The LadyKillers

Drive in Fiction and Real Life

It's so satisfying, as a reader, to trundle through a world and recognize the hallmarks of a driven character! The genesis of Nero Wolfe's neuroses may be unclear, but in any of his stories, we know just when he's going to get all crazy about a dame being in his house, or outraged that some food is cooked wrong, or so exasperated by Archie's general good cheer that his head starts to explode, and we are delighted. Rex Stout constructed stories so that the exact nature of Wolfe's response was always a surprise, and therefore a delight, even as the inevitability of some response was a given.

But in real life, things are seldom so clear. It's only the distance of decades and the uncanny incisiveness of my life's partner that has given me Clue One about my own drives.

For example, my first novel, an adventure set in 12th century Mongolia, demanded some research. Turns out the place most like Mongolia in the world aside from Mongolia is the dead center of Montana.

[Funny fact that I could never use: our Wild West tumbleweed originated in Mongolia.]

 

Can you guess which is Mongolia, and which Montana?

A flight to Montana was ten times cheaper than the flight to Mongolia, and did not involve passports or the Chinese government. The original no-brainer.

My husband, who had lived in Missoula, grabbed me by both shoulders and looked deep into my eyes and said, "Promise me you'll stay on the paved road."

I thought he'd lost his mind. I grew up California, and I always stayed on the paved road. Because the unpaved road is usually rutted, dirt, and guaranteed to puncture your tire sooner or later. There's always a paved road.

So I lightly, thoughtlessly promised him and flew out to Billings, and took my rented car north and east, toward the Lewis and Clark National forest. In my experience, national parks are big, well-staffed, welcoming places that never close (because the weather is good!). 90% of the state is open 24/7.

Portions of Montana the size of the Los Angeles basin are closed for the winter. Until May! And Lewis & Clark was a forest, not a park. If only I'd noticed that!

Much to my surprise, the road to Lewis & Clark stopped being paved about half way there. I was driven to keep going--only I didn't realize I was driven.

I saw giant trucks transporting cows on this unpaved road. Didn't even think about the promise I'd made less than 24 hours before. When I got lost (how does a person get lost on perfectly flat land?) and a trucker had to help me figure out where I was going, I should have turned back. Remembered my sidekick's warning. But no, I was doing the most logical thing on earth, research for my story.

I should have rented a horse!

I got to the back side of the national park, and a sign that says it's closed. But, my crazy-on-overdrive brain tells me, that must mean it's lightly staffed. Because national parks don't close close. The road in looked practically vertical, but there was no snow. Silly sissy Montanans.

I kept going up the road, and noticed a little snow. Ah, felt the cold air, and began collecting sense memories for my story. Totally failed to notice that the snow was getting thicker, and in places where trees blocked the sun, it was clumped up and icy. Failed to notice until my car got stuck on a huge hunk of ice in the middle of the deeply rutted dirt track.

Then and only then did I remember my promise. And that I had no cell phone.

I'll spare you the petty details of my futile efforts to get off that ice-hunk. Flash forward to a near hypothermic Mysti, mud spattered from attempts to jam wood under the tires and rock that car out of its wedge, taking a breather, and absently staring at a clean little .22 calibre rifle shell laying near the car.

Hunters. Would one save me, or shoot me? I jumped in the car, hoping the cheap economy rental would deflect any errant bullets. Thoughts of disaster haunted me as I honked the horn in what I thought might be an S.O.S. signal every few minutes. In the moments between honking, I remembered that I'd never told anyone at the hotel where I was going. No one was even going to know where to look for me, because everyone else in the state had the good sense to stay away from a closed national park.

Then I wondered what the hunters were hunting.

And the image of a giant bear, peeling back my car's roof like it was a tin can drove me into action. I could not spend the night, or a few days, waiting for rescue. I had to get off that forsaken piece of ice now!

Then by sheer luck (or perhaps my subconscious just got sick of how stupid I was that day), I thought of the poor fool who had lit half a county on fire because he'd pulled off the side of the road and idled his engine until the grass caught fire. Surely an engine could melt the snow I was stuck on?!

So I rev'd that engine for all it was worth, long minutes that no doubt restored the battery from all the honking even as it shaved years off the life of the pistons. A little Drive-Neutral-Reverse repetitions and sure enough, I was off the ice and headed for the front of the national park. There was no way to turn around and go back.

