Results May Vary from James W. Ziskin

How do you find a balance - if you try for balance - between the overly neat bow at the end of the book and the potentially unsatisfying open end. Is it easier in crime fiction than other genres? 

Great question this week. I believe the answer (s) depends (depend) on the work you’re writing. There are times when we crave the restoration of order in the fiction we consume. Other times, we like to be left hanging, perhaps as a come-on for a sequel. Or maybe just a murky conclusion that gives us pause. Makes us think about the complexities of life, justice, and neat bows. I like that sometimes. Like Schubert’s Unfinished Symphony. Or my Puccini portrait below.

In my own books, the ending definitely depends on the story, the mood, and the message—if any—that I’m trying to write. If it’s a puzzle mystery, I will probably want all the loose ends tied up and no questions left unanswered. After all, who would want to assemble a 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzle on their dining table, only to leave the last five pieces in the box? We want closure in a mystery novel or story, otherwise it’s like an itch that we don’t get to scratch, a piece of bubble wrap that we don’t get to pop, or a dream from which we wake too soon. A mystery story that doesn’t resolve the mystery is like a championship game without a winner.

A love story, on the other hand, might survive an ambiguous ending, especially if there’s a promise of more lovin’ an’ kissin’ in a sequel down the road. And what about a literary novel? It’s not high art if it’s simple, is it? It has to be confusing and oblique or it’s offal. And awful. Yes, ambiguous, unresolved, incomplete are the hallmarks of true genius. No pedestrian happy endings, no thank you. The same way we don’t want our eyeglasses to give us clear vision. 

Or maybe murky endings are just poetic. We like poetic, don’t we? Poetic is deep. Much better than pat, I aver. Or is it…. (See how I created ambiguity there? Brilliant!)

When it comes to endings, one can make the argument both ways, of course, just as sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don’t. It could be that something deep inside human beings desires variety and change, not always order. A little bit of chaos, too. That’s why we don’t read the same book over and over. Or eat the same meal again and again. Even your favorite food gets dull if you never give it a rest. And NOBODY can listen to the Kars4Kids jingle once—let alone multiple times—without begging for Death’s sweet sting to get that f^@%&! tune out of your head.

But again, what about my own novels and stories? Thinking back on my Ellie Stone books, I’d say they have “satisfying” conclusions to the main plot lines. Backstory and secondary concerns may be left dangling, but never the question of whodunnit. My Bombay Monsoon thriller, however, leaves the reader to draw some conclusions about how things will play out after the curtain has fallen. In fact, I started to write a sequel to that book in order to deal with the aftermath, but I eventually abandoned it. I felt the continuation of the story would only dilute it.

My next book, THE PRANK (July 2026) has an ending that… Oh, no. I’m not sharing that yet. You’ll have to read it when it comes out. But I will say it would be a perfect example for discussion of this week’s topic.

And short stories? Mine tend to wrap things up tidily. But other writers? Results may vary.

598

Lknkhdgs

Making Ends Meet

How do you strike a balance between a tidy, predictable ending and one that’s so open-ended it might leave readers hanging? Is it easier to pull this off in crime fiction compared to other genres?

by Dietrich

Crafting a satisfying ending is one of the trickier parts of writing. I often scratch my head tying up loose ends in a way that feels earned while leaving just enough wiggle room to spark the reader’s imagination. A neat, happy resolution might hit the spot for some fans craving closure, but it can feel too perfect for others, like life doesn’t work that way. I think the sweet spot lies somewhere between a polished bow and an open end that leaves folks scratching their heads.

A tidy ending might feel like a warm hug for some readers—everything wraps up with harmony and emotional payoff. But if it’s too clean, it risks undermining the story’s depth, making things feel too convenient.

Crime fiction, with its built-in structure, often makes this balancing act easier if you ask me. A story centered on a mystery—like a classic whodunit—offers a clear framework for resolution. Solving the case delivers a natural endpoint, satisfying the reader’s need for answers without having to wrap up every character’s personal drama. Take Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express: the mystery gets solved, but the moral grayness of the solution lingers, nudging readers to wrestle with questions of justice. This setup lets a writer nail closure on the main plot while leaving side threads—like the protagonist’s personal struggles—open for future stories, especially in a series.

On the flip side, an open-ended conclusion might leave some plot points dangling, which can frustrate readers who are dying for answers. But when done well, it sparks reflection and keeps the story alive in the reader’s mind, inviting discussion long after the last page. The trick here is matching the ending to the story’s overall vibe.

Some of my favorite authors nailed endings in their own special ways. Elmore Leonard had a knack for endings that flipped expectations with dark humor and irony. His criminals rarely got poetic justice—instead, their schemes often imploded in absurd, almost inevitable ways. George V. Higgins, with his dialogue-driven stories, mimicked real criminal banter, leading to payoffs steeped in irony: nobody wins, and his imaginary web of crime trapped everyone, exposing corruption without a lot of tidy resolutions.

George Pelecanos often blends gritty violence with quiet redemption. His endings lean on community over individualism, resolving ensemble tensions with hard-earned hope. Patricia Highsmith loved leaving readers unsettled, dodging clear justice or redemption. Her morally complex characters delivered endings that lingered with ambiguity, challenging the usual crime-story wrap-ups. And another favorite author, Charles Willeford went for shock, often tossing redemption out the window for absurd comeuppance, mirroring life’s raw unpredictability.

