How to Get Published--Party like The Dead

Dear (still out there?) Reader:

I've begun the disheartening and exhilarating process of submitting DRY FAITH for publication and have had an unbelievable stroke of luck. My sister, award-winning author Han Nolan, whose most recent book is CRAZY, arranged through her editor for DRY FAITH to be read by the Editor-in-Chief of Adult Fiction at Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. I recognize this event as my lucky break, one that most aspiring writers only dream of. I will forever be grateful to Han, not only for this stupendous opportunity, but for thinking well enough of the manuscript to promote it.


Lest I think that's all there is to it, the current of rejections from agents to whom I've submitted DRY FAITH has been as powerful and relentless as any waterfall after a winter storm. To keep my spirits up, I've joined the writers' group at the Eldredge Public Library in downtown Chatham. The group of 18 or so is composed mostly of retirees who are not necessarily interested in getting published, but simply desire to write. Each week, our friendly, volunteer facilitator provides a prompt, and limits the group to writing no more than two pages. Most of the group write essays, memoir or poetry. During the 1 1/2 hour Monday morning sessions, each member reads his offering for comment and encouragement. I've included my first submission beneath this post. It responds to the prompt, "At this very moment I---" I trust the reader will recognize it as fiction, rather than memoir, as the first person narrator is selecting her next murder victim from her fellow guests at a wedding shower.


I am enjoying the writers' group immensely. For one thing, as retirees, or perhaps as Cape Cod retirees, they are all delightfully positive individuals, who've learned over the years what's important to them and what's too petty to keep carting around. What a lovely recess from my law practice, where grievances are our stock-in-trade. A couple of the members were educated in the Jesuit tradition, and their essays are always erudite, provocative, and tongue-in-cheek hilarious. One member is coming to grips with the loss of a loved one through her writings, and the group is supportive of her slow climb out of the Slough of Despond. Each member has a distinct personality that cries out for inclusion in a gripping Cape Cod murder, but I shall keep that observation to myself.


Also to avoid fretting about whether the HMH Editor-in-Chief is reading beyond the first sentence of DRY FAITH, I've begun Book II in my Cape Cod murder mystery series. The story begins with a holiday party, in the inimitable style of James Joyce's The Dead. His party is supposed to be the best in all of literature. The only similarity between his party and mine is that they both zero in on the dead.

Wedding Shower

At this very moment, I am selecting my fourth murder victim. Sitting here at a bridal shower provides the perfect opportunity to shop, if you get my meaning.

I have previously chosen young women as victims and see no reason to change my ways. For all their efforts at physical and intellectual prowess, they're really quite pathetic when it comes to self-defense. Even Lori Putnam, who had taken karate for fours years as a youngster, collapsed like an old tent when I cracked her skull open.

Of course, height matters. I'm always looking for someone who is no taller than five-two, since I'm not quite five feet and not all that strong. But physical attributes are not all I must consider. The victim must come across as the most unlikely to get herself bumped off. It's the irony that appeals to me.

Take for example Angie, the bride-to-be. She still has freckles sprinkled across her nose and the tips of her shoulders--how sweet she will look in her Priscilla gown. A shame to mar that exquisite lace with a wet, sticky blood stain. Everyone likes Angie--she's generosity itself. She invited me to her shower, didn't she? Brie and crackers, chardonnay, a little Nora Jones playing softly in the background. Nice. There was no need to invite "dormitory mouse". Oh, I know that's what they used to call me. But it doesn't bother me. At all. I like to keep myself to myself, to read, to dream--to plot. Now, if I were just trying to be cruel, I absolutely would not choose Angie as my victim. Oh no. A far worse fate than a quick death awaits dear Angie once she marries Cliff. If he doesn't beat her black and blue, he'll grind her down until that wide generouse smile of hers never brightens another room.

But there's always something satisfying about "doing in" the blond. Every shower has a least one dumb blond--when you're planning a murder, being polictically correct is low priority, okay?--as I was saying, one dumb blond. That would be Honey. Believe it? That's her name. As attractive as she is --pink cheeks, eyes flecked with bits of amber--she bores people with her non-stop chatter. No, she exhausts them to the point where they feel like they haven't slept in 48 hours. She is definitely not the most unlikely to get herself bumped off.

Carly. Now she is a prime candidate for my victim--a kick-ass twenty-seven year old who's close to becoming President of the March of Dimes. And the right height too. Bright girl. Why as I arrived she stood at the door by Angie's sister and gave me the once over, perhaps assessing the small size of my donation capabilities based on the sleeve length of my blazer, an inch too long. I heard her tell Honey that she'd left her infant son, Chris, with her husband for the first time today. Yes, she's perfect. "Young professional mother dies from strange gastric malady following best friend's shower. Survived by grief-stricken husband and son Christopher, age 11 months."

You might ask why I murder people. Oh, I know all the reasons people usually make this life choice: vengeance, fun outwitting the police, hit a stone wall in their careers and reinventing themselves, but what it really boils down to for me is this: I like closure.