Between Good And Evil

Just released from Sunbury Press: Between Good And Evil

Buy it now:
Amazon    B&N    Sunbury Press

Praise for R. Michael Phillips: 

R. Michael Phillips excels at setting the stage for a good story. He beckons you inside with multilayered characters and artistic strokes of sensory details and then pulls you through dark hallways of motivation and revelation. An absorbing, riveting good read. 
D.A. Sarac, The Editing Pen

Small town suspense, big city crime.

June Lorraine Roberts, MurderInCommon.com

About the book:

      Years after the Willis Asylum closed, the secrets of its past lingered in its decaying halls as a reminder to the good people of Auburn Notch—when Evil closes a door, he also opens a window. Sheriff Promise Flynn was new to the town, and she was about to find out some windows should never be opened.

      Promise Flynn is an overly impulsive Metro Detective whose disregard for procedure finally resulted in her being shot and left for dead during an investigation. To repair her bruised ego and splintered confidence she abandons the callous dark alleys of Chicago to patrol the quiet, birch-lined streets of Auburn Notch—a favorite vacation spot of her youth. For two years everything was idyllic, until the body of a young girl found in the abandoned asylum outside of town awakens the insecurities she thought her new life would insulate her from. As the new Sheriff she begins her investigation refusing to accept the similarities between the young woman’s death and her own case, oblivious to being unexpectedly recognized and penciled in at the top of a clever murderer’s To-Do list. Her internal struggle intensifies when a discredited crime reporter from the past suspiciously arrives in town to resurrect his threadbare reputation, along with an FBI agent chasing down a lead in a cold case. Both men quickly become entangled in Flynn's investigation and her attempts to finally put her past to rest.

      Flynn reluctantly accepts the murder of the young girl might be the work of the two men responsible for her hasty departure from Chicago, but Agent MacGregor insists the evidence points to a man he’s been chasing. As the rising current of her past threatens to pull her under, Flynn finds herself unprepared for option three.

Meet mystery writer R. Michael Phillips at an event near you. Times and dates will be posted on Goodreads and at rmichaelphillips.com.


See you there!

January 2014 Book Tour

I'm excited about the Virtual Book Tour this month. A number of top, exciting bogglers and book reviewers have been kind enough to include me on their sites. There is even a signed, hardback giveaway of my new mystery, Passage Of Crime. Listed below are the dates followed by links to the sites.

January 14- Christa Reads and Writes

January 15- Psychotic State Book Reviews

January 16- Kelly P's Blog

January 17- Readalot Blog

January 18- A Blue Million Books

January 20- Thoughts in Progress

January 22- Books-n-Kisses

January 23- Musings and Ramblings

January 24- Escape With Dollycas Into A Good Book

January 25- Dru's Book Musing

I hope you take a few minutes and visit these sites. I'm sure once you do you will find them as interesting and informative as I do, and continue to follow them.

Passage Of Crime, book trailer

Heritable traits are passed from one generation to the next and then combine with acquired traits. The wrong combination of those traits can be deadly. PASSAGE OF CRIME, the next generation of murder in the Ernie Bisquets Mystery Series. 

Click here to read more about the new mystery.

The Turbulent Seas of Submission

As misfortune would have it my original independent publisher, for unavoidable circumstances, has closed their doors. Thus, I find myself adrift once more, navigating the turbulent seas of submission. Fortunately, I've grown much wiser over these past four years, and have continued to refine my skills as a writer. So the idea of securing representation for my next book through a literary agent is not as daunting as it once was. To be perfectly honest, it was something I fully intended to do once I established the series and felt confident in my abilities as a writer. I look at this unfortunate event now as an opportunity to pursue that course.

The first two books in The Ernie Bisquets Mystery Series have met with wonderful reviews and acceptance, so I was not about to let this event strip the wind from my sails. With my rights returned, and so many new tools available to authors, I quickly republished both books through CreateSpace. I was apprehensive at first, but in the long run this was something I felt I needed to do. The books have an established presence in the literary world that I worked hard to create. As I move forward with the series I'll need to leverage this presence. With both of those books back on course, I turned my attention to the new book and the task of querying literary agents.

