The bus’s engine became louder as it approached the stop. Once the bus pulled over to let a group of students out, another group of students waiting on the platform moved closer to the vehicle to enter. Most of the new passengers sat down in the front row of seats. I chose to sit in the back, away from the rest of the crowd. I put my phone in my pocket and gazed out the window, into the adjacent forest. All of the trees were barren, and only a few leaves fluttered around them. Watching them gently sway back and forth filled me with such contempt. These crunchy little leaves will never understand how good they have it. They may be dead, but at least they don’t have to do something, meet someone, and most importantly, they are under no obligation to be somebody. After some time, I began to fixate on my reflection in the window. Out of the corner, I saw a man running towards the bus as fast as he could. It was Adrian, my next-door neighbor, and the only person at this entire university whom I would willingly call my “friend.” As soon as he got on the bus, I waved towards him. “Hey, how’s it going?” I asked. “Ah, grand,” Adrian wheezed. “You?” “Pretty good,” I replied. I moved my backpack so he could sit down. “So, Ed, have you started your research yet?” I grimaced. “Haha, I see. I gotta go to a meeting with my advisor, Janeck, before class. How’s your man, Paul?” “If you must know, Dr. Dickinson is doing fine.” Adrian laughed. “You Americans are so formal. Just call the man ‘Paul.’ In Ireland we have no qualms about calling the professors by their first names.” “I’m not calling him Paul.” “Ok then, how about ‘Paulie’?” Adrian suggested. “No.” I tried to remain serious, but I also couldn’t help smiling. “Fine, I’ll do it,” Adrian teased. “Ok, have fun.” After we got off the bus, we started walking towards the history department. “Jesus, this feckin’ weather,” Adrian complained as he rubbed his hands together. “Heheh, not used to the climate on the other side of the pond, eh ‘Barbarossa’?” I said, gesturing at my friend’s beard. “Good to see the German historian retains a sense of humor.” “Well, that’s because I’m not actually from Germany.” We share a laugh. Soon, we reached the department. I headed for the entrance as Adrian stayed behind to smoke. “I’ll see ya later,” I called out. “Yep!” Adrian waved, and then started fumbling with his lighter. I waved back, opened the door, and headed down the stairs towards my office. Having an office was one of the few things that I could feel proud of, even if it was really just an extra storage closet. Above my desk was a bookshelf with an assortment of texts. Most of them dealt with Germany and the Nazis, in both English and German to help me keep up my language skills. Some of the other books were about Russia, and the rest were about various other topics that piqued my interest. I closed my office door and headed towards the grad student lounge. Two of my colleagues were sitting at a table, chatting about their research. I said hello and sat down. Secretly, I wished that they weren’t there. “How’s the research going?” one of them asked. “It’s going good,” I told them, lying through my teeth. We made small talk. Sometime later, one of my colleagues looked at his phone. “I’m gonna go into the classroom,” he said. I followed him in. Soon enough, more people started to arrive. Adrian came in sat next to me. “Whadda you suppose is on the agenda tonight?” he asked. “Dunno, let’s find out.” I looked around the room at the rest of my cohort. I wanted to have better relationships with each of them, sharing my knowledge and passion with like-minded individuals, and had dreams of collaborating with them on projects that would define a grad student’s tenure. But those dreams never materialized. My worst fear was not saying the right thing or not using the correct jargon which would expose me as an imposter who did not deserve to be here. It didn’t take long for my fears to mutate, and before I knew it, I found myself worrying about my “uncouth and vulgar” interests outside of academics which would cause my highfalutin colleagues to ostracize me. Across the table, two people were having a conversation about Edward Said. I knew of Said, and had a vague idea of what Orientalism was about. In front of me was a perfect opportunity to bond with members of my cohort and ask questions in order to better understand one of the giants of academia. But I was petrified. After all, I should have memorized every word of what Said said as well as every other esoteric scholar before I dared to even think about applying to graduate school. Ten minutes later, the professor walked in and greeted everyone. Moment of truth, I gulped. After handing out the syllabi, the professor asked us all to share how our “projects” had manifested since the end of the previous semester. Each of us shared our plans. I was all the way at the other end of the table, so I had plenty of time to prepare what I was going to say. As I listened to my colleagues share their plans, I became more and more dismayed. Of course, I wished them all the best, and each of their topics sounded interesting, but at the same time, I didn’t think that my topic was as rigorous as everyone else’s. How are you going to hold up against THAT? my conscience nagged me. “And last but certainly not least, Eddie, what's your topic?” the professor inquired. The spotlight was now on me, and I could feel its heat. “Oh, well, um… so over the break I got the chance to look through the files of this guy who got my property taken by the Nazis and when World War II was over, I tried to get it back. Basically, during the process, I was in contact with a senator and I tried to persuade me to pass various pieces of legislation to help American citizens like himself.” “That sounds really interesting,” the professor smiled. “Do you know what you’re going to argue?” I was floored. All this time and I didn’t know how to answer the most important question! “Uh, not sure yet. There’s multiple avenues I could, um, take with this research,” I said, trying to stave the professor off. “Well, that’s why you’re here!” the professor said. I smiled. I know he was trying to encourage me, but on the inside, I was anything but content. Time started to slow down. Seconds turned into minutes. Minutes into hours. I tried to focus on the seminar, but my conscience wouldn’t let me. The only thing I could think about was how I made a huge mistake by choosing to go to graduate school. You really fucked up this time. You can’t handle this much work. You’re not cut out for this. Look around you. All of these people are way smarter than you. The only reason you got into this program is because they needed to fulfill a quota and you know it. This is the end of the road for you. Look at the professor. You’re NEVER going to be like me. You don’t have the skills required. What the fuck are you going to do after you graduate. You’re not going to find a job. You’re going to be a fucking loser. Forever. The entire time, I could feel a tingling sensation in the back of my head. The sounds that emanated from the room felt amplified. Trying to sit still became increasingly difficult. I kept fixating on the professor’s suit and tie. Who am I compared to this man, with my cheap moccasins, and my polo that’s way too short, and keeps getting untucked every time I move, and my belt that I had to borrow from my dad because I didn’t have one that looked nice enough? See that man, and his outfit? My conscience teased. He gets to wear that because he fucking earned it. You didn’t earn the right to look nice. You never have, and you never will. I looked over at the clock. Oh God, there’s still an hour left. All I wanted to do was jump out of my seat and get the hell away from here, as far as possible, and never look back. Fortunately, though, I would not have to wait too long. “Alright, if nobody has any questions, then I’ll see you next week,” the professor said. I packed up my belongings as fast as I could and sprang out of my seat. Free at last. Adrian appeared at my office door. “Hey, do you wanna go to trivia tonight?” “Nah, sorry, I got some stuff I need to do,” I replied. Socializing with my cohort was the last thing that I wanted to think about. “Alright, I’ll see you tomorrow.” “Yeah, see you tomorrow,” I said. I brushed past Adrian and bolted for the nearest exit. Outside, the wind harassed me as I headed for the nearest bus stop. My nerves felt like they were going to pop out of my skin. My head pounded. For a moment, I even thought someone was following me. I reached the bus stop and sat down on the frigid bench. I tried to relax. Class is over, you don’t have to worry. You can go home now and sleep. -No! No you can’t! You have to get working on this research RIGHT THIS FUCKING SECOND! How are you going to manage your classes and your TA responsibilities and your bills and your career and your friends and your family and your wellbeing and- I had to focus on something. But what? Uhh... the bus! C’mon, c’mon, where is this damn thing?! I stared down the street as if that would make it drive faster. Several minutes later, I saw the shuttle round the corner. I climbed aboard and sat down in the closest available seat. My nightmare was over, for now.

