I had a wonderful time at Killer Nashville this year. From the moment I walked in, everyone I met was warm and welcoming. One of the things I loved most about this conference was how easy it was to strike up a conversation with a total stranger and walk away with a new friend. I exchanged business cards and swapped stories with more people than I can count, and every one of those conversations reminded me why I’ll probably return.
One of the higlights for me was speaking on my panel, “Feisty Women Protagonists in Historicals.” I was in great company: Nancy Herriman (1800s San Francisco), Nina Wachsman (1600s Venice), Joy Allyson (historical French romance), and Nancy Locklin (nonfiction books about women and violence in 1700s France), plus me, mostly mucking around in the American West. Different centuries, different continents, same throughline: women have always been feisty, using wit and guile to work within, or around, the systems of their time, and sometimes using those systems to their own advantage. I also made a point of reminding the audience that a quiet woman, doing exactly what society expected of her, is no less brave for it. Women have held families and communities together through hard, unglamorous work since the beginning of time. That’s feisty too.
I also got some news at the awards ceremony: For Every Evil Under the Sun, a short story collection I contributed to, was nominated for the Silver Falchion Award for Best Short Story Collection. We didn’t take home the win, but we placed third, and honestly, that felt pretty good. It’s always nice to be noticed. (Fellow AMW member, Laura Oles was a contributor, as well as Alexandra Burt.)
But at the end of the day, what I’ll remember most isn’t the panel or the awards, it’s the people. What stayed with me is how much Killer Nashville is about writers helping writers: swapping craft advice, cheering each other on, and generally leaving each other a little more inspired than when we arrived. Conferences like this have a way of turning strangers into friends over the course of just a few days, and this year was no exception. I left with a stack of business cards, a handful of new stories to tell, and a lot of new friends I’m already looking forward to seeing again.
Below are photos of me harassing interesting people.
This piece was originally intended to examine the impact AI has on the current publishing landscape and how authors are navigating a profession in turmoil. I had several pages of notes, some annotations, a couple ponderings and some righteous indignation against tech bro billionaires that I planned to share.
It got hot in here for a minute.
But, I’m tired and a bit defeated.
This topic continues to be heavily covered in industry articles, on Substack and on social media. The most recent debate that has set the publishing world ablaze centers on a debut author who landed and lost a $2 million dollar book deal. Multiple outlets report that his manuscript was fed through Pangram, an AI software tool designed to spot AI generated work. Some articles report that the author has offered examples proving he wrote the manuscript. I don’t know what happened here, but I do know that letting AI software be the ultimate expert (if that’s the case here) is some bullshit.
I can’t believe that we’re now in a position where writers must prove to an AI program that our writing is our writing. These LLM’s stole all our books and are now the arbiter of whether our writing is human enough? Programs that have falsely labeled human writing as AI generated get to be the final judge? Several writers stated that they have tested these programs by feeding their older novels into such programs, and the software claimed many were AI generated.
To paraphrase Dorothy Parker, “What fresh hell is this?”
As a writer, I have countless files of notes, revisions, outlines, cut files and research. I am also a fan of the em dash, a punctuation that has been (unfairly) marked as a hallmark of AI. The em dash is the Swiss army knife of punctuation. I use it often and sometimes incorrectly. I now catch myself considering other alternatives for fear someone (that vast void of opinions or bots on the Internet) will accuse me of using AI in my writing. Also—why are em dashes out here catching strays when they were just minding their own business?
I don’t use AI for my writing. I’ve chosen the glorious path of mucking around with a paragraph for an hour because it doesn’t flow quite right, and I still can’t figure out why. My critique partner can attest to this madness as she suffers from a similar affliction. I understand that not everyone wants to do this. I also believe that this practice is part of the craft. I’m currently dancing around a chapter like a Grace Kelly wannabe if her shoes were too tight and possibly on backwards. It’s a little chaotic. That’s art.
And I don’t hate technology. In my previous life, I was a founding team member of a digital imaging company in a time when Kodak was king. I’ve got two decades of experience navigating a seismic shift of an industry in flux. Our clients were photo labs, camera stores and a handful of professional photographers. We were extremely aware of photographers’ copyright protections and included education, training and specific language in all our products. We respected the artists. And we trained our team to respect the artists. It was a core part or our organization’s foundation. Granted, we were a small player on a large field, but we knew who we were and what we valued.
I wish Open AI, Anthropic and the other tech cohorts who are pushing AI enhancements on everything except breakfast cereals (Cheerios! Now with AI!) had respect for the artists’ works they crushed into concrete for their empires’ foundations. I know it won’t happen–I’d have better odds hitting the lottery or being struck by lightning.
“Focus on what you can control.”
Stellar advice that is easier to say than do, but I believe our power lies in where we spend our time, energy, money and attention. So, I’ll continue supporting writers whose work I love and the bookstores who promote them. And I’ll let the other more eloquent voices in our field debate the best practices for how to protect authors and their work as the AI industrial complex runs roughshod over such pesky obstacles as copyright and ethical guardrails.
I’ll end with Camille Pagán’s succinct statement on Substack:
“The Pangram problem: AI companies stole hundreds (possibly more than a thousand) of the health articles and medical guides I wrote, as well at least seven of my novels. Now—shocking—my content is routinely flagged for AI (which I never use)…because the tools recognize style and content that was stolen. The fix isn’t an “AI detector.” It’s to stop allowing tech cos to pirate and profit from real, human creators.”