In my emotional memory, the crazy cliff-hugging drive out of the park fails at one corner, and I die. It's the darndest thing. Obviously I made it home. But the real actual eye-to-eye stare of Death does profoundly change you, and somehow the acceptance I achieved translated into a false memory of the fate I deserved, not the one that was given so graciously to me.

I'm happy to report that since that episode, I really do stay on paved roads. I'm still driven to take risks, but they are not so bad--trying my hand at writing, accepting the riskier assignments at work, that kind of thing. Not exactly in neutral, but not flirting with Death quite so heavily either. Much to the relief of my kind and patient husband, the Nick to my Nora.

Tell me, what are you driven to do, driven beyond all sense and explanation?

 

 

Driven by Ambition -- by Carole Price

Please welcome Carole Price, author of the forthcoming Shakespeare in the Vineyard mystery series and our honored guest today. Carole attended Ohio State University and worked for a national laboratory in northern California before turning to writing mysteries. After graduating from Livermore’s Citizens Police Academy, Carole volunteered for the Livermore Police Department. She has many opportunities to work with the officers, but most importantly, the academy inspires and educates her. She frequents the Oregon Shakespeare Festival in Ashland where she fell in love with the Bard. Carole is a member of Mystery Writers of America. She and her husband reside in the San Francisco Bay Area in the middle of wine country.

Website: Carolepricemysteries.com

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The dictionary describes “drive” as propelling or pressing onward. That’s what I’ve done for over eleven years in the hope of becoming a published mystery writer. I spent retirement dollars on my travels to Martha’s Vineyard, England, and Scotland to research and complete my first mystery novel some years ago, but rejections just kept coming, and now my manuscript rests in the far corners of an old desk drawer. So imagine my delight, all these years later, when I received a contract in the mail from Five Star Publishers for my second novel Twisted Vines, A Shakespeare in the Vineyard Mystery, which takes place right in my backyard—Livermore wine country!

The tentative publication date is August 2012. That’s a long time off, but considering I was close to shredding the darn thing after even more rejections, I couldn’t be happier. With the contract signed and the check from the publisher in the bank, I drove down to Barnes & Noble to see where “P” for Price would appear on their bookshelves. Not as great as “A,” but a heck of a lot better than “Z.” (Not that it probably even matters, but I’m having some fun as a soon-to-be published bona fide author!)

When I’m not in my home office and writing the second novel in my series, I’m either out in my garden, hiking the trails in the Bay Area, or volunteering with the Livermore Police Department. But the ideas for my stories keep flowing no matter where I am. When I’m hiking tough trails, literally by the seat of my jeans, to get up those mountains, through rock-rooted canyons, and to golden eagle habitats and springtime wildflowers, I’ll often stop and jot down notes when an idea pops into my head for the next chapter in my book.

And as I drive around my assigned beats in Livermore, decked out in my volunteer’s uniform and looking for abandoned vehicles to tag—those cars/trucks/boats/RVs covered with grime and spider webs—my ears are always glued to the police radio, absorbing police lingo and looking for yet more ideas to inspire my writing.

Writing a novel doesn’t come easy for me, and I’m still constantly reading up on tips and techniques. But with passion and patience, and encouragement from my weekly Friday mystery writers’ group that’s been meeting for the past several years, I have a signed contract with a great small press publisher. And what’s more I’m a third of the way through the second book in the Shakespeare in the Vineyard series and already making notes for the third novel. Drive requires loving what you do, and that makes this entire process of writing well worth the struggles and effort. I genuinely love mystery writing.

Driving, plotting, managing!

by Diana Orgain

Driving – Ah- I do love it. I remember when I first learned to drive. The feeling of getting into a vehicle and actually being able to take myself anywhere I wanted. To be able to drive down the road, to get onto the freeway and zoom. Unbelievable freedom.

These days, I don’t commute to a job, as I work from home – which lucky for me the way gas prices are going –  but, on occasion I do love to just get into my car and drive. I find the thoughts flow to me. I enjoy watching the scenery go by – like you’re on the inside of a movie. I usually don’t listen to music when I drive.  I like the sound of the car’s engine, a sort of white noise to me, which allows my thoughts flow. Many plots have been birthed in my car.

My latest novel, FORMULA FOR MURDER, actually starts off with a hit and run! Which takes the word “drive” to an entirely different level. The idea of action driving a plot.

 

I notice when I have this conversation with writers that some are confused by the term “action” (too many bad Hollywood movies with car chase scene) – not that there’s anything wrong with enjoying that, mind you  – however, a car chase is not the only way to create dramatic action or tension in a scene.

