Social Filters

 What is a social filter? A great example arose while I was researching a scene where my Pine County deputies confront a group of bikers. My research included watching an interview with the leader of a national biker gang (whose well known logo is a virtual trademark). Near the end of the interview, the biker was asked about his tattoos. "Tattoos are a social filter. If someone doesn't have a tattoo, I know that I don't need to talk to them."

That interview, from several years ago, spoke to me. I immediately reflected on my limited interaction with members of biker gangs and thought, "Gee, that tattoo social filter goes both directions. There are a lot of people who avoid tattooed bikers."

I recommended a book, written by an obscure South Dakota author, to a friend. He emailed me the next week explaining that he'd thrown the book away. "The local police chief in that book is a biker. That is implausible. I couldn't read on after that revelation."

On a similar note, one of my beta readers scolded me for a character's use of strong language in Washed Away, the second Doug Fletcher mystery. She said that if the interchange between a park ranger and a surly teen had occurred on the first page, she would've sent the manuscript back to me unread. In that book, I tried to show the teen character's contempt for the ranger (and his parents) by his use of the word f**k. That single word defined his (lack of) character and his contempt. I could've spent a page explaining, that contempt. Instead, I chose to have that teen say that word, then move on with the scene. I have since had feedback from several readers that they were unhappy with that character's language. They had social filters about the use of profanity.

We all have social filters. My mother grew up in a very small northern Minnesota town. The only person of color in her school was Native American. That poor girl, who my mother befriended, was a total outcast, a pariah. That 1940s Scandinavian community wouldn't embrace a Native American girl.

I had a very religious reader tell me she'd been on a jury. When it was revealed that the defendant had fathered several children with different women, she decided that he was such a "slime-ball" that he was guilty of whatever he'd been arrested for. Her social filter found his paternity so unacceptable that she made up her mind to vote "guilty" without hearing any evidence of the crime he'd allegedly committed.

Whether it's a farmer wearing soiled bib overalls to a restaurant, or a lawyer wearing a suit and tie to that same restaurant, I've said something about those people without going into a lengthy description of the character's values, lifestyle, and status. The readers develop a mental picture of those characters, and I move on with the plot.

I like to watch people to see their reactions to different situations. On a recent trip to a Mystery Writers of America conference in Minneapolis, I watched people step to the far side of the sidewalk avoiding a panhandler whose tattered cardboard sign said he was a disabled veteran. Couples walking to a restaurant moved aside to let a group of rowdy teens pass. A waitress in an upscale restaurant showed particular deference to a group of young businessmen in suits while virtually ignoring a young couple in t-shirts and shorts. In each of those instances, social filters defined people's response to others.

I try to engage my reader's social filters. They can be an effective device to help them engage with the characters. Whether it's a profane teenager, or an outspoken senior citizen, a bit of dialogue can help the readers like, dislike, empathize with, or even hate a character.

Check out Fatal Business to see how I engage the reader's social filters in an exchange between a farm couple and an urban "Fed", or Sergeant C.J. Jensen confronting a group of parolees. I hope your social filters engage and draw you into the plot.

Hovey, Dean - BWL Publishing Inc. (bookswelove.net)

A Frightening Encounter-from my upcoming release, by Diane Scott Lewis

Purchase my novels HERE

In my novel, Outcast Artist in Bretagne, due out in August, I explore a forbidden love that happens to the despair of my heroine, who doesn't need any more complications in her life.

Stranded in France after the Germans attack in 1940, Norah must maneuver her new situation. Will her cousin's husband demand she leave as the food supply wanes? But she has nowhere to go. What about the German commandant? Does he suspect she is a spy because she's English? Or are his increasing intentions of a different sort altogether? 

Why does she find herself suddenly drawn to him? He has secrets that will undermine Hitler's intent to capture all of Europe. Is he a decent man under that dreaded uniform?

Norah's first confrontation with the commandant:

Norah flinched and swung around. A baby-faced soldier in Nazi greenish-gray scowled at her. “What are you doing here?” he demanded in heavily accented, terrible French, two of his teeth jagged like a weasel.

She straightened, chin high, the pad pressed to her stomach. Inside, she trembled. “I live nearby. I was enjoying a walk. I draw birds.” Her French was passable after the year entrenched with her cousin, and her schoolgirl lessons from a decade ago. Her arrival happened only five weeks before the Germans invaded France. A desperate year because of that and for anguished, personal reasons.

The young man pointed at her book and bag, then shouted over his shoulder in German.

Was he alerting his superior? “Please, I’ve done nothing wrong.” She had no desire to come face to face with the Commandant. “You can search me…if you want.” She cringed at that idea.

“I have no choice but to report you.” The soldier shouted again. The officer’s heavy footsteps thudded closer.