Laura Oles is the award-winning author of the Jamie Rush mystery series. Her shorter work has appeared in crime fiction anthologies, consumer magazines and business publications. She is a member of Sisters in Crime and the Writers’ League of Texas. Before turning to fiction, Laura spent two decades as a photo industry journalist.She loves road trips, bookstores and any outdoor activity that doesn’t involve running. She lives in the Texas Hill Country with her family. (https://www.lauraoles.com).
Fresh Golden Threads for The Emperor’s New Clothes
By Laura Oles
“Some day you will be old enough to start reading fairy tales again.” –C.S. Lewis
If you’re in search of a dark crime story, look no further than a classic fairy tale. Take a handful of jealousy, revenge, gaslighting, theft or even murder, and coat it with the sparkling exterior of a fantastical castle or a forest filled with magical beasts, and voila! You have a crystal ball full of comeuppance.
There’s a kidnap plot in “Hansel and Gretel,” attempted poisoning in “Snow White,” toxic families and unpaid labor in “Cinderella,” and several breaking and entering charges in “Goldilocks and the Three Bears.”
According to the BBC, fairy tales can be traced back thousands of years. Durham University anthropologist Dr. Jamie Tehrani shared that some tales like “Beauty and the Beast” and “Rumpelstiltskin” are approximately 4,000 years old. Additionally, he told the BBC, “Some of these stories go back much further than the earliest literary record and indeed further back than Classical mythology – some versions of these stories appear in Latin and Greek texts – but our findings suggest they are much older than that.”
Ah, the long tail of crime tales…
As an avid lover of short stories, I was thrilled to be included in the recently released Wish Upon a Crime: Crime Fiction Inspired by Fairy Tales by Michael Bracken and Stacy Woodson. The opportunity to reimagine these stories in a current context was a fabulous challenge.
My contribution, “The Emperor’s New Clothes,” finds itself in the center of emerging tech hustle culture. Countless cautionary tales can be found in this world of big promises and bigger pitfalls, the brass ring always barely beyond reach for all but a few with secret access to the inside track.
Oh, to be chosen.
Daniel Hayes finds himself at a crossroads after his last investment goes bust. He knows he has what it takes to strike it big—he just needs one more shot to prove himself. One more chance to quiet the chorus of naysayers and to demonstrate, once and for all, that he has what it takes make it in Big Tech.
The universe drops a golden coin in Daniel’s palm, and he knows that he’s finally found the perfect opportunity to show his family, friends, and Instagram followers that he’s made it to the top. He may need to make a few compromises, but that’s a small price to pay, isn’t it?
Wish Upon a Crime is available now.
THE TABLE OF CONTENTS
“Hansel and Gretel” by Joseph S. Walker
“Goldilocks and the Three Bears” by John M. Floyd
“Rapunzel” by Adam Meyer
“The Emperor’s New Clothes” by Laura Oles
“Three Billy Goats Gruff” by Michael Bracken
“Beauty and the Beast” by James A. Hearn
“The Bremen Musicians” by Debra H. Goldstein
“Jack and the Beanstalk” by Andrew Welsh-Huggins
“Cinderella” by Donna Andrews
“The Frog Prince” by Josh Pachter
“Little Red Riding Hood” by Barb Goffman
“The Briar Patch” by Tom Milani
“King o’ the Cats” by David Dean
“The Gingerbread Man” by Stacy Woodson
Laura Oles is the award-winning author of the Jamie Rush mystery series. Her work has appeared in crime fiction anthologies, consumer magazines and business publications.She loves road trips, bookstores and any outdoor activity that doesn’t involve running.She lives in the Texas Hill Country with her family. (https://www.lauraoles.com).
One morning each year the bird genius, Jesse Huth, of Huth Avian Services, arrives from Wimberley to conduct our annual bird survey.
Every year I tiptoe along behind, hearing his soft announcements. “Green heron above the creek.” I look up, straining to spot the lovely heron in flight. While I’m wondering what it would be like to fly like that, I hear: “Red-tailed hawk.” Now Jesse’s facing a different direction, lifting his binoculars. Later, “American Redstart.” (I ask myself: what’s that?) We climb back up from the creek. Then, “Field sparrow. Lark sparrow.” (I peer, unsure of the difference.) Then off to the pasture. “Vireo, red-eyed.” “Vireo, white-eyed.” And “Vireo, yellow-throated.”
Those vireos?—I never spot them, whatever they are doing––flying, darting, twittering, disappearing.
Then—such elation! Sitting boldly at the top of a tree we see the brilliant crimson of a summer
Jesse’s an expert on birds. He has studied their voices, their habits, their preferences, their appearance. He knows how to use owl calls to draw a crowd of various birds. After Jesse departs, I grab The Sibley Guide to Birds to study those three vireos (red-eyed, white-eyed, yellow-throated).
So tiny, the differences! You have to see the eye, where the yellow is, and where it isn’t; you must notice whether it has the gray cap, or not…
Jesse has spent years with those birds under close observation, yes, and under closer observation, applying his knowledge of detail. He sees differences that escape me. He can distinguish their songs.
After two hours he’s observed, and recorded or photographed, 40 species.