The short answer is… very. Although literary scholars have long been aware of the existence of Victorian lady detective stories—at least since the 1970s, when Michelle Slung collected fifteen extant narratives published from the 1860s to the 1940s for the anthology Crime on Her Mind—major revisits to and reappraisals of this canon did not commence until after the millennium. Before then, the lady detective was read (both intra- and extra-textually) as a woman uniquely subjugated and overshadowed by her male counterparts. To critics like Patricia Craig and Mary Cadogan, writing in 1981, the lady detective was a figure who merely confirmed Victorian attitudes about female inferiority and dependency: a curious specimen frozen in subservience and reflecting the contemporarily perceived binary of mental ability across the sexes. Kathleen Gregory Klein has argued that the point of the lady detective stories was to capitalize on the public’s interest in imagining what this figure would be like without challenging any contemporary gender norms or advocating for women to join the workforce. But the recent scholarly work into the lady detective canon has worked hard to unearth the ways that these characters challenged stereotypes against female ability, aptitude, and purpose—and in doing so, many scholars have paid attention to the unusual circumstances presented by the lady detective’s body and its exertions, research that I build on in this chapter’s appraisal of the highly visible actress’s body that transforms during the process of becoming a detective. Importantly, in 2000, Birgitta Berglund analyzed how the vigorous self-sufficiency of these lady detectives challenges the traditional object position of female characters in Victorian fiction. Shortly thereafter, J. A. Kestner sought, with his 2003 book Sherlock’s Sisters, to integrate the forgotten marvel of female-driven detective fiction into the mainstream Victorian canon, reading the lady detective as a heretofore-unknown strain of “New Woman”—reflecting the Victorian era’s new normativity of female boldness and independence in part through the adoption of physical, masculine-coded activities, from bicycle-riding to detection. Following Kestner, numerous scholars including Deborah Parsons, Elizabeth Carolyn Miller, and Dominique Gracia have studied the lady detective as a complex proto-feminist figure in her own right—one who exists outside traditional heteronormative frameworks, whose appeal stretched across varied audiences, and who was much more than simply an exceptional woman whose existence as such reenforced the monolithic rule of male detective superiority (in her own time, as well as in modern critical assessments). Miller has analyzed the lady detective character Loveday Brooke as not only presenting a critique of “gender ideology” and a demand for autonomy to as wide an audience as possible but also participating in a culture that had already begun doing that, especially on a bodily level (for example, Miller notes, the character’s stories were published in magazines that displayed advertisements for abortifacients). Miller reads Brooke as offering a new archetype for female freedom and bodily control. Gracia has expanded on Miller’s research, analyzing the ways that the lady detective’s specifically feminine body offers numerous tools (including “proximity” and “sympathy”) to solve cases, and as a result, subverts Victorian social protocols. Clare Clarke notes, in her discussion of the metaphorical framework of the detective Hagar Stanley’s pawnshop and Hagar’s refusal to commodify herself, how such stories elaborately de-objectify their single, female protagonists—even while the story, by its very nature, folds all lady detectives into an industry (publishing) that collects and capitalizes on various unorthodox skills or behaviors. There is room for continued analysis of this figure—in large part due to the overwhelming number of lady detectives who populated mainstream British fiction during this period. In 1864, two books featuring women detective protagonists were published to competing popularity. W. Stephens Hayward’s Revelations of a Lady Detective follows the exploits of a police detective named Mrs. Paschal, and Andrew Forrester’s The Female Detective is about a mysterious lady investigator known as “G.” Both books are collections of short stories. In addition to introducing the figure of the lady detective protagonist, both also featured some of the first appearances of the figure of the detective protagonist, full stop. Unlike novels such as Bleak House (1852-53) or Aurora Floyd (1863), in which detective characters appear as part of large ensembles and mystery plotlines that progress amid a network of others, both Forester and Hayward’s books principally follow the varied adventures of a single sleuth—a trope that would soon be ubiquitous in detective fiction, but was, at the time, rather uncommon. Holmes’s first appearance was in the novella A Study in Scarlet, published in Beaton’s Christmas Annual in 1887—more than two decades after the appearances of Mrs. Paschal and G. For context, Wilkie Collins’s The Moonstone, which is credited as being the first English detective novel (though it does not follow the exploits of an individual detective), was published four years after Revelations of a Lady Detective and The Female Detective, in 1868. Stories about lady detectives thrived in the Victorian era and continued through the Edwardian; I have counted at least eighteen lady detective protagonists in English fiction from 1864 to 1916, and I believe this to be the most comprehensive, up-to-date count.[9] Many of these characters appeared in mass-market, yellow-backed books or serialized, mainstream periodicals like The Strand or Ludgate Monthly. In addition to Mrs. Pascal and G, readers could follow the exploits of such intrepid sleuths as Miriam Lea (1888, Leonard Merrick), Dora Bell (1891-94, Mrs. George Corbett), Loveday Brooke (1893, Catherine Louisa Pirkis), Annie Corey (1894, Mrs. George Corbett), Lady Rose Courtenay (1895, Milton Danvers), Dorcas Dene (George R. Sims, 1897), Lois Cayley (1899, Grant Allen), Hagar Stanley (1899, Fergus Hume), Mollie Delamere (1899, Beatrice Heron-Maxwell), Dora Myrl (1899, M. McDonnell Bodkin), Florence Cusack (1899–1900, L. T. Meade and Robert Eustace), Hilda Wade (1900, Grant Allen), Diana Marburg (1902, L.T. Meade and Robert Eustace) Bella Thorn (1903, Tom Gallon), Lady Molly Robinson-Kirk (1910, Baroness Emma Orczy), and Judith Lee (1911–16, Richard Marsh). This list enumerates the lady detectives who were labeled and marketed as such, but popular Victorian sensation fiction also featured many female characters who modeled the qualities ascribed to lady detectives, despite technically lacking the proper titling. As early as 1856, Wilkie Collins wrote about an inquisitive and dogged amateur lady investigator in his short story “The Diary of Anne Rodway,” which was published in Household Words. He subsequently incorporated similar characters in his later serialized novels: Marian Halcombe in The Woman in White (1860, All the Year Round), Magdalen Vanstone in No Name (1862, All the Year Round), and Valeria Brinton in The Law and the Lady (1875, Graphic). Mary Elizabeth Braddon featured two female characters who rely on amateur sleuthing—Lady Sibyl Penrith and her niece, Coralie Urquhart—in her 1894 murder mystery Thou Art the Man. In 1888, the English writer Fergus Hume published Madam Midas, featuring an intrepid businesswoman-cum-investigator named Mrs. Villiers (the eponymous “Madame Midas”). And in 1897, Bram Stoker wrote one of the era’s most indelible female investigator protagonists, Mina Harker, in his novel Dracula. Despite their different approaches to detection, all these characters are pivotal players in the formation and evolution of this canon. This is an enormous canon to have lived in relative oblivion for so long. Scholars including Klein suggest that this is because these lady detective stories do not contribute to Victorian literature in a productive or worthwhile manner—lady detectives do not experience professional autonomy or public renown as their male counterparts do. Indeed, most are agents working for male detectives— disguise-wielding foot-soldiers, middle(wo)men enacting detection’s necessary performance to extract information so their superiors, male detectives, do not have to separate themselves from their logical work. Instead, these male superiors can simply churn a conclusion from their female associate’s results—reading the evidence she has gathered for the client at hand. In these stories, male detectives typically stay in their rooms while their female counterparts often explore London and interact with its denizens, which is a productive reversal of the traditional spheres of influence afforded to both genders. It might seem undermining, then, that these vigorous, on-the-go lady detectives often travel through such public spaces only to arrive at new domestic ones (in disguise as maids or as ladies calling on suspects at home), scenarios which threaten to quarter or restrict them even more than if they were simply solving cases in their armchairs at home. And yet, because the lady detective is ultimately in the domestic space under false pretenses—combining female domestic labor with male-coded deduction and evidence-gathering—she subverts and challenges the space even if she submits to it. Despite the many different readings about the progressiveness of this canon, it has long been the scholarly consensus that the lady detective fundamentally embodies a challenge to Victorian social norms, flipping power and presumed ability across gender lines. As Joy Palmer has explained, in detective fiction, the investigation process feminizes all of its subjects, due to the penetrating, masculine-coded nature of scientific deduction. The “dominant” figure of the detective is masculine (regardless of the detective’s actual gender); as subjects of the detective’s gaze, victims and criminals and ordinary citizens are united, all ripe for examination and determination by the masculine gaze. Lady detectives take up this gaze, embody masculine abilities, and are rendered, according to Klein’s metric, as “honorary males” as well as “[deviants]… [distanced] from the proper role of Woman.” Similarly, Miller has noted a similar sense of transgressiveness related to “the female body’s resistance to interpretation” and how it is ultimately indecipherable to the male ratiocinative mind (let alone the mind of a layman); stories from this era are full of woman whose identities and intentions are not exposed by physical signs, tells, or expressions, even to the extent where characters safely presumed to be men turn out to be women in disguise. Miller analyzes, in stories about male detection and female criminality, in particular, how the true and frightening nature of the female body is that it can appear any which way without betraying a sense of true identity. Many nineteenth-century lady detective stories both observe and take advantage of what Laura Marcus calls “entrenched cultural images of femininity”—proposing that women make for ideal detectives simply because no one would suspect them of being detectives. The “emotional” female essence was not only perceived as incompatible with the male-coded faculty of reason, but, in the words of Elizabeth Grosz, “a source of interference in, and a danger to, the operations of reason.” Indeed, in the 1899 novel Dora Myrl, The Lady Detective, a man tells Dora Myrl that he finds her profession “incongruous… for a charming young lady,” adding “I won’t say comical.” He asks her, telegraphing the skepticism of the zeitgeist, “do you think that women can fairly pit themselves in mind and body against cunning and strong men. Indeed, the lady detective’s best disguise is most often her gender. View the full article