Ultimately, choosing the right ending is about knowing your audience and honoring the story’s emotional contract. Blending just enough resolution with a touch of ambiguity keeps the story alive in readers’ heads, steering clear of the overly neat bow or the frustratingly vague fade-out.

The Balance Beam

 

w/b Terry here, with our question of the week: 

 How do you find a balance - if you try for balance - between the overly neat bow at the end of the book and the potentially unsatisfying open end. Is it easier in crime fiction than other genres? 

 I had an agent who challenged me with every book I wrote: You’re not done yet. After fuming a couple of days, I’d have to admit maybe she was right, and I’d start trying to push one step farther. Invariably the book was better for it. Usually what I was trying for was “a neat bow,” and it was never quite satisfying. 

I don’t mean when I finally pushed past my initial ending and came up with something more that I left an open end about who committed the crime. But I would realize that other questions had wormed their way into the story—questions which didn’t necessarily have an answer. 

 My best example is book six in the Samuel Craddock series, An Unsettling Crime for Samuel Craddock.

The last chapter was written, the perpetrator identified, and everyone should have been happy, at least in my mind. But my agent said, “you’re not done yet.” I pitched a silent fit. I told her I thought it was my best book. ‘It is,” she said. “And you’re not done yet.” 

 Only when I gave in, and started thinking about what more was needed, did I realize that there was a character I really liked that I had failed to account for in the end. I wrote the last chapter, and I still remember the heartbreak of it. It was time for that character to move on, and I knew I would miss her. But it had to be done. I actually cried as I wrote it. It was poignant and believe it or not I still wonder sometimes what she’s up to. 

 I think actually a “neat” ending is harder in crime fiction. I recently read a non-mystery that I enjoyed, by a very well-known author. But I thought the end was too easy; “tied up in a neat bow.” I can’t help thinking that if it had been a mystery, the characters would have had more angst, more difficult decisions to make. The end would not have been so tidy. 

 Murder brings with it repercussions that aren’t so easily dispensed with. Maybe cozy mysteries can achieve that some of the time--after all, it's meant to be lighter reading. But even then there are often little threads that you know the characters will have to address either off the page, or in the next book. A thriller may also have an easier time of it. The ticking time bomb has been defused, and everyone can congratulate themselves and ride off into the sunset. Noir? Never. The whole zeitgeist of noir crime fiction is the brooding, dark heart of the set-up, the crime, and the characters. The idea is that even if the crime is solved, there’s the still the matter of the criminal nature and the brooding protagonist usually has to contend with that. 

 I write a police procedural series, and at the end of each one, Samuel Craddock feels a pull between justice and empathy. In fact, in The Curious Poisoning of Jewel Barnes, which comes out December 2, he has to make a decision that has no good outcome. It was wrenching to write it. So, no neat bow. 

 But I don’t think an open end is unsatisfying. The open end mirrors real life. We hope decisions we make will result in the best for everyone, but sometimes there is not a “best” that can happen for everyone. Sometimes a decision is forced that means no one is completely satisfied. That’s life. And the best fiction will make us examine life more closely. 

 In an open-ended resolution, The questions remain: “What will happen next? Will the decisions characters made turn out to have been a mistake? Does the solution to the crime resolve everything, or does it leave a hole to be filled? I think that’s the most interesting book, one that leaves the reader with a lingering itch to know what happens next.

The worst part of the job by Poppy Gee

Writers do more than writing, as we know. Which bit of the publishing-business side of this caper would you ditch if you could?

Nerve-wracking... preparing to do a bookstore talk for the first time in 2013

If you asked me this question a decade ago, my answer would be quite different. 

On the evening of my debut book launch in 2013, as I was driving to my event at Mary Ryan’s bookstore in New Farm, Brisbane, I told my husband that I wish I never wrote the book. The reason for this dramatic change of heart (after the thrill of seeing the book in stores) was my terror of public speaking. I felt like I was being driven to the scaffold to be publicly guillotined. The actual scenario was a cosy bookshop and about twenty people – supportive friends, family and the bookseller who I’d met at a party and who asked me to do the launch there. The thought of standing before kind and encouraging people, reading a page of reflections about my writing journey, was the most horrifying thing I could imagine.

Terrifying... My first ever literary panel with Sisters in Crime - Lindy Cameron, Josephine Pennicott and Livia Day.

My first author panel was called Something Rotten in the Apple Isle, held in Melbourne. I don't think I slept the night before, I was so nervous. Again, this seems illogical in hindsight, as the event was fellow crime fiction readers and writers. You can't get a more supportive crowd!

Over the next decade I forced myself to accept as many public speaking opportunities as I could. Now, I’m comfortable talking about my work, interviewing people about their work, and teaching creative writing workshops. I’m teaching my special three-hour crime fiction class – Basic Instinct, Writing Crime and Thrillers – tomorrow at North Lakes library and I'm genuinely looking forward to it.

These days the thing I don’t like about the writing life, is using my writing time to do admin, invoicing, marketing or polishing up my PowerPoint presentation for my crime fiction workshop. It feels annoying. I’d like a private secretary to do these things for me. There’s nothing I like more than writing, my time for that is so precious. But it has to be done. 

In a WURRLLD of novels, THIS was some jacket copy, by Catriona

Which bit of the publishing-business side of this caper would you ditch if you could? Or, which bit of the business side would you happily do for yourself if you had to?