Details! Writers also must choose details that work, that light up, that bring to life characters and setting. That phrase—“under close observation”—describes the writer’s job: finding just the right details of setting, just the right details of characters, to make the plot come to life and satisfy the reader, the audience.
We all know great examples. In Act I, Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar closely observes Cassius:
“Seldom he smiles, and smiles in such a sort
As if he mock’d himself and scorn’d his spirit
That could be moved to smile at anything.
Such men as he be never at heart’s ease
Whiles they behold a greater than themselves,
And therefore are they very dangerous.” Act I, Scene II.
Reading that, did you get a glimpse of Cassius’s face, as Caesar describes it? And hear that firm conviction, “therefore are they very dangerous”? Right away we begin to hold our breath.
I confess I do want to like the protagonist, whether in a play, a novel, a mystery, biography, autobiography. I do not need to approve entirely of that character, but, whatever the genre, I prefer to spend time reading about someone I can empathize with. So, turning to autobiography, consider these excerpts from the beginning of Out of Africa, by Isak Dinesen:
I had a farm in Africa, at the foot of the Ngong Hills. The Equator runs across these highlands, a hundred miles to the North, and the farm lay at an altitude of over six thousand feet. In the day-time you felt that you had got high up, near to the sun, but the early mornings and evenings were limpid and restful, and the nights were cold. …
We grew coffee on my farm. The land was in itself a little too high for coffee, and it was hard work to keep it going; we were never rich on the farm. But a coffee-plantation is a thing that gets hold of you and does not let you go, and there is always something to do on it: you are generally a little behind with your work.
…Later on, when I flew in Africa, and became familiar with the appearance of my farm from the air, I was filled with admiration for my coffee-plantation, that lay quite bright green in the grey-green land, and I realized how keenly the human mind yearns for geometrical figures.
With these details Isak Dinesen makes us see the farm and the Ngong Hills, then makes us feel the air at six thousand feet… with “lipid and restful” evenings. We feel her emotional attachment—“a coffee-plantation is a thing that gets hold of you and does not let you go.” Then she catches our imagination, describing seeing her farm from the air while flying, and shares her discovery that “the human mind yearns for geometrical figures.” Her own observations of detail reveal to us the protagonist, the main character in this autobiography, as a thinker, a noticer, a person with staying power, who once (but no longer) “had a farm in Africa”—and now offers to share that adventure. Her intelligence, her sensibility, her brilliant use of detail, kept me turning the page.
Another protagonist we meet and can’t abandon: Count Alexander Ilyich Rostov, of Amor Towles’s A Gentleman in Moscow. We’re introduced as the Count strides back from the Kremlin Gates to his home at the Hotel Metropol. On the way he greets the fruit seller, thanks the soldiers whose prisoner (we now perceive) he is, returns to his elegant suite—and learns that he has been dispossessed. He will spend the rest of his life in a tiny room in the hotel’s attic: “a cast-iron bed, a three-legged bureau, and a decade of dust.” He’s allowed to retrieve a few possessions. He wants “all the books” and also chooses two high-back chairs his grandmother’s oriental coffee table, porcelain plates, two table lamps, and the portrait of his sister…plus one trunk which he fills with clothes and personal effects, including his sister’s tiny scissors. We watch him take a last walk through his suite, then return to his tiny new room. A pigeon lands outside:
“Why, hello,” said the Count. “How kind of you to stop by.”
The pigeon looked back with a decidedly proprietary air. Then he scuffed the flashing with its claws and thrust its beak at the window several times in quick succession.
“Ah, yes,” conceded the Count. “There is something in what you say.”
I already liked this man, his exquisite courtesy to the pigeon, his apparent ability to laugh at himself, his apparent determination to stay himself, to refuse to give the state the satisfaction of causing him despair …despite the state’s efforts to destroy almost everything he has. Then I watch while he hosts a party for his friends in the hotel staff:
“The Count was something of a natural-born host and in the hour that ensued, as he topped a glass here and sparked a conversation there, he had an instinctive awareness of all the temperaments in the room.”
Personal tragedy, but humor, civility, sensitivity, courage—and determination. Okay, I’ll definitely keep reading.
Screenwriter Robert McKee, in his book Story about principles of screenwriting, points out that a story’s protagonist must have a conscious desire, but must also have the capacities, and at least a chance, to attain that desire. Also, according to McKee, “The protagonist must be empathetic; he may or may not be sympathetic.” Per McKee, “Empathetic means ‘like me.’ Deep within the protagonist the audience recognizes a certain shared humanity.”
McKee explains: “The unconscious logic of the audience runs like this: ‘This character is like me. Therefore, I want him to have whatever he wants, because if I were he in those circumstances, I’d want the same thing for myself.’” Amor Towles certainly accomplished that with Count Rostov.
So what details have kept you reading a book? What particular description made you think—this writer’s keeping me entertained, keeping me turning the pages? In particular, are there protagonists who—when you think about it—have some appealing characteristics you enjoy? I’d love to hear your thoughts.
Now, a short report. First, no peaches. Tragically, after warm weather when the blossoms opened and tiny peaches formed, two late freezes killed the baby peaches. Sigh. Second, after unusual rain, the pastures out here in Hays County are bright green. No bluebonnets this year (well, maybe six), but we still have magenta Wine Cup, lavender Passion Flower, and so many yellow flowers—Brown-eyed Susan, Mexican Hat, Golden-Eye, Coneflowers, Sunflowers, Cowpen Daisy, Golden-Wave Coreopsis, Navajo Tea, Indian Blanket. Hard to know which is which.