Hi All! So looking forward to the upcoming conference! See you there! - Janice FIRST ASSIGNMENT: write your story statement. To become a true Olympian goddess is all Persephone ever wanted, but when she finally ascends, her rape by an unknown assailant leads to a nervous breakdown and a journey through the Underworld where her identity, goals, and powers are viscerally dissected. SECOND ASSIGNMENT: in 200 words or less, sketch the antagonist or antagonistic force in your story. Keep in mind their goals, their background, and the ways they react to the world about them. Persephone encounters several antagonists, but they all share a commonality: they support the dominant structure which maintains their personal power. Initially, Persephone’s Mother, Demeter, is her main antagonist. Demeter is totally committed to keeping Perspehone safe, but this stifles Persephone’s ability to develop her talents and take her place on Olympus. Demeter’s concern turns into rage, narcissism, and control, which grinds down Persephone’s attempts at self-actualization. Soon Persephone meets Zeus who she sees as an ideal father, ruler, and god. However, Persephone doesn’t perceive where Zeus’ heart truly lies – in maintaining power. His affection for her and his assigning of her purpose is a tactic to control her development. Later, disguised as a dragon-serpent, Zeus rapes Persephone. Meanwhile, Persephone is meeting other gods who all show her, in their own ways, what being an Olympian requires – conformity. Once in the Underworld, Persephone meets other threats to her identity and safety as she stumbles from one encounter to another. Finally, Persephone finds Kronos, a creator God who was overthrown by Zeus. While he helps her create flowers intentionally, he also manipulates her judgment and convinces her to let him dismember her. This results in her essence leaving her body. Here the story ends and the next book will begin. THIRD ASSIGNMENT: create a breakout title (list several options, not more than three, and revisit to edit as needed). Persephone: Book 1 Persephone Dismembered Persephone Descending FOURTH ASSIGNMENT: Develop two smart comparables for your novel. This is a good opportunity to immerse yourself in your chosen genre. Who compares to you? And why? Circe by Madeline Miller: Both Circe and Persephone have classically been portrayed as used by men and worthy of suspicion in Greek mythology. They are not widely treated as heroes in their own stories, but with the right perspective they can be. Circe’s determination to develop her skills in spite of the edicts of Mount Olympus and her attraction to bridging divides deemed too wide and dangerous, make her a very similar protagonist to Persephone. Fans who enjoy reimagining ancient myths from a unique perspective will find Persephone as empowering and enlightening as they did Circe. My Dark Vanessa by Kate Elizabeth Russell: Vanessa and Persephone, the protagonists, narrate both of their stories creating wonderful tension for the reader. In Vanessa’s case, the audience knows that she’s the victim of sexual abuse by her pedophilic teacher, but Vanessa is convinced her situation is not as horrible as everyone thinks. Persephone draws the reader into a world and relationships which raise red flags. We see danger where she often sees none, but we also understand why she is so trusting. It’s difficult to say whether her survival depends on maintaining the illusion or accepting the truth. And even if either character did accept the truth, would they be able to handle the weight of reality? FIFTH ASSIGNMENT: write your own hook line (logline) with conflict and core wound following the format above. Though you may not have one now, keep in mind this is a great developmental tool. In other words, you best begin focusing on this if you're serious about commercial publication. Persephone is meant to be lovely and innocent, but in the face of death, rape, and betrayal she must either face the truth and discover the hidden depth of her goddesshood or be dismembered and eaten. SIXTH ASSIGNMENT: sketch out the conditions for the inner conflict your protagonist will have. Why will they feel in turmoil? Conflicted? Anxious? Sketch out one hypothetical scenario in the story wherein this would be the case--consider the trigger and the reaction. Inner conflicts and core wounds: I am unlovable until I prove my worth within the Olympian pantheon. Something about me is not powerful, worthy, or lovely enough. I am nothing without the love and approval of my parents, who include the most powerful Olympians. If I try to be truthful, whether internally or externally, I will be in conflict with my parents and community. If I am not honest within and without, I become insane. Is my integrity worth risking abandonment? Scene set-up: Persephone has passed out from terror and exhaustion. She’s waking up in a fortress in the Underworld with a character she has just met. I feel myself waking up, but I don’t want to open my eyes. I don’t want to see. There is a longing, reaching out and yet sinking slow, and it won’t release me yet. Not until I see it. And I do. I feel it too keenly to ignore – I dreamed. For the first time since coming here, I dreamed. – But not of flowers. A tear falls from the corner of my eye. I don’t want to move. I feel the tear travel down, feel it get colder, feel it about to fall over the precipice of my cheek and into my ear when – Warm and gritty, something slides up, gently traces the path of the tear back to the corner of my eye. I open my eyes, turn my head slightly. The man is all dark, firelight bright behind him. “What’s wrong?” he asks, his hand gliding away from my face, the scent of soil, sand, and smoke suffocating me. I squeeze my eyes tightly together. More tears escape. I feel a rock in my throat and a weight on my chest and waves of pain through my stomach. Everything inside me is trapped and blocked and tumultuous. Tears are not enough. It all needs to come out and it needs to come out now. But it can’t. It can’t. I can’t. I can’t do this. And I can’t die. And I can’t forget. And I can’t get help. No one can see me. No one can help me. No one will protect me. Everything is false, it’s fake. It was made to imitate something, but who’s even looking? No one has any answers and no one knows who made what or when it all began. Where am I? Why am I here? What am I doing? Heracles was right. Theseus was right. I don’t have a mission. I don’t have a reason. I don’t have a purpose. Father said my purpose was to be lovely, but I’m not lovely. Was I ever lovely? Even for a moment? I never was. I never will be. I’m worse than I was before and I wasn’t even good. I wish I could disappear. I wish I could die. I wish I never existed. “Don’t say that.” “But it’s true! It’s true!” “If you are here then you’re meant to be here.” I clutch my wine-stained white dress, gasping for air. I’m not meant to be anywhere. I never was. I’ve been living on the edge of a knife. Destiny came and I threw it away. I fell and spilled everywhere and lost love and stability and identity and beauty for no reason. I walked off into the darkness and now I can never go back. No matter how hard I try. I’m not lovely. I’m terrible. I’m terrible. Look at me. Look at me! “I am.” Next, likewise sketch a hypothetical scenario for the "secondary conflict" involving the social environment. Will this involve family? Friends? Associates? What is the nature of it? Secondary conflicts: When I try to develop my potential I hurt people I love. Scene set-up: Persephone has just dreamt of the Narcissus flower. Now she’s come to the spot where she knows it will have appeared. They’re right where they should be. At the edge of the bank, looking over into the clear water. A bunch of flowers. Six small, white petals emanating from a central point. With a yellow center that is not the disk of the daisy, but more like the exploding end of a trumpet. Here, right where I laid that day looking at Narcissus and Narcissus looking at himself. They are staring at themselves in the water. I lay down on my stomach, just as he was, just as me and the flowers are, letting my head hover over the clear water, my face and the narcissus flowers reflecting back at me. Maybe I shouldn’t be, but...I’m glad I found him. Glad he found this place. Death is something I don’t understand and never will. Being immortal, I don’t think I can. But I can gaze upon it. And when I see it, what do I see? I see that where there once was someone, that someone is no longer here. He’s gone, but I’m here. And I remember him. And he meant something to people. He meant something to Kalli. He meant something to Echo. He means something to me. Because if what they say is true, that he fell in love with himself, then it’s possible. It’s possible to love yourself. It’s possible to love yourself so much that you don’t look at anything or anyone else, but you. And what you see there is beautiful and grand and awe-inspiring. And lovely. And if he can see that, then it means someone else can too. Someone can see something they love in themselves. Not just something – everything. Everything they see they love. And it’s all in them. Not in what others think. Not in what others say. Not in what they want you to be. Just there. Exactly there and apparent. “There you are!” I whip my head to the side, “Apollo!” I stand hurriedly, embarrassed he found me like this. “I’ve been looking for you all morning.” Pegasus snorts, shakes his mane. “All morning?” I look up at the sky, searching for the sun, but of course the leaves of the forest trees obscure my view. “Yes, for quite a long while.” “Oh. Why? Is something wrong?” “The tour. Hera said you wanted me to –” “Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry! I completely forgot!” “You forgot?” “Yes. See, I had a dream last night of this flower here, the Narcissus, and I just knew it would be here so I came first thing this morning and I guess I just got caught up with it and –” “Caught up? With the flower?” “Yeah.” “Ok...well, maybe we should do this another time, since you’re clearly...busy.” “Oh, no. Please, I’m sorry. I really have been looking forward to this.” “But I mean, you forgot about it, so...not really.” “No, really. I’m sorry Apollo. I’m new at this and when these things happen,” I gesture to the Narcissus flower, “I just get so excited and don’t think. It doesn’t have anything to do with you –” He raises both his eyebrows. “No, I mean, it’s not that it doesn’t have anything to do with you, it’s just not about you.” His eyebrows now rise even higher. “No, ok, let me rephrase that. I’m just – Look, I’m – I’m sorry. Can you please forgive me and take me on a tour of Olympus?” “I don’t know Persephone. I don’t usually spend time with people who find me forgettable.” I bite my lip and feel my eyes fall. I really have to do better. This is the second time I’ve run off to be with my flowers and hurt someone’s feelings. There’s no way I can be lovely and keep acting like this. Pegasus whinnies loudly causing us both to jump a little. “Ok, I understand.” I move toward Pegasus, passing Apollo with my eyes down. “Wait,” he grabs my hand and I look back. He’s smiling warmly, “How can I disappoint the loveliest goddess on Olympus?” I let out a sigh of relief, the guilt and sadness rushing away at the sight of his brilliant smile, my face reflecting his. FINAL ASSIGNMENT: sketch out your setting in detail. What makes it interesting enough, scene by scene, to allow for uniqueness and cinema in your narrative and story? Please don't simply repeat what you already have which may well be too quiet. You can change it. That's why you're here! Start now. Imagination is your best friend, and be aggressive with it. Earth: Persephone is not yet admitted to Olympus and therefore lives in a forest surrounded by practically every idyllic natural setting – the meadow, the beach, the cliff, the stream. Because Demeter is her mother and the nymphs are her companions, she roams these areas, playing with nymphs or working with her Mother. At night she and her Mother sleep in a patch of ferns in a clearing surrounded by huge trees with the night sky above. Persephone particularly loves “her spot” which is a quiet place where the stream is calm and clear. This spot is invaded in the opening scene and becomes forever tainted. The meadow, which was just a field of tall grass, is where she first creates flowers. It becomes completely covered with pale blue, pink, yellow, and purple wildflowers. Eventually, she discovers the entrance to the Underworld, which is a crevice in the cliffs. Water bursts forth with tremendous pressure and is the source of the water for the stream she has always loved. Olympus: Perfection and sovereignty are the main traits of Olympus. Hermes flies her to the golden gated entrance amongst the clouds. She walks along powder-soft paths and perfect landscaping, no clumps of trees, no tangled brush, no irregularities whatsoever. No birds even. The temples of each god reflect something about their personality and domain and, of course, Zeus’ is the grandest of all. Poseidon’s is in the middle of a grand lake; Hades’ is neglected and dark; Hera’s can only be entered by first navigating a maze. Persephone’s is made of pink quartz in the same classical style as the other’s with a waterfall that feeds a stream and a large tree outside of it. Even though it is grand and shows she is one of the pantheon, she never feels comfortable in the cold, dark interior, so she prefers to sleep outside under the tree. Underworld: The rules of physics and time no longer apply, terrifying figures and alluring dangers abound. When Persephone enters she’s in complete darkness. She can reach past her toes as if there’s no ground and yet she can feel cold, damp stone beneath her feet. Eventually she comes to a lake which is full of crying, moaning, cursing faces, spirits in the water who she feels would pull her under if she wasn’t able to pay for passage. Strange eyes watch her from the shores, red clouds filled with lightning flash above her, and she passes the three-headed god, Cerberus. Next, she reaches the Fields of Asphodel which initially looks like an immense wall of fog, but is actually a dense collection of murmuring shades. After that she arrives at the River Lethe which is sluggish and creates a heavy, humid environment all around it. Even so, she finds it incredibly enticing. From there she runs into a forest, which is basically a colonnade of trees shrouded in darkness. Here she encounters her beast and a hero who protects her briefly. Later she arrives at Elysium which is beautiful and seems to reflect that overly constructed perfection of Olympus, but because it is designed for the dead the ground sinks slowly under her feet. Poets and philosophers inhabit this space. The Isles of the Blessed, which is part of Elysium, has a large lake with a clear, sparkling river, the River of Mnemysoe, running from it. Kronos’ ( a.k.a. Chrysos) fortress is located on an island in this lake. The island is mostly sand, but on one side there is a green delta. Within, there is a maze of hallways, staircases, and rooms dedicated to earthly empires.