I find I'm much more thoughtful in those I query. No more scattershot into the wind. I did extensive research into the agencies to see what similar authors/books they represent and how my work might compliment their list of clients. I have a far greater understanding of how valuable an agent's time is, so if I expect to be considered I need to be considerate first. I compiled my list through QueryTracker.net– what an exceptional tool for any writer. After refining my search, and making copious notes on the agents highlighted in the results, I narrowed the list to whom I felt might find my work worth considering.

This is where it gets scary again. My list of agents is finite. There is no adding to it a few weeks later in my journey. I have one shot to capture their attention. Every word from here forward must be carefully considered and arranged in a one page query to arouse within the agent the same excitement I carry within me about the characters and story I've created. To some extent, this single page query is more difficult to write than the entire 300 page manuscript. It's also the cause of many sleepless nights.

More about the query phase in my next post.

Oranges and Lemons - part 4

“By now you know the man in that trunk was not me, it was my half-brother. It was the day before you were to arrive. He came for his share from the sale of the company. He came with a cleaver–a threat to any refusal to his claim on the money. He was mad. He went on rambling about how I ruined his life. I thought he was going to kill me.”

The purging of his soul was taking a toll on Mr. Caldwell. His breaths became short, shallow wheezes. Despite the struggle needed to continue, he did so, slowly and with purpose.

“At one point he confessed to hiring the ruffian to rob and kill me. The very man your father saved me from. He had intended to take the business for himself. I was enraged. I grabbed the brass poker from the fireplace grate. The next thing I remember I was on the floor lying back against a bookcase, the blood-soaked poker still in my hand. Anderson was staring up at me from a pool of blood, his eyes vacant, his last breath expelled.”

“Why didn’t you step forward?” My course response was barely audible. I took him by the shoulders and shook him. “I’m to hang for your crime.”

He began to sob. “I know. I know. I never intended for this to happen. I thought for sure you would be released. You’ll not hang for ––”

His cough worsened, cutting off his last words. He reached down to the bench. Before I realized what was happening he was pulling my cup away from his moistened lips.

“No!” I shouted, batting the cup from his hand with mine.

Mr. Caldwell gasped. It was too late. The poison had taken its deathly hold on him. He reached out to me with one hand and grabbed at his throat with the other. Choking on his last breath he fell back against the stone wall, eventually sliding down, coming to rest in the very spot where he found me. He was gone.

In a split second I realized the opportunity before me. I quickly unlaced his boots, and just as quickly put them on and laced them up. His wool coat was next, completing the transformation with his scarf and hat. For all he had done to me I still felt embarrassed to be rifling the man’s pockets, but I had no choice. I found thirty pound sterling, a gold pocket watch and a paper with a series of numbers written on it.

I hastily scribbled a note, leaving the pen behind in his hand. It read thus:

I am guilty for the murder I committed. May God forgive me.

“Jailer!” I shouted out, straining to be heard. “Jailer, do you hear me? Come quick. This man has taken poison.”

I heard heavy footsteps in the passage. A grizzled face looked in through the barred opening in the thick oak door. The sound of a key in the lock was followed by the labored, high-pitched groan of the hinges. The door swung open. My heart raced. I felt certain the heavy pounding in my chest would give me away. I stepped to one side, tucking myself as far back into the darkness of the corner as my shaking frame would allow. The candle flickered for a moment, drawn out by the draft caused by the open door. Its brightness returned, illuminating the bench where the body lay slumped over.

Two turnkeys entered. The first was the face I saw peering in through the door. His large body and broad brimmed hat filled the cell, blocking out what little light dared creep in through the steel bars of the window cut into the wall behind him. He stood over the body holding what looked like a large canvas bag. He kicked the body twice then stepped back with a grunt. The other turnkey I’ll never forget. He was smaller with ferret-like features, remarkable to me for the shine on the expensive leather boots sticking out below his well-worn, ankle-high trousers. He knelt down close to the body.

