Writer Resolutions

I've never made a resolution I haven't kept... I almost wrote that with a straight face. Why, I nearly spit out my tea. Let's be honest, shall we? In the past I've fallen short in so many ways whether its resolving to lose weight, pay off debt, or become more organized I always seem to fall short of the initial image in my head. Sometimes by a smidgen, sometimes by a mile. 

 Truth is, resolutions are challenging but that doesn't stop us. Year after year we resolve and fail. Resolve and fail. I love resolutions myself.  For one day we are allowed, nay encouraged, to dream big. We are shown a blank calendar, 365 days of promise, and are told to make something of it. That something can be anything, anything our little hearts can dream up. The prospect is both thrilling and disheartening at the same time. 

It's times like these that I think of Anne Shirley's famous quote, "Tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it." How encouraging, yes? Each day, each year we can make our lives what we want of them. But any true Anne fan will remember the reply Anne received from her school teacher, Muriel Stacy who says, "Ah, no mistakes in it yet."  

Was Miss Stacy merely attempting to burst Anne's bubble, to bring her down and make her more sensible and realistic (ie: boring)? In my opinion, no, she wasn't. It's easy to dream big. We can't help ourselves, but often times in dreaming so large we create an almost impossible feat. We set ourselves up for failure by not recognizing the realities of the task and the limitations of our own abilities. Resolutions can be achieved but only if we approach them like we do any other goals in our lives. We need a plan of actionable steps. 

Action plans are the blueprint for success. We start with a mission statement, a goal that is measurable and by measurable I mean, is it something with a tangible finish line. Resolving to lose weight is far too vague, whereas resolving to lose 20 pounds is far more measurable. When thinking of your resolutions think of how you will know you have reached success? What will be your signal to yourself that you accomplished what you set out to do? My mission statement for 2018 is a big one, bigger than anything I have ever done before. 

I am going to finish writing 3 books before December 31, 2018. 

Holy crap, that's huge. I can feel my heart bouncing even as I wrote that, but let's step back a notch. Is this a goal I can reasonably achieve? Well, given that each of my first drafts run approximately 60,000 words, to reach my goal I will need to have written over 180,000 words. If I divide 180,000 by 365 days I get 493 words. That tells me I will need to write a minimum 493 words a day. That's not too bad. Even on my worst days of writing I average 1000 words a day, sometimes I can achieve as many as 3,000 words a day. Given that I am already 18,000 words into the first project (Thanks NaNoWriMo!), I think it's fair to say my goal is achievable. 

The next step when planning out your resolution is to break it down further into smaller chunks. How do you eat an elephant? (Forget the why, OK? Assume you have no choice.) The answer is simple, one bite at a time. I want to take that 180,000 words and break it down by project. I want a measurable goal for each book. A finish line. An end date. A champagne and chocolate kind of day.

For my resolution, I have set one deadline for end of February 2018. The next is set for June 2018 and the last is set for sometime in November. This gives me a nice 4 week buffer in case of any mishaps. Yay! 

So now, instead of trying to keep on track for an entire year, all I need to do is make sure I am on track for each project. Three to four months is a far more immediate time frame than 12. But I never stop there. Each week on my planner I have written down goals. Sometimes it's words written, other times is revision progression but the end game is always the same. I have an action plan to follow. I have measurable goals to gauge my progress. I have the means to get me where I want to go. 

That's not to say I won't have hiccups. I will. I've made allowances for that so hopefully I can make up time if I fall behind and not get too far off track. Once I took my 2018 goal and broke it down into project goals and then monthly or weekly goals my resolution became far more achievable. The real resolution becomes following the blueprint I've laid out. 

In the end, this means a lot of new material coming from me over the next year, new stories, new challenges, new murders. I'll try to keep you up to date but, as you can see, I'm already planning on being very, very busy. 

Happy New Year, Dear Readers! All the best for a happy, healthy, prosperous 2018! 

Change it up...Introducing A Marshall House Mystery series

After much thought, I've decided to rename my mystery series. Instead of being called A Peter Ainsley Mystery, my current series will be known as A Marshall House Mystery.

Why the need for a change?

