When Pieces Don't Fit by Betsy Ashton

Back when I was beginning as a writer, I piled up tomes in cyber dust. I have probably six complete novels that have yet to see the light of day. Rightfully, in the format they were in when they went into "storage." Perhaps I'll find something in the stories that is worthy of updating and turning into a novel. Perhaps not, but it was all part of my tuition of learning my craft.

When I finally settled on one story, I knew, just knew, how it would go. I wanted to write about the dissolution of a marriage where both the husband and wife tell the story in first person. I picked a voice for the man:  crisp, short sentences or fragments thereof, limited showing of emotion until the turning point. I loved that brisk male voice.

For the wife, I wanted her to descend into drugs and madness. Long winding sentences tumbling back on each other. Wallowing in grief. Writing from the POV of a mad woman was a challenge and oh so liberating, because I could engage in purple prose under the guise of drugs.

The voices were distinct. No one had difficulty reading the beta copy and determining who was speaking. Trouble was, these were the wrong voices to tell the story. One of my beta readers pointed out that the story would be stronger with a single narrator. Problem was, I couldn't see either Mr. Brisk or Mrs. Rambling Rose carrying the story line.

Another beta reader suggested I sleep on it. I did. And about three in the morning, I sat bolt upright in bed with a voice yelling at me: "It's my story, dammit. Tell it my way." Well, yes ma'am.

That was the voice of a minor character. The mother of the wife, the mother-in-law. Really? This character? No way. But the more I thought about the change, the more I thought, way. Maybe she could carry the narration. I still wanted first person, because I wanted the narrower focus, the ability to delve deeply into emotions.

I played with a couple of chapters. The pieces fit. The story flowed. 90,000 words had to be rewritten in a completely different form. Writing became fun. Watching the new main character shape herself was thrilling. The more I got out of her way, the faster and better the narrative developed.

And thus, Mad Max was born. She was never meant to be a major character. The book was going to be a stand-alone until I changed the POV. Then, I could see a series. Three books later, she's as comfortable as a pair of bunny slippers and an old bathrobe. And yet, I never know what she's going to do next. She could do anything.

I'm broadening her reach. My publisher has a May Mystery Month sale on for ebooks. $.99 each for the three Mad Max books. Join me. Tell me if you like her. Tell me if you don't. What do you have to lose?

Unintended Consequences: https://amzn.to/2HHwttJ

Uncharted Territory: http://amzn.to/20EQMap

Unsafe Haven: http://amzn.to/2suJRKA

Getting Inside Your Character's Skin by Betsy Ashton

Any of you who have read my work know I love writing in the first person singular. Why? Because I can get deeply inside a character and gaze out through her eyes. I can say "her," because so far all of my first-person works have had female main characters. I really like the narrowed lens of a singular point of view. I don't want to know more about what's going on beyond what my character sees, feels, smells, etc.

I've stayed with one character for a three-book series, the Mad Max Mystery series. Max is a grandmother, a youngish grandmother. She's smart, rich, sexy, and snarky when she needs to be. She's strong minded and strong willed, a force of nature not to be messed with, particularly when it comes to her family, extended and nuclear. She can go from mild-mannered to tiger mom in 3.5 seconds flat.

Max is as familiar to me as my own husband. I know what she thinks (not the I ever really know what my husband is thinking). I know what she carries in her Jimmy Choo handbag. I know what she keeps on her bedside table, on her bureau, in her medicine cabinet. I know what caliber of gun she carries.

Writing Max is as comfortable as sliding into a favorite bathrobe and pair of bunny slippers, until she does something that surprises me. As I said, writing from inside her head leads me places I hadn't anticipated. I can put her in a situation and get out of her way. Readers seem to like her, so I continue.

On a challenge, actually a dog-dog dare, I decided to leave the Max comfort zone and delve into the dark realities of a psychopath. At least, I think That Thing is a psychopath. She's not sure, and since she tells her own story in EYES WITHOUT A FACE, who am I to argue.

