Allow me to set the tone for you.
First: read an anthology of short stories, devoted to (arguably) the greatest historical crime fiction writer of all times, Edith Pargeter, alias Ellis Peters (pictured left), creator of Cadfael.
Second: go to sleep. Dream of an unscrupulous woman in a holy place: a butcher by trade, seeking by deception the killer of a nun in her own abbey. Dream of a bitter struggle between doing what's right and doing what must be done - butcher against abbess, wife against dowager, woman against woman in difficult times. An epic clash of wills in a time when the Catholic church was All Powerful, Protestantism was punishable by death, and women were chattle.
Third: wake up and realize you have the whole danged plot worked out in your head, and there's still seven months until the Muskoka Novel Marathon.
Next: pass the next few months not writing. Practice the three r's of writing: reading, revising and research.
Give up on researching medieval monasteries in the 12th century; why not instead look to an equally turbulent turning point in history: the reign of Henry VIII, that notorious husband of six wives (who apparently loved Abba), that infamous wearer of codpieces, heretic and founder of the Church of England, master of the Dissolution of the Monasteries, and namesake of the most contagious and irritating earworm of all time. ("Second verse, same as the first!")
And why not set it during the reign of the Tudors? After all, this time period falls in the midst of the Renaissance, some time after the discovery of the New World and all its possibilities, and when Protestants and Catholics alike were captured, tortured and martyred.
While you're at it, research martyrs, monastery life and...well...butchery.
Advance seven months. Prior to leaving home sweet home, upload a few hours of medieval and renaissance music to ye olde iTunes playlist. (Ordinarily, this is taboo. Usually, I'll listen to the era-appropriate music for at least a week in advance of the marathon, until I begin to absorb it by osmosis; anything too new, and I'm distracted by its novelty.)
Next, arrive at the ordained time and place, computers, snacks and heart in hand.
Spin in increasingly frenetic circles (sometimes doing laps around unsuspecting newbies at the marathon - true story) until the zero hour ticks its final second.
Sit. Crack knuckles (sorry, Mother).
8:00 p.m. Loose terrifying battle cry. Open file, title the blank sheet: Lady Butcher and the Accidental Saint.
Press play. This is the first song in the new playlist. (To enhance the mood, open this link in a new window and play it while you read the pursuant paragraphs.) Spiriti, by the Medieval Baebes.
Begin: Describe a scene in which a middle-aged woman is on the run from pointed fingers, hate and gossip. Take her down to a desolate beach of black sand. Stumble upon a carcase, washed up against the rocks.
Have the harried woman slowly approach the corpse of a woman.
Tide is coming in.
The lady butcher creeps forward, possessed by a sense of terror and evil. Press on through the stench of murder most foul.
Have the sea rush in toward them.
The eyes of the corpse open and fix upon the horrified stare of the woman who found her.
The mouth opens, as if to speak.
Another crushing wave of seawater; the undertow pulls the feet out from under the lady butcher, causing her to fall beside the corpse.
The corpse holds her gaze. Her mouth opens again -
- And run out of awesome, spooky song.
So began my third 72-hour novel marathon! About 50 minutes later, the first ten pages were done, and a new story was begun.
Add some distractions, the obligatory mid-marathon migraine, some pickles and Bournville chocolate (the latter two were care of my mother), and I was off to the races.
Unfortunately, I seemed to have left my fastest muse at home. The one that came along with me liked to take me down long and twisty paths through Wikipedia and Google Images. When I wrote, I was composing at only 2/3rds my normal speed, and I was at a great risk of being supplanted as the Most Prolific. I had a title to defend!
But really, I couldn't care. It was all about the story, about the characters, about capturing a moment in time, faithfully and delicately, and conveying it to the reader. The work was slow, but some of the images...wow! When I read back over them the following morning, my jaw fell. Embedded in the gritty clay of the rough draft, there were gems I hadn't even recalled writing. Images came across exactly as I had seen them in my head.
And as usually happens, somewhere between the 6th and 66th hours, the writers suffered the giggles. I recall one particularly raucous moment when Jacqui Morrison blurted out a long (and insane) laugh. That set off Kevin Craig, whose chuckles made me giggle. Before long, there were seven or eight of us laughing uncontrollably, without really knowing why. Apparently Jacqui was laughing at something she had just written. Unfortunately, none of the rest of us seemed to find it as funny as she did - it was a case of "You had to be there", I think - so we spontaneously stopped laughing and went back to work without further ceremony.