I’m at work on Book 11 in the Alice MacDonald Greer Mystery series, set in the Texas hill country. That means working on the big triumvirate—setting, characters, plot. The protagonist, Alice, definitely has a conscious desire, and the capacities to attain it—but barriers lie ahead. Yes, she’s under close observation. Stay tuned.
Helen Currie Foster lives and writes the Alice MacDonald Greer Mystery series north of Dripping Springs, Texas, loosely supervised by three burros. She’s drawn to the compelling landscape and quirky characters of the Texas Hill Country. She’s also deeply curious about our human history and how, uninvited, the past keeps crashing the party. She’s active with Austin Shakespeare and the Heart of Texas Sisters in Crime Chapter of the national Sisters in Crime (come join us! 2-3:30, Laura Bush Library on Bee Cave Road, second Sundays of the month).
June 25, 2026–Watch for the DSCL Author Showcase–Helen will be presenting, along with Jo Pellinore and Michael Baldwin! Social at 5:45, Panel Discussion 6-7:30. Contact Dripping Springs Community Library to register.
In late October, I spoke at the J.B. Nickells Memorial Libraryin Luling, Texas. An author talk, although I feel like an imposter calling it that. I write slowly, have published only a few short stories plus a novella co-written with a real author, haven’t published a novel of my own, . . . I’m not really an author . . . Well, you get the idea.
The condition is not new, and I’m not the only sufferer. New Austin Mystery Writer Noreen Cedeno recently posted on Ink-Stained Wretches Bouchercon and the Imposter Syndrome. On today’s Writer Unboxed blog, Rachel Toalson posted The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Imposter Syndrome Crisis. Nobody looking at these two writers’ lists of publications would describe either as an imposter—they are writers. I, on the other hand, am an imposter.
When invited to speak in Luling, however, I didn’t let impostership stop me. I said, Yes. I had my reasons.
In the first place, I love talking about books. I’d rather talk about other people’s books, but since retiring as a librarian, I don’t get to give booktalks anymore. I miss that.
In the second place, I was born in the old Luling Hospital and six years later left my tonsils there. I grew up, and lived for years after, in Fentress, a very small town ten miles from Luling. I was a member of the Rainbow Girls chapter in Luling. I spent a lot of time at the Luling DQ. My maternal great-grandparents lived there; my grandmother was born there. My mother’s family lived there for two years when she was in junior high (and she and her sister were the first girls to wear shorts to play tennis in Longer Park). And two cousins on my father’s side who grew up three blocks up the street from me in Fentress married Luling natives. In short, Luling is my old stomping ground.
I wanted so much to speak in Luling that I decided to pretend I was a real author.
Note: I’m not a total fraud. I mean, I not only gave booktalks at my libraries, I once gave a booktalk at a meeting of the Seguin, Texas, Kiwanis Club. I was a professional librarian. Real.
As a professional, I arrived prepared: outline, notes, quotations, copies of the anthologies containing my short stories and of the novella co-written with Manning Wolfe. The librarian escorted me to the room where I was to speak. I laid out my books and materials.
Then things fell apart.
About a half-hour before the presentation was to begin, kinfolk arrived: Peggy, a second cousin whose family lived up the street in Fentress; Brownie, her late sister’s husband; and Brownie’s daughter and son-in-law and granddaughter. I hadn’t seen them in forever. So the family reunion began.
By the time I went on stage, so to speak, I was was having so much fun that I scrapped my notes and just talked. And talked. And talked.
Minna Katherine Stagner Veazey and Col. John L. Veazey
First, I shared some local history that has faded from the town’s memory: the story of my great-grandfather, Col. John L. Veazey, who took his wife and two young daughters to Cuba for the Spanish-American War, and who was murdered in broad daylight on Luling’s Main Street in 1904. No one in the audience had heard the story. I told other stories. I talked about writing. I had a drawing and gave away some books. I talked.
Afterward, there was more family reunion, and Fentress reunion, since one member of the audience was the daughter, and the granddaughter, of Fentress residents.
I had the time of my life.
Then speaker’s remorse set in. I had done a terrible job, just babbled, talked too fast, bored the dickens out of everyone, left my education at home, made a fool of myself—it’s not like I don’t know how to conduct myself before an audience, but I totally forgot myself, lost all sense of decorum, and was just awful. Imposter author, imposter speaker. Simply dreadful.
But. One man—actually, the only man who stayed for the program—Tom Brown Webb, Jr., familiarly known as Brownie. He married my cousin Janell Waller sixty-nine years ago, when they were both nineteen. That was just before my fifth birthday. When I was a child, I knew Janell and her sisters were princesses. She died nearly four years ago,
During the reunion, I told Brownie something I’d wanted to say for a good while—I thanked him for being so nice to me when I was a disgusting and ever-present four-year-old extremely excited about wedding plans; he always treated me as if I were a real person and not just a little kid.
He left right after I finished speaking. I just knew he’d been so bored that he couldn’t wait to get outta there. But we had all agreed to meet soon for lunch at a cafe in Fentress. I would apologize then.
