Yes, although I’ll admit to some genre confusion. In my naivety, I
thought if a story ended happily with a man and a woman together on the last
page (a kiss was nice, but not required) then it was a romance. Obviously, that
meant that a lot of stories that were really not romances were—in my mind.
I learned my mistake and settled into mystery. I’ve always loved
mysteries of every flavor and it’s what I like to write, regardless of the
trappings (paranormal, romances, contemporary, historical, etc.)
Do you read
your sub-genre consistently or do you prefer another?
The main genre I read is mystery, but I also read the classic Regency
romances, paranormal, suspense, crime, a few thrillers, horror, and science
fiction. I don’t really know how to classify P.G. Wodehouse or Saki (H. H.
Munro) but I read them, too, particularly when I’m feeling down and just need a
break.
If you
weren’t writing, what would your fantasy occupation be?
My day job is in the computer field as an enterprise admin, and I’ve
been fortunate to finally attain my fantasy position. Although if we’re talking
what I might like to be, I’d have to include: vet, archaeologist,
ornithologist, or bum. When I was a kid, I often fantasized about just packing a
bunch of stuff into a wheel barrow and escaping to live in the woods on my own.
Of course, I soon realized that it might not be the best plan and would
probably be pretty uncomfortable when a bear decided he needed my fish more
than I did, but…it was a fantasy.
Do you live
near, or have you ever visited, the locations you use as settings in your
works?
Absolutely. Of course it was thirty years ago, but still…. A lot of my
stories are set in London or in various make-believe locations in its vicinity.
I took a trip to England in the late 70’s and even attended university at the
University of Aberdeen in Scotland. That year, I took many, many trips around
Scotland and England (as well as other locations). It was a fabulous time, and
I loved it. All of my Regency mysteries like The Vital Principle and The
Necklace are loosely based upon places I saw or visited, although they are
heavily fictionalized.
For my paranormal romance, Vampire Protector, I actually set it in an
area in Virginia where I used to go birding quite a bit. Of course, the town
itself is completely fictional, but it’s based upon an area I know very well.
If you
don’t live near or you haven’t visited your setting locations, how did you
research them?
For locations I haven’t recently visited, I use Google Earth to zoom
in and see what the streets and countryside really look like. It’s an amazing tool.
In addition, I have a large map of London and its environs from the Regency
period that I reference when my characters like those in A Rose Before Dying
have to navigate the streets of London.
Where do
you see brick and mortar book stores in five years?
Unfortunately, I think brick-and-mortar stores are in a bit of a bind.
There will inevitably be more consolidation. Some independent stores may do
well, at least for a while, but we’re seeing a wholesale move to e-books now
and it’s changing the landscape dramatically.
It won’t mean the end (at least for a while) of physical books. After
all, you can still buy a CD album, but you don’t see a lot of record stores
anymore. You do see combined stores though, cafés with a CD section, for example.
Those types of hybrids may crop up. Certainly, discount stores and chains like
Target and Walmart will carry at least some books for the foreseeable future.
I’m not completely in agreement with Konrath regarding the death of
traditional bookstores, publishers and agents. Most of the time, you don’t see
things completely disappear. What tends to occur is a gradual morphing into
something that perhaps none of us are accurately predicting.
Do you put
any stock in reviews or is reader feedback more important to you and why?
I don’t think you can separate reviews from reader feedback. Often,
they are one-in-the-same. That said, I pay attention to both. When someone
reads your book, whether from the perspective of reader or reviewer, she will
develop valid opinions. If someone has a problem with your book, it’s a real
issue, regardless of whether you agree with it or not. In some cases, I may
have made a mistake (after all, I’m only human, as are all my editors, and we
miss things) or I simply misunderstood something I researched. It may be that
for whatever reason, my writing didn’t appeal to the reader, or my characters
didn’t grab her.
Perhaps the plot or theme didn’t resonate.
Whatever the criticism, it is valid and if you approach these things
with an open mind, you can often learn something about what works, what
doesn’t, and what you may have completely missed.
Criticism is an opportunity. I always approach it that way,
immediately after I weep, gnash my teeth, and stumble back into the house after
a three-day bender.
Where do
you write? Home office, local Starbucks?
Everywhere. Mostly at home, but when I have to travel for my day job,
I write wherever and whenever I get the opportunity. I have an amazing ability
to tune out everything around me. In fact, it’s so good that I have to be
careful not to miss my plane when I’m concentrating.
Do you have
mood music you write to? What are your top five picks?
Actually, no (see above). It doesn’t do me any good. I completely
block out all noise around me and become as good as deaf when I’m working.
Are you a
full-time writer or do you have other obligations? If you have another career,
what do you do?