He burst through the bushes, tall and broad-shouldered, his expression stern. The two Germans spoke in their guttural language.

Norah wanted to collapse to the ground but refused to show intimidation. Her spine nearly crackled as she held it firm.

The Commandant confronted her, his blue eyes penetrating. “What is your purpose out here at the shore?” He had distinct cheekbones, a handsome face, his lips full; a man of about forty. An iron cross hung at his high collar. “You don’t care to take instruction from we Philistines. Civilians are restricted.”

“I apologize,” she tried to keep the revulsion from her tone, though his near-teasing words —or perhaps a taunt—put her off-balance even more, “I was out for a walk and…I used to walk by the shore. Before—” Before you damned Germans arrived.

“What is in that book and bag? Give the pad to me, so I may inspect what you’re doing.” He reached out his gloved hand, his French excellent.

She hesitated, then handed the book over. “I like to sketch birds. I have a friend who is an ornithologist. We study them. Rather he studies them, I just draw.”

She opened the bag at his order, and the young soldier plowed through it. “I’d appreciate it if you don’t crack my pencils.”

“Show me your Identification Card. What is your name, prowler of the coast?” the officer asked in his clipped, almost raspy voice. He opened and paged through her drawings. “It is only birds, nothing more?”

“I’m Norah Cooper, and yes, it’s only birds.” She pulled out the card residents were now required to carry.

He snatched the card and read the words, perused her picture. Then he handed it back. “Ah, I detected an English accent in your French.”

His continued rough handling of the pages sent sparks along her shoulders. Would she be punished for being English, Germany’s worst enemy?

She reached for her book to mask her panic, the idea she could be interrogated or shot. Her knees wobbled. “Please…may I have—”

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with her husband and one naughty dachshund.

How do you read? ...by Sheila Claydon

 

Find my books here

Claire, the heroine in my book Reluctant Date is in a rut. Her work as a librarian is no longer interesting but she isn't brave enough to change things until she meets her reluctant date who persuades her that her knowledge of books, her skills as a researcher and her love of photography are her route to a new life.

Thinking about Claire's metamorphosis (because of course all characters are real people to the writers who create them) made me think about the skills writers need. Imagination, creativity, the ability to research a variety of topics, persistence, being able to work alone for long periods, concentration, editing, being able to take criticism, typing and computer skills, administration skills and...and...I could go on because writing, on the whole, is a one person business. Whether regularly working alone in a designated office space or grabbing a precious hour or two in an otherwise busy day, it all boils down to the same thing. Writers are on their own.

We all need to relax though, so what happens at the end of a book, when the writer can take a breath and step back into the world. Everyone is different of course, so there will be some who will go jogging or exercise at the gym while others will pour a glass of wine and sit watching the sunset, or they will catch up with friends, or go travelling, or...or...here I go again, another long list.  There is one thing that all writers do, however, and that is read. It's impossible to separate a writer from words, whether their own or other peoples, and this leads me to another problem. Reading books by other people can be tricky.

Overlong sentences, a slow storyline, grammar mistakes and typos (yes they occur even in much hyped best sellers) facts that are just plain wrong, a sense towards the end of a book that the author is trying to tie up all the ends too quickly, wordy technical explanations, characters that just don't ring true, a plot that doesn't sound plausible. Any of these things can spoil a book for any reader, but for this writer they make the difference between enjoying and finishing a book or throwing it aside.

Then there is the other problem. A book where the plot is good, the characters believable but the author's wordiness gets in the way. Reading a book where I can't stop myself mentally re-writing every other paragraph is so exhausting that skimming large sections of the prose is the only solution. 

Learning to cut words, to read and re-read a page, a chapter, the whole book until there are no superfluous words and the story flows is what most writers do automatically. The same goes for magazine articles and the opinion columns in newspapers. Some journalists are brilliant and very readable whatever the subject whereas others leave this picky writer/reader feeling 'so what' if I manage to stick it out to the end of the piece. Worst of all are the verbatim interviews that are becoming increasingly popular and which seem to suck the life out of the interviewee rather than enhance them.

So while books have always been the backbone of my life, and while I love reading and rarely have fewer than 3 or 4 books on the go at any one time, becoming a writer has made me increasingly selective about what I read. This does have some upsides though because my unintentional and unwanted pickiness has pushed me towards far more non-fiction than I ever read before, something which has greatly expanded my worldview. And the other thing, the best one of all, is the joy I feel when I discover that book! 

The book that I can't put down. The book that gets in the way of meal times, chores, plans and which follows me to bed until the early hours. The book that takes over my life from beginning to end. The book that all writers hope to write at least once in their lives.
 