I don't think many (any?) people embark on a book-writing career because they crave excitement, thrive on adrenalin and are only happy in the limelight. So it's hardly surprising that most of us love the bit where we're all alone in a room making up stories and not so much . . . everything else.

the thing I most dislike is wheedling around for favours (she said, using absolutely objective language). Writing to people asking if they would accept an early copy of your book and say something nice about it that you can put on the jacket? Makes me heave.

Thank God for the etiquette that you say "Yes, and I'll try to get to it" and then if no quote appears the author can tell herself you didn't get to it! Only a couple of times have I had to say, "I don't think a quote from me would help". Hey look at that! I hate both sides of such transactions.

Mind you, I did just do this very thing, for next March's THE DEAD ROOM, and the quotes were beyond my wildest dreams. Patricia Highsmith's name came up.

There is a bit of non-writing that I quite like, though, and that's doing jacket copy. Longer synopses are the devil's work but the pithy little 75-word teasers come easily to me, so much so that I've written them for other people who were struggling.

A couple of times, I've read books where I wish I'd got to write the jacket-flap copy - because it's terrible! It gives away something from deep inside the plot, or it mischaracterises the tone of the work, or - my particular bug-bear - it says BIG TWIST. Then you read the book knowing there's a BIG TWIST coming and you keep wondering if that was it. Or is this it? Sometimes you finish the book thinking "Where was it?" I don't mind "twisty", but BIG TWIST can retire, for me.

At least you never read jacket copy as misleading as some film trailers are. I'm interested in the art of the trailer, the changing trends, the dying cliches. And I love a bad trailer more than a good one. You know, those comedy trailers that give up all the best gags? Because there's only five. Or the horror trailers that overuse creepy music and pauses so you're expecting a bigger frightfest than you get? 

That's an ironic kind of love, though. Like how I love a non-apology. E.g. "I take full responsibility for those statements, although they may have been doctored." What I sincerely love is a trailer that leaves out a complete subplot, so you get more than you were expecting when you watch the film. And I think that works for jacket copy too. A brief mention of every bit of the book can end up being a mess, like a bad buffet where's there's a little of a lot, rather than a lot of a little.

In conclusion (like there's a thread running through this!), if you're wondering whether it matters what you write on the jacket or say in the trailer, because surely the book is the book and the film is the film: have you ever seen The Shining (romcom version) trailer? I rest my "case".

Cx

 

 

I'll do it, but I don't like it by Eric Beetner

Which bit of the publishing-business side of this caper would you ditch if you could? Or, which bit of the business side would you happily do for yourself if you had to?

When one typically sets out to be a writer, it's partly because we lack the skill set to do more typically business-like endeavors. Then comes the shocking confrontation of the business side of the writing...well, the writing business.

Marketing one's own work is a chore and something I have come to realize (though truthfully it's not that revelatory) that I'm lousy at it.

I do fall somewhere in between in that I like doing interviews. I like doing appearances and speaking in public. I like going to places where I've been invited. It's the awkward asking someone to invite me that I don't care for. It always comes off as needy and very outside my character. When was the last time it was a good look on someone to invite themselves into a party?

The very idea that I need to convince someone else that what I wrote is good and worthy of them spending their time on it is contrary to my very DNA. And it's not even that I doubt the quality of my own work. I think I write quite well. But saying that out loud to someone? Please.

There's a very good reason I need an agent. If I had to rely on my own hype to get a book into the marketplace, I'd still be unpublished. 

The daily grind of a social media presence is still an aspect of authorship that is debatable about how effective it is at moving book sales. I'll gladly post something if I feel I have something to say, but when I don't, I shut up. I think that's a rather nice trait to have in a human, but one that is rare and falling away like a vestigial tail in modern society.

One aspect of writing that I would gladly do myself, and have done on many occasions, is design my own book covers. I'm no expert and no whiz at photoshop (I don't even have the full version of PS because it is stupidly expensive) and I have no training whatsoever outside of a curiosity about art and design. But I've managed to create covers for over 100 books, both for myself and others. Some people have actually paid me to do it, which is weird.

I don't think it's a control thing. I'll gladly let someone else take over and I've been pleased with most of the covers I haven't made myself. But I enjoy the challenge of it and the creative outlet. 

I would gladly read my own audiobooks if it wasn't such a time commitment. Does that count?

It is a business and there is no getting away from that. But others are there to take the burden of the most business-y of the business off the shoulders of writers so we can get to the task of creating work to feed the business machine. But agents, lawyers, editors, PR firms all get down to work only when we create a product for them sell. If I took on more of those tasks myself, I'd put people out of a job. So, really, my reluctance to do these mundane and math-based tasks is contributing to the economic sustainability of the publishing industry. If we start producing a generation of self-promoting master businessmen and -women who also write well, then the industry is doomed.

I've always felt that someone else is the best sales tool for your book. It's the only honest opinion. If I meet someone and they tell me how great their book is, I get skeptical. I want the PR sales pitch. I trust word-of-mouth far more than an author's own words out of their own mouth.

So I respect the people out there doing the jobs I'm unwilling and unskilled to do. Keep it up. When I try marketing and self-promotion it feels to me like putting a giraffe on ice skates. Come to think of it, that would get a whole lot of views on instagram...

Confessions of a Reluctant Brand

 

Writers do more than writing, as we know. Which bit of the publishing-business side of this caper would you ditch if you could? Or, which bit of the business side would you happily do for yourself if you had to?