“There’s nothing further you need here,” he grumbled, looking up over his shoulder. “And nothing you need remember.” He stared into the corner where I stood, his eyes burning through me to the stones beyond. It was all I could do to keep my trembling under control. “Leave!” he growled in a fierce tone.

With my hand cinching up the collar of the coat I rapidly shook my head and stepped through the doorway. I know not then nor now what caused the action, but I paused for just a moment and looked back. In that fleeting instant I saw the turnkey, the ferrety looking one in the boots, pick up the small glass vial I had left on the bench. With a nod to the other jailer he put it in his pocket.

At the far end of the passage another turnkey was walking toward me. At this point I was shaking uncontrollably. Suddenly I felt a heavy hand upon my shoulder.

“Get this bloke out of here,” the course voice behind me called out. “Take him out through the yard along Newgate. Off with you now.”

I followed close behind him through the maze of passages, almost tripping over his heels. The passageways and heavy iron gates seemed endless. He unlocked and locked each as we passed through, my heart stopping each time a gate slammed closed behind me. We walked through the large exercise yard along Newgate Street without so much as a single look from the prisoners walking in line, their heads down with one hand on the shoulder of the man in front. Not even a casual glance from the turnkeys who monitored the yard. I could hear noises from the street beyond the wall. We finally entered the small room where I was signed in as a prisoner, a room also used to sign in visitors. From here it was only a short walk through the Keeper’s house to freedom.

“You there,” a gruff voice called out. “Stop right there.”

I froze. His words sent a cold chill up my spine. I could see the main door ahead down the short, stone passage. I could do it. I only needed to make a run for it. Try as I might, I couldn’t move. A hand held tightly to the shoulder of the wool coat of deception I concealed myself in. It was the heavy hand of the turnkey I had followed out from my cell.

“You’ll need to sign out, Mr. Havisham. I’ll need your mark. It’s the rule.”

I slowly turned around. The turnkey put a green cloth book down on the table in front of me. Looking down I noticed the last entry – Mr. J. M. Havisham – to see – John Prior.

I took a deep breath. Picking up a quill from the inkstand I quickly signed the name of Havisham. To this day I have no recollection of what final remark I made afterwards, but it was met with a gnarled smile and the nod of a head to indicate I could show myself down the passage and out. I was a block away and down Newgate Street when I finally exhaled.

***

I left John Prior behind that day. Within a year the Memoir of Ebenezer Caldwell was published, as told to J. M. Havisham.

Oranges And Lemons - Part 2

My parents were kind and decent people, giving without thought to the less fortunate, and instilling in me the patience to understand my fellow man. My mother was educated, a fortune of her being the daughter of a governess prior to her marriage, and set a formal schedule at home to educate me, as my father was insistent I attain an education and “clean” work with an annual salary.

My father worked a milling machine in a factory located on Cheapside, toward St. Paul’s. Mr. Ebenezer Caldwell owned it, having been bequeathed to him on the death of his father. He ran the business with his half-brother Anderson. Mr. Caldwell gave my father the job in gratitude for stopping what was certainly intended as a deadly assault. One evening at dusk, just prior to the glow of the gas lamps, a ruffian confronted Mr. Caldwell and his half-brother on their way home from the factory. When the man produced a revolver Anderson ran, leaving Mr. Caldwell to fend off the attacker alone. My father witnessed the confrontation and came to his aid, thwarting the attack. Anderson’s flight was regarded as an act of cowardice that was answered with his dismissal from the company. Mr. Caldwell never saw, nor spoke the name, of his half-brother again.

Those first years of employment for my father were a time of prosperity for my family. I went on to attend Harrow – Mr. Caldwell, I found out years later, facilitated my placement there. I thought the passing of my parents, due to an outbreak of cholera during my second year, would be the end of my formal education. Through Mr. Caldwell’s benevolence I continued, eventually attending Cambridge. I remember thinking through my university years how fortunate I was my father interceded on the attack of Mr. Caldwell. That quickly changed, driven with every ounce of malevolence I could dredge up from the bowels of Hades, to wishing my father had left him to die at the hands of his attacker.