Computer specialist. It’s a dirty job, but someone has to do it. Other
than Mike Rowe, of course.
You’ve just
found a magic lamp, the genie popped out and granted you three wishes…what are
they?
That’s a really good question. I’ve always wanted to be smarter, but I
suspect it might not really make my life that much easier. I’d probably just
get more frustrated when folks don’t understand what I’m rambling on about at
work.
I’ve never wanted to be rich, because then you have a full time job
managing your money. I would like to have enough, however, not to have to worry
about it all the time. But I’m not sure I’d waste a wish on that.
I guess the problem for me is that I’m really quite content with where
I am in life. I have a great husband, a tumble-down log home that is in
desperate need of repair, 2 dogs and 2 cats. It’s a pretty good life, all
things considered. We need things, like a new kitchen (the oven doesn’t work
all the time and the floor is rotting through) and we’d love to add on to our
20 acres to preserve the swamp behind the house…. Things like that. But would
you really want to waste a wish on that? It’s such small potatoes.
And I wish my parents could have lived long enough to see my first
hard cover mystery, Whacked!, come out this year. But then, those types of
wishes always result in unintended consequences like poor quality of life, etc.
I’m always reminded of the horror that evolved from a wish like that in the
short story, The Monkey’s Paw.
While it would be attractive to wish for things like world peace and
an end to hunger, those types of wishes have even larger unintended
consequences. Sort of like everyone becoming brain-dead and useless like the
Eloi from H.G. Wells’ novel, The Time Machine. You can’t have light without
dark. It is our struggle to survive and competition that leads to invention and
forces us to excel. If we have nothing to struggle for, nothing just out of our
reach, then there is no reason to try. Adversity may be unpleasant but it
creates excellence.
I would love to be a NY Times Bestseller, though. That would be sweet,
although I suspect there are downsides to that, as well. Fame isn’t always what
it’s cracked up to be, stalkers being what they are these days.
You know, I think I’d wish to give my wishes to someone who needs them
more. J
If you won
the lottery but the stipulation was you had to give away half the winnings,
what would you do with that half?
I’m torn. Half of me would use my half to set aside more wildlife habitat.
Especially in areas where they’ve been installing bird blenders (windmills).
They have such a devastating impact on raptors. Raptors have a low reproductive
rate as it is and frankly, I don’t see how they (or many other species) are
going to survive our efforts to “go green. Sorry—I obviously could go on and
on.
My other possibility would be to endow a practical skills-based school
for the underprivileged. A school that would teach real-life skills like
business writing (or any kind of writing, period), balancing a check book/bank
account, developing a budget, basic problem solving skills (you’d be amazed at
how few people can actually define a problem well enough to allow them to
resolve it), job interview skills, real-world math (how to figure out how much
carpeting you need to redo your living room, how to make change, etc), and so
on. I’d like to help kids get the information they need to improve their lives,
get a job, and feel like they have more control over their destiny.
Do you
believe that we as writers have certain moral obligations to our readers? How
do you fulfill them?
I’m not sure “moral obligation” is applicable to fiction. Because it’s
all just made up. It’s not immoral to write a bad story, it’s just sad.
I do think, however, it would be nice for us to let our readers know
what kind of content to expect so they don’t buy books with expectations about
content and get disappointed. If a reader wants the bedroom door closed, then
it’s nice for her to be able to identify books that will meet this expectation.
The same is true for any other kind of content, be it violence, expletives, etc.
Do you have
children and what do they think about your career?
Only children of the furry, four-legged variety. As far as I know,
they have no opinion of my work. Although they do hate it when I’m actually
working.
Amy Corwin is a
charter member of the Romance Writers of America and recently joined Mystery
Writers of America. She has been writing for the last ten years. She writes romance, historical and cozy mysteries.
To be truthful, most of her books include a bit of murder and mayhem since she
discovered that killing off at least one character is a highly effective way to
make the remaining ones toe the plot line.
Amy’s books
include the three Regency romantic mysteries, I BID ONE AMERICAN, THE BRICKLAYER’S
HELPER, and THE NECKLACE; Regency mysteries, THE VITAL PRINCIPLE, and A ROSE
BEFORE DYING; and her first cozy mystery, WHACKED!, will come in in 2012 from
Five Star.
Join her and
discover that every good romance has a touch of mystery.
Website:
http://www.amycorwin.com
Twitter: http://twitter.com/amycorwin
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/AmyCorwinAuthor
A Rose Before Dying
A murderer is stalking the streets of London and the
evidence points to Sir Edward, the uncle of Charles Vance, Earl of Castlemoor.