 

If I wanted to be in Marketing, I’d have gone to business school and started saying things like synergy with a straight face. Instead, I became a writer — which is like shouting into the Void and hoping someone out there is fluent in your brand of echo.

But no. Turns out, being a writer in this economy (said in a dramatic noir voice, lighting a metaphorical cigarette) means becoming a full-time content creator, part-time social media strategist, and occasional tap-dancing bear.

Writing — the part with the words and the coffee and the sweatpants — is only 40% of the job. The other 60%? That’s business, baby.

And if I could, I’d ditch exactly one thing: self-promotion.

I know, I know. “But, you have to be your biggest advocate.” And I am. I advocate for myself every morning by making coffee and not quitting. I’m also my own case manager for mental health. Standing on the proverbial street corner on the Net with a megaphone yelling “READ MY BOOK!” feels about as natural as selling vacuum cleaners door-to-door in a bikini. (Bold. Uncomfortable. Likely to backfire and includes wedgies — the variants vary from Atomic to Melvin. IYKYK.)

It’s not that I don’t want you to read my book. I do! I worked hard on it. Bled for it. Gave up the free time called Life and sacrificed the few milligrams of sanity I have… and yet telling people to buy it feels like I’m hawking a timeshare. “Just five minutes of your time, and I’ll change your life — with a 300-page emotionally devastating narrative arc!”

My inner introvert wants to whisper modestly from the shadows, “If it’s not too much trouble, and only if you want to, you could maybe… sort of… read it?”

Meanwhile, my inner Don Draper is chain-smoking and screaming, “NO ONE BUYS A SECRET! GOTTA BE SEEN AND HEARD IN THIS BUSINESS. A DRINK?”

So, yes. If I could burn one business task to the ground and walk away in slow motion, it would be self-promotion. Not because I don’t think it’s important, but because it feels like performing heart surgery on myself — necessary, but deeply awkward and I have no anesthesia.

Now, if I had to pick a business-related task I’d happily do? Editing. Not the glamorous kind where you cut unnecessary chapters like a literary samurai, but the nerdy kind — tightening character arcs, oiling transitions, corralling rogue commas. Give me that and I see the electricity.

IT’S ALIVE! IT’S ALIVE.

But building a Brand? Creating Content? Convincing strangers that my book is not only worthy of their time but also better than sleep, Netflix, and every other book ever written?

I say everything I can about my books. Niente. Post a funny picture of my tuxedo cat Munchkin, and the world knows I exist for a nanosecond.

Still, I do it.
I pitch.
I post.
I persist.

Because at the end of the day, the books don’t find readers by osmosis. They find them because we believe — awkwardly, earnestly, ridiculously — that our stories matter.

Funny how life is just a grown-up version of the childhood playground or high school. Except there’s no Mr. Rogers to be your friend, the girl you asked out thinks you’re a garden gnome, and your inner Don Draper just lights another cigarette, pours himself a drink, and shakes his head.

 

Title: Please No Photos!

 

Writers do more than writing as we know. Which bit of the publishing-business side of this caper would you ditch if you could? Or, which bit of the business side would you happily do for yourself if you had to?

 

Hmmm what other side of writing do I like besides the writing? Nothing, nada, zip, not a good gosh darn thing! Seriously, if I had my druthers, which I guess, theoretically, I do. I would only write. Down with marketing, down with interviews, down with going outside where I need to wear clothes that are not pajamas. Okay, that may be a bit dramatic, but seriously, writers are special breed. You really can find a lot of us happily bumming around communing with the voices in our heads and creating new worlds for you to enjoy. This is where lots of us find and appreciate our super powers.

My sister has been caught up in a mad binge of the series Alone. So, every day when we talk, we fantasize about our ability to make it alone on a desert island. Of course we have stipulations, someone would have to build our shelter and provide us with food, but other than that, she’s convinced we could make it. Me, not so much, I need a comfy bed and a working TV and my library.

Still, I do love the idea of being completely alone to do what I want when I want it. I kind of thought this is what being a writer would be like. As it turns out, the writing is the easy part. The part I and most of the writers I know relish. There is nothing like sitting in your writing cave, no matter where it may be building your world, meeting your characters for the first time. Nothing.

But that part seems to go so fast, at least when you’re on the trail of that good story that you can’t wait to share with the world. But as sure as the rain will fall in spring, all the rest is waiting.  The editing, podcast, interviews, and the like is as much a part of the writing journey as putting those words on the page. Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love meeting readers. How cool is it to know someone is reading words that came directly from your head to the page, and they get it! You couldn’t buy that feeling.

 

 But I’ve no quite gotten to loving the rest, you know, the middle part between that first draft and the final copy. And I especially do not enjoy the angst that comes with helping your book baby find it’s home among readers. I will acknowledge that I may be in the minority where this is concerned. I know writers who are perpetually on, ready and waiting with a warm smile and firm handshake to tell you all about their latest project at a moment’s notice. I know writers who love the editing process to the point where they look forward to it. I would love to be that writer. But for now, I remain the writer that enjoys the first draft and suffer through the rest.

Slow cooker stories - by Harini Nagendra

This week's prompt: Describe the perfect writing retreat, real or imagined

I have a folder full of links to writing retreats saved on my computer. When I'm feeling low, bored, depressed, or have itchy feet, I open it up, and go to each link, reading about the venue, the writers in residence, and any blogs that I can find which describe the experience of being at the retreat. Photographs are a bonus. It always lifts my spirits.