You might think it shameful for me to speak of the dead in such a way as this. Shameful to condemn a man whose benevolence afforded my father a decent wage and myself a fine education. Perhaps you’re right. At the time I was so consumed with hatred for what he had done to remember the acts of kindness that actually defined his life.

The judge and jury listened patiently as the facts of my case were revealed, occasionally stopping the proceedings to quiet the assorted gawkers jammed into the gallery in the Old Bailey. They were told during the trial Mr. Caldwell was murdered in April of 1886, his body stuffed into a steamer trunk in the attic of his flat on Fleet Street. It was further asserted that I remained in the flat after killing the man, availing myself to his substantial wealth and property. The police and medical examiner gave detailed reports substantiating those claims; claims based largely on information supplied to them from the grocer who delivered our meat and produce, the stationer who sold me the steamer trunk and the banker who set up the account for John Martin Havisham.

My legal counsel, a man whose name I find no need to remember, a man scarcely my senior but mentally and judiciously most certainly my junior, was inept in his ability to dispute even the most subjective of claims by the prosecutor. His laziness placed my whole defense on my testimony, a testimony which brought laughter from the gallery after my insistence of Mr. Caldwell being very much alive up until the twenty-eighth day of October, the last day I spoke with him and six months after his confirmed death. These “delusions”, as the court referred to them, were dismissed as nothing more than a feeble attempt to substantiate a claim of mental incapacity in defense of my actions.

I pleaded with the court to hear me out, assuring the judge my defense would be simple and address each of the claims related to the prosecutor’s assertion of my guilt.

“If you still find my statements an insult to the integrity of the court,” I said, pounding my fist on the well-worn rail before me, “I’ll concede my guilt and waste no more of the courts time.”

The court was reluctant to indulge me, finally conceding due to the overwhelming insistence from the gallery. It appeared their expectation was of a fanciful tale of my consorting with an apparition; a carefully spun tale to divert the jury from the greed and murder depicted by the prosecutor. The chamber went silent as I began.

I had nothing less than respect and gratitude for Mr. Caldwell. At the time of my graduation from Cambridge he had sold his factory for a substantial sum, resigning himself to a quiet life of travel and leisure. You’ll think it odd my having never met the man personally, knowing him only through his benevolence, but such was the case.

With my schooling complete I was excited over the prospect of becoming a journalist and eventually a novelist. The stipend for my education and living expenses, an account set up for me at the Bank of England by Mr. Caldwell, was closed out on my graduation from Cambridge. I took a small flat above a bakery on Bread Street and spent the next three years as an editor with the publishing house of Bascomb & Aldritch, a rather prestigious house with ties to Cambridge. It was there, on that blustery day in March of 1886, when a letter arrived from Mr. Caldwell.

His letter was my first direct contact with him since my parent’s death, now twelve years past. It requested I meet with him to discuss writing his memoirs. He wanted people to know the good he had done in this life. This entailed my leaving Bascomb & Aldritch. Without hesitation I agreed, soon finding myself sipping Earl Grey tea in the sitting room of his flat on Fleet Street.

A Father's Reflections

I remember the first time I saw you. I stood there trembling over the thought of this precious gift I was given and the responsibility that went along with it. With your mother’s hand in mine, I became Dad, and my life changed forever.

Changing a diaper was a skill quickly learned when mom was at work and it was just the two of us. I always made your favorite for dinner, and it amazed me how quickly a bowl of spaghetti could turn into a hat by just turning my back on you for a moment. Then we would play for hours. No matter how many times you knocked the blocks over, I stacked them back up just to hear you laugh once more. You climbed on my back when you were tired and it was off to bed. I read the same story for six years, and it soon became my favorite, too.

It seems like just yesterday when I let go of your bike for the first time. The little hand I once held was taking a firm grip on life, and my role changed. I became the strength you looked for when confronted with an obstacle; the shoulder you leaned on when things didn’t go your way. Rain or shine, I was on call whenever a ride was needed. I kept a ladder handy to get the Frisbee off the roof, and calamine lotion for when I searched for the ball in the bushes. No matter how many times I told myself no more, I always found an excuse to give in when you wanted something.