A sunken ship. A mysterious lighthouse. A hunt for treasure. A missing father. Teenagers with their own secret hideouts living in a world of haves and have nots. A lot of books and TV series have influenced “Outer Banks,” from the Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew to the 1960s Alfred Hitchcock and the Three Investigators juvenile mysteries to recent teen mystery TV like “Veronica Mars.” The Netflix series even has more than a little “Dawson’s Creek” DNA in the mix. “Outer Banks,” with four seasons on Netflix and another, final, season promised, has some clunky moments of earnestness and flippancy and its cast of teenagers looks a little too old for the parts, as with most juvenile-led TV series before them. But the series is surprisingly addictive and is the type of foreboding, action-filled teen drama we’ve not seen since the heyday of the CW network. “Outer Banks” is like if S.E. Hinton’s “Outsiders” had traded their angst for racing around in boats and looking at arcane old maps. And “macking” each other, as they say on the new show. Veronica and the Goonies are all here “Outer Banks” is a pandemic TV baby. The first season premiered on Netflix in April 2020 and caught viewers’ attention with its young, handsome cast and their shenanigans, including rebelling against authority figures (many of the adults are absent or untrustworthy) and generally living the high life in the perpetual summertime of the Outer Banks of North Carolina. The dividing lines between the teenagers – the poor Pogues and the rich Kooks – on the island are deep, even though some of the kids can move between the two worlds. The series has levels of society that are familiar to fans of “Veronica Mars” – the poor kids barely getting by and the rich kids with trust funds and punchable faces – and a caste system that existed but didn’t get much commentary in the worlds of the Hardys and Drews. (The Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew were without a doubt Kooks; Nancy’s first adventure finds her expressing gratitude for her “sweet” dad who had given her a convertible for her birthday.) The main characters as introduced in the first season are John B. Routledge (Chase Stokes), whose father Big John disappeared months earlier in search of $400 million in gold that went down with the ship the Royal Merchant nearly 200 years earlier; Sarah Cameron (Madelyn Cline), the rich princess and daughter of wealthy businessman Ward Cameron (Charles Esten); Pope Heyward (Jonathan Daviss) as the brainy sort who spends a lot of the first season worried about his scholarship interview; Kiara “Kie” Carerra (Madison Bailey), the daughter of a successful restaurant owner but who considers herself a Pogue; and JJ Maybank (Rudy Pankow), a Pogue through and through, funny and reckless and suffering at the hands of his abusive white-trash father. The plot driving the series early on is that Royal Merchant gold, with John B. convinced that before his father disappeared, he was trying to steer him toward where the hundreds of millions can be found. There are the kids with the aforementioned punchable faces, led by Austin North as Topper – because of course that’s his name – Sarah’s boyfriend. There’s also Drew Starkey as Rafe, Sarah’s psychotic older brother. Topper and Rafe are totally the fraternity brothers from “Animal House,” updated to the 21st century. Created by Josh Pate, Jonas Pate and Shannon Burke, “Outer Banks” takes its cue from every book, TV series and movie that’s ever pitted a group of lovable misfits against the world in pursuit of treasure and/or justice. It’s “The Goonies,” skewed slightly older and featuring acres of tanned skin and perfect teeth. Speedboats and scuba The first season of “Outer Banks” begins and ends with a hurricane and does a great job of emphasizing the life-changing effects of big storms, including (for the purposes of that find-the-shipwreck plot) the tendency for perils and treasures above and below the water’s surface to be relocated. There’s a lot of action – fistfights, exploring spooky locales – in “Outer Banks” and quite a bit of romance as John B. and Sarah give in to the “enemies into lovers” trope, much to the upset of both Pogues and Kooks. There’s some Romeo and Juliet vibes to the couple. The other Pogues could use a little more romance in their storylines. But John B., an affable outcast obsessed with finding his father and proving wrong everyone who says the older Routledge was lost at sea, and Sarah, a rich kid who’s feisty and sympathetic to others, have the kind of mutual attraction that marked Veronica and Logan’s romance on “Veronica Mars.” Reaching back to earlier influences, there’s speedboat racing, scuba diving and haunted house exploring – as well as the aforementioned mysterious lighthouse – that would fit right in to the best of the juvenile mystery series of the 20th century. The Pogues’ beat-up VW van is a much less tricked-out version of Scooby Do’s Mystery Machine. There’s no talking dog, though, just JJ as a pothead to rival Shaggy. “Outer Banks” has one downside of being a successful streaming series in that the creators and showrunners know they must keep the story going, so they don’t resolve the mystery of the shipwreck gold by the end of the first season. I wanted to see, if not riches heaped on the Pogues, at least more comeuppance for the Kooks. I haven’t watched the entire series, but it looks to send the small band of Pogues pretty far away from the Outer Banks in later seasons. That trend happens as early as the end of the first season, which finds a couple of characters bound for the Bahamas. I’m fine with that, although removing too many ties to the show’s setting, which is rich and entertaining in its poor vs. rich storylines, sounds like a mistake. But maybe “Outer Banks” isn’t just a place, but the shipwreck gold the Pogues pursue along the way? View the full article

I write cozy mysteries, and I’m proud of it. Cozies are all about the characters and their community. The protagonist and the close circle of friends, colleagues, and family who surround her are the main reason readers come back book after book. Where the community is set is almost as important. When I start a new series, I spend a good chunk of time imagining a place that’s distinctive and unique. I want to create a village my characters love living in. Some writers talk about their setting being a character. While that might be stretching the definition of “character,” I think it could be said of my settings. So far, I’ve set contemporary cozy series in semi-rural northeastern Massachusetts, in hilly southern Indiana, in a section of Cape Cod, and in a wine-producing valley in northern California. For each of those regions, I created fictional towns loosely based on a real one nearby. I don’t want to worry about which real street is one-way or that a new hair salon or restaurant popped up between two actual businesses. Plus, real stores and restaurants don’t appreciate a fictional murdered body dropping in their aisles! Still, any good story needs conflict along with great scenery and quirky personalities. Let me share why my settings are good places for an amateur to try her hand at solving homicides. Westbury, Massachusetts My Local Foods Mysteries feature geeky Cam Flaherty, her organic farm, her kindly great-uncle Albert, and the community of regular customers seeking out locally grown produce. Westbury is a classic New England small town within commuting distance of Boston. It struggles with conflicts between old-timers and new more affluent residents, with housing growth versus growing food on the land, and with long-held secrets. When I was much younger, I owned and ran a small organic farm in a town much like Westbury. While writing these books, I loved being back in the world of farming without having to do all the hard physical work! South Lick, Indiana In the Country Store Mysteries, my longest-running series, Robbie Jordan owns and runs the local country store breakfast and lunch restaurant in Brown County, Indiana. Solidly in the middle of the country, fictional South Lick has its share of local residents, but it also sees a good number of visitors. Tourists from all over come to experience Brown County, which is hilly and wooded and has a long history of eccentric artists. I was inspired to write this series by the memory of two friends who long ago bought a run-down general store in the tiny village of Story, Indiana, and fixed it up into a breakfast restaurant and inn. In the cozyverse, it’s always good to have strangers come to town so the village doesn’t become known as a place where people are murdered (shades of “Murder She Wrote!”). That’s why, for Nacho Average Murder, book # 7, Robbie traveled back to her hometown of Santa Barbara, California, for her tenth high school reunion. While there, she solves a murder and also discovers the truth about her mother’s sudden death. But fans missed South Lick and Robbie’s support crew. She doesn’t travel far afield in the books after that. Westham, Massachusetts I set my Cozy Capers Book Group Mysteries on Cape Cod in part because it’s iconic. The magical light beloved by artists, the beautiful beaches and bays, the many miles of former rail lines transformed into walking and biking trails, all are magnets for visitors and seasonal residents. Even people who have never visited the Cape in person know about it. What readers learn through my stories is that real world issues are just as present on the idyllic Cape as elsewhere. Towns struggle with the price of housing and a shortage of places for low-wage workers to live. Residents experience the push-and-pull of trying to preserve historical sites and also allow new development. As with any vacation region, there are conflicts between year-round residents and “summer people.” Sometimes one of those issues becomes entangled with a murder. Mac Almeida and the book group are accumulating a track record of success in detangling the details of homicide cases. Colinas, California My newest series, the Cece Barton Mysteries, takes the reader to beautiful Alexander Valley in Sonoma County about ninety minutes north of San Francisco, California. I like to call it Napa’s less well-known but higher-achieving little sister. I created the fictional town of Colinas sited not far from Healdsburg and Geyserville, and I invented Vino y Vida, a wine bar Cece manages where I wish I could hang out and taste vintages. My San Francisco relatives have a long history in the valley. I’m also originally a Californian, and I’ve been lucky enough to stay in their hilltop vacation home while I write and research the area. I toured a wine production facility with great potential for mayhem and tasted wine at the Alexander Valley Winery (and picked the brain of the server about winery details). I stopped by the Pomo Indian-run casino, and watched the fog rise up in the valley. I smelled the dry live oak leaves and listened to the quail as they ran along the fence. All these details bring life to my depiction of the area. As with Cape Cod, the Alexander Valley sees a hearty number of visitors year-round and is equally iconic. Colinas is a small town with its own secrets. It features historical homes and buildings first erected in the nineteenth century, including the antique adobes housing the historical museum, the wine bar, a bookstore, and an art gallery. It also has a strip with chain and big box stores. The town has been threatened by wildfires, which adds stress to living conditions. There are conflicts between developers and historical preservationists, between long-time residents and newcomers, even between the county sheriff – who investigates homicides – and the local police department. In other words, a perfect place to stage a (fictional) murder! I’m delighted that Deadly Crush, book two in the series, is releasing this month so readers can take an armchair visit to this region I love so much. *** View the full article