I did spend three months at one absolutely wonderful fellowship in Berlin in 2005 - well before I wrote my first non-fiction book, but I credit my time there as being instrumental in getting me to take the very first step onto a long road that led to my writing my books on urban ecology and my fiction books on detection in 1920s Bangalore.

From March to May 2005, I was a Guest of the Rektor at the Wissenschaftskolleg zu Berlin - the Berlin Institute of Advanced Studies. I lived in a lovely, cozy apartment with a work office just a few feet from the main building. The rules were straightforward - on Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Fridays, Fellows had to eat lunch together in the main dining hall - on Thursdays, it was dinner. We had a gourmet chef to cook meals, language classes to help us practice Deustch, and I made some very good friends from multiple continents. But most of all, I spent time alone in my apartment, and I read.

I went to Berlin with the idea of working on a book on reforestation - a rather technical book. But every evening, at 6 pm, I took the bus from my apartment down the Kurfürstendamm, a spectacular boulevard that stretches across 3.5 km of Berlin, and is lined with gorgeous plane trees, exclusive boutique stores, and 'happening' coffee shops, disembarking at the very end. Then I took a long walk back to my apartment, 3.5 miles away - stopping for at a bakery for coffee and kuchen. Looking at the people, the shops, the trees, the nearby parks and lakes, and observing the way in which residents from East and West Berlin connected with nature around them - and how very different it was from Bangalore, San Diego, and Bloomington Indiana, cities I also knew well - sparked questions about how people in cities to live with, and experience nature - and what that means for the future of the world.

A couple of years later, I moved back to Bangalore, and became involved with movements to save trees and restore lakes. That's when I started to work on urban ecology. Looking back though, the seeds of my interest in the city as a focal point of study began on those long, solitary walks along the Kudamm. That's what led to my writing Nature in the City in 2016; and the process of conducting archival research for Nature in the City in turn sparked the idea for writing a mystery series set in historical Bangalore, beginning with The Bangalore Detectives Club, published in 2021. 

From 2005 to 2021, my books were inspired by ideas gathered from the embers of the city, spiced with the sights, sounds and fragrances of tree blossom and bird song, simmered in the slow cooker of time. And I think my books are the better for it.

Wiko was the perfect place, and Berlin, the perfect city for a retreat. And now that it's been 20 years, I need to look through that folder again - and find another retreat, to incubate ideas for my next series!          

 

A Great Place to Steal Ideas from James W. Ziskin

This week’s question asks us to describe the perfect writing retreat, real or imagined. 

Last night I dreamt I went to Wandsworth again. 

Wandsworth House is a writers retreat. Never mind that I’ve never been on a writers retreat or to any place called Wandsworth, I just wanted to use that great opening line, which I came up with all by myself. Really!

In my dream, the retreat was to be a creative weekend spent in a drafty old mansion on a desolate island off the Cornwall Coast. The house was accessible only via a diesel-belching launch piloted by a crusty old sea dog who squinted into the setting sun as if trying to remember where he’d left his hornpipe. There were nine other passengers on the boat—fellow writers, and, therefore, I hated them at first sight because, contrary to what writers say in public, writing IS indeed a zero-sum game and one scribbler’s smallest success is another one’s death. I knew them all by name and reputation, even if we hadn’t been introduced, and nobody said anything to anyone else for the entirety of the crossing. The mood was tense, fraught with seething resentment and ill-concealed jealousy. Charon’s skiff transported a merrier lot than ours. But the prickly silence didn’t stop us from giving each other the stink eye. Nor did it prevent us (well, me) from silently impugning the literary talents of the assembled, as well as the morals and pulchritude of their mothers.

We got our first look at Wandsworth as Popeye the Sailor—I think that was his name—moored the boat at the quay on the island. The house was perched high on a hill, like a weathered bit of driftwood, yearning to return to the sea. Or maybe it just looked like it was falling apart. Kind of hard to tell from a distance.

Three of the passengers—ghost writers, so I never got their names—decided they didn’t like the looks of the place and said they’d changed their minds and wanted to go back to the mainland with Popeye. But the old sailor cackled and told them his orders “was” to drop us off and leave us there till Monday when he’d return to collect us if we “was” still alive. (He mumbled that last bit under his breath, but I’m pretty sure that’s what he said.) 

So, with no other choice, we disembarked, climbed the mossy stone stairs of the quay to the shore where an estate car awaited. Not waiting for us, as things turned out. The car was just sitting there with four flat tires and a sheep dog sleeping in the back.

We trudged up the hill, each writer carrying a suitcase and a laptop, except for one hipster who actually had brought a portable typewriter. An old typewriter, too. Manual. Not even an IBM Selectric. What a poseur. And we found out later that he forgot to bring any paper along, so the weekend turned out to be a total bust for him.

When we finally reached Wandsworth House, we were greeted by a thin, gray butler who claimed he’d never met the master of the house, our host, Mr. Wandsworth. Not to fear, however, since the master of the house had left a 78-rpm record with detailed information about the weekend retreat. Alas, there was no gramophone in the house, so we had no idea of what we were supposed to do. The swag bag was a disappointment, too, with only one tube of generic exfoliating cream, a can of Mountain Dew, and a small bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. No cocaine at all! 

Oh, well. The host never showed. But the butler’s wife cooked us some great meals, no one got murdered, and I stole three great ideas from other writers at the retreat.

