by Barbara Poelle
The last 10 days have passed in a blur. With Thrillerfest in NYC and then RWA in DC I feel like I am existing in a sort of a fuzzy middle-Earth where I kind of get what’s going on but everyone has weird feet. And I have gained 7 pounds from all of the second breakfasts and elevensies.
Like TFest, RWA was extremely productive for me this year. I arrived on Thursday, Husband in tow, because I wanted to keep my peepers on him with the broken ribs and all. (Don’t ask. But just remember, I warned you not to make me mad.) So I set him up with his Percocet and remote control and then proceeded to conduct back to back to back meetings and workshops and schmooze fests from Thursday at 3 until Saturday at 5:30, popping in every once in a while to make sure Husband hadn’t OD’d, each time tripping over his latest room service tray and swearing like a sailor on shore leave. By Saturday night, my voice was shot and my liver was openly boycotting the consumption of any more fermented libation (it was also hard to get a solid night’s sleep while someone’s husband kept roaring in pain) but I muscled through to a bright Sunday morning, and the reality that we had several hours to kill before heading back to NYC.
I have never been to our nation’s capitol, despite the Obamas’s constant invites, so I wanted to wander around and say hi to Abe and the gang while I had the chance. I got Husband all lubed up on his hillbilly heroin and we hit the sunny streets of DC.
Now, we have a standing agreement in our little marriage that if we have to do something involving culture, or dignity, or hygiene, then I get to counteract it with an activity of my choosing, such as hobo fighting or welding. Well, I was feeling very generous, what with the roaring in pain and all, so when Husband said he wanted to check out some museums, I acquiesced sans caveat. (That is the fanciest thing I ever said. I might need to sit down.) So off we go to check out the Hoodie-Whatever so we can see the art by What’s His Knuckles.
BSE.
(Which clearly stands for Barf Sound Effect.)
Anyway, so we are in the Hoodie-Whatever, wandering through the multi-galleried catacombs, and we get to that part of the exhibit that always makes me laugh. I call it “the pots and pans”. You know what I mean. There’s all of these clay bowls and broken shards of pestles and mortars used to grind pemmican or whatever (BSE)and it’s soooooo boooooring I want to break MY ribs. But of course, Husband is clearly invested in whatever it is we’re looking at so he wanders deeper into the gallery, focused on something in the distance which I can only describe as some old dude’s mothy underpants in a glass case.
In fact, Husband is so invested in his ancient undies that he blows right by a tiny alcove which is sporting 2 pots and a sign that says Please pick up and feel the difference between a Earthenware Pot and a Stoneware Pot!
Okay, two things. First?
B.
S.
E.
And Second?
Suhweeeeet. Now, I know Husband has not seen this sign, and he is a solid 15 yards ahead of me. I reach in and grab the Stoneware Pot, step about 5 steps towards him, and slap one of my infamous wild grins on just as he is turning back to gauge where I am.
The emotions that passed over his face in the span of 1.7 seconds…honestly? It is impossible to describe. I want to. I really want to, so I am going to try my best to mimic the stream of consciousness he later told me that he went through:
Ahh, there she is and- what is she? No. I am not seeing this. She is not holding a priceless ancient artifact from 210 BC. She wouldn’t do that. What am I saying she would so totally do that. We have to get out of here. I have to stay calm. Don’t draw any attention to her. I am not really seeing this am I? That’s definitely an artifact from 210 BC. And she is definitely holding it. No she can’t be. Yes she can. Look at her face. She’s doing this. She’s really holding a priceless artifact in the middle of the Smithsonian.
Now, on MY end of things, what I saw was a man with broken ribs move 15 yards in the span of a single blink. I mean it; his legs looked like Hummingbird wings. One minute he was gaping at me from the next room and the next millisecond he was inches from my face and hissing, “Put that back! You put that back right now!” The best part is that he WENT to grab it from me, but his sense of preservation and dignity would not allow him to touch a priceless ancient artifact so he jerked his hands back as if an asp had leapt from it.
Now I lose it. I mean totally lose it. And I trot backwards to the alcove practically bent at the waist and howling. He sees the sign and lets out this MASSIVE sigh of relief, kinda swaying a little, bless his heart, and he grins and says my second favorite thing Husband can say to me, “You got me.”
And ladies and gents, that’s how you keep ‘em coming back for more! I don’t care if you are writing a thriller or a mystery or a romance, in all of the reads from the last two weeks the only manuscripts that have remotely captured my attentions from TFest or RWA are the ones that have mastered the “gotcha”. My favorite fish? The red herring, of course! The best way to catch him? Well, the bait and switch, of course! What’s his favorite move? The Double Cross, of course! Dig deeper, add layers, shatter expectations like 2000-year-old earthenware. No matter the genre, keep ‘em on their toes! Now, this is not to say throw all genre convention out with the bathwater, but (now here’s a worthy challenge) BE SMARTER THAN ME. I am a sucker for the gotcha, across the board, not just in a “whodunit” capacity. Check out Jennifer Haymore’s romance A Hint Of Wicked, that is a book that keeps you on the carousel until that final chapter. Trust me. You will NOT be disappointed. And I have a delightful cozy coming out in September by Tracy Kiely which basically pulls the red herring out of the water and beats him against the dock until it’s sushi for everyone. Freveletti’s RUNNING FROM THE DEVIL has bait flying around like someone tossed a grenade into the fish tank! And just you wait Henry Higgins until February 2010 when I unleash Graham Brown’s book on ya’ll. You’ll have trouble trusting your own mother.
I guess what I am trying to say is, surprise even yourself. Be original. Be a stand out. Be a shelf stealer. Work harder, every page, every sentence. Find a way to pull the story through the narrative that leaves me certain that I am going to be tackled by the guards at the Smithsonian for even THINKING I know what’s going to happen.
Now I have to go. Broken Ribs and I are headed off to price trapeze lessons. Hey, I looked at pots and pans, I EARNED the right to flip over a bar 30 feet in the air.
(BSE)