The first victim is none other than Sir Edward’s mistress who threw him over
for a younger man, giving him a clear motive to kill her. However, Charles is
convinced Sir Edward is innocent and enlists the aide of Mr. Knighton Gaunt of
the Second Sons Inquiry Agency. When more clues surface, including roses
hinting at another victim, Charles steps in and takes control. He can’t let his
uncle hang for murders he didn’t commit, despite his uncle’s foul temper and
abundant motivation.
Charles teams up with noted rosarian Ariadne Wellfleet to
decipher the clues and prove Sir Edward’s innocence and stop the murderer
before he can strike again.
In this excerpt from A Rose Before Dying, Charles Vance, Lord Castlemoor, has brought a rose to the Wellfleets,
hoping someone can identify it. The rose is the only clue he has to identify
the next victim of a vicious killer bent on framing Charles’ uncle.
EXCERPT
He pulled out the small bundle containing the rose. He knew
it was useless, her father, the rose expert, was dead. But he couldn’t stop a
small spurt of hope. “I’d like to identify this rose. Do you recognize it?”
“I supposed you’re only asking me as a last resort. Because
my father is no longer with us.” She held out a peremptory hand. “Let me see
it.”
Her face was a smooth, expressionless mask. However, he
detected traces of tired resignation at the implication that she could not be
expected to have the depth of knowledge exhibited by a man.
When he placed the limp spray in her palm, she held it up to
her nose and breathed in several times with closed eyes, cupping the flowers in
her hands. Then she gave it a cursory examination before pulling the petals off
of one flower.
“Stop!” He reached over to wrench it out of her hand. She
turned her shoulder, blocking him. “What are you doing?”
“Counting the petals. Why?”
“You’re destroying it! How shall I identify it if you ruin
it?”
She held it out. “Take it. Plant it, or allow me to root it.
Or graft it. If it grows, you can ask your friend, Mr. Lee, to identify it in
two or three years from the shape of the bush and bloom habit. Most men who grow roses agree that it takes
at least one cycle of blooming to identify a rose with any assurance.”
“Two years!”
“Yes—if you want to be sure. And isn’t that why you wish to
identify it? So you can purchase a specimen for your own garden?”
“Yes—but….”
“Yes?”
He gazed into her coolly discerning eyes and realized she
was aware that he was not being open with her. But given Mr. Lee’s reaction, he
could not bring himself to tell the complete truth. The rose wouldn’t last long
enough to find another master gardener, assuming he could even locate one in
London. “It’s…a wager. Silly, I know, but one of my friends said I couldn’t
identify this rose.” The tips of his ears burned.
“I see.” Her eyes grew colder. “This is all a wager?” She
glanced at Rose.
“No, of course not. Not Rose—she’s not part of it.”
Miss Wellfleet’s fingers pushed the petals into a line on
the table and hovered over them. Thirteen petals, thin and wilting, spread in a
tattered line. The slender spray was dying. The small, tight buds had already
blackened and hung limply. His chest tightened with frustration.
Then with a theatrical gesture that suggested more defiance
than scientific inquiry, she ripped apart the remaining flowers. She arranged
the petals in three parallel lines, one for each flower. The roses didn’t all
have the same number of petals. The first had thirteen petals. The next had
eleven. The final rose had seventeen.
After examining what remained of the stalk, the yellow
stamens, and leaves, she looked at him.
Although she didn’t precisely shrug, there was a quality in
her expression that spoke of disdain when she said, “Rosa Collina fastigiata.”
“That’s it?” His tired disappointment reminded him of the
lateness of the hour. Useless. He
needn’t have come here at all. Lee had it right the first time.
“Well, yes. What were you expecting?”
“Something…more. A name….”
“That is a name.”
Irritation sharpened her voice. “Or Flat-Flowered Hill Rose, if you prefer an
English one.”
“You’re sure?”’
Her eyes hardened. “As sure as I can be from this small
spray.” She flung the petals and twig onto the table. “No one can be absolutely
sure without seeing the bush and knowing the growth habit and bloom cycles.
Have you any idea how many roses there are?”
“I—”
“That’s why your friend
made a clever wager—if wager it was.”
“No. Truly, I apologize. I sincerely appreciate the name.”
“It’s late. You have your name. I hope you win your wager.”
With a coolness he deserved but saddened him nonetheless,
she gestured for him to leave. The butler, Mr. Abbott, waited just outside the
French doors to the greenhouse. His silent presence ensured Miss Wellfleet had
never been truly alone with Charles. Somehow, this reminded him of how
attractive he found her, and he flushed when he caught Mr. Abbott’s curious
gaze.
However, his embarrassment faded as he remembered his
purpose.
A life could be saved if he interpreted Rosa Collina fastigiata properly.