The end

584

Ligyfkugc

Putting the world on pause

Describe the perfect writing retreat, real or imagined.

by Dietrich

My perfect writing retreat is a place where creativity can thrive, distractions are forgotten and stories can come alive. It is a sanctuary—whether real or imagined—away from notifications, obligations, and, most importantly, self-doubt. 

I picture a cozy cabin tucked into a forest, where sunlight filters through ancient trees to dapple a weathered desk. Or a cliffside cottage, where the rhythmic crash of waves against the shore syncs with the pulse of my thoughts. Perhaps it’s a desert oasis with endless horizons or a mountain lodge among snow-capped peaks. Any of these could spark the magic, but it really could be any place that inspires a pause from the clamor of the world.

For Mark Twain it was a hut on a farm in Elmira, New York, where he brought Huckleberry Finn to life. JK Rowling wrote her first Harry Potter novel in the quaint Elephant House cafe in Edinburgh, Scotland. Ian Fleming wrote the bulk of his James Bond novels on an estate in Jamaica. And Hemingway did some of his best work at his house in Key West, Florida. 

While escaping isn't always an option, I try to create the ‘retreat’ feeling at home. I transform a quiet corner, set boundaries and surround myself with inspiring objects: my vintage typewriter, bookshelves whispering encouragement, a cat curled nearby, a candle, and family photos. Without the need for an exotic escape, a dream space emerges, proving that perfect spot where the story can unfold.

Once I’m deep into writing a chapter, the outside world dissolves entirely. To reach that state, I ideally need a space that’s distraction-free yet rich with sensory details. My desk faces a window bathed in natural light, my chair is comfortable for those long hours, and a pen and notebook are always on hand to capture any fleeting thoughts. There is no clutter and no Wi-Fi, unless research demands it.

Ultimately, my perfect retreat is built on a balance: structure without rigidity, solitude without loneliness. I reserve the mornings for drafting and writing, that’s when I’m sharpest. The afternoons are for revising. Evenings are for reading by the warmth of a fireplace, letting other voices spark fresh ideas and inspiration for the next morning.

I'll Show Up

 

Terry here with our question of the week: Describe the perfect writing retreat, real or imagined. 

My perfect writing retreat has to be imagined because it doesn’t exist. Or rather, maybe it exists for some male writers, but very few women writers. 

First of all, the ideal retreat is one that I don’t have to do anything to make happen. I just show up with my computer and a bag packed with essential clothing and toiletries. It can be the mountains or the seashore. An island. A cabin in the woods. The important thing is that I didn’t have to arrange it. I just show up. 

Next, food appears at intervals. The kind of food I like. I don’t have to plan the menu. I don’t have to shop. I don’t have to cook. The food just shows up. And there’s wine. Good wine. 

I have the cabin (or room in a big house) to myself. It has a private bath with a bathtub. It has a desk with a comfortable chair. The bed is comfortable. And my cat Max is there. He has a bed where he can curl up on my desk. I want a view. Woods. Or water (lake or seashore). Or mountains. And birds. Some squirrels. I can even have a bear, as long as it stays outside. I can go for walks and at night I can see the stars. 

 If I feel like listening to music, it’s right there, easily available. And I don’t have to listen to anyone else’s music. 

I have my computer, but I’m unable to get any news of the outside world. Period. The computer is strictly for writing. I don’t get emails or news reports. I have a phone, but it’s strictly for emergencies. No one calls me to ask if I want to buy 1,000 pens or contribute to a worthy cause. I don’t want to know who died—or who didn’t die. I don’t want to know what fresh hell has been perpetuated. 

The writers at the retreat (a handful at most) gather in the evening to talk about what we’ve written—or haven’t written. To talk about our challenges, our successes. We talk about writing. Period. Okay, we can talk about our families and pets—but it’s kept to a minimum. We don’t talk about our health. There are no complaints about the retreat because everything is perfect. The plumbing works. The electricity works. The heating and cooling are perfect. 

But most important, the words come. I write, and write, and write. Uninterrupted. Nobody wants anything from me. Nobody asks me where something is when it’s right in front of them. Nobody demands that I stop what I’m doing to listen to a complaint. 

I once read a lofty, male writer describe his writing day. He got up early and went to his office, a cabin in the woods behind his house. He wrote for several hours there and then he went back and had lunch and went for a walk. And then he returned to his office for a couple more hours. Then went back to the house for dinner, sometimes with friends. A lovely life. And I thought, “Right, and who exactly makes that happen? Who is behind the scenes making sure that the kids are fed and dressed and taken to school? Who shops for groceries and cooks the food? Who makes you a sandwich when you want your lunch? Who invites your friends for a lovely dinner party? Who makes sure you are undisturbed by such mundane problems as whether the disposal doesn’t work, or the kids have a doctor’s appointment, or the school wants something. Who keeps it all running seamlessly while you tap out your words? Who listens when the words aren’t going well?” 

All I want is one idyllic week. And I want the words to spring onto the page. 

Oddly enough, I had one such writers retreat many years ago. It was all arranged. All I had to do was pay for it. Except for the fact that my cat wasn’t there, and we never saw a bear, I’ve pretty much described the way it was.
I don’t know how the writer who arranged it managed to find such a perfect spot with a wonderful blend of writers, and a chef who made beautiful meals. But she did. I made long-term friends there, and have fond memories of the retreat. I'd like to do it again. 