The years continued to go by. There is a car in the driveway instead of a bike, high school has turned to college and you are making your own way in the world. I'm more a spectator now, but always there when you need me. Our journey is far from over, so for the time being I'll just sit back and take pride in the person you have become.

I’ve accomplished many things in my life, but nothing is more precious to me than hearing those four little words, “Hi, dad, I’m home.”

A very Happy Father’s Day to all you fathers out there!

Old Friends

I had a book launch the other day at Barnes & Noble. As usual I was a bit nervous in the days leading up to this first event for my new novel, Rook, Rhyme & Sinker. I had no reason to be nervous. It’s not like this was my first signing event, as I’ve done many now in an assortment of venues. Still, it makes me nervous at the thought of sitting behind that familiar table, peering out over a stack of crisp, new books. I try to stay positive but a few thoughts manage to sneak through. What if no one shows up? What if the books haven’t arrived? What if I spend the first hour talking to mystery readers and then realize my zipper was down?

But the day arrived. I took a deep breath, and with pen in hand, I entered Barnes & Noble, ready for how the world intended to greet my latest literary effort. The staff at Barnes & Nobel is wonderful. We talked a little; catching up on things from when I was there last. Then I fielded a question or two from customers. “What isle are the cookbooks in?” “Do you have Dan Brown’s new book?” All this greeted with a smile as I stand proudly by a large sign stating, “Meet Mystery Writer R. Michael Phillips.” An announcement, directing customers to my presence, comes over the PA system and interest starts to swell around the table. The conversation turns to mysteries. My fears subside as I sign my first book of the day. People clustered around a table will always attract others, so the inquisitive nature of the public takes over. One last check to make sure I’m not having a wardrobe malfunction and it’s time to sign some books.

For me, I can’t tell you how much I enjoy meeting new people and talking about writing, mysteries, authors we both enjoy, etc. But the most exciting part is how an event like this affords you the opportunity to reconnect with old friends. I’ll expound on this further by saying a great deal of the success of the event and excitement of reconnecting is made possible by the advent of Social Networks. This is especially true for those of us who have not yet made it to the NY Times Best Sellers List.

This event was particularly exciting for me as I was surprised by the attendance of a couple high school friends; two cute girls back then who are now beautiful, successful women whom I haven’t seen in years. And more years than I care to remember or we’ll ever admit to I might add. They looked great, and brought with them the same spirit and enjoyment of life that made them standout as special so many years ago. We caught up on life, and quickly closed the gap between then and now.

So, you may ask, “Was the event a success?” I signed a lot of books, so from a retail point of view I would say it probably was. But to me success goes beyond the monetary element of the event. I’ll borrow a page from that credit card campaign and restate there are some things money still can’t buy. “One mystery novel- $14.99. Reconnecting will old friends- Priceless!”

It's here!

I'm excited to announce the final cover art has been approved for the second book in the Ernie Bisquets Mystery Series. The book is set for release from Asylett Press, January 2011. More details to follow.

For more info about the book go to
www.eastlondonadventurersclub.com

David vs. the Publishing Goliath

In this past year leading up to the BEA I’ve read a flurry of articles how the rise of the eBook is heralding the demise of the publishing industry. On the surface they resonate as depicting anyone venturing down the road of self-publishing as latter-day David's, banding together and swinging their keyboards in an attempt to topple the publishing world of Goliath. As I read through them a second time it occurred to me they were more a critique on the writing process itself, and how much that landscape is changing. Self-publishing is a time-honored means of expressing oneself, the eBook is merely its irritating little brother. Criticize it all you want, but it’s not going away. Take it under your wing and you can mold it into a productive member of the family, not an adversary.