The answers are simply this.... Although a wonderful character and definitely the mainstay of the books, Peter Ainsley is just one of the ensemble that readers have come to know and love. Margaret has proven to be invaluable not only to her brother, Peter, but also me, as the writer. Her involvement in the mysteries have become more and more evident as the series progressed.

As a proud feminist, I don't think I would be true to my beliefs if I allowed this strong female character's contributions to be overshadowed by her those of her brother. I feel that calling the series, A Marshall House series, will allow recognition of both Margaret and Peter as the protagonists, able to carry a story completely on their own or merely play a supporting role.

My plan for the Marshall House Mystery series includes six books.

CHORUS OF THE DEAD
DEAD SILENT
THE DEAD AMONG US
SWEET ASYLUM
PRAYERS FOR THE DYING (spring 2016)
SHADOWS OF MADNESS (spring 2017)

Once the sixth book is concluded my plans for the these characters change. How? I'm not exactly sure. There's no point in getting ahead of ourselves, but I do know that the series as it stands now will change. Future books will take on a new perspective, new series name and perhaps new branding.

Re-naming the Peter Ainsley Mystery series is part of my overall plan to create definable groupings of stories so that no matter how Margaret, Peter, Jonas and Julia change readers will be able to follow their tales and enjoy a good mystery,

Guest Blogging for James M. Jackson

I had the privilege of answering some writing related questions at fellow mystery writer James M. Jackson's blog, My Two Cents Worth.

Stop by and find out what motivates me, where I find inspiration and how I write the Peter Ainsley Mystery series.

http://blog.jamesmjackson.com/2015/11/tracy-l-ward-guest-author.html

Peter Ainsley... in Triplicate

I hit a milestone this summer. I published my third novel, which also happens to be the third instalment of the Peter Ainsley mystery series.

THE DEAD AMONG US continues the story of Peter & Margaret who face off against a horrendous criminal who is targeting pauper children.

It's been such a wild ride writing these books, and self-publishing them has been just wild. I remember agonizing over what to do with Chorus of the Dead. I wondered at the validity of self-publishing and whether the publishing industry would look favourably at my choice. All three of my books are now ranked in Kindle's Top 100 for mystery/thrillers-historicals. They generate hundreds of downloads each each month, narrowing in on one thousand for July. This translates as a nice income for myself, compensating me nicely for the hours of dedicated work I put in to each title.

But there's still work to be done.

Mystery is a difficult genre to compete in. I still have less than 10 reviews for each of my books and often that muddies the waters regarding my success. I honestly don't know how to generate more reviews. I don't believe in hard core soliciting or creating duplicate accounts (sock-puppeting). I don't believe in spamming my twitter feed or spending hundreds of dollars on internet ads. What I do believe in is a good story and that is where I lay my focus. I want to tell the best story I possibly can.

Recently another indie pointed out to me that I am a slow writer. Each of my books have been published a year a part whereas others aim to have a new title every 3-4 months.  I may not be out-selling other indie-authors  and my sales maybe paltry compared those in erotica or fantasy but I stand by my stories. I stand by my process, slow as it may be.

I do not see self-publishing as a get rich quick scheme. I have been writing and educating myself on writing since I was in high school. I majored in Journalism in college and achieved an advanced diploma in Creative Writing shortly thereafter. The only thing I have ever wanted to be was a writer so I can safely say I am not going anywhere.

I will continue to write compelling stories with layered characters and fabulous covers (cheeky, aren't I?). I have recognized a trend with each of my books, a steady incline in readership and loyalty. This is what I will build my career upon, without chasing trends or including gratuitous sex.

I am a writer.

Victorian Funeral Rites

If you are fascinated by the dark aspects of history like I am you'll enjoy my guest post over at fellow writer Ally Shield's Blog.


I talk about my initial interest in ghost stories and how CHORUS OF THE DEAD came to in to being.

Rejection & Progress

I recieved another rejection letter this week for a short (15,000 word) romance I wrote two summers ago. This is the one I recieved such good praise for from Harlequin except for the absence of erotica. I dusted it off a month or so ago and submitted with a small romance e-press. This time I simply got a form rejection. And now I recall what these feel like.

