Agent in Old Lace

A book review by Keith Fisher

When Tristi Pinkston agreed with the rest of us to attempt a start of a critique group, I was pleased. I knew I’d learn a lot about writing, but since Tristi wrote historical fiction, I figured I’d learn more about history.


On that first day, Tristi brought the first few pages of her Secret Sisters Manuscript. Needless to say, I fell in love with her characters and thoroughly enjoy the antics of Ida Mae. After receiving a contract on the series Tristi came with a mystery/suspense that had to be edited right away. I sat in awe of Tristi’s versatility.

Because of difficulties, I didn’t get a chance to help much with her edits. So, I got to read this book fresh and I found a great story.


I’m still waiting for Secret Sisters, but Agent in Old Lace is a great snack to tide me over. Actually I liked the book. The story intrigues and delights the readers. The plot twists keep them reading, and the protagonist is fleshed out completely.


Here, read this:


. . . With the gun still in his hand, he glanced from side to side.
"Shannon!" he yelled, and for a minute she thought she’d been spotted. "This is the biggest mistake of your life!" He kept walking. "Shannon, come out," he cajoled. "We can still make it work. I’ll forgive you, and we’ll get married. "Just come out and everything will be all right."


Yes the poor guy is insane. But look at the scene. He’s got a gun. He’s threatening her with it, and he still thinks she might marry him. What a delightful situation this is. Agent in Old Lace is full of this kind of writing. I liked it. You can get a copy here or at bookstores near you. If it isn’t on the shelf ask for it.


As far as historical fiction is concerned, I’m not disappointed. I know Tristi will eventually bring some history to our group, but I enjoy Agent in Old Lace.


Good luck with your writing---see you next week.

A Little Promoting

By Keith Fisher

I was in the bookstore, and two things grabbed my attention. I heard an old song I used to play and sing. And I bought a book.

Thirty years ago, I spent a lot of time playing my guitar and wasting time. I didn’t foster delusions that I would be a great rock star or anything, I did play at a few weddings but other than that, I wanted to escape adulthood.

My friends and I liked to play Neil Young songs. I liked the Eagles with a few rock and rollers and obscure songwriters thrown in. Did you ever follow Hoyt Axton’s career? Anyway, I loved to play Sugar Mountain by Neil Young. I could relate. You see if you managed to stay at the carnival forever, you wouldn’t have to grow up and be responsible.

That was the song I heard at the bookstore. It wasn’t Neil Young singing, but it took me back over the years to a time when I felt the same way.

Also, I bought a copy of Cup of Comfort for New Mothers. My friend, Kim Thompson, was a contributing author and she told a touching story of when her youngest child was born in severe respiratory distress.

When I met her, Kim found out I was writing in the LDS market. She told me she wanted to try writing. I asked why she didn’t, and so she started writing. If anyone ever had natural talent she does. She brings first drafts to critique group and we’re amazed. (Some of the ladies threatened to drown her.) :) I told her she would be published before me, and she was.

Now, She stands on the brink of having her book published. Kim signed a contract with Valor Publishing Group. Her book, currently titled I’ll know You by Heart, will be released in March 2010. She will be writing under the name Kimberly Job. Keep an eye on her---she has a future in this business.

So this is my Saturday morning state of mind. I wanted to promote Kim. To let you know about the name change and give her the credit she deserves. Those of us in our critique group are very happy to rub shoulders with her.

Now, lets see, that means everyone in our group has a book published or coming out. Well, except me, but I’m working hard---won’t be long now.

Good luck with your writing---see you next week.

Learning to Cope

By Keith Fisher

"Life ain’t easy then you die." How many times have you heard that statement? I’ve heard it said in many variations. I went to a self-hypnosis seminar today and didn’t get a blog posted. What a great experience it was. I will be a better man in the future.

It was quite interesting to be the only man there. Tonight I went to the Orem Summerfest parade and wrote an article about patriotism. Right now, I’m falling asleep so this is my blog for today. Next week, I’ll write two blogs to make up . . . I promise.

Good luck with your writing---see you next week.

Balloons in My Backyard!

By Keith Fisher

I started running as soon as my feet hit the floor this morning. I wanted to sleep in, but that became impossible when a hot air balloon floated past my bedroom window just below the treetops.

At first I thought it was in trouble, and I thought it was in my neighbor’s backyard. As it turned out, it was losing altitude, and gliding down the street behind my house. I muttered something and jumped out of bed. I dressed in a hurry, grabbed my camera and went outside.

The cool morning air felt nice as I rushed down the sidewalk in the direction the balloon had gone. It sat on the road at the end of the block with people holding the basket from slipping away. I stopped to snap a few pictures.

It couldn’t have been a more perfect landing. At the end of the block, the road turns with a house set at the apex, like in a culdesac. The Balloon had landed in the center of the road and the center of the intersection.