Marching Into Spring by Helen Henderson

Windmaster Legacy by Helen Henderson
Click the title for purchase information

Topics for the month of March covered over the years have been the switch to daylight savings and the changing of the seasons. It is always fun to look at the holidays for a given month. They can range from food related, National Peanut Butter Day, to days acknowledging spinach, corn dogs, tamales, and my favorite, Orios. Some days are more prone to partying as people celebrate St. Patrick's Day or Mardi Gras. Or you can acknowledge our four-footed reading buddies on National Puppy Day, National Hug Your Dog Day, National Welsh Corgi Day, and Respect Your Cat Day. A day listed in the March calendar that was of a more personal nature is "National Hug a G.I. Day."

National Hug Your Dog Day, 3/10/23

Tighe Cat Demands Respect
Respect Your Cat Day 3/28/23

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This year I decided to take another approach and use the month as the topic. Not the month, but the action. Merriam-Webster Dictionary defines "march" as to "to move along steadily usually with a rhythmic stride and in step with others." There is the Bridal March to guide a bride down the aisle or Pomp and Circumstance that welcomes students to the next phase of their lives. Then there are the military marches that help keep marches in step. A fond memory is of my two young nieces leading the town's Memorial Day Parade.

My favorite marching tune is usually hard on St. Patrick's Day when the fife and drum corps strike up Garryowen. However, in my mind it is not men stepping in time to the Irish air, but horses. Or more specifically, the magical equines called falaire.

A snippit from Windmaster Legacy of the falaire marching in time to music.

Deeper and deeper the fàlaire walked into the heart of Pilartri. Simple, stone-roofed cottages gave way to larger, more luxurious dwellings. People watched from open windows or stood in doorways as Dal rode Tairneach through the winding streets. He wondered how Taer would get through the press of bodies crowded under the colorful canopies of the marketplace without trampling someone. The fear vanished as a path remained open through the narrow walkway.

Tairneach neighed a command and shifted his gait to a high-stepping prance.

“Showoff,” Dal growled.

The stallion tossed his mane and Dal laughed at Taer’s response. The clop of hooves on cobblestones grew louder. Turning in the saddle, Dal looked back and saw the rest of the fàlaire following, in single file. He smiled at the way they synchronized their steps in precise time with each other.

Clinging to the skirt of a woman with whom she shared a striking resemblance, a child turned and pointed to the fàlaire. “Look, Mommy,” she cried. “The horses are dancing.” The girl loosed her grip on her mother’s skirt and smiling brightly, started clapping in time to Taer’s steps.

When Dal heard the light tone of Ellspeth’s flute, he gave up all hope of making an unobtrusive entrance. Cheers exploded from the onlookers lining the street when first Tairneach, then Zethar and the rest of the fàlaire changed their pace to match the sea tune Ellspeth played.

To purchase the Windmaster Novels: BWL

 ~Until next month, stay safe and read.   Helen

Helen Henderson lives in western Tennessee with her husband. While she doesn’t have any pets in residence at the moment, she often visits a husky who has adopted her as one of the pack. Find out more about her and her novels on her BWL author page.

Happy Anniversary - Murder and Mint Tea by Janet Lane Walters #BWLAuthor #MFRWAuthor #mystery #25 years #Robespierre

 

Though today is Saint Patrick's Day and i'm wishing all those who are Irish and who are Irish today, I have another these for the blog.  Twenty-five years ago Murder and Mint Tea was published. Katherine and Robespierre are still out there for people to read and this is happening.

I remember the day when I first saw the electronic version of Murder and mInt Tea. Wow, I thought. We made it. The search for an editor had taken a few years of sending the mss out and being rejected, mostly kindly but sometimes not. I had discovered electronic publishing and found a publisher. Then came the fun of promoting and also looking for reviews.

The first review was rewarding. I don't know the name of the magazine any longer but I do remember the first few words. Move over  Miss Marple and Jessica Fletcher, Katherin Miller is in town. That really gave me chills since I enjoyed both of the above sleuths.

Murder and Mint Tea is either loved or hated by the readers. Though there are more favorable reviews than unfavorable, I enjoy reading both once. This book has earned me money every year for those twenty-five. I've not kept a running total but I've been pleased.

Katherine and Robespierre ahve gone on to enjoy other visits and there's one more she's toying with. Not sure when she'll give me the murderer so I can write the book. Here's a hint. The victim is the town's mayor. COVID has lessened but he decides the village won't have their Halloween Parade this year as well as the COVID years. Needless to say there are many people who don't like his decision.

So once again, happy anniversary to Murder and Mint Tea. Twenty-five years and still counting. One little bit of information, Katherine retired from the hospital at sixty-two. If she existed in reality, she would now be sixty-seven the age I'll be on my next birthday.

https://bookswelove.net/walters-janet-lane/