For many readers part of the joy of a historical mystery is to be transported to another time and place-to approach an imposing country estate, to smell the salty air of the nearby sea, to feel the jostle of a carriage ride as the horses whinny when their hooves meet the gravel drive, to find an elegantly dressed body crumpled at the foot of the stairs. For a writer to accomplish this, while maintaining the integrity of the plot, the details must be right. And an integral part of researching any historical mystery is the site visit. The setting of a historical mystery has the power to go beyond creating a backdrop for the murder, to dictate the mood, the characters, the very plot of the story. The site visit is essential in many ways. To create a believable, authentic story, visiting a setting in person helps a writer to capture the sights, the sounds, the smells of a place, to experience the local weather patterns and geography, to get a sense of the rhythm of everyday life, and understand local customs, social norms, and dialects. When I wrote my first mystery, I was lucky. I’d decided to set it in a town I’d visited as a tourist many times. I knew how steep and curvy the streets were, what the skyline looked like, how you couldn’t see the sunrise for the mountains. I’d heard the locals speak, knew a bit of the local history, politics and weather. But when I set my next book in a different location, I realized I didn’t have that advantage. I had to visit the town, spending several days, acquainting myself with its architecture, its terrain, and all the experiential details that make it unique. I had to people watch, listening and discovering what I didn’t know. When I wrote the first of my books set in England, which I’d visited several times, I believed I had that original first-hand experience. I knew the accents, tasted the tea, wandered the quiet country churchyards. How different could one country village be from another? And yet, having set the mystery in a part of England I had never been to before (though only by less than fifty miles), which had free-ranging livestock, unique ancient laws, and a rare system of managing the land, I had to rewrite much of what I’d written before my site visit because I had gotten so many of the details wrong. But site visits aren’t just about experiencing seasonal weather patterns or hearing when the church bells ring. There are vast resources that can only be found in a local library, museum, or archive. This includes transcribed oral histories, unpublished research theses, regional newsletters, photographs, paintings, scrapbooks, letter collections, not to mention historical artifacts. So much can be found online but even now there are hamlets and villages that can’t afford to digitize their historical treasure troves. While combing such archives I’ve discovered detailed floor plans of British estates that no longer exist, the exact name and number of constables and inspectors employed in a given year in a given county, the diaries of a man detailing his daily life in an occupation I wanted to write about during the years I was writing about. In addition to tangible resources, writers have the best access to local experts, town historians, and librarians while visiting an area. These experts share invaluable knowledge and stories, often answering questions you didn’t even know you had. And how else will a writer be able to experience local events like a horse race, a town hall meeting or garden fete if not in person? My newest mystery, Murder at Glenloch Hill revolves around my main detecting duo visiting a Scottish country estate and attending The Open Championship at The Old Course in nearby St. Andrews. I’d never been to Scotland. I knew I would have to visit. But I also recognized that although I’d played a few rounds on golf courses here in the United States, not only had I not walked a links course in the UK where the design was invented but I had never attended a professional golf tournament anywhere. I assumed it would be vastly different from what I’d watched on TV. And I was right. When I went to Scotland to research the book, I not only visited the Old Course in St. Andrews, the “birthplace” of golf but I attended The 150th Open Championship. Hardly altered since the 19th century, I was able to experience walking the sandy paths that traverse the dunes that line the course, hear the gulls who don’t respect the players need for silence, experience the crush of the crowd and, despite how close it is, how the beaches along the North Sea aren’t easily discernable from the links. By standing there, with the wind blowing, I could stare into the depths of the bunkers, squint at the flag fluttering in the distance and get a real sense for what it would be like for my characters, and by proxy, my readers to be doing the same. But the best part of visiting a location is the serendipitous discoveries which inspire and inform plot lines—discoveries that can only happen in person. Historical tidbits, unexpected encounters, untold stories shared over breakfast tables: these are the gems that only a site visit can deliver. They happen every time I visit a location. During an interview with a local historian in Missouri, I discovered that the historic building we were sitting in contained tunnels, and I was given a personal tour. In Hampshire, England, a plaque on the wall of a local historical society revealed a famous local character who had mysteriously died the very week my book was to be set. A conversation with a local in York, England, revealed a political slant I hadn’t known existed. I incorporated each of these discoveries into my plots. One of my favorite examples spanned my first series. In one book, I’d created a situation where my protagonist had to leave a music hall to overhear a secret conversation. I’d decided she left because she detested John Philip Souza music, which was wildly popular in the 1890s. The reason for her aversion remained a mystery until I was doing a site visit for another book in the series, set in her supposed hometown. While wandering through a local museum, I came across the portrait of a handsome young local celebrity who had played in the Souza band—and was a peer of my fictional protagonist. Suddenly, I had the perfect backstory: the fictionalized version of this historical musician must have jilted her! This chance discovery became a recurring subplot throughout the series. Even after almost a dozen site visits, I still find something new and unexpected. During my Scottish visit to attend the golf tournament, I had the great fortune to book a stay in the servants’ quarters of a National Trust of Scotland property, an Edwardian manor house, once owned by a family of sports enthusiasts. With its gardens, private Edwardian golf course, and proximity to St. Andrews, the estate was a tailor-made setting for my next mystery. As I was wandering the estate, snapping photographs and peeking into outbuildings, I came across a small stone structure tucked away in the woods. I’d looked at the property extensively online but nothing mentioned this building, nor could it be seen through the trees. I got chills the moment I stepped across the threshold. This hidden laundry house wasn’t just the perfect spot for murder—like so many discoveries before it, it was yet another reminder that no amount of online research could replace the magic of discovering a setting’s secrets in person. *** View the full article

CHAPTER ONE Now | Susie June 30, 2022 The kaleidoscope begins twisting, more quickly now, as soon as the sound begins. My subconscious begins pulling me out of the shadows. The light turns red again - the same way it always does. The raw, real memories begin mixing with the ones from my nightmare. I wasn’t going to make it to the hospital. That I knew. But suddenly I’m awake, just as his face starts swelling and turns that awful blueberry color. The noise becomes crisper, louder, and the tightness returns in my chest. Clean, silver blades slide between my ribs - reminding me that it is the middle of the night, and I have to get up. That I am up, again, before the birds. It must be before 4:00 a.m. “Thomas,” I whisper, sitting up, hoping that he will hear me. But there is no reply. The warmth from his bare legs are inches away beneath the covers. He’s wearing his briefs and an eye-mask that can block out all levels of light. He is sleeping comfortably on his back - the way he always does. Seeing him this way used to be one of my greatest comforts. It would make me want nothing more than to wake him with a snuggle, for his warmth to engulf me, as he whispered into my ear with a sloppy smile, asking me what time it was. What time is it? It’s 4:09 a.m. And right on cue, the first song begins to play through the screen from a nearby branch in the yard. I was dreaming about it again. The first time it happened I woke up thinking I was having a stroke. Half of my face was numb. My hands were tingling as I ran up the stairs to check on the kids. My heart, racing out of my chest. Harry was asleep in his crib when I picked him up. Thomas was away on business, a sign that the pandemic was finally past us. That’s when my intrusive thoughts began. Spinning over and over in my mind like a carousel. I kept wondering if this was it - I held my phone with my mother’s name open, ready to call her if I thought I was about to go unconscious. Objects in the room began moving. A shadow beneath the changing table was rocking back and forth. I thought it was a young girl with long, black hahir. I swear she was moving. In a panic, I ran down the stairs and turned on every light in the house. I was convinced that it was some kind of ghost. The next day I called my physician. My face was still numb as the doctor told me stress, and lack of sleep, can do strange things to the body. But I’ve concluded that he was wrong. Something really was happening: it was a warning. Because my dream did come true, just a few weeks later. “Thomas,” I whisper again. It’s the worst hour of the night. Not quite dawn, but too far past midnight to get back to sleep and wake up feeling refreshed. Breathing in, I hold the air in my chest for far too long and notice my lungs stretch, desperately hoping that I will remember to exhale. I have to make sure he’s okay. Searching for my round metal framed glasses on the wooden table takes several clumsy attempts. Upon it sits the book that has remained unread for months. The water that is half-drunk. A plastic bumble bee that plays a song when you press it. I find my slippers and step out of the room towards the kitchen. Despite the fact that I’m thirty-three, I always picture a man standing at the kitchen island, waiting for me to turn on the lights. Will I always be afraid of the dark? I keep the light from the refrigerator on as I search for the bottle parts near the sink and, twisting on the top hastily, I press my finger to the nipple and swirl it slowly in a circle. It’s a habit from warming my pumped milk for so many months. Stepping through the living room I pause, praying that he will put himself back to sleep before he hears my footsteps and notices I'm up too. But barely ten seconds pass before the shrill of my son’s voice pulls me up the landing to the nursery where I find him, unscathed and waiting for me. I lift him up, knowing well that I am breaking the rules of sleep training. But I need this just as much as he does - that feeling of the weight of his head against my chest. “It’s okay, chubs, Mama’s here,” I whisper. I walk to the white glider in the room and pull the fleece blanket out of the woven basket and place it over us before placing the bottle in my son’s mouth and rocking him, gently back to sleep. I look down at Harry, my baby boy. His soft cheeks, thick like heavy cream. The smallest little knuckles on his hands. The panic he was feeling moments ago has disappeared now that we are together. I don’t sleep anymore. He doesn’t either. We’ve been playing this game for thirteen months. And it’s only gotten worse over the past few weeks since the accident. I can feel the proteins in my brain permanently clumping together from lack of sleep, rotting my memory cells day by day. Slowly turning me mad. It’s no wonder women were more prone to Alzheimer’s than men. The smallest hint of light