I can not say how many hours I have invested in this short piece but it seems that now it is destined for the archived folded on my hard drive. Perhaps it's just not good enough to be worth much of anything other than an exercise in writing.

All I can do is move forward, resolve to write better and keep submitting.

Of course this rejection came at a crucial time in my current manuscript. I spent the majority of my writing time this week rearranging scenes and smoothing out the transitions so they make sense. I was nearly frozen at the beginning of the week not knowing how to move forward. There was something wrong with the last few scenes I wrote and my temporary solution was to avoid it because it was difficult.

I finally sat down Tuesday evening and hacked away. Coming up for air on the other side of what was a very tedious and nail biting process, I saw that I did what I had to do in order to keep the story in line and moving forward. I am happy with it now and hoping I can make quick work of the last third of the novel.

The Best Rejection Ever

My work in progress, or wip, is my fourth attempt at a novel. I have been writing for a little over ten years while trying to craft that one manuscript that will have agents thrusting contracts at me. I have learned a lot along the way. I attribute most of the flops to genre confusion. Nothing sparked me. Everything seemed formulaic and contrived. I was striving to be published more than I was striving to create an excellent work of fiction. My fire was not lit and it showed.

Rejection letter after rejection letter came my way and it got so bad I almost quit. I was ready to throw in the towel and say "to hell with it". Life is too short to write mediocre manuscriots and rejection requests. I quit writing. I think I lasted a month, which is a long time for me. I tried to convince myself I was better off and that I was not meant to write. It worked for a while until one straggler rejection came to my mail box. I think I even forgot I had submitted something.

This rejection letter was the best rejection letter I have ever recieved. It praised my writing, complimented my style. The personalized rejection pointed to good parts of my story and gave me real feedback to make it better. Their biggest complaint was that I was a prude... she didn't actually say I'm a prude but she told me there was not enough sex for their publishing house. I remember reading that and thinking, "huh? Not sexy enough, really?" Since then I have embraced my prudish self (well not really) and have contemplated framing that rejection. The kind words and gentle praise was enough to get me started again.

After that I wrote half of another manuscript before abandoning it and starting my current project. When I find myself in a lull I pull out that rejection and smile. I may be a prude but somebody thinks I am a good writer.

When Your Story Sags, Kill Someone

This is so true. Lately, I have been experiencing what I lovingly call "a writer's funk". Nothing is sounding right. Everything that I write seems hopelessly lacking and it's these times when I think, should I bother being a writer at all?

Sometimes I feel this way when I read something amazing and subsequently convince myself that my books will never be of the same caliber. Sometimes this funk is a result of comments from others that come way out of left field making me feel like I have been delusional all this time believing I was on to something good. And sometimes it's because I am stuck. My plot sags, my vocabulary reservoir has dried up and I am at a loss of what to do.



What can you do? Kill someone off. Nothing revives a plot, a sense of danger and intrigue like the piling up of bodies. Now mind you, it must make sense, and there is usually some ground work that must be done to set up the death but as a technique to get the creative juices flowing, it really does work.



I am currently in 'the meddlesome middle'. I'm 40,000 words in and know exactly where my end is, but how do I get there and not loose readers to boredom? I started to think about my cast of characters and which one is least important this far in to the story? Who is the next on the bottom tier? Eventually I found the perfect character to kill off, and one readers would not be expecting. An excellent twist with perfect timing, just when my protagonist feels he has a handle on the situation.

Not only has this dramatic change revived my plot but it's also revived my writing. I have written over 4,000 words in the last 24 hours (intermittently) and I now feel my plot is on track to keep readers turning the page. An excellent solution if I do say so myself. Good show, Watson, good show!

Negative Feedback

Rejection is inevitable. Writing is an art and as such certain styles don't appeal to everyone. I may not be a fan of modern art but I enjoy impressionism. Same with writing. Not everyone is going to like everything and rejection, or negative feedback, can be hard to take.

I am involved with an online critique group. Five mystery writers who all write in different sub genres. I'm working on a historical mystery set in Victorian times. One person is writing a modern day espionage thriller, another one is writing a cozy mystery, another still in writing about a campy heroine who is always getting herself in to sticky situations.

