What is the date you began writing this piece of fiction and the date when you completely finished the piece of fiction? I write over my files every day, but the earliest drafts I have for the book that would become Dog’s Waiting Roomdate back to February 21, 2021, when I began writing the first scene, and laying out the plot points. The book is about the death of an elderly man with dementia. It is number 13 in my golden retriever mysteries, and was published in October of 2021. And I was polishing it right up until I hit the “upload” button.
Where did you do most of your writing for this fiction work? And please describe in detail. And can you please include a photo? I was a Starbucks writer until Covid-19 hit. Then I began working at my kitchen table, facing out into a very unlovely courtyard with an empty and defunct spa pool facing me. At least above the five-foot wall I can see palm trees and a swath of blue sky.
What were your writing habits while writing this work- did you drink something as you wrote, listen to music, write in pen and paper, directly on laptop; specific time of day? I try to get downstairs to the kitchen around 9 AM, and I take the first half hour of the day to eat a chocolate chip muffin and drink a couple of glasses of water while I read the online news and emails. When there are no more distractions I switch over to Microsoft Word and open my most recent document.
I don’t listen to music, but there are always sounds on the street outside that accompany me, like lawn mowers, leaf blowers, pressure washers and so on.
By eleven I’m making myself a café mocha, usually with Godiva chocolate powder and flavored ground coffee (chocolate raspberry or coconut rum.) Can you tell I love chocolate?
I keep writing until my two golden retrievers, Brody and Griffin, begin agitating for their midday walk, around 12:30. Sometimes I go back to writing after the walk, if something has inspired me or a knot in my brain has worked itself out. Otherwise I move on to my day job as a college professor, grading papers, teaching online, and so on.
Please include just one excerpt and include page numbers as reference. This one excerpt can be as short or as long as you prefer.
From the beginning of Dog’s Waiting Room:
To escape the June heat, I took my golden retriever Rochester for a walk along the Delaware River, a few miles from our townhouse. A narrow path threaded between the River Road and the water’s edge, shaded by maples and willows, and it was cool and green there, with plenty of wonderful smells for him to investigate.
We parked, and I let Rochester off his leash. He was a smart dog, savvy enough to keep away from the road and trained enough to come back when I called him. Even so, he generally stayed within a few feet of me as we strolled along the dappled path.
I was so accustomed to seeing Rochester up close that it was a different experience seeing him a few feet away from me. As he walked, I reflected on what a handsome dog he was. with a square head and big brown eyes. His hair was a rich gold that glowed in the light. When I looked up photos of the breed standard online, it was as if Rochester had posed for the pictures himself.
Up ahead of us, I spied an elderly man, white-haired and fragile, and I worried that he might be frightened by a big happy dog. I called Rochester to me, but instead he hurried forward to the man, going down on his front paws in his play position.
The man smiled at him and said something, but I was too far away to hear. As I got closer, I saw the man bend down and offer his hand to Rochester to sniff. Then he brushed his hand across the soft fur on top of the golden’s head.
“Good afternoon,” I said as I approached. “I see you’ve met Rochester. I’m Steve.”
“Pleased to meet you. My name is…” He stopped. “I guess it’s escaped me for the moment.”
That was worrying. “Is there someone with you?” I asked.
“No, I like to go out for my morning constitutional on my own.”
It was three o’clock in the afternoon by then. Had this man been out since the morning? Or was he simply as confused about time as he was about his own name?
“Do you live around here?” I asked, though there were no houses close by. An old, old cemetery was across the road from us, with fields on either side of it.
“Oh yes, just down the way. I suppose I should get back there.”
My own father had passed away years before, but I hoped that if he had been wandering lost that someone would have helped him. “Can we walk with you?” I asked.
He frowned. “I wouldn’t mind the company. But I’m not sure of the direction.”
Rochester stopped by my side and squatted on the dry ground. Then he sniffed my pocket, and I realized he knew, too, that this old man was in trouble. I pulled my cell phone out of that pocket and hit the speed dial for my friend Rick Stemper, a detective in the Stewart’s Crossing police department.
While the old man petted Rochester, I turned away so he couldn’t hear my conversation. “What’s up?” Rick asked. “You’re still coming over for the barbecue tonight, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely.” When Rick married his girlfriend Tamsen, he sold the home he’d bought from his parents and moved in with her, in a big house with a fancy grill in the back yard. He had turned into quite the suburban dad, grilling often, and he had invited Lili and me over for ribs and beer. “I have a question, though.”
I told him about the old man. “He seems confused. Is there someone I can call to help him find his way home?”
“Call the police non-emergency number,” he said. “They’ll send a patrol car out to talk to him.”
“Will do.” I called and told the dispatcher what was going on and agreed to meet a car at the layby on River Road. Then I asked the old man to accompany us back to my car.
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Why is this excerpt so emotional for you as a writer to write? And can you describe your own emotional experience of writing this specific excerpt? I live in South Florida, where many elderly people retire, and I have seen my own parents pass away here, as well as those of friends. Many of them were lucky to remain in good health until late in life, and to live in a warm, sunny climate. I think of my father, on a lounge chair on a sunny balcony overlooking a lake, and I am glad he had the chance to spend his last years so pleasantly. But then I see others—in wheelchairs, with walkers, with oxygen tubes, on the street alone, or with aides, and I am sorry for the path life has taken them on.
In writing this book I wanted to give my hero a chance to connect with an elderly man who reminds him of his own father, and then bring justice after his death. Writing a mystery novel is akin to speaking for the dead, and that can be very emotional, as I track how that person ended up a victim, and what motivated the killer. I believe that experience makes me more empathetic as a person.
Were there any deletions from this excerpt that you can share with us? And can you please include a photo of your marked up rough drafts of this excerpt. I’m afraid I don’t mark up drafts by hand, but I do get editorial feedback, and I’m including a photo of one of those.
Click on link to visit Neil S. Plakcy’s website
Most of the INSIDE THE EMOTION OF FICTION links can be found at the very end of the below feature:
http://chrisricecooper.blogspot.com/2021/03/stephenson-holts-arranged-marriage-is.html