Last week, nine days after we met at the library, Peggy called to say Brownie had died. Unexpectedly. She also said he’d enjoyed his evening at the library. His daughter said the same thing, that he’d talked a lot about it, said he learned things he hadn’t known, that he could “just see” everything I described, and “wouldn’t your mother have enjoyed that.” After the funeral, his son-in-law told me the same.
Imposter Syndrome. If I’d given in to it and declined the invitation to speak in Luling, I wouldn’t have seen Brownie one last time. I wouldn’t have told him how much I appreciated his kindness to a little girl. I wouldn’t have known he enjoyed listening to the stories I told. I wouldn’t have the memory of a happy time with a treasured relative.
I still feel like an imposter. But I’m finished with speaker’s remorse. Brownie enjoyed my talk. That’s all the validation I need.
***
Kathy Waller blogs at Telling the Truth, Mainly. She has almost completed a draft of a mystery novel. When she gets to “The End,” she will no longer feel like an imposter, probably.
She is grateful to fellow Austin Mystery Writer Helen Currie Fosterfor telling the librarian at the Nickells Library that she is a writer, and for not mentioning that she is an imposter,
I recently spent a Saturday in Gruene—a historic district of New Braunfels known largely for Gruene Hall, a dance hall famous for hosting iconic musical talents including Lyle Lovett, Lucinda Williams and Willie Nelson. Gruene regularly hosts artist events and attracts people who appreciate art in its many forms. Recently, Gruene hosted the 33rd Annual Texas Clay Festival, an event showcasing the work of 80 talented potters and clay artists.
As I took my time admiring each booth’s offerings, I was moved by the sheer diversity of design and how many ways a single piece of clay could be transformed into something beautiful, something useful, something unique. It felt as though each artist revealed their specific personality through their offerings. For someone who the phrase, “throwing a bowl” means something entirely different, I enjoyed learning about how they practiced their craft. One artist’s style—employing technique and tools similar to Ukranian Pysanky egg etching—caught my eye. I stopped, we chatted, and I fell in love with her work. I’m writing this post while drinking coffee from one of her stunning mugs. Her art continues to brighten my day, and this experience reminds me that art in all its forms, offers an experience.
I’m sometimes drawn to art because of the story behind the piece and the story of the person creating it. For me, those things are all intertwined, connected. Art touches us in a way that’s not easily quantified but deeply resonate. It’s distinctly personal, particularly human.
AI tools have now entered the chat. It can feel discouraging for artists to create in this new era of AI and LLM tools, all claiming to write/design/create better than we can. But can they, really?
I don’t think so.
I can’t imagine those creations will connect with people in the same way. Human created art moves us, stirs something in us, stays with us. AI will likely improve certain aspects of science, automation, engineering, and medicine—which is not something I discount– but art? We need less RAM and more soul.
AI has exacted a particular kind of pressure on those who create for a living. I am one of many authors whose novels and short stories were found in LibGen, a database of pirated works that was used to train Meta’s LLM. I was neither asked nor compensated, and while Anthropic is in the middle of a settlement suit related to their own behaviors, I have little faith that these companies will do better in the future. They’ve shown us who they are. I’m taking Maya Angelou’s advice on this one.
You know those authors whose distinct voice shines in their work (Sara Gran and Tana French)? The musician whose sound and lyrics move you to hit ‘replay’ countless times (Stevie Nicks, Prince, Tom Petty)? The painting that moves you? I still remember the first time I saw Sargent’s El Jaleo at the Isabella Stuart Gardner Museum in Boston. I was deeply drawn to its movement, beauty and scale. Which artists move you and why? And if you’re an artist, what compels you to continue? Whatever it is, keep it close and tend to it often because what you create might be a gift to others.
I’m still writing because it’s what I’ve always done. I don’t know how to stop, nor do I want to. I see the world in stories, and there are still so many characters and places I need to explore. I simply can’t imagine doing anything else. For me, writing a novel is like following a winding trail, filled with side quests and new discoveries. My process is sometimes messy, often imperfect and completely human.
And one more thing—I’ve used the em dash for longer than I can remember and probably more than is recommended. Em dashes aren’t a sign of using LLMs—we were here first. =)
Laura Oles is the award-winning author of the Jamie Rush mystery series. Her work has appeared in crime fiction anthologies, consumer magazines and business publications. Her debut mystery, Daughters of Bad Men, was an Agatha nominee, a Claymore Award finalist, and a Writers’ League of Texas Award finalist. Depths of Deceit, her second novel, was named Best Mystery by Indies Today.She loves road trips, bookstores and any outdoor activity that doesn’t involve running.She lives in the Texas Hill Country with her family.
I’m working on a mystery novel—I’ve been working on it for years, but am now seeing the light at the end of the tunnel—and am faced with dilemmas too numerous to whine about in only one post, so I’ll move along.
I will instead write about the one pleasure of the writing life: creating and naming characters.
My novel is set in a little town very like my own hometown. I don’t base my plot on real events, and I don’t use real people as characters—with one exception: Steve Dauchy.
Not Steve, but close
Note: One of my readers, Dr. Cullen Dauchy, knows more about Steve than I do, especially about his early life, and I hope he’ll feel free to correct any errors.