And throughout the event, I was listening to Tudor-era music that made me stop and scratch my head, like, Hoyda, Hoyda, Jolly Rutterkin and Be Peace! Ye Make Me Spill My Ale by the Hilliard Ensemble, and So Spricht Das Leben ("So Sayeth Life") by the Medieval Baebes.
Then there was one of those blissful moments, late, late in the evening, when all was quiet except for the clicking of keys. I unplugged my haunted playlist and listened, exulting in the moment - I was among writers, writing! - when suddenly, softly but as clear as day, someone in the far corner said "S&#@%." She stared at the screen, shook her head, and went right back to work.
And then, there was one particularly giddy moment when I needed some living research. I was trying to describe a non-invasive autopsy, and Google Images can only help so much. So, sometime past midnight one night (they all blur together), I walked over to Kevin Craig, and giggling, I said, "Don't laugh. I need a favour." He laughed and asked what it was. "I need you to lie down on the floor and open your mouth." Not fifteen seconds later, Kevin Craig was lying on his back with his mouth wide open, his hands folded across his chest and his ankles crossed, with me peering past his uvula to the back of his throat, and with four photographers snapping pictures.
I hope someone will send me a copy.
And of course, there were the heart-to-heart discussions scattered about, inside and outside the venue, conversations I tried to ignore, but spiritual exchanges I couldn't pass up witnessing. I was a participant in some of them. Desk-neighbours became partners in time - pace-setters and lunch-reminder-ers (Susan, Sheila, Shelly, Shirley, Sharon - here's lookin' at you, kids - and no, I didn't just pull that list out of the 's' section of the Name Your Baby book). And if you weren't giving a shoulder massage or a back-scratch, chances were very good that you were on the receiving end of one.
Next, add one birth! My oldest friend (in terms of tenure, not age) gave birth right in the middle of the marathon. (Well, right in the middle of it, temporally, not physically. She was in a Port Perry hospital at the time. We were not.)
I'd been waiting all weekend for that phone call, and at last it came. I answered the call - which dropped before I could get out the door - and I answered it again when she called back. I walked around six or seven blocks and bought Gatorade or something without really thinking of it. Stuck between the 16th and 21st centuries, tagging along behind a lady butcher-turned-medic, I listened as Sarah told me all the highlights: gender, size, weight, time and temperament, and means by which the baby was born.
Suffice to say, the baby - and his birth - worked his way right into the story. Of course, it meant another two hours lost in research, but the result was realistic and exciting - and it has the possibility of being truly poignant, if I can paint the narrative with enough nuance and plain speech, and not over-sweeten it.
I had honestly thought this to be my last marathon, considering how much the previous marathons had taken out of me. The first I remember vaguely as a fit of mania, followed by a long period of exhaustion and depression; the second I remember as a long, bleak valley of exhaustion, pain and disappointment in the human race (that was the weekend I had to sit idly by while man and woman beat and slap each other over whose lighter it was).
But this one I'll remember as new beginnings and fresh success, bracketed by family time and vacations. And yes, I'll go back again. We raised over $8000 for the Muskoka Literacy Council - which has now been annexed by the YMCA Employment Centre - and the writers, I think, forged new bonds of friendship. Deeper connections, sincere bonds - not just as writer-to-writer, but as genuine friend-to-friend.
It was this peace, sincerity and tenderness that crept into the DNA of this book, and despite the fact that it's a murder mystery (and has some gory parts in it), I think its warm spirit will carry this book into the world.
Sincerity, compassion, charity, friendship, humour...and new beginnings.
The story's not done yet, but it's a very, very good start.
Veni Vidi Scripsi!
With warm thanks to Paula Boon and Karen Wehrstein for helping to organize the event (both pictured below - Paula's the blonde, Karen's looking at the camera, and as usual, I'm the one who's looking lost and confused).
Thanks also to Dawn Huddlestone (who took the above picture) and to our Dutch den mother Mieke, who helped to set the tone and capture the moment. Thanks, of course, to all my fellow writers, without whom the event could never have been.
P.S. If you can read this, won't you consider helping those who can't? Consider supporting literacy programs in your area. Teach someone to fish, and they will feed themselves - and others - for life.