"What’s going on," I heard someone say.
"It’s someone’s birthday and this is a pick up," another person said.
"If that’s the case, it’s a pretty darn accurate landing," I said.

As I began to move closer for a better look, the people climbed into the basket. The operator pulled a cord and the burner flamed up with the sound of a blast of air. The balloon began to rise.
When it was just high enough to clear the tree tops, the aircraft drifted into another neighborhood, then another. We watched, wondering who had climbed into the basket? Who was having a birthday anyway?

I talked my neighbor into going with me, and we found the balloon three neighborhoods away, the passengers were holding the basket and walking the balloon into a vacant lot. I asked the pilot if he was having problems and he said he was fine, just looking for a place to fold up the balloon.

He said that it was an unusual morning. The places were wind normally blew were calm, and the places that were usually calm were windy. The pilot had to change his flight plan and find a different place to land because of the wind.

I live in a place where the canyon winds blow daily. It’s nice to cool off in the summer and it protects young plants from frost. But balloons don’t land there. I’m glad for unusual days. It gives me something else to write about. Hopefully, this one has given you something to think about too.

See the pictures I took Here

Good luck with your writing---see you next week.

Your Story is Right in Front of You

By Keith Fisher

Angelica wiped the counter of the condiment area, and bent over to tie a garbage bag closed. She felt someone come into the café and looked up.

David stood at the doorway wearing sandals over bare feet, tan cargo pants, and a free flowing white linen shirt. Tendrils of long black hair protruded from under a painter’s hat. David couldn’t hide the bad boy stubble he wore on his face. Her heart beat faster at the sight of him. She had been raised to a higher standard, but this man held the key to the incessant pounding of her heart.

He leaned his head to one side, as if trying to see sideways. His eyes seemed to see right through into her soul. Her knees grew weak as he sauntered, catlike, almost like a dance toward her. Her hands trembled in anticipation. His outstretched arms seemed to indicate an unasked question.

She put one arm around him. After all, she was at work, and had to try and keep a standard but she knew she needed more. Angelica put her other arm around his waist and felt his spine as her hands glided up and down. David circled her shoulders and neck with his arms and he pulled her close.

His scent wafted into her soul and destroyed any self-control she ever had. She would’ve followed him anywhere, if he’d asked, but he didn’t ask. He pressed his lips to hers and the soft touch, almost silky, brought memories of imagination when she dreamed.

This scene although it needs lots of work, was inspired by an exchange I witnessed in a café. The girl’s face reflected surprise when she first saw him, happiness at seeing him, then passionate joy in his embrace. I was surprised, because they seemed to be from two different worlds.

I’ve preached about this before, but these kinds of exchanges happen in front of us everyday. All we need do is put on our writer’s glasses. Or see things through writer’s eyes. Look up from your notebook. Your next scene might be playing before you. Write your impressions. Don’t be afraid to use your imagination. Use the scene in your current work, or save it for later.


Good luck with your writing---see you next week.

What's the Story?

By Keith Fisher


Several years ago, our government set aside one day a year, specifically designed to remember those who died in the service to their country. Since then, Memorial Day has evolved into so much more.


Now, it’s a day to remember all our loved ones who’ve passed away. It’s a day off from work, a three-day weekend. The first real warm day to get outside.


In my family, we used to set aside part of the weekend to visit all the dead ancestors and place flowers on their grave. When my Grandfather died, my mother inherited his list. Grandpa visited every grave he knew about and since he raised peonies to sell, he gave the extras to his ancestors and placed color on their graves.

A few years ago, we started a tradition in my father’s family. After placing flowers on Grandpa’s grave, We’d go to the family home and visit. A picnic would ensue on Grandma’s front lawn.
There were times over the years, when camping and fishing were the order of the day, and vacations were sometimes planned during that time, but we always migrated back to family members and the comforting feeling of being connected.

This year will be different for me. It’s the first Memorial Day since my father died. His headstone has been placed, waiting for the onslaught of those who miss him. I took a picture last year of Mom and Dad at his father’s grave. Who knew that we would be visiting him this year?

I’ve witnessed some interesting traditions practiced in cemeteries over the years including big family picnics on the grave. I’ve seen "super sized" fast food left on graves. Candy, letters, pictures, and solar walkway lights. The latter gave me cause to wonder for awhile when I passed the cemetery on the way home from my writers critique group.


I stopped one day, and discovered the lights. What a great idea, I thought. It was a nightlight in case the deceased woke in the middle of the night in unfamiliar surroundings. I guess it could be interpreted as an eternal flame?

Whatever your tradition, for a writer, there’s a plethora of new material in cemeteries at this time of year. Almost always, I field the question: "Where do you get ideas to write about?" Here’s a great source. I recommend you go alone, unless you have kids who can entertain themselves and stay out of trouble. Take a lawn chair along and set it up on Grandpa’s grave.