Steve Dauchy was a career blood donor at Katy Veterinary Clinicin Katy, Texas. On retirement he moved to Fentress, where he lived with his veterinarian-owner’s parents, Joe and Norma Dauchy. Joe and Norma lived next door to me; in local terms, next door meant that my house was on one corner, then there was a half-acre “patch” of pecan and peach trees and grass and weeds, then a street, and then on the next corner, the Dauchy yard and their house. The point being that when Steve visited me, he didn’t just stroll across a driveway.
Joe was my dad’s first cousin, so I guess that makes Steve and me second cousins. I have a lot of cousins on that side of the family, although most are human.
Steve is a family name, with a story behind it. As I understand it, back in the ’20s or ’30s, my Great-uncle Cull (Joseph Cullen Dauchy, Sr.), enjoyed listening to a radio program about a Greek character who frequently spoke of “my cat Steve and her little cattens.” Uncle Cull was so amused by the phrase that he named a cat—probably one of the barn cats—Steve. And for the next forty or so years, he always had a cat named Steve.
Uncle Cull and Aunt Myrtle Dauchy’s house, home of the first Steves
So when the clinic cat became part of the Uncle Cull’s son and daughter-in-law’s family, he became the latest in a long line of Steves.
How to describe Steve? He was a fine figure of a cat: a big tabby, deep orange, with an expression of perpetual boredom. His reaction to nearly everything translated as, “Meh.” I’ve heard that’s common among clinic cats.
Once when Steve was standing on my front porch, the neighbor’s Great Dane got loose and charged over. I was frantic, shouting at the dog, shouting at Steve. But when the dog hit the porch, Steve just looked up at him. Dog turned around and trotted home.
Some would say Steve was brave, and I’m sure he was. But I believe his grace under pressure had its roots elsewhere.
First, he had experience. He knew dogs. In his former employment, he’d observed the breed: big, little, yappy, whining, growling, howling, cringing, confined to carriers, restrained by leashes, sporting harnesses and rhinestone collars, hair wild and matted, sculpted ‘dos and toenails glistening pink from the OPI Neon Collection. He’d seen them all. He was not impressed.
Facing down a Great Dane, however, took more than experience. There was something in Steve’s character, an inborn trait that marked him for greatness: his overarching sense of entitlement. He was never in the wrong place at the wrong time. My porch was his porch. The world was his sardine.
Except for the kitchen counter. Steve thought kitchen counters were for sleeping, but Joe and Norma’s maid didn’t. Consequently, he stayed outside a lot. He took ostracism in stride and used his freedom to range far and wide. Far and wide meant my yard.
Steve’s house
At that time I had three indoor cats—Christabel, Chloe, and Alice B. Toeclaws—and a raft of outdoor cats. The outdoor cats started as strays, but I made the mistake of naming them, which meant I had to feed them, which meant they were mine. Chief among them was Bunny, a black cat who had arrived as a teenager with his gray-tabby mother, Edith.
One day Bunny, Edith, and I were out picking up pecans when Steve wandered over to pay his respects, or, more likely, to allow us to pay our respects to him. Bunny perked up, put on his dangerous expression, and walked out to meet the interloper. It was like watching the opening face-off in Gunsmoke.
But instead of scrapping, they stopped and sat down, face to face, only inches apart. Each raised his right paw above his head and held it there a moment. Next, simultaneously, they bopped each other on the top of the head about ten times. Then they toppled over onto their sides, got up, and walked away.
That happened every time they met. Maybe it was just a cat thing, a neighborly greeting, something like a Masonic handshake. But I’ve wondered if it might have had religious significance. Bunny was a Presbyterian, and Steve was a Methodist, and both had strong Baptist roots, and although none of those denominations is big on ritual, who knows what a feline sect might entail?
Steve had a Macavity-like talent for making himself invisible. Occasionally when I opened my front door, he slipped past and hid in a chair at the dining room table, veiled by the tablecloth. When he was ready to leave, he would hunt me down—Surprise!—and lead me to the door. Once, during an extended stay, he used the litter box. Christabel, Chloe, and Alice B. Toeclaws were not amused.
Distance Steve traveled between his house and mine. His house is way over there behind the trees.
Invisibility could work against him, though. Backing out of the driveway one morning, I saw in the rearview mirror a flash streaking across the yard. I got out and looked around but found nothing and so decided I’d imagined it. When I got home from work, I made a thorough search and located Steve under my house, just out of reach. I called, coaxed, cajoled. He stared. It was clear: he’d been behind the car when I backed out, I’d hit him, and he was either too hurt to move or too disgusted to give me the time of day.
It took a long time and a can of sardines to get him out. I delivered him to the veterinarian in Lockhart; she advised leaving him for observation. A couple of days later, I picked him up. Everything was in working order, she said, cracked pelvis, nothing to do but let him get over it.
“Ordinarily,” said the vet, “I would have examined him and sent him home with you the first day. I could tell he was okay. But you told me his owner’s son is a vet, and I was afraid I’d get it wrong.”
Although he was an indoor-outdoor cat, Steve managed plenty of indoor time at his own house, too, especially in winter, and when the maid wasn’t there. One cold day, the family smelled something burning. They found Steve snoozing atop the propane space heater in the kitchen. His tail hung down the side, in front of the vent. The burning smell was the hair on his tail singeing. They moved him to a safer location. I presume he woke up during relocation.
At night, he had his own bedroom, a little garden shed in the back yard. He slept on the seat of the lawnmower, snuggled down on a cushion. Except when he didn’t.