Someone make it happen, please. 

Retreat to Vermont - by Matthew Greene

Describe the perfect writing retreat, real or imagined.

"Perfect" is such a tricky word. And I happen to have the unenviable habit of letting the "perfect" be the enemy of the "good." So, of course, when I read this prompt, I started imagining exotic getaways with ideal creative circumstances. A trip on the Orient Express, perhaps. Or a private island with no cell reception and ample snacks.

But then I remembered last weekend.

As it happens, I've just gotten back from a little DIY writer's retreat I've taken myself on more than once. With a couple deadlines looming, it seemed as good a time as any to escape to beautiful Brattleboro, Vermont.

It may not be the most exciting locale, and the bragging rights of arranging the retreat myself are basically nil. But I think I've perfected the formula for a thoroughly productive creative reset just a few hours outside New York City. It brings together three elements I find essential for a beleaguered writer like myself: a train ride, a small town, and great place to stay.

THE TRAIN:

Brattleboro is situated on the Amtrak Vermonter line, about six hours from New York. This gives me ample time to read, to journal, and to get to work as the gorgeous scenery passes me by. I sit on the left hand side of the train on the way up and the right on the return to catch the waterfront views. Autumn leaves enhance the experience even more, but I've taken the trip at various times of the year and always enjoyed myself. The trip to Brattleboro is a perfect chance to sip a coffee and strategize for the retreat, and the train back is timed just right for a celebratory prosecco to toast to all you're sure to accomplish.

THE TOWN:

If you're looking for a bucolic little town where lumberjacks and hippies feel equally welcome, look no further. I won't pretend I'm an expert on a place I've only passed through a few times, but I can vouch for the charming Main Street within walking distance from the train station, lined with cafes, bars, and eateries where you can post up with a laptop or notebook and write to your heart's content. There's also a public library to wile away the creative hours, a multitude of outdoor spaces if the weather is nice, and a kick-ass co-op to stock up on snacks. Special shoutout to "The Bomb" sandwich at Echo and the Maple Latte at Mocha Joe's.

THE HOTEL:

And my favorite part of this little getaway...the Latchis Hotel! Within spitting distance of the train (gross), this historic hotel features original fixtures and furniture, with a record player in every room and a vinyl lending library full of music to get the creative juices flowing. Even better, the hotel is built beside the Latchis Theatre, an old-fashioned movie palace still in operation. Nothing inspires me more than a good movie, and there's nothing quite like catching a flick in the beautifully preserved main auditorium. The Latchis Hotel and Theatre are both run by a nonprofit organization devoted to maintaining the building's unique history and—I like to think—inspiring writers like us.

This post is starting to sound like a travel brochure, but I promise I'm writing from the heart. Every time I head up to Brattleboro, I find myself inspired by the scenery, the history, and the fascinating folks I meet along the way. Last weekend I finished an outline of one project, polished off several pages of another, and got inspired with a few fresh new ideas. 

Needless to say, I think I earned the prosecco on the way home. And I hope you do too!

'My Heart at Evening': Love at First Sight by Poppy Gee

 My mum used to mark a J in the inside cover of library books with a soft pencil, to show that my dad had already read them. Dru Ann Love's record of what she reads evolved into an award-winning, guest-infested daily blog. Where do you sit when it comes to reading notes? Do you keep a record, write reviews, make annotations in the margins . . .?

I like writing reviews of books and I like posting them on Instagram, with a beautiful photo of the book. As I hit ‘post’, it feels like I’m throwing a bouquet of freshly picked flowers into the air, one which the book’s author will catch with joy.

A few years ago, I stopped saying ‘review’ and started saying ‘recommendation’. I’m not analysing, I’m simply saying, I found a book you might like. I don’t write negative reviews. That’s not my job. I think it’s easy to write negative stuff, it’s harder to explain why the work resonates with you, where it sits in the literary canon, and what is shows us about the human condition, or the world we live in. I often research the subgenre if it’s unfamiliar to me. It helps me understand the author’s intent, and achievement.

Below is a book rec I wrote recently. As I say in my piece, it was love at first sight… everything I learned about the book intrigued and seduced me. And when I finally read it, I was utterly enamoured. The writing is elegant, the author poetically describes the lavish miserable decadence of the Tasmanian wilderness, and challenges long held assumptions about Tasmanian history and people. At it’s core is a dark mystery, a cold case that will never be resolved.

From my Instagram, 4 October 2025:

Book rec: Very occasionally you find yourself falling in love with a book that you haven’t read. Its a rare phenomenon but it happens. Right now I’m in the delightful state of love at first sight for My Heart At Evening by Konrad Muller.

The romance began when I saw on Instagram the author doing events at Tasmanian bookshops. I was intrigued. A debut novel, set in Tasmania, with that exquisitely enchanting title…

And then I discovered that the novel is about Henry Hellyer, an architect who took his own life in 1832 at Highfield House, Stanley. That hooked me because earlier this year I visited Highfield house. In an upstairs bedroom, overlooking the ocean, I read Henry’s suicide note and the witness statements provided after his death. The statements were lavishly and strangely worded and read like the people had colluded. There were inconsistent details in other reports. I asked the house manager if she thought he took his own life and, to my surprise, she admitted that she personally didn’t believe he did. It seemed perhaps Henry Hellyer’s mysterious death was Tasmania’s first documented anti-gay crime. I was intrigued. This book is about that man.