How many people named Collins lived in London? Unless the
clue rested with the English name, Flat-Flowered Hill Rose. Did this blossom
point to a location instead of a
person?
Time was slipping away.
The Necklace
Legends foretell death for anyone who possesses the
fabled Peckham emerald necklace, lost by an Archer ancestor. Certainly, it has
brought the Archers nothing but heartache. So Oriana is relieved it’s missing,
assuming it ever existed. She has enough difficulties protecting her uncle—and
her heart--from his dangerous new friend, Chilton Dacy. However, when Oriana
finds the necklace, the curse reawakens. The necklace disappears, only to
reappear clutched in a dead man’s hand.
The stranger’s death leaves Oriana with a
frightening choice: ask Chilton for help, or face the possibility that she may
hang for murder.
In this scene, Chilton
Dacy has been accidentally shot and is convalescing at the Archer residence. He
just can’t resist teasing Oriana Archer, his reluctant nurse….
Excerpt
“Sir,” Oriana said, frantic to
change the subject to something less provocative. “How did you meet my uncle? I
do not recall him mentioning you before.”
“Umm,” he said unhelpfully.
“I beg your pardon? I’m afraid
I did not hear you clearly.”
“Perhaps you’re hard of hearing
and should turn around to face me.”
“My hearing is perfectly
adequate, sir.”
“Are you afraid to face me?”
“I am not, but you’re not
dressed. This is all quite improper.”
“That was my thought when you
tucked me into bed, Miss Archer.”
A burning fire raged up her
bosom, scorching her neck and cheeks. She had sincerely hoped he wouldn’t
remember. After a dreadfully long silence, she said, “If you will recall, you
were actually unconscious a great deal of the time.”
The bed creaked behind her. At
the noise, she instinctively turned.
He lounged against the stack of
pillows with his hands locked behind his head. Another fiery wave cascaded over
her cheeks as her eyes followed that line down his chest again. The sheet had
slipped even further. It barely covered his lap. A thin line of bandage was
visible at the top of his thigh where an insolent corner of the sheet had
flipped over.
“And how, precisely, should I
recall it if I was unconscious at the time? All I remember is you unfastening
my breeches—”
“Sir, it was an unfortunate
circumstance that we must all strive to avoid in the future,” she hurriedly
interrupted him.
“Oh, I don’t know. I can think
of a worse fate than being stripped, bathed, and put to bed by a pretty woman.”
“You are obviously suffering
from some pernicious form of delirium. I never bathed
you. But, I shall send Joshua up to you directly if you desire to
wash.” She spun and worked very hard to walk—not run—out of the door.
His deep chuckles raced after
her, despite the fact that she slammed the door shut behind her.
The
Vital Principle
An
inquiry agent seeks to expose a spiritualist as a fraud only to uncover a
murder.
In 1815, inquiry
agent, Knighton Gaunt, is asked by Lord Crowley to attend a séance with the
express purpose of revealing the spiritualist as a fraud. When the séance ends
abruptly, an unseen killer poisons Lord Crowley, leaving Gaunt to investigate
not fraud, but murder.
Suspicion turns first
to the spiritualist, Miss Prudence Barnard. But as Gaunt digs deeper into the
twisted history of the guests at Rosecrest, he discovers a series of deadly
secrets. Long-time friends soon turn against one another as the tension mounts,
and Gaunt is challenged to separate fact from fiction before another death at
Rosecrest.
The Vital Principle is the first mystery in the Second Sons Inquiry Agency series and
features coolly intellectual Mr. Knighton Gaunt, the agency’s founder. This
witty, historical whodunit in the tradition of Bruce Alexander’s Blind Justice will keep you guessing
until the unexpected end.
“Murder, mystery, and
a dash of romance combined with witty dialogue and unforgettable characters
make The Vital Principle a book that
will definitely go on my keeper shelf!” —Lilly Gayle, author of Into the Darkness and Slightly Tarnished.
In this excerpt from The
Vital Principle, inquiry agent Knighton
Gaunt realizes their host, Lord Crowley, has been poisoned.
EXCERPT
Swirling the amber liquid, he held it up to examine it. The light
from the candles glowed through the brandy, highlighting the unnaturally dark
hue. After rotating the glass with a practiced movement of his wrist, Knighton
Gaunt sniffed at the fumes before placing it back on the table.
“Well, what’s wrong?” Lord Thompson stared at Crowley as if he
suspected a trick. “Crowley, get up, damn you. Quit playing the fool.” He
nudged Crowley’s flaccid arm with his toe.
“Stop!” Knighton pushed Thompson back. “This isn’t a joke.”
“What’s wrong with him? Is he having some kind of a fit?” Mr.
Jekyll asked.