begins to filter through the darkness and I will myself to sleep for thirty minutes. Ten minutes. Any amount of time will help me get through the day. But instead, Harry begins to play with his bottle, bringing his hands to my mouth. Once he sees that I am awake too, he begins to babble and wiggle out of my arms so that he can walk to his toys in the corner. “We might as well get up,” I say, feeling the resentment towards him, then guilty for the resentment. It is still dark outside from the confines of our newly renovated kitchen. Thomas and I are either going to flip our house or stay in it forever. And we haven’t quite figured out which that is yet. I chose a minimalist Scandinavian aesthetic - beiges and creamy whites. Rattan furniture and marble. Something that reminded me of our honeymoon. Of freedom and plunge pools. It had been my passion project during my pregnancy with Harry. A time to hone in my skills while I was away from the office. I’m an interior decorator, after all. Or, rather, I was one. I still don't quite know what I am. Turning on the coffee pot, the machine comes to life with a loud, grunting sound. The black sky is now a bruised purple and the local news reports the traffic in the background. Typically it’s a comforting sound, the local news. When the quiet hum of weather reports and commercials advertising cereal brands and diabetes medication play rhythmically until the top of the hour. But suddenly there’s a story that pulls me out of my trance, grabbing my attention in a way that feels overwhelming and scary. The screen shows a mother in handcuffs. “A toddler has drowned in a bathtub in Harlem,” the reporter says. I stand, frozen, as I watch the mother stare into the camera - her eyes looking forward but without focus. Her eyes are familiar, they are somewhere very far away. The police lights flash in the background as the reporter speaks again. “The child’s siblings are being put under the state’s care until the trial,” she says without emotion. And it is then that I notice that I have tears in my eyes. She’s just like me, I think, because I understand. I am that mother. I know what it feels like to have the whining and tantrums pulled up to a volume so loud you can’t take it any longer. When things become so overwhelming that you need to scream. I know what it’s like to have a child get hurt under your watch. I know. But I can’t say any of this out loud, of course. Never. Because maybe the police will come knocking at my door next. Maybe they’re already watching me. The coffee machine lets out a long, exhausted sigh, completing its brew. Harry looks up at me, his mouth opens in awe at the sound. I smile down at his perfect little face. The face I love more than anything.The face that I have betrayed. “Coffee,” I whisper to him with a smile, rubbing my finger across his warm cheek and pouring myself a cup. The half and half swirls through the black liquid and just one sip restores a little something inside of me that felt missing moments before. The train whistles in the background. The sound tells me that it’s 5:00 a.m. I have lived in my hometown in New Jersey my entire life and still don’t know the purpose of the freight train that passes through town every day at this hour. It seems so old-fashioned. Like something my father or grandfather may have used when they were my age. It’s hard to tell what kind of materials the train carries with its cars covered in heavy tarps. It took me years to even notice the track, despite the fact that I pass over it several times a day while running errands. It always surprises me when the arm lowers its gate in the middle of the day. But recently I have grown to find comfort in the sound. It means the night is over. And the light will return again soon. My fears will disappear, quietly into the shadows, until the sun goes down again. I open the french doors for our golden retriever, Sammy, who is already whining to go out, thrilled that I am up too soon. The blast of humidity and steam from the warm June air is enticing me. I step outside with Harry and my cup of coffee - we walk quietly around the yard, my bare feet wet from the dew in the grass. We approach the fence near the front and I stop and stare at a red little red fox sitting, paws facing forward, staring right at me on the quiet culdesac street. It almost looks mythical - like something from one of Vivi’s fairytale stories. Its eyes are jet black. Hair, a striking red. It has a manicured beard - as though it has a standing appointment at the barber shop every three weeks to keep it perfectly tamed. I stop and stare at the small creature for several moments, daring not to blink for fear that if I do it will disappear. Sammy is on the other end of the yard and hasn’t picked up its scent yet. It looks so serious and I wonder if it’s trying to tell me something. “Hello?” I whisper. But before I can wait for the answer, my phone chimes in my pocket and I look down at the screen to see who is texting me at this hour. It’s a text from my brother, Ben. Call me when you can. The hairs on my arms quickly rise. Ben never wakes before seven. I immediately dial his number and look back to find that the little fox has disappeared. Scanning the street and neighboring yards, I look for it - almost frantically. Desperate for it somehow. There’s a need to make eye-contact with it one more time. To confirm that it was actually there and not imagined. What was it trying to tell me? And then I spot it, halfway across the lawn, skating towards the wooden fence. “Don’t go,” I plead. But it only takes a moment before it reaches the fence, climbs a post, and disappears out of sight. “Susie?” Ben's voice is in my ear. There is a shakiness to his usually mellow and light voice. I used to always think Ben was stoned because of it. Most of the time he is. “Did it happen?” I ask. I know what the answer will be. The sinking feeling is there before I even hear the words. Our grandmother is dying. My parents have been at the nursing home every day for the past week, watching and waiting for Gretchen, our Mimi, to slowly drift away. She is starving to death. Dementia. Taking away the most simple human skill of swallowing. The nurses don’t even allow her food for fear that she will choke or liquid will get caught in her chest and turn into pneumonia. No. Now it is only morphine. The occasional ice cube to wet her lips. “I just got off the phone with mom,” Ben says. He is only four years younger than me, but always seems permanently stuck at twenty-two. He is twenty-seven now. The same age that I was when she married Thomas. I can tell Ben is crying on the other end of the line. My eyes begin to water too. “When did it happen?” I ask. My mind imagines what she looked like when she took her last breath and I immediately wish that I could brush away the image. I have been meaning to visit her for months. And now I am too late. I’m always too late. “Just a few minutes ago. The hospice nurse was with her when she went.” I stare back at the spot where the fox had been sitting. “How did mom seem? How’s dad?” I ask. “You know them, they’re tough.” “I know.” There is a pause on the other line. The next few days will be busy - family dinners and funeral planning. Next week is the Fourth of July. The entire extended family is supposed to meet at my grandma’s beach house in Massachusetts for our annual gathering. Will it be canceled now that she is gone? It would have been our first vacation of the year. We’ve been looking forward to it for weeks. Thomas keeps assuring me that it will set me back on track. He’s like that. As soon as he turns on his out-of-office he melts into a different version of himself. He grows a mustache and forgets about work completely. “It’s going to be so good for you, Sus,” he said just a few nights ago. “I’ll take the kids every morning to give you time to relax. You can do whatever you want. Read on the beach. Take a yoga class. Go for a long walk.” “Maybe,” I said, attempting to sound hopeful. Partially believing him as I pictured myself, jellies on, walking down the Dune Point Lane with my headphones in. But I know myself. Ever since becoming a mother, even when we go away, I never allow myself to fully relax. I find something to fear. And then, months later, when I look back at the photographs of my children’s smiling faces on my phone, I wonder what I had been so worried about. “There’s something else,” Ben says. At first I think he’s going to say something about what’s been going on with me recently. The headaches. How I’ve been dealing with everything ever since the accident. “Okay,” I say, my eyes squinting shut in fear. “Can I borrow your car today?” “Why do you need my car?” I ask quickly, unsure where this is going. Does my family want to send me away somewhere? “I can pick you up from the train if you want to come home this morning,” I say, trying my best to sound like the responsible older sister my brother knows so well instead of - I don’t know how to put into words what I’m like now. Pathetic? “It’s not that. Actually - I’m supposed to go into the office for a meeting this morning. But I need to do something before the funeral. Will you meet me in the city around noon?” The question catches me off guard. I haven’t been to New York in over two years. And we live less than twenty miles from the George Washington Bridge. A siren soars in the background through the other end of the line. A cab honks. I’m suddenly desperate for the anatomy of New York City. I smoked a cigarette every morning on my walk to work when I was twenty-four. Lighting it on Spring Street and blowing out my first puff as I passed Balthazar and turned down Broadway towards Canal. It was my secret vice. The one thing I could do that was rebellious - that no one would ever expect of me. I would do anything to have one now with my coffee. “What do you have to do?” I ask. “It’s Mimi’s ring.” There it is again. The seriousness I have never heard. I don’t have to ask which ring. My mind is instantly drawn to the piece of jewelry that is so connected with every memory I have of my grandmother. I can picture her now, wearing khaki slacks and a Ralph Lauren polo. Her perfect blowout. The large chunky David Yurman bracelets wrapped around her bony wrists. The shade of lipstick. A salmon pink. She always used the same brand - wrapped in green paint with gold foil around the center. I can smell the ocean as I picture her sitting on the dune at her beach house. And the diamond ring she wore on her finger. The massive, emerald cut diamond with tapered baguettes. The center stone was ten-carats. It was flawless, I remember that. Purchased at Cartier in Paris during the late seventies. It was always sort of smudged from the creamy beige liquid foundation that she was constantly rubbing on her face. But, Oh my God, it sparkled. I always looked up to my grandmother. It’s why I went into interior decorating. Mimi had been one too. Mainly as a hobby for most of her life. But she had turned it into a business in her sixties with her closest friend, Elizabeth. Elizabeth’s daughter, Iris, now runs E&G Interiors in town. And I joined the business and worked under Iris in my late twenties before Vivi, my daughter, was born. I loved how my grandmother’s style still influenced the store today. And I always admired the black and white photographs of Mimi and Elizabeth in Paris on the walls. The nostalgia of seeing my grandmother everyday. It felt like I was doing something right in my life. But Mimi had started getting confused around the same time I quit my job in the city and joined the business that she had, a long time ago, started. She never fully understood that I was following in her footsteps. To feel closer to her, and - quite possibly - feel the rush of approval from my family. “Mimi’s ring? Why are you bringing up the ring?” I ask, confused. There is a standing silence on the other end of the line and for a moment I think the call has gone dead. But the wailing horn of a car jumps through the speaker and I realize that Ben is still there. It is then that he finally speaks and I find myself at a loss for words. “Because Frances took it.”

