The soup, that is! In just two days, the second book in the Italian Kitchen Mysteries, The Wedding Soup Murder, releases in stores and online.
Starting September 1, I'll be on a ten-day blog tour that includes interviews, guest posts, reviews, and lots of giveaways, so please join me!
My summer reading often involves re-reading favorite works that help me clear my head for my own writing. In the case of Agatha Christie, I get the added benefit of learning from a master of the genre while I read.
I just loaded a bunch of Christie on my Kindle, and discovered to my delight that there was a Miss Marple I'd somehow missed: 4:50 to Paddington. The "4:50" of the title is a time, and refers to a train on which a murder occurs, witnessed by an elderly lady from a passing train on the opposite tracks. The authorities, of course, chalk it up to her age and an overactive imagination, but her friend Miss Jane Marple believes her, and sets out to solve the case.
Jane Marple, like Christie's other famous detective, Hercule Poirot, is an amateur sleuth. Both tend to be one step ahead of the police, and both have a way of getting witnesses to talk to them. But here's what Christie understood so well about her two characters: they were outsiders, and as outsiders occupied a unique position--that of observer.
Among the English upper crust, Poirot is a foreigner. His slicked-back hair and waxed mustache are a joke, as is his accent. Those around him--including the various murderers he foils--don't perceive him as a threat. He's not one of them, so they ignore him. They don't reckon on the fact that nothing escapes his notice.
I'm a Miss Marple fan, but I wasn't always. As a young reader of Christie, I had no interest in an elderly lady who sits in a corner knitting, and therein lies her power. Then, as now, elderly ladies are all but invisible in society; they usually hold little power, and they are easily dismissed by others (as is the case of the woman in the book I'm reading now). But they sure as hell pay attention, something I appreciate much more as I get older. Miss Marple, with little to do except watch people, has an understanding of human behavior beyond that of the various Scotland Yard inspectors she foils.
When I set out to create an amateur sleuth of my own, I made her a mystery writer. (In fact, Victoria's main character, Bernardo Vitali, might be considered the Italian version of Poirot.) As a writer, Vic is also an observer. She takes in the small details of physical appearance and personality that others might miss. And as a writer of mysteries, she's conversant with the why and how of murder. But unlike Poirot and Miss Marple, she makes her share of mistakes.
As does her creator. . .
As I was working on the draft of Marinara (the book, not the sauce) my editor advised me to keep the focus of the series, Italian food, prominent at all times. (Which was a bit like telling me to put my lipstick on before I leave the house.) Let's just say I need reminding about a number of things, but the importance of food isn't one of them.
It wasn't hard to keep food front and center of the story, since food happens to be front and center of my life. I never understand those people who rush through a meal, or those alien beings who say things like, "I only eat because I have to," or "Food isn't that important to me"--words that cause me to gasp and clutch my Italian heart.
What's more important than a meal lovingly prepared? Than sitting across the table from the people who mean the most to you in the whole world? Than that first taste of your grandmother's Sunday sauce?
Much as I love Shakespeare, he was wrong when he said "Music is the food of love."
Food is the food of love.
That I stole my tagline, “Cozy mysteries with romantic interruptions,” from Dorothy L. Sayers. Sayers was the author of the Lord Peter Wimsey mysteries; published primarily in the 30s, the Wimsey mysteries are prime examples of the “Golden Age” of British detective fiction.
Wimsey is an aristocratic sleuth who takes up detecting as a hobby after he returns to England after World War I. While I love all the books, in the early ones Wimsey is a bit of a flat character. It isn’t until the series introduces Harriet Vane, a mystery writer wrongfully accused of murder, that he becomes fully dimensional. Though Sayers swore she’d never have her sleuth involved in a romance, she spins out a wonderful one over several books that culminate in the marriage of Harriet and Peter. In fact, Sayers got so enthusiastic about the love story that she was accused of having a crush on her own character, a topic I addressed in my Rosemary D blog.
The last book in Sayers’ series, Busman’s Honeymoon, carries this subtitle: “A Love Story with Detective Interruptions.” So with a little tweaking, it became a way for me to define my stories. But let’s call it an homage, shall we?
I don’t know about you, but I really need some romance in my mysteries. (I need some mystery in my romance, too, but that’s a post for another day.) Giving your detective a love interest humanizes him or her, and it gives readers something else to wonder about—will they get together or not?—besides the murder. And it keeps us turning pages. As much as I respect Sayers’ formidable skills with a mystery, it was the love story that kept me coming back to the books.
My own “saucy sleuth,” Victoria Rienzi, has not one, but two love interests. There’s her old love, now working as a chef in her parents’ restaurant, and a new guy, a rough-around-the-edges woodworker from New Orleans who may not be what he seems. Each one is a likely suitor for my character; each guy has his own brand of appeal. But which will Victoria end up with?
Well now, that’s a mystery isn’t it? And you’ll have to stay tuned to find out. . .
I open Adriana Trigiani's books with trembling hands--not because I can't wait to read, though that's true--but because her work is so familiar and terrific and I wish I'd written it myself. Her city settings and Italian-American characters resonate so deeply with me that I wish I could just call her up and chat. (Also, her book covers are to die for.)
This month, appropriately enough, I'm reading the first two books of her Valentine trilogy. I started with Very Valentine, which introduces us to Valentine and her hilarious family, all of whom are instantly recognizable to me. There's a crazy family wedding, a sexy Italian chef, and even sexier Italian shoes.
Now I'm on to Brava, Valentine, in which Valentine takes over the family shoe business and takes up with a hunky Italian tanner. (Not the Jersey Shore variety. He works with leather.)
