This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. HS Burney will be awarding a $20 Amazon or Barnes and Noble GC to a randomly drawn winner via rafflecopter during the tour. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.
For an author, a first book occupies a special place in our hearts. Its production fills you with pride – after all, you finally did it! Most likely after years of wanting and dreaming and hoping. But it also brings with it uncertainty, anxiety, and mostly fear.
What if no one wants to read my work? Even worse, what if they do read it? And laugh at it? Think its amateurish? What if they like it but now know everything about me? All the things I accidentally revealed that I didn’t mean to. Because even if you’re writing a fiction work, every choice you make – the name of a character, a backstory, reveals something about you.
Writing and publishing The Lake Templeton Murders was an emotionally fraught, roller coaster of an experience. I was plagued by a fear of never finishing. After all, I had started and abandoned many projects before. I was afraid of getting lost in the maze of the story and not being able to make my way out. In a murder mystery, there are many twists and turns. Clues are sprinkled liberally, many of them intersecting. It’s easy for a writer to twist themselves into knots in the process. That happened to me! Fortunately, I was eventually able to untangle myself.
There’s the fear of whether you’ve nailed your ending. The pressure of writing a profound last scene that zips up the story, and leaves the reader thinking while also closing the book with a satisfied smile.
And then the book was done and it was time to edit and that was a whole challenge into itself. You can take all the writing courses and attend all the writing conferences and learn new ways of editing at each of them. But it’s not helpful. Too much information causes confusion. How exactly do I edit this thing?
I did a round of structural editing, to make sure the story made sense. I begrudgingly hit delete on words, phrases, storylines, whole characters. I did character editing to make sure each character was cast in the right light, there were no inconsistencies, and their actions made sense in the context of how real people behave.
And then I sent off the book to a professional editor and got what I paid for. Which meant more rounds of editing. By the end, I was so sick of the book, I could barely look at it.
And then, it was time to publish and I was faced with a fresh challenge. I had never done this before. There were too many moving pieces. Too much information to wade through, decisions to make, so much to learn. And all with a very busy day job that consumes over 60 hours per week. Somehow, I muddled through. Hired the right people – cover designer, interior layout designer, etc.
And now, the book was out there but how do I create awareness that it existed? How do I get it in the hands of more readers? And so, I had to buy courses on book marketing. The problem? Way too much information. Many experts out there with different opinions. No, I don’t have time to focus on 101 ways to market my book. I can only pick a handful. But which ones are the correct ones?
I’m still trying to figure that out. In the meantime, I’m off to more fun activities – writing my next book. Because it’s the act of breathing life into a story, creating something from nothing, that makes it all worthwhile.
Was it an accident? A suicide? Or cold-blooded murder? Private Investigator, Fati Rizvi, is determined to find out.
Fati arrives in Lake Templeton to find secrets that run as deep as the City’s sewers. Everyone is hiding something and nothing is as it seems. A cult escapee. A corrupt politician. A struggling airline. A multi-million dollar public-private project to revitalize the Lake Templeton waterfront. How are they all connected?
As Fati valiantly unravels the knots, another body is found on the shore. Is it the same killer? And can Fati stop them before they strike again?
It was these waves that carried Sharon once the water besieged her lungs and she stopped breathing. Maybe her killer was hoping that the body would descend to the depths of the ocean, swallowing its secrets. It must have been a rude shock to see the evidence of their crime splashed across the morning papers.
Sharon’s body was half-reposed face-down on the wet sand, deposited on the shore like plastic waste. Clumps of hair were caught in the jagged rocks that edge the receding land, one bloated arm flung over a large boulder, as if trying to find a grip. Her legs floated behind her like windsocks. Silk shirt ballooned over the surface of the water like a parachute.
The crime scene has been cleared up. Culver Beach sparkles in the vestiges of the sinking sunlight, sand glinting like diamond dust. The only remnants of the morning’s tragic discovery - dried boot prints in the grassy sand, left behind by the police.
The nearest house is walled off by a thicket of trees and is currently empty, owned by a businessman who only spends a few months here in the summers. The beach is quiet, with not even a dog walker in sight. I walk on the sand for a few minutes, shoes in hand, reveling in the quietude. I breathe in the fresh air, slightly briny, and crisp enough to open up my nasal pathways.
No answers will be found here. Not for me.
Sergio’s house hibernates, squeezed in the warm hug of the thicket of trees that surround it. They’re evergreens so they hold on to their leaves, even in winter, until the whistling wind snatches them away and showers them on the lawn. Despite Sergio’s gallant efforts with the rake, his driveway is again covered in shrubs and branches.
I pull up behind Sergio’s car, parked in its usual spot in the driveway, the mud cracked and crusting on its back tires, windows streaked with messy wet tracks made when rain intermingled with dust. The killer must have picked him up and driven him to Pebble Beach.
Detective Singh’s police cruiser is parked neatly angled to the side of the road. As I approach the house, I see a shattered window in the front.
I haven’t seen young children living in the neighbourhood. Most houses in Sergio’s vicinity belong to empty-nester retirees and snowbirds. Was this an accident or something more sinister? Did someone smash Sergio’s window?
At the foot of Sergio’s porch stands his city recycling box. It’s filled to the brim with plastic containers and folded up cardboard boxes, as if Sergio had just finished cleaning and decluttering. I move closer for a better look. An empty bottle of Tito’s vodka, several Amazon boxes, soup cans, and yogurt containers. A box for a Blackmagic Design pro camera that costs almost thirteen thousand dollars. A black rectangular tube that housed a Chanel snowboard.
How much was the City paying Sergio?
Zed and I arrive after ten p.m. We park in an underground lot a few blocks away. Granville Street at night is a cornucopia of debauchery. Drunk girls totter on heels and too-tight skirts, giggling and holding each other. The heavy smell of sweat mixed with marijuana mixed with alcohol hangs in the air like a toxic thundercloud. The sidewalk is sticky with spilled drinks and other substances you don’t want to think about. Bedraggled bums cluster in dark corners, their life’s possessions gathered at their feet in duffel bags. They panhandle, lighting their pipes, smoking their cigarettes, and shooting their heroin without apology.
The street is dotted with black-doored establishments that advertise their presence with glowing signs and glowering bouncers. At the most popular clubs, lines of partygoers stretch, smoking cigarettes while waiting for entry. Zed and I blend into the shadows, two travelers that don’t quite belong but don’t stick out either.
This is Caleb’s world. In contrast, the clean-cut Sergio snowboarded on weekends and went running every morning. They had nothing in common besides their desire to sing. And it was this commonality that led their worlds to collide so painfully.
At Legends, the thrum of the music wafting from behind heavy curtain and chain gives away the mayhem brewing inside. The roasting interior is awash in flashing lights. The smell of stale beer and rank sweat overpowers me. I choke back my gag reflex.
Caleb is not hard to find. He is huddled with other youth, all misty eyes and lost faces, in a chemical-induced otherworld.
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Book Buy Links:
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Lake-Templeton-Murders-Private-Investigator-ebook/dp/B09KMDQBQ1/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0
Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/ca/en/ebook/the-lake-templeton-murders
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ReplyDeleteI enjoyed the excerpt, thank you
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