One extremely cold night, I was piled up in bed under an extra blanket and three cats. About two a.m., I woke up to turn over—sleeping under three cats requires you to wake up to turn over—and in the process, reached down and touched one of the cats. It was not my cat.
I cannot describe the wave of fear that swept over me. It sounds ridiculous now, but finding myself in the dark with an unidentified beast, and unable to jump and run without first extricating myself from bedding and forty pounds of cat—I lay there paralyzed.
Unnecessarily, of course. The extra cat was Steve. He’s sneaked in and, considering the weather forecast, decided that sleeping with a human and three other cats in a bed would be superior to hunkering down on a lawnmower.
Steve’s full name was, of course, Steve Dauchy. In my book, he will be Steve MacCaskill. MacCaskill was the name of a family who lived next door to my Aunt Bettie and Uncle Maurice. Their children were friends of my father and his brothers and their many cousins. They were a happy family.
“My family had to plan everything,” my dad’s cousin Lucyle Dauchy Meadows (Steve’s aunt) told me, “but the MacCaskills were spontaneous. If they decided they wanted to go to a movie, they just got into the car and went to a movie.” When Lucyle and the other girls helped their friend Mary Burns MacCaskill tidy her room before the Home Demonstration Agent came to examine it, one of the first things they did was to remove the alligator from the bathtub.
I heard so many delightful stories about the MacCaskill family that I decided they were too good to be true. Then, at Aunt Bettie’s 100th birthday party, my mother introduced me to Mary Burns MacCaskill, who had traveled from Ohio for the party.
So as an homage to that family, I’ve named my main character Molly MacCaskill. And when choosing a pet for Molly, I couldn’t choose a finer beast than Steve.
*
Note: Cullen Dauchy no longer owns Katy Veterinary Clinic, but he did when Steve worked there, and the clinic was Steve’s first home, so I’m leaving the link.
And I’m so glad the Home Demonstration agent didn’t inspect bedrooms when I was a girl. I didn’t have an alligator, but she might have thought I had something worse.
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This post first appeared in Ink-Stained Wretches in 2021.
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Kathy Waller blogs at Telling the Truth, Mainly. She has published short stories, and a novella co-written with Manning Wolfe. She is perpetually working on a novel.
When people talk about Bouchercon, especially in New Orleans, they usually share stories of late nights, legendary meals, bustling crowds, powdery beignets, and lots of alcohol.
That wasn’t my week.
But the funny thing is—I still accomplished exactly what I went to do.
My panel, Wide Open Spaces, with Craig Johnson, Bruce Borgos, Jeff Ayers, George Wilhite, and moderated by the lovely Sylissa Franklin was a highlight. The conversation flowed, and the audience was engaged. I made them laugh a few times and even got a gasp. So, mission accomplished. I walked away feeling like I’d contributed something worthwhile.
I also got to meet Clay Stafford in person and thank him for publishing my short story, Under The Blackjack Tree, in Killer Nashville Magazine. (The story that was chosen by John Grisham and Otto Penzler for The Best Mystery Stories of the Year 2025, which is still surreal to me. (Coming out next week!) Stafford’s keynote, The Story That Saved Me, was “cry for crime writers and readers to remember why stories of darkness and redemption still matter—and why telling the truth on the page can save us, too.” Honestly, it was one of the most inspiring talks I’ve heard in a long while. Glad I went.
Another highlight was finally meeting Otto Penzler in person. I thanked him for the opportunity, and he graciously signed my copy of the anthology. A small moment, but one I’ll carry with me.
At the end of most days, I met up with Laura Oles in the hotel/lounge bar. (It was so noisy all of the time!) We compared notes at the end of the day—who we’d seen, what panels had sparked ideas. She was on a terrific panel herself, Dialogue Matters: Slang, Concise, or Verbose? The group dug into how dialogue can reveal character and control pacing, which is something that I’m always working on.
I also loved being in the audience for Sweet Tea with a Splash of Crime: The Southern Influence, with Ace Atkins, S.A. Cosby, and other writers who captured both the grit and taste of Southern literature, and where it’s headed. Another standout was Killing Your Darlings, with Penzler and Donald Maass, which was a sharp reminder that ego doesn’t belong in the editing room if the goal is to make the story better.
And one of my favorite unexpected moments? Donald Maass allowed me to join him for lunch one afternoon. We had a thoughtful conversation about Writer Unboxed, an organization we’re both part of, about writing in general, and drawing inspiration from real life,. It was simple but memorable, the kind of connection that lingers long after the conference ends.
So no, this wasn’t a Bouchercon of big parties or long nights on Bourbon Street. But it was a Bouchercon where I hit my goals, connected with people who matter to me, and left with a few new insights and ideas. Sometimes the quieter wins are the ones that last.
Have you ever researched something—like a purse, a computer, or even a car—only to suddenly notice it everywhere, even though you hadn’t before? Inspiration for stories works the same way.
One of the most common questions authors hear is: “Where do you get your ideas?” The answer: pretty much everywhere—news articles, books, movies, history, snippets of conversation, personal experiences… inspiration can spark from the smallest detail.
I’m currently writing a historical novella, and inspiration is coming from all directions. I feel like a goalie in a soccer match—I’m fully immersed.