Mama Told Me Not To Come George Pflug probed his dry mouth with his tongue. Swallowing produced no secretions. He felt depleted. Utterly. Like an alien had drained his vital fluids before ejecting him from the trash chute, he was tumbling through deep space to land…where? Somewhere comfortable. Lying on something soft. He stretched all four limbs, feeling his heart surge—not faster, just stronger, punching his left chest from the inside, like Bugs Bunny in love. He arched his spine, then collapsed back into the darkness. Wherever he was, he would just stay here a while. No rush. It was dark. Faint music played, far away. Something doleful, maybe from a Spotify sleep playlist. As the calm gave way to a sense of unease, fragmentary sights and sounds from the previous night flickering and fading, Pflug rolled to the left and pushed himself up on one elbow. Blinking his dry eyes, he could make out a fuzzy horizontal line of faint light, down low. A door. He was in a dark room. On a bed. He felt around for his glasses. He thought he heard a footfall on the other side of the door, which then opened slightly, or so he surmised, based on the blurry appearance of a vertical bar of dim light and an increase in the volume of the music. “Hello?” His voice broke from a whisper to a rasp. He coughed and swallowed. The room darkened again and the music got quieter. He thought maybe he heard movement outside the door over the ringing in his ears. He nearly fell to the floor when he tried to swing his legs off the bed. Hidden under a tangle of sheets, his left ankle had a strap around it, apparently attached to the foot of the bed, or a bedpost, it was too dark to see. His thumping heart sped up. This is not right. This is not the sort of situation in which the dean of an elite public health school finds himself. He tugged at the strap and freed his leg with a scritch of Velcro. He took a shaky inspiration, releasing the breath through pursed lips, trying to push more oxygen back up into his brain. What had he gone and done now? Freed from the restraint, both feet on the floor, he rubbed his bearded cheeks and then pressed his palms into his eyes. He felt a brief spin of vertigo, his torso listing to the right as multicolored lights flashed and scooted up and to the left in both visual fields. Not daring to stand yet, he checked his appendages. Arms intact, still in the shirt he’d been wearing earlier that evening…or was it last night by now? All the buttons—cuffs and front—were unbuttoned. Legs, intact. But bare. Sweeping his foot in a semi-circle Pflug found his pants, and tangled in them, his boxer briefs and socks. He gently tucked his fifth appendage into the briefs. It felt chafed, the thin skin and subcutaneous tissue puffy and tender. What in the living fuck went on last night? He remembered arriving at the Japanese restaurant downtown to find that the newly retired hedge fund magnate he was meeting, his school’s latest benefactor, had brought an unexpected guest to their get-acquainted dinner. And that the big donor had put away several sakes and a tall Sapporo with his sushi. He remembered the president of Dupont University, Robin Englund, greeting their trio at the door of his palatial residence on the edge of campus. And that the president’s pupils had been so dilated Pflug couldn’t make out the color of his irises. He thought he remembered dancing. That seemed implausible. These are serious people, at a serious university. Then again, something implausible, something bordering on unbelievable, must have happened, based on the evidence in his lap. Pflug could not imagine how he ended up in a bed in a dark room, tangled in straps, parched and dizzy. How did a working dinner with the incoming chair of his school’s board of advisors followed by a nightcap at the president’s home turn into some sort of all-night debauch? Ah. It was starting to come back to him. It all started in his office. With a migraine prodrome and aspirin that wasn’t aspirin. A wave of dizziness interrupted his analysis. Right now he needed to replete his fluids. He pulled on his socks, then his pants, buttoned his shirt to mid-sternum. He felt around on a nightstand, found a reading lamp, and switched it on, blinding himself. Once his eyes could tolerate the light, he found his glasses, stood slowly, tucked in his shirt, buckled his belt, and shuffled toward the door. He pushed it open and peeked out. The empty hallway was lit from one end, still too dim to make out the framed art on the walls. Pflug padded toward the light, past closed doors. Feeling wobbly, he traced the wall with the fingers of his left hand to steady himself. Following the scent of strong coffee, he emerged into a chef’s kitchen, lit only by the hood light above an eight-burner gas range, to find his host, dressed for the gym, turning off the flame under a six-cup espresso maker. The soothing electronica was playing from a Bluetooth speaker on the granite island, the sky starting to lighten outside the bay window above the breakfast nook. The president glanced in Pflug’s direction then quickly looked away. “Good morning, George! Feeling better? How about some caffeine for that migraine?”

Attached is the first chapter of my YA sci-fi coming-of-age novel, A Girl Between Worlds. This chapter establishes setting and introduces the protagonist and (indirectly) the antagonist, plus a couple of supporting characters. AGBW Chapter 1.pdf

Story statement A conflict-avoidant university dean needs to figure out why his colleagues are suddenly out to get him, and make them stop. Sketch the antagonist (200 words max): Dean George Pflug’s initial antagonist is Dick Dickerson, his immediate predecessor as Dean of Dupont University's public health school. Dick is an arrogant, manipulative narcissist who deeply resents being excluded from the process of choosing his successor. Then the new dean starts dismantling the old boys' club culture in the school, and Dick starts to fear that Pflug will expose his secrets, namely that he participated in procuring international students for the pleasure of wealthy university benefactors. One such benefactor is the recently retired hedge fund magnate Gordon Bates. Gordon, a former Dupont math professor and now a drug-snorting high-speed trading billionaire, has been tapped as the incoming chair of Pflug’s board of advisors. As Pflug starts to bumble into discovery of their bad deeds, Dick and Gordon cook up a scheme to blackmail Pflug, setting him up to be accused of the same crimes of which they themselves are guilty. Titles Campus crime novels - examples: Cat Among the Pigeons by Agatha Christie Killing Mr. Griffin by Lois Duncan The Secret History by Donna Tartt Confessions by Kanae Minato Dare Me by Megan Abbott An Education in Malice by S. T. Gibson When We Were Silent by Fiona McPhillips Only If You're Lucky by Stacy Willingham Everyone Who Can Forgive Me Is Dead by Jenny Hollander In My Dreams I Hold a Knife by Ashley Winstead Never Saw Me Coming by Vera Kurian Tell Me Everything by Cambria Brockman Good Girls Lie by J.T. Ellison She Was the Quiet One by Michele Campbell The Resemblance by Lauren Nossett If We Were Villains by M.L. Rio Bad Habits by Amy Gentry The Girls Are All So Nice Here by Laurie Elizabeth Flynn Current title: Pflug Figures It out Other options considered Pflug Fights the Power Pflug Flunks Out Comparables Less is Lost by Andrew Sean Greer (tone rather than genre, 2023) The Lecturer’s Tale by James Hynes (genre, 2007) Logline (needs work!) A conflict-avoidant dean at an elite university musters the will to fight back against a narcissistic former dean and an entitled billionaire board member who threaten his career and reputation when he stumbles across evidence of their bad deeds. Conflicts Inner conflict: Unprovoked attacks by his academic colleagues rattle the defenses Pflug developed to survive violent bullying in childhood. Just like his parents did back then, his two bosses at Dupont University, the provost and the health chancellor, both pooh-pooh the danger and fail to stand up for him. Pflug’s initial reaction is shame and despair. Even as he tries to protect his students, he himself must be unworthy of protection, even of love. But after being unwittingly dosed with MDMA, and with support from his still-affectionate ex-wife, his fear transforms into righteous anger. He enlists allies and schemes to use the same kind of subterfuge his enemies use on him to fight back against them. Secondary conflict: As he climbed the academic ladder, Pflug became socially isolated, more so after a divorce. His stressful job and high rank at the university make it hard to make friends or find romantic prospects. Most of the people around him care only about their own status in the campus hierarchy, but he finds one sympatico professor, a charismatic queer social justice warrior who has herself been targeted by some of the same nefarious actors who are now tormenting Pflug. She in turn connects him with a local attorney, the son of a civil rights icon, who has tangled with Dupont in the past. Pflug has to choose whether to preserve his high-status, highly-paid career at all costs, or to risk it all to protect vulnerable students, and his own integrity. Setting Pflug Figures It Out is set mainly on and around the campus of the fictional Dupont University, an elite university that aspires to be “the Harvard of the South.” The protagonists of most academic satires and campus novels tend to be untenured creative writing lecturers sequestered in shabby basement offices. In Pflug, most of the action takes place in the corridors of power--lavish office suites with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out on meticulously tended quads, or mansions like the posh president’s residence on the edge of campus. As the story progresses, Pflug roams from an exclusive private club in Manhattan, to the glass-and-chrome Hamptons beach home of one of his foils, to the regional FBI office in the state capital. At a time when the curtain has been pulled back on the foibles and follies of presidents and provosts at top American universities*, the reader is drawn into a world that many are curious about but that few get to experience firsthand. *E.g., presidents forced to resign after contentious Congressional hearings or violent protests; the dean of a leading medical school getting fired after using drugs with a young sex worker in his office.