We all have our different time periods, style and preferences. A debate raged and battle lines were drawn recently over the use of contractions. I prefer to stay away from contractions in my descriptions. Thoughts and dialogue notwithstanding, I feel contractions in historical novels take away that feeling of the past. I am not saying they can not be used, contractions have been part of the English language for centuries. I simply choose to use them sparingly and only in dialogue if it suits the character. This personal style decision does not sit well with some of my critique partners who have said my novel does not flow because I have omitted them. Again, it's all about choice.

I receive comments about my choice of words, my sentence structure and the like. I use terms and phrases that are more often found in Jane Austen, Charles Dickens and Lucy Maud Montgomery but are not found amongst modern literature. Is this wrong or a matter of style choice?

My use of repetition to create literary emphasis has been put under scrutiny as well. Again, is this a matter of style or a matter of right and wrong?

Critique groups can be good to point out obvious flaws and holes in the story. But when it comes to personal style I think too many writers try to impress their own style onto the people they are critiquing.

It's been hard for me not to take the negative feedback to heart. I have to remind myself that everyone has an opinion and if I ask for feedback I can not control the type of feedback I receive. I have to take the good with the bad and learn what I can from it. Above all I must keep writing because that is the only way I will be able to get to where I want to be. Published.

Fiction: She Told Me She Loved Me

By Tracy Ward

She told me she loved me. Leaning in to me, crinoline to crinoline, Violetta stroked the small of my back flashing that mischievous smile. I suppose she wished me to say that I loved her and perhaps I did though I'd never admit as much. Her lips were so close to mine as we huddled amidst the throng of people gathered in Mr. Taylor's dance hall. The music played ferociously while I scanned the room for a suitable dance partner. When she leaned in I expected her to tell me some devilish tidbit about someone else close by. The way her eyes widened at the sight of me I thought for sure she had been itching to let me in on a scandalous secret.

We were close friends, her and I. Though we had just become acquainted, we'd spent much of the previous weeks together strolling the park and giggling like unmarried women do when there is nothing else to fill their days. She knew I had my cap set on Mr. Tydesdale and so why she wished to complicate matters thus was beyond comprehension.

“Do you think he'll come?” I asked, pushing her recent confession from my mind.

Her smile slipped away somewhat and she hesitated. I pressed on, not willing to show my distaste for her, at least not in a public house.

She avoided me for a few days following that incident. I can not say I was upset. It was better that she stayed away. Mr. Tydsdale had called at the house once and, as it was, I was free to accept his invite for a stroll. Four days after the dance, she sent me flowers. Red Tulips they were, arranged in a glass vase. There was a card with nothing but a V scrolled on it in what was clearly created by a feminine hand. I hid the card from Mother and pretended they came from Mr. Tydsdale, hoping their existence would never come up in a conversation with him present.

I wanted, with all my heart, to shred those blossoms to pieces and shove them down the privy but Mother watched me, waiting for me to dote upon them exclaiming how lovely they were. They lived for six days in their prominent spot on the mantle, a constant reminder that another woman was pining for me.

I accepted a invitation to Maybelle's house for a garden party. Maybelle and I are not good friends, though she has a lovely garden and some delicious brothers. Imagine my shock when I found Violetta there, looking like the cat who eat a canary. I tried to avoid her but couldn't. She watched me, rather openly I might add, as the afternoon progressed. Finally I resolved to speak to her.

With lemonade in hand, I cornered her in the farthest section of the yard near the potting shed. Making sure we were not seen, I dropped my placid smile. She reached for my hand but I slapped hers away, nearly spilling the lemonade in my other hand. “Stop it!” I yelled. “You can not continue doing this.”

“I can't help it,” she said, with a girlish laugh. “You are all I can think about—”
“No, you can not. I forbid it!”

She bit her lower lip then, and sent her gaze to the ground between us. I thought she would cry then, the reality of what I had said hitting her like a runaway horse and carriage. She didn't though. I saw her let out a breath and raise her eyes to meet mine. “You love me too,” she said, “I know you do.”