Since the cave dwellers of Chauvet, man has always found a way to express himself. Whether with a brush, or a quill, or a keyboard, it’s still the quality of that expression that determines the authors place. That sense of place may not occur instantly. It may need to be out there for years before someone stumbles upon it and sees the true value in what you’ve done. It could also be discovered and looked upon as rubbish, but that is the risk you take when you strive to be heard.

The idea of self-publishing is certainly not new and it helped launch the works of many noted writers. What would General Washington have used to inspire his troops if Thomas Paine hadn’t self-published Common Sense? Children are still captivated with the tales of Hans Christian Anderson and Beatrix Potter, while adults continue to marvel at the works of Audubon, Poe, Eliot and Joyce. And the list goes on. I doubt anyone would dismiss Capital Offence because it was originally self-published, and we should thank Christopher Paolini’s parents for lending him the money to publish Eragon. These, and many more, are all writers who had something to say and had the tenacity to forge ahead to bring their work to the public. And our lives have been enriched as a result.

In the shadow of these successes are the multitudes of writers whose names most of us will never know. Writers who felt they had as much to say as their contemporaries, but whose talent to string the words together only captured the attention of a handful of readers, and not the millions achieved by others. That aspect of writing hasn’t changed. A web site, a blog, and advancements in technology may make the process easier, but it will never replace talent and relevance. Along with this, the desire for acceptance by your contemporaries should also come into play. You should remember here acceptance doesn’t necessarily mean someone agrees with you it only means they welcome what you have to say.

Twenty-six letters arranged one way is nothing more than the Alphabet. But in the right hands those same letters can be arranged in such a way as to whisk you off to exotic lands; they will bring tenderness and awe behind the tears that streak your cheeks; a smile that will linger throughout the day; or solace when nothing else has worked. Like my father used to tell me, “Anyone can purchase a set of Arnold Palmer golf clubs, but it doesn’t mean you’ll be walking down the fairway at Augusta any time soon.”

Do we really think giving writers more opportunities to express themselves will topple the industry? I doubt it. If anything, it may serve to introduce a future Eliot or Joyce whom might otherwise have gone unnoticed. The publishing giants and their irritating little brother will learn to get along, as they’ve done in the past, and the written word will go on.

Photo Courtesy Photos8.com

What I Learned Sitting On A Train Platform

Characters- Part II

This is the second of three short observations about Characters.

No matter what traits a fiction writer can dream up for the characters that populate their stories, nothing compares to the quirks and traits of those you meet in real life. Allow me to expound a bit. Well, there I was, sitting on a train platform in Worcester waiting for my return train to London. It was a bright morning with just the slightest chill, but enough to warrant holding my coffee with two hands. I’m a cordial person by nature, so it was very easy to fill my time with pleasant conversations with the people waiting along with me. And, to be honest, there is always a very soft line between character research and my genuine interest in the conversation.

There was quite an assortment to choose from that morning. An attractive businesswoman was first up. I was quite pleased when she sat down next to me. Surely such an engaging woman as this will appreciate a stimulating conversation about the latest business news. Instead she went on in nauseating detail about how late she was running that morning. Another monumental concern was the wind’s effect on her hair. I assured her there was little need to worry; it looked just fine. In an effort to save her from embarrassment later I mentioned she was wearing one black shoe and one blue. You would have thought she suddenly recognized me as someone who might steal away in a woman’s closet overnight and rearranged all her shoes. I got a sharp “harrumph!” and she stormed off down the platform. As I watched her walk away I decided it best to let someone else inform her the back of her skirt was tucked into her pantyhose.

And then there was this young chap with leather, a spiked dog collar, and a blue Mohawk. He had pierced things I had no idea you could possibly pierce. My first thought was a firm grip of my wallet and a quick move to the other end of the bench, but he proved most amusing and incredibly articulate. He spoke right up, engaging me in a conversation about my thoughts on the decline of soulful interpretation in pop music lyrics of the day. Despite my embarrassing lack of musical knowledge, we chatted for a while under the questioning glances of those who walked by. I couldn’t fault them for it, because it was my first reaction to his appearance also. Just another reason you shouldn’t judge a book by its coiffure. When his train arrived he bid me good day, and thanked me for the conversation.