Look around you. Humanity is unfolding before your eyes. Watch people from the time they get out of their car. We tend to show our hidden personality traits when we grieve. Some traditions are as individual as the people who perpetrate them. My uncle told a joke once, at my grandfather’s grave. It hadn’t been long since Grandpa died and the tree was still small.

The story is told that an American visited Japan and witnessed the tradition of leaving food on the grave. The American callously asked, "When do you expect your dead loved one to sit up in their grave and eat all that food?" The answer came succinctly, "Oh, I don’t know, about the time your ancestors come up and smell the flowers I guess."


There are millions of stories in the cemetery. Take along a voice recorder or a notebook. My friend, Kim Thompson, recently told a story about watching a young couple bury their child. She told of the feelings she felt. And several scenarios came into her writer’s mind.

I watched a man come to the cemetery once. He parked his motorcycle under a tree and made his way across the lawn. He looked at the ground at all the headstones. Then sat down in front of one. I watched his conversation proceed. It was obvious to me that he’s been having a hard time dealing with his loss. He missed his loved one, and I suspect coping with life was getting harder every day.


As a writer, I imagined the tragic death of a young wife, the end of a dream. The promises broken and hopes crushed. I imagined the death of a best friend. The broken promise to attend college with him.


I’ve heard stories of people actually dancing on graves, pouring the contents of a bottle of whiskey on the grass, and one true story of a man taking a sledge hammer to a headstone. The police didn’t arrest him because he promised to replace it. Can you see the drama? Are the stories percolating in your head?

When you get tired of sitting. Walk around a bit. Look at what people leave on headstones. Look at the headstones themselves. Sometimes there is a life story carved in that rock.


Good luck with your writing---see you next week.

What's in a Name?

By Keith Fisher


Until recently, (long story), I did a lot of multitasking at work. I work in document preservation, digitizing records, and I kept facebook open in a small window on my desktop. Staying in touch with my world at 3 a.m. is not difficult. Most of my facebook friends sign off around midnight.

Occasionally a friend or two will be up because they can’t sleep, or they’re burning the midnight oil. I’ve been meeting writers who are part of my network but I didn’t know them very well.

I talked to Susan Corpany Curtis one night, because she lives in Hawaii and there’s a time difference. Anyway we chatted about our books, and she pointed out something I’d thought of, but never really paid attention to.

When you’re plotting a story, How do you come up with names? If you’re like me, you start at an arbitrary point in the alphabet, and begin listing names in your mind. When you come up with one, you compare it to what’s already been written. You determine if the name matches your character and you make changes if it doesn’t.

Character names are tricky. It’s almost as important as when you chose a name for your children. Someone read from a book of funny baby names at work the other day, and I can’t believe some of the cruel jokes perpetrated by attention starved parents who probably shouldn’t have been given the keys to a new baby anyway.

Of course, you can write myriad situations, caused by an unusual name. Just like Johnny Cash did in his song A Boy Named Sue. Naming a boy, Sue, or a girl, Henry would help you write new plots.

Often, when we pick a name for a child we think about the generations who’ve passed and sometimes we honor them by giving our child a namesake, sometimes we give them pieces of our own names. My brother has the same first name as my father but we always called him by his middle name. It caused problems, though, whenever someone official, or legal, would call and ask for the name, we always assumed they wanted Dad.

When we pick names for our characters the considerations are different. If we name a son after the dad, it’s confusing for the reader. So, we think of vastly different names for each character, and we often try to find gallant or sexy names, something that stands out. We want the reader to fall in love with the name. We pick Trent, and violet. Brady, and Bambi. There are many websites with baby names that will help for the other genres, but writing fantasy is different. It’s not easier in fact it’s probably harder because you have to invent.

I have a problem with using names that almost rhyme. Like in my WIP (work in progress), I have characters named Debbie, Leslie, Jenny, Brady, and Ruthie. Just to name a few. Do you see the problem? They all end with the EE sound.

The thing that Susan pointed out, however, was when authors pick names they like, but they don’t consider the era. Would you give a name like Ethan, or Olivia, to a character born in 1908? You might, but while those names were ranked three and six in 2008, they didn’t make the top one hundred in 1908. These facts are from the social security website.

When Susan reminded me of the problem, I took all the names from my current work in progress and ran them through the website. First I had to determine how old I wanted them to be and I gave them birth years. Of course, because of the EE sound, I planned to change most of the names anyway, but I discovered from their birth dates, I’d misnamed some of them. I have the luxury of living for more than fifty years so I remember most of the eras I write about, but even with personal knowledge, I still falter.

As I said above, there are many websites that provide baby names, but I recommend the Social Security site. It’s easy to use, and the data is from government records. I would wait until you’ve written the book then go back and find the names that need to be changed. You might find a name that fits your character better than the one you chose originally and it will be from the right year.

Good luck with your writing—see you next week.

Oh! and don't forget today's the day for the Launch party of Tristi Pinkston's new book Agent in Old Lace. scroll down to my last post for time and place.