Trigiani hits the sweet spot in women's fiction: her stories are funny, heartfelt, and smart. Beyond that, she markets herself wisely and takes great care of her fans.
So brava, Adriana. You're an inspiration to the rest of us.
Today is the National Day on Writing, and this year's theme is What I Write. So here goes: I write food and sisterhood. I write people I understand. I write stories that are familiar, stories of kitchen tables and the boardwalk. I write cozy mysteries with romantic interruptions. But all my characters have motives of one kind or another. 
I write women who are funny and smart and occasionally pissed off. I write men I'd like to be friends with, go out with, and maybe marry. (Oh, wait, I did marry him.) My romances are real, sometimes rocky, filled with recriminations--but satisfying reconciliations. I write Italian-flavored prose with tears in the middle and laughs at the end. Words that say who I am. I guess you could say I write me. And I hope I write you, too.
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After my last post I heard from my Aunt Barb, who still corresponds with her British pen pal. I'm happy to share a bit of her story in her own words: Just read your blog about the aforementioned pen-pals— just loved it. In the days before student exchanges and after WWII, we had a teacher exchange. When Sylvie's teacher returned to London she looked at the list she had acquired at Connecticut Farms School and told this young girl, “Look, this girl shares your birthday,” and so it began. Not only did Sylvie and I correspond, but our Mothers got into the action also. My grandparents were English, emigrating from England in the late 1800's. So with the war behind them and many, many needs post war, they began to send care packages to London, with things that were at the time unavailable, i.e.: tea, sugar, flour, etc. (Bisquick was a total mystery, lol!) 
And now to the present past. Bill and I left Florida the day after Christmas '11 for London, so that Sylvie and I could celebrate our birthday, the date January 3, 2012. I was 75 and Sylvie 77. We celebrate this year 65 years of friendship. She is truly my little English sister. Thanks, Aunt Barb, for sharing this wonderful story!
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I have been reading with great delight As Always, Julia, a collection of letters between Julia Child and Avis DeVoto. DeVoto's husband was a journalist who'd written a piece in Harper's which included a rant about the lack of good kitchen knives in the United States. Julia read it and sent him a knife that she described as "a nice little French model." Avis, who often served as her husband's secretary (though an editor and book reviewer in her own right) responded. Thus began a correspondence that bloomed into a dear friendship--long before the two women had ever met. 
Their letters are a delight, and got me thinking about friendships-via-words. My aunt began a pen pal relationship with a young British girl when they were both children during World War II. As far as I know, they still write to each other. My sister has a pen pal in Kentucky to whom she's written for more than 40 years; they've only met twice, yet consider each other dear friends. These days, paper and ink has given way to emails, virtual groups, live chat, and forum postings. We communicate with strangers, and from some of those connections comes the spark of true friendship. We hear each other's voices and answer in kind. Two women I consider dear friends began as my critique partners; we've met only a couple of times, but we sustain our friendships through words. So this post is dedicated to all my virtual pals, the women in my life who comment on this blog, exchange emails with me, share their writing joys and sorrows, and offer encouragement and a laugh. To the friends I haven't met yet (and those I have)--it's good to know you're out there.
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As a girl who was born on Friday the 13th in a year that shall go unnamed, I tend to be a little superstitious. I carry a lucky dollar in my purse at all times. I read my horoscope. I try not to attract any mal occhio, as I have mentioned here, but most importantly, I watch for signs from the universe. One such sign appeared several years ago one evening as I was having dinner in an Asian restaurant with my friend Melissa. I was telling her about the book I was working on as we were finishing dinner when our fortune cookies came. She pushed the plate toward me, giving me first pick of the two lone cookies on the plate. And here's what I pulled from mine:
Now, I eat a lot of Chinese food, and I've opened a number of cookies in my time, but none like this one. We laughed and exclaimed over the coincidence, and I tucked the fortune into my wallet. After that, whenever I got discouraged on the path to publication, I would pull out that little slip of paper. Finally, I scanned it, enlarged it, and laminated it so it could serve as a daily reminder of why I write.
For publication, certainly. For profit, not so much. But mostly for love.
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I love to sew. And strangely enough, what I love about sewing are the same things I love about writing. 
A new piece of fabric laid out flat is a lot like the story in my head, and the pattern is the outline. A cleanly executed seam is akin to a polished, fluent sentence. The garment takes shape in much the way a plot does, piece by piece. Even the language is similar. You start a project. You cut. You edit. You adapt and revise for fit. I learned most of what I know about sewing from my Italian grandmother. A fine seamstress and frustrated designer, she spent most of her professional life working in a garment factory in Newark. And she was a tough taskmaster. She had no compunction about handing a piece back to me, saying, “That's a bum job. Take it apart and start again.” Sometimes she would just hand me the seam ripper. Nothing seemed as daunting as starting over; nothing seemed as painful as taking apart all my hard work. 
During my search for an agent, many of whom passed on my first project "with regret," I could practically feel Grandma Mary at my elbow, looking over my shoulder and shaking her head. While my book was not exactly “a bum job,” it still wasn’t a good fit. It needed to be picked apart, redesigned, and reworked. So I got to work. And got an agent as a result. Since then, I've completed a second novel and I'm currently at work on my third. It's in the first draft stages, so I'm beginning to piece the story together. So far, it's taking shape nicely. It feels like a fit. But I won't know for sure until it's tried on by my editor, who is very likely to send it back for alterations. Let's just say I'll be keeping that seam ripper handy.
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An earlier version of this post first appeared on Red Room.