I could see my train coming just round the bend. As I stood up a maintenance man who had been sweeping the platform greeted me. Much like my earlier attempt to save the attractive businesswoman from embarrassment he apparently felt compelled to point out her aforementioned wardrobe malfunction. “That woman seemed quite proud of her bum,” he said in a most sincere tone, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb. He looked up at me, scratched his head and continued, “Strange though, she wasn’t at all pleased when I remarked about it.”

There you have it. Just a quick glimpse at how remarkable and influential chance encounters can be in character development. Keep an open mind about you whenever you’re in a social situation. That bothersome chap who keeps chatting you up could possess the foundation of your next villain. Or that charming woman who was so helpful in the library could inspire the creation of a new sleuth. Either way, why take on the whole burden of creating a character from scratch when life is so willing to provide such amusing examples to start from.

Next: Characters Part III

Every Character Has A Past.

Photo courtesy- Photos8

Even Vampires Need Dating Sites

Characters- Part I

This is the first of three short observations about Characters.

When we thought the world was flat no one found it very interesting. You sailed west, arrived at the edge, and fell off. But once it was determined it was round they lined up at the docks, signing on to explore the new and different lands that were promised just over the horizon. The same can be said of the characters that populate your stories. Your characters should never be flat. They should have depth and feeling, likes and dislikes. Characters should leave readers with the impression they have lives outside of your story. Whether primary, secondary or tertiary characters they need form, much like the influence Masaccio had on the art of the Renaissance.

Prior to Masaccio Italian paintings were flat, or idealized images of subjects. He changed this direction by adding perspective and giving weight to the people depicted in his alter pieces and frescos. In other words, they were more life-like. His subjects came alive. Instead of being cutout and glued down to a board they were passing through his life, pausing only long enough to be captured by the artist. Characters in a work of fiction should have this same weight and dimension. They should have lives outside of the pages of our stories.

I have established the main characters in my books, but I look forward to creating the secondary and tertiary characters for each new book in the series. There are a number of fun exercises you can use to develop characters. One of the basics is the Character Profile Form, or the “Dating Site Questionnaire.” This covers just about everything you would ever want to know about your characters, and then some. Starting with a basic form you should amend it to your specific genres, adding in any traits/characteristics you may not find on a dating site – i.e. Vampire: yes/no, Ghost: yes/no, etc. It’s been years since I was on a dating site, so I’m just assuming newly divorced vampires and ghosts aren’t signing up and looking for their perfect matches. Thinking about that now, there just might be a paranormal romance novel in that idea.

The form is very handy. I’ve seen it suggested this be done for only main characters, but I would recommend following through with all characters. Have some fun with it. You never know when you would need to know a small detail about a secondary character. This will save you the aggravation of thumbing through all those pages, looking for the sentence that mentioned whether Watson was shot in his left leg or left arm.

Next: Characters Part II-

What I learned sitting on a train platform in Worcester.

Photo courtesy Photos8.com

The Story Behind The Art

I'm an artist by trade and the urge to write came quite by surprise. I've dabbled in it a bit before but nothing as monumental as writing a mystery novel. Writing, I found, and very much to my surprise, was just painting with words. With a brush I can gently stroke indigo blue or vermilion onto a canvas to shadow a face in remorse. The same can be said of the words I brush across a page to project that same face, slowly drawn down into the collar of a borrowed, wool coat that was shiny from wear, yet retained the strength in its weft and warp to comfort a penitent soul. Add to that the ability to close my eyes and see how sunlight would dance across a marble floor after a rain, or how the long shadows of dusk transform even the most ordinary of objects into that which we fear most, is inspirational. I enjoy the writings of Agatha Christie and Henry Fielding, but I draw inspiration from the stories hanging on the walls of museums.

As an artist I've captured only a single moment in this skater's life, but as a writer I can fill in the lifetime that came before and after this moment.

www.rmichaelphillips.com

"The Skater"

Original Oil after Sir Henry Raeburn, collection the artist/author.