I had to do a ton of research into various personality disorders. She could have been a sociopath or a psychopath, except she denies she's either. She is a narcissist, because she thinks only she can get revenge for people who are victimized and can't stand up for themselves. She hates people who prey on the weak, women, children, the elderly. A compendium of our society. She thinks she's the only one who can get rid of the perpetrators, because justice is too slow for her liking. She might be a vigilante. She might not.

That Thing doesn't want you to put her in any kind of box, with or without bars. She refuses categorization. She acts with conviction and with a range of poisons, knives, and ice picks. She doesn't use guns. Too noisy. Harder to kill up close and personal. No exploding heads, either. Her kills are tidier.

How hard was it to write Mad Max and That Thing concurrently? Damned hard. One was easier. I took a break from dark personality disorders, until Max had to deal with a demented, delusional villain in UNSAFE HAVEN. Then, the personalities merged.

I've heard from readers of both books. They say I scared them with That Thing. Good. That means they got into the story and into her rationale. What they didn't like was rooting for the "bad guy." Actually rooted for That Thing.

Thank you. You got the book.

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Betsy Ashton is the author of the Mad Max Mystery series. Her stand-alone serial killer novel, EYES WITHOUT A FACE, is a departure from her normal fare.

When Vultures Circle by Betsy Ashton

Vultures circling overhead cause chills to race along most people's spines. Omens of evil, maybe, or just one of nature's garbage disposals, not many people like watching them rise on thermals. On Saturday at a book fair in Danville, VA, the largest flock of vultures I'd ever seen in an urban environment flapped lazily overhead.

I'd written about vultures before. In a shameless moment of self-promotion, I'd like to share the opening section of UNCHARTED TERRITORY, the second Mad Max story:

In pre-dawn darkness, I eased the RV door open and tiptoed down four steps to bare earth. Coffee cup in hand, I turned three hundred and sixty degrees. A strong northern front had blown through overnight, sweeping the humidity out to sea and leaving a crystalline sky behind.

The underlying stench of death and decay, however, remained.

Johnny, Emilie and I settled into our new home the day before. While we waited for the rest of the family to arrive, I watched large birds ride thermals in lazy circles over a distant bayou west of our compound. I didn’t know what kind they were, but they were always in the same place. Black and large, they added to the ominous emptiness. I hadn’t had time to drive across the gray wasteland to find out what was going on.

The slamming of a trailer door and boot steps on packed earth announced Johnny’s arrival from the other side of my RV. He walked up, smiled and stared at the rising column of birds. Clad in jeans, boots and a clean T-shirt, he was ready for work.

“Good morning, funny man.” I tilted my face for a kiss.

“Back atcha, pretty lady.” He kissed my cheek.

“Do you see those birds?” I pointed.” More of them today than yesterday.”

“Yes. Something’s dying over there.”

“Dying?”

“Yes.” Johnny tugged my left earlobe.

“Not dead?”

“Buzzards circle until an animal dies. Then they land.”

“Whatever it is sure has attracted a crowd.” I hugged Johnny but kept staring at the birds. Day one, and I was already spooked by the alien landscape.

More flocks formed near the unseen bayou. Birds landed, rose and circled.

“That’s not all that’s attracting crowds.”

What did he mean by that cryptic remark?

Johnny clapped a ball cap on his head and walked to the cook tent for breakfast before leaving for the job site. His boots kicked up tiny puffs of dust in his wake.

Before I came down to Mississippi, I hadn’t expected such unbroken flatness, such a lack of color. Nothing taller than a car or trailer or pile of rubble. No flowers. In fact, nothing green except a few battered live oak trees. Had Charles Dickens written about spoiled lands instead of broken people, this landscape would have made a perfect model.

When I reflected back over the past few months, I could never have foreseen the changes I would make in my life. I never figured I’d be taking my grandchildren into a war zone.

At least it seemed like one to me.

I hoped I captured the mood of the place where Max finds herself setting up a new place to live with her family. Whatcha think?