I spend an inordinate amount of time sitting around trying to think of ways to kill people. Yes, it is for my books. Still, I sometimes worry about myself. Or maybe I’ve just been watching too much Criminal Minds, and I worry about being a psychopath. It’s a worry I share with many of my fellow mystery writers. In my books, I’ve used everything from kitchen utensils to a North Pole sign to commit one of the most heinous of crimes––murder. I’m always looking up exactly how these methods might work. And then do extensive medical research to find out exactly what would happen. So far, the FBI hasn’t shown up at my house to find out what I’ve been doing. I feel like I probably am flagged, then they look at my social media feeds which are filled with puppies, ballerinas, surfers, and home designers, and realize I’m just a writer. Let’s hope it stays that way. I had to do a great deal of research on my latest book Death at a Scottish Christmas and find two different ways to kill the victims. But they had to be similar in method because a killer usually sticks to what they know. If I use a poison, which I don’t do very often, I try to make it something different. And I do my best to find an interesting way for it to enter the system . That’s not to say I won’t use rat poison in someone’s coffee at some point, but I’m always trying to keep it fresh. While I won’t talk about the exact methods of murder, I thought it would be fun to share a list of books with clever scenarios that you’ll want to check out. These are some of my favorites in that regard: One author you can’t go wrong with is H.L. Marsay. I’m a big fan of the Chief Inspector Shadow Mysteries featuring Chief Inspector John Shadow and his partner Sergeant Jimmy Chang. The first book in this series, A Long Shadow, features two related cases, which are thirty years apart but happen on the same day. The methods of death are brutal, but also unusual. If you haven’t read this series, I highly recommend it. Just a side note: These books, even though full of murder, might make you hungry. The Chief Inspector loves his food. I’m bullish about Rex Stout’s, Some Buried Caesar, which is a Nero Wolfe mystery. While I won’t say how he dies, a family scion is found by a prize bull, which leads to a twisting and turn trail of family and enemies, who are the most likely suspects. The killer in this one is more than clever and stays steps ahead, until he or she doesn’t. In Murder Hooks A Mermaid by Christy Fifield, the victim is found in a mermaid tank. I know, that was a new one for me, as well. Glory, the sleuth, owns a souvenir shop, and gets caught up in the mystery net when her best friend’s brother is accused of the crime. Glory and her pet parrot, Bluebeard, are on the case. This one is also full of laughs. In Colleen Cambridge’s Mastering the Art of French Murder one might expect that it will be a food-related death. It isn’t. The amateur sleuth, Tabitha Knight, is best friends with the very real Julia Childs. And while there is a great deal of delicious sounding food in this one, the method of death is different and brutal. One of the biggest treats of this one is Paris, not long after World War II, and you will feel like you are there. It’s fun and twisty, and you’ll wonder until the end how the victim ended up where she did. Sometimes it is the motive that makes a mystery or thriller twisty. And Linda Castillo’s Amish mysteries featuring Chief of Police Kate Burkholder never disappoints in that regard. The methods of murder are also interesting. A Gathering of Secrets is book ten in the series but it’s a good twisty story. Again, the death is brutal and fiery, but nothing is what it seems. You can’t go wrong with any of the novels in this series when it comes to cleverness. Carlene O’Connor’s Murder in an Irish Village has a clever killer on the run. The method used is stabbing, but what was used is different. And just when you think you’ve figured out the murder, you’ll discover your wrong. I love that the family is so involved in this and in proving that one of them is not responsible for the crime. Keeping the method of killing fresh, isn’t always easy but James Patterson and Brian Sitts do exactly that in Holmes, Marple & Poe. The three detectives do not shy away from all things murder, but again, they are chasing a clever killer, who uses whatever is available. There are some fun twists and turns in this one, and nothing is what it seems. And who doesn’t want to hang out with these detectives? Their relationships with one another are just as important as the murder, which I appreciate. While anyone can use a gun to commit murder, it is what happens to the body after Lady Eleanor Swift witnesses the crime that makes this one twisty. Did she really see what happened? Is she being gas lighted? She spends a great deal of time proving that she isn’t insane. Or is she? by Verity Bright keeps you guessing until the end. While Sweet Nightmare is more YA fantasy/paranormal than mystery, there is a great mystery within it. And the methods of murder are as disturbing as they are clever. There is a spunky young heroine trying to figure out what is going on at this paranormal high school. And the one person she cares about most, may be the murdering villain who kills people with nightmares. I love an Agatha Christie book. One of my favorite novels of hers is And Then There Were None. A series of murders takes place on a remote island, and each of those murders is based on a nursery rhymes. She varies the ways in which her victims die, and some of those are quite clever. And with each murder, something goes missing in the house. If you haven’t read Christie, this is a good gateway into her books. You can’t go wrong with any of the books on this list if you want to be entertained. Happy fall everyone. *** –Featured image: Sigismonda Drinking the Poison by Joseph Edward Southall, 1897 View the full article

Hi everyone I am Nkechi (Kay-She) grateful to be in this space! 1. Story Statement: In a world that questions her place and challenges her worth, Fay Bankole must navigate professional hurdles, confront buried family secrets, and rediscover her identity to gain true freedom and find her voice. 2. Antagonist: Dolly Davis, the Dietetic Director, presents a polished image of professional accomplishment. A veteran in the nutrition field, she has dedicated over two decades to establishing herself as a formidable leader. With a sharp eye for detail and a history rooted in hospital administration, she commands authority in the predominantly White profession (dietetics) and prides herself on maintaining an impeccable reputation. Dolly approaches her role with exacting standards and expects her interns to reflect her own rigorous work ethic, but she singles out Fay, the only Black (bi-racial) intern, for subtle and overt undermining. Though polite on the surface, Dolly's actions betray a desire to break those who might challenge or tarnish her world. Her resentment toward Fay intensifies as the internship progresses. 3. Breakout Titles: "Dear Dolly, No Thanks.", "Sugar, Spice, and Everything Semi-Nice", "Seasoned Truths" 4. Two Comparable Novels: "Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine" by Gail Honeyman Similarity: Eleanor Oliphant is a socially awkward woman who leads a solitary life and learns to confront her traumatic past. It blends humor with deeper emotional layers, exploring themes of self-discovery, identity, and personal transformation—much like Fay's own growth journey in your novel. Why it fits: Eleanor's personal growth, handling past trauma, and the realization that her identity is more complex than she thought mirrors Fay’s own journey in an accessible and emotionally resonant way. "Such a Fun a Age" by Kiley Reid Similarity: This novel captures the story of Emira Tucker, a 25-year-old Black woman who is babysitting for a wealthy White family and is accused of kidnapping their child. The narrative explores themes of racial dynamics and societal expectations, while navigating the awkward space between personal and professional lives. It delves into Emira’s struggles with with identity and external perceptions. Like Fay, the protagonist is balancing societal expectations, subtle power dynamics, and the need to figure out their own place in the world. Both stories explore heavy themes like race and identity. Such a Fun Age does so with a satirical edge and moments of humor that lighten the tone. This book will use humor. 5. Hook Line: "A young woman, caught between her adopted Nigerian family’s secrets and the intense pressure of a demanding dietetic career, struggles to find her identity while navigating a complicated relationship with her boss, a coworker, and the unraveling truth of her past. As her career and personal life collide, Fay must confront the betrayals that threaten to destroy her sense of self." 6. Inner Conflict: Fay’s inner conflict is rooted in her search for identity and self-worth, driven by her complex feelings of not fully belonging in any one space—whether it’s her career, her adoptive family, or her relationships. Primary Conflict: Workplace Dynamics with Dolly and Her Husband Marc Fay’s primary external conflict stems from her complicated and increasingly tense relationship with Dolly, the director of the dietetics program, and Dolly's growing jealousy over Fay's friendship with her husband, Marc, a nurse at the hospital. From the beginning, Dolly has shown a clear distaste for Fay, often dismissing her and making her feel isolated in a program that’s already emotionally challenging. Fay, who struggles to make connections, finds solace in her friendship with Marc, who is friendly, approachable, and caring. Their bond grows innocently, but it begins to attract Dolly’s suspicion. Dolly, who is possessive of Marc and already doesn't like Fay, begins to notice the growing dynamic between her husband and the intern. She feels threatened and betrayed by what she perceives as an inappropriate connection between them. Her jealousy and growing discomfort manifest as passive-aggressive remarks, harsh criticisms, and an increased coldness toward Fay. Fay, who is just seeking normal friendship, becomes trapped in the middle of a delicate situation. She starts to feel torn between wanting to maintain a healthy friendship with Marc while navigating the increasingly toxic work environment Dolly has created. Hypothetical Scenario: Dolly’s husband invites Fay to grab coffee before work, ostensibly to talk about a rotation, but the conversation quickly becomes personal. He makes a comment about her "natural beauty" and touches her arm. Fay is unsure how to respond. Fay is unsure if it’s just an innocent gesture or if she’s being flirted with, but it's pleasant. When Dolly starts noticing the interactions, she becomes even colder, creating a precarious situation for Fay as she navigates her professional role and moral compass. Secondary Conflict with Family: The Parent-Daughter Struggle Fay’s relationship with her adoptive Nigerian family has always been a source of confusion and isolation, especially since she has never felt connected as a biracial woman. However, when Fay uncovers family secrets about her biological father and her mother’s past, it stirs up old wounds and forces her to reevaluate her relationship with her parents. She finds herself torn between wanting to learn more about her roots and feeling betrayed by their secrecy. This secondary conflict explores how secrets from her mother’s past affect Fay's identity and sense of self. Hypothetical Scenario: Fay begins searching for her biological father’s medical records at the hospital where she interns, hoping to learn more about her heritage. Instead, she stumbles upon a discrepancy: the story her parents told her about her mother’s death doesn’t add up. The details she was given conflict with the medical records, revealing that her parents haven’t been entirely truthful about the circumstances surrounding her mother’s passing. Determined to uncover the truth, Fay digs deeper and uncovers more evidence suggesting her parents hid significant parts of her mother’s past. Faced with these revelations, Fay is torn between wanting to understand the full truth about her origins and feeling betrayed by the secrecy her parents maintained. 7. Setting: The Teaching Hospital The hospital is a massive, bustling teaching facility located in a vibrant city (TBD)—, very modern, beautiful skyscrapers ,and shiny new clinics, but the streets hold the weight of history--and so does the hospital. The hospital itself has a multi-floored, sprawling structure. The Apartment with her Roommate Fay’s apartment is a modest, lived-in two-bedroom, two-bathroom space in a neighborhood filled with young adults, professionals, and young families. It’s far from glamorous, but it has a certain character—faded wallpaper, a small kitchen stocked with mismatched plates and mugs, and a living room that’s more cozy chaos than anything carefully curated. She shares the apartment with a roommate she finds a bit annoying, but it's still a sanctuary of sorts—her quiet retreat from the constant pressure of work and life. The Family Home Fay’s childhood home is a warm but somewhat chaotic place, where a tight-knit family of four lived in a modest three-bedroom house. The rooms are small but full of life, decorated with a mix of cultural artifacts from her Nigerian heritage and the functional clutter of everyday family life. Fay’s upbringing in this home was filled with love, but also with the confusion of being a bi-racial child in a family where she never quite felt like she fit in.