Story Settings and Characters
My protagonist is a young woman named Martha. She’s married to Tom, who has moved her far from home—and life isn’t unfolding as she expected. (Isn’t that always the case? But is it simply the way things are, or is something nefarious at work?) They’re building a cabin in the East Texas woods around 1830. I imagined they’d arrived at the tail end of the Old 300, grabbing land wherever they could. (Although the story could take place anywhere from 1820 to 1880, west of Virginia in pine country, I discovered that pines aren’t as widespread as I once thought—which is why research matters.)
As I write, Martha is revealing herself to me—like she exists on another plane and there’s a conduit between us through something I call “the ether,” a metaphysical space. (Is that a real thing? I don’t know—dammit, Jim, I’m a writer, not a metaphysicist!) Her voice is growing stronger. Her past and current life are becoming clearer. When she speaks, it feels like she’s speaking directly at me. I think most writers go through this—and when it happens, it’s exhilarating. To me, it means the character will have depth and feel real.
And, as in the past, there have been “signs” that I’m on the right track with characters and story. Sometimes these signs are even eerie. In the first chapter, when it was new and amorphous, I was writing a dream sequence to explain her inner thoughts, worries, and where she’s from. I imagined she came from a large family, and she had had a brown and white dog named “Peaches”.
A few days later I was on Facebook and came across this picture. It caught my attention because a cabin is a major feature of the story, and I took a screenshot for inspiration to look at details. Later I read the description. Look at what I circled. That’s right! I wasn’t too surprised by the date. But the dog in the picture was name “Peaches”! And it looks brown and white to me. It gave me inspiration that I’m on the right track with the story and characters.
Another time, while writing my (currently unpublished) novel Gilt Ridden, I created a character in West Texas, educated and obsessed with gold, known locally as “The Professor,” living in a dugout. Years later, I came across a local-history book about Stonewall County describing a man known as “The Professor” who lived in a dugout and searched for gold. I hadn’t known he existed—but the parallels were uncanny. At first, I worried that people would think that I borrowed someone’s real story. But then it comforted me. I took it as a sign that I had created a realistic character from imaginary circumstances.
So when you’re writing—or working on any project—block out the world and tune in to the voice or idea coming from the ether. Who knows what will be revealed?
Bonus Content
I’ve been obsessed with one song lately. It’s been playing in my head nonstop for a week. I didn’t know much about it until I watched the YouTube video. The character is pregnant and contemplating life choices, just like Martha! Now it’s really stuck in my head. Hope you enjoy it:
Sara Bareilles – “She Used to Be Mine” (from Waitress)
Today’s post is by our friend and former Austin Mystery Writer Kaye George, author of several successful mystery series. When I asked Kaye to do a guest post, I told her to pick her own topic. She’s chosen to write about her newest project, a departure from the mystery.
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Kathy Waller gave me free rein, so I can write whatever I want here, right? Okay, okay, I’ll stick to writing about writing.
My latest project is foremost in my mind. SOMEONE IS OUT THERE came out in April, but it’s still getting noticed, which makes me so happy. I’ve done several mystery series, cozies and traditional, but got it into my head one day that I could write a suspense novel. It does kinda make sense, since I love to read them.
I’m trying to remember where the first seed for this came from, but I don’t really know, now that it’s done. I do know what went into it. I wanted to use a disaster that occurred in Ohio when we lived there. We lived in Dayton for about six years and, one day when the sky looked ominous and my husband was on the golf course, a disaster struck Xenia, a small town nearby—a town we used to drive to for chopping down our Christmas trees on a farm nearby. A vicious tornado struck the town in 1974, killing and injuring many, and wiping out, obliterating at least half of that town. That year they had what they called the 1974 Super Outbreak, one of the worst tornado seasons in US history. I figured it would make a good backdrop to a tense story.
To be honest, I also fed in some of the stories the people in Wichita Falls told me about the similar disaster they had there in 1979. We lived outside that town in Holliday years after that, but the people who had gone through it had vivid memories of every second. We had our own experiences there, too. Our second night in Holliday, there was a straight line windstorm with 90 mph winds that took off many roofs and caved in the school gymnasium, which had just been evacuated, fortunately. The night we moved out, a tornado touched down a mile away.
Anyway, enough about storms. I also needed to work up some stormy characters. I used my knowledge of nursing (from my mother, who was a nurse, and from my nurses’ aide experience) to create my main character. Unbeknownst to me, I used subconscious knowledge to create her name, Darla Taylor. I had a good portion of the book written when I realized I have a Facebook friend named Darla Taylor! I had used her name! I was mortified, and messaged her about it. She was actually okay with that, so I kept going. And gave her a copy when the book was finished. She liked it and reviewed it! Whew!
Stalking seemed like a scary thing to build the plot on, so I did that, keeping the identity of the stalker hidden until the end. I threw in my son’s family dog, Henry, a big chocolate lab (and renamed him Moose), and gave Darla a hobby of archery, since I used to love doing that.
You can see that so much of the book came from my life, because, where else would it come from? Although I have never been stalked. And hope it never happens.
Kaye George is an award-winning novelist and short-story writer. She writes cozy and traditional mysteries, a prehistory series, and one suspense novel, which is her seventeenth book. Over fifty short stories have been published, mostly in anthologies and magazines. A horror story will come out in 2026. With family scattered all over the globe, she makes her home in Knoxville TN. You can find out more here: http://kayegeorge.com/
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