I bought my copy at Petrachs in Launceston yesterday. It’s one of the most divinely produced books I’ve ever held. The cover is thick, and the spine feels seamless. Inside the cover is indigo to match the blue gentian flower on the cover. The blurb is short: two enigmatic, poetic observations.

Those blurbs! To die for! ‘A glossy black cockatoo of a book…’

Everything about this book feels otherworldly. Even the publisher sounds intriguing, like a character in a curious old novel:

‘Based in Lutruwita/Tasmania, Evercreech Editions publishes the boldest, strangest, and most necessary voices we can find. We value deep thought and burning intensity; work that is formally striking, emotionally resonant, and politically alive. Emerging writers, overlooked classics, and essential works in translation—if it is stunning and urgent we want to print it.’

It was so satisfying I returned to Petrachs this morning to buy a second copy for my sister.

Five stars (count them), by Catriona

My mum used to mark a J in the inside cover of library books with a soft pencil, to show that my dad had already read them. Dru Ann Love's record of what she reads evolved into an award-winning, guest-infested daily blog. Where do you sit when it comes to reading notes? Do you keep a record, write reviews, make annotations in the margins . . .?

Dru's Book Musings, by the way. 

I keep a record of what I read, here on my blog. I have no memory of why I started except that it was a round-up of my Chrtistmas and New Year holiday reading from 2019-2020 and maybe I didn't want to let go of curling up on a couch with a stack of books and turn, instead, to face the coming year. Which, as I say, was 2020. So here's what I read that Christmas:

A NEARLY PERFECT CHRISTMAS, Nina Stibbe

OPEN THE CAGE, MURPHY, Paul O'Grady

MY NAME IS WHY, Lemn Sissay

THE LADY IN THE LAKE, Laura Lippman

THE DUTCH HOUSE, Ann Patchett

CHRISTMAS ON CORONATION STREET, Maggie O'Sullivan

THE SALT PATH, Raynor Winn

THE INSTITUTE, Stephen King

THE STONE CIRCLE, Elly Griffiths

THE DARK ANGEL, Elly Griffiths

That's pretty typical Yuletide pile: a couple I'd managed to save - Stephen King and Elly Griffiths, a couple of seasonal treats, a celebrity biography - Paul O'Grady, A then adored and now disgraced memoirist ...

And I've been doing it for nearly six years (doesn't feel like that, given the wibble-wobble of pandemic time). One benefit is that it keeps me checking in on my website and stops me forgetting to post events. Like this one!

more info (not much) here

Also, it means I've always got a photo handy for Friday Reads on Facebook and Bluesky. It's amazing how many books look great against my tomato-red kitchen bunkers, including the Library of Congress's groundbreaking crime classic THE CONJURE-MAN DIES, by Rudolph Fisher (highly recommend (when the Library of Congress is open for business again)):

Order links here

But there are limits, and CRIME INK: ICONIC, John Copenhaver and Salem West's dazzling anthology of short stories inspired by Queer icons was an assault on the eyeballs:

Order links here

I know I should probably migrate to GoodReads with all this, or double it up so I've got stuff on GoodReads too, but . . . ( three dots are not an argument, I know.)

And since I've started beating myself up, why don't I write reviews? I love getting reviews (not that I read them) because all hail the algorithm, right? So I should definitely write some. Guess what? 

. . . 

I do write jacket blurbs and I will boost like Billy-oh when a friend has a new book out. A couple of recents are Cindy Brown's stellar, Portland-set mystery ECHOES OF THE LOST. I wrote: a rattling good page-turner, for a start, but it's also an absorbing character study and a brilliant depiction of a setting and community not often - if ever - found in crime fiction. Unflinching and compassionate, Cindy Brown brings Portland's unhoused citizens sizzling onto the page, showing both their individual humanity and the rich structure of their society. I was as charmed by the background to this excellent novel as I was by the twists and zings of the story itself.

pre-order links here

And for a complete change, There's Amanda Block's wonderful adventure story, THE HAUNTING OF HERO'S BAY. I wrote: The kindly spirit of Daphne du Maurier is definitely watching over this terrific West Country novel: there are smugglers and shipwrecks, secrets and legends, clues hidden in artworks - and in hidey holes. Plus a quirky village full of irresistible characters, not one but two halting and tremulous love stories, and a protagonist whose plight and pluck are equally compelling. The Haunting of Hero's Bay was pretty much the perfect read. I loved it.

Pre-order links here

Thank God for the unwritten rule that if you don't write a blurb, it's because you "didn't get to it in time". I love telling people a fabulous book is fabulous, but I'd hate to find myself having to write things like "Fans will be delighted" or "If you loved Gone Girl, you'll like this." 

As to the other half of this question - making marks in books? I make notes in my own first editions, to cut down passages for reading out at the launch party (see above, Dec 4, Davis, CA) but that's it. I use a bookmark, I don't crack the spine if I can help it (but reading a heavy hardback one-handed in a hot bath, with a glass in the other, sometimes causes a bit of trauma), and I have used the endpapers for emergency story ideas, but overall my library will be in pretty good shape when my coil's been shuffled off and my house is being cleared. 

Although, as one of my nephews once said - about the number of signed books I've got: "It's going to take ages to check these when you're dead, Auntie Catriona. We're not going to be able to just hoy them into a skip." (Lob them into a dumpster) He doesn't foresee being laid low by grief, does he?

Cx