She kissed me then. As her lips pressed into mine, I dropped the crystal glass holding my lemonade and tried to push her away. I touched her shoulders with my gloved hands to push her from me, but found her too intent and demanding. Her tongue teased mine and I relented for the briefest of moments. I did not want her kiss, you understand, nor did I encourage it. She held me close and wrapped her arms around me just like a man would.

When she finally pulled away, that devilish smile shining brightly, I slapped her. My gloved hand did little to send the point home and when I tried to slap her with my other hand she grabbed it and we struggled. She was at an advantage and I found myself falling backwards into the bushes. She fell on top of me then and in between my kicks and attempts at pushing her away, I saw that amazingly decadent smile.
It all happened so fast. We were kissing and touching each other all over, enjoying that moment when nothing else mattered. She said she loved me again, whispering it in my ear as we fooled around.

“I love you too,” I answered softly, brushing the tendrils of hair from her face. For however long we were there, hidden amongst the bushes, Maybelle's garden party taking place all around us, we were together, in love and not caring.

After a length, my senses returned. My giddy smile faded and I sat up. I was adjusting my hat, repositioning it's pin when Violetta reached out to me, tracing the form of my waist and hips with her pointed finger. “What's the matter?” she asked, a drunk laugh accenting her lust.

“Do not touch me!” I commanded. I pulled myself up, aware that my white dress looked a wreck. She was the devil I decided. That day, I knew, she would never let me go with another. Shakily, I made my way back to the party, plastering a forced smile to my face as I mingled, all the while wishing for the end to the wretched day. I had been seduced, I decided. Seduced and wooed by the devil intent on securing my soul.

Shortly after I invited her for tea. While we engaged in small talk, I expected her to tell me her tea tasted bitter but she didn't. She accepted two cupfuls from me, never suspecting a thing. I had never done anything like that before and I wasn't sure what to expect. We parted merrily. She kissed my cheek in the standard fashion before wiggling her fingers in goodbye. As she walked down the steps toward the street I almost regretted doing what I did. It was too late then.

Mother told me the next morning at breakfast that Violetta was dead.
“Positively dreadful,” she said, “She fell ill so suddenly. How did she seem when she was here yesterday?”

I shrugged. “Right as rain.”

I knew I had done the right thing. She would have ruined everything. She was going to ruin us all.

So you see, Detective, I simply had no choice because I am suppose to marry Mr. Tydsdale.

Please note this is a work of fiction and in no way does it depict my opinions or feelings regarding same sex relationships or people who partake in them. This is more of a commentary on how society can box us into expected roles

Honey, should I be worried?

I know a little too much about arsenic. I have conducted extensive research into early autopsy techniques and even found myself drooling over a 100 year old embalming kit the other day (I'm still thinking about it).

When I decided my protagonist was going to be a Victorian surgeon, I knew there would be many times when I would need to describe dead bodies, bloody scenes, internal organs and, of course, the myriad of ways Victorians "off'd" each other. To be honest, nothing thrills me more. The writing part is only half the fun. I find just as much enjoyment out of reading everything I can about the Victorian era, especially when it comes to medicine, crime and the seedy underbelly that was once a major part of London life.

Lately I have been living, breathing and dreaming this stuff so it surprises me when other writers I know tell me "I hope you are doing you research because there are readers out there who will rip you to shreds." I really want to be indignant towards them. Of course I am researching this crap! What heck do you think I am doing? Pulling it out of my ass while hoping no one notices?

I can't blame them though. I don't really give off a (Jack the) Ripper-ologist vibe. I'm the mild mannered former reporter pecking at my keyboard. I don't talk about my work with... well anyone really. The few times when I ventured to read my work at a writer's meeting left me with sideways glances and perhaps a few less points on the 'respectability scale*'.



Thankfully no one bothers me too much and I am pretty much left to my own imaginary world of depravity and murder. Every once in a while though I can see the look on my husband's face when he finds my notebook open to a page of scribbles outlining methods of arsenic poisoning and how someone might avoid its detection. I am waiting for the day when he places a gentle hand on my arm and asks, "Honey, should I be worried?"

* I made that up. I'm a novelist, what do you expect?