censor or not to censor?


Hate to break it to you, but I won't take the profanity out any time soon. There really isn't that much, and to do so would be bordering on censorship. It feels contrived. It wouldn't be real. It wouldn't be honest. And it would be swapping credibility for sales. Once you start doing that, you might as well just give up and ask your readers to write it for you with all the reality taken out.

I have, however, considered publishing two versions of each book—one for the Americans who seem to be the main people who take offence, and one for everyone else. And I'm happy to do that if anyone feels strongly about it (please send me an email or leave a comment here). But I do think the real story needs to be available in one format with the real street language included for those who want, well, reality.

What do you think? Please let me know, I'd love to continue the conversation. In the meantime, happy (slightly wicked) reading everyone.

xo Christina