Dramatic action is created when the basic internal conflict of a character or the plot is complicated by the introduction of related secondary conflicts, including various obstacles that frustrate the protagonist's attempt to reach his goal.  In other words, a protagonist can’t be allowed reach his goal immediately, otherwise there is no story. Therefore, the storyteller must create suitable obstacles to block the objective.  Simply put; objective vs. obstacle = tension.

And this dramatic tension or action is what drives the plot. And plot or the “Dramatic Structure”  consists of five components; Introduction, Rising Action, Climax, Falling Action and the Denouement (or Resolution or Catastrophe) according to your story.

So there you go – from on the driving on the road to a break-down of dramatic structure – all in one blog post! Whew! Now, I must go feed my children and pick out some new kitchen lights with my hubby in time for our kitchen remodel which begins on Monday (and in which I’ll be “driving” or managing the project – ah – yet another definition of the word “drive”)!

Drive! -- by Michael A. Black

What’s the first thing you think of when someone says the word “drive?”

Since we live in a country that’s had on ongoing love affair with the automobile for the last century, most people would probably think about their car. Everybody remembers his first car, just like your first love. Mine was a --- well, never mind. That’s ancient history. Besides, with gas prices going up constantly, driving my car is one of the last things I want to think about nowadays. <Grin> Not that I think ascending gas prices is going to end the American love affair with the automobile.

For me, when someone says, “Drive!” I get another fond memory. Back in the day, during my grammar school days, I was the little kid everybody loved to pick on. Getting beat up in class, in the playground, and on the way home was a way of life for me. My dad, who had been a navy boxer, taught me the rudiments of the sweet science, bought me some weights, and enrolled me in judo classes at the local dojo on the South Side of Chicago. My first judo instructor was a man named Gene Waiyaka. He was a powerful guy who trained us well, explaining how to bring your opponent off balance and execute a throw. Gene also taught us mat work, which consisted of pins and choke holds. (These would later serve me very well as I finally found the courage to fight back against the neighborhood bullies. More than one of them was surprised by my newfound strength and skills, and a few of these rats found themselves being shaken back to consciousness by their equally rodent-like friends. But I’m digressing from my “Drive!” topic.)

Gene explained how the torrie (initiator of the action) uses kazushi (balance) to throw the ukie (receiver of the action) and thus accomplish the throw. As I said, part of this process involved pulling or pushing your opponent off balance, and part of it involved shifting your own body into the proper position to execute the throw. Sort of using your strength where your opponent was weak. “Judo is not about strength,” Gene would say. “But it’s all strength, used at the right moment.” We would practice randuri (a wrestling-like sparring match) relentlessly and through it all Gene would be watching us and coaching. When someone initiated a throw, he would yell, “Drive!” This meant to use your entire body in the effort.

In a way, these were not only judo lessons, but life lessons as well. From this youthful experience I learned to give my best effort to whatever task I undertook, be it a judo match or a theme paper in school. Gene eventually left the dojo to open another school on the South Side with the karate instructor, a man named John Keehan. Keehan was an incredibly handsome charismatic guy whose expertise in karate had us all fascinated. He would lead his students in a circular route around the mat doing squatting jumps, each as precise as a dance move. I would watch in awe as the karate men would beat their hands against these straw mats that had been laid over concrete blocks. He and Gene later had a falling out and he opened his own school. This was back during the infamous “dojo wars” on the South Side, and Keehan and one of his students went to another school to pick a fight, during which the student was killed. Keehan disappeared for several years after that and reemerged as “Count Dante, the deadliest man alive.” His picture graced the back of every comic book in the early seventies advertising his mail-order martial arts course including the “dim mak” or “death touch,” which he had purportedly perfected in some “death matches” in Hong Kong. He died from hemorrhaging caused by a bleeding ulcer in 1975, but his mail-order business continued to thrive after his death. I guess you could say Count Dante had more than his share of drive as well.

Gene’s influence has stayed with me all these years. I heard a while ago that he had passed away, and I was saddened. But his legacy, the sense of sportsmanship and doing your best in all things, was passed on to his students and lives on today.

 

News and Drive!

News Flashes!!

• LadyKillers Camille Minichino and Ann Parker will join Janet Dawson at the Oakland Public Library in Oakland, California, on Saturday, April 30, 2-4 p.m.

Next Topic: DRIVE!

However you want to define it, we'll be talking about drive... whether that's on the road or in our thoughts.

"Drive on. We'll sweep up the blood later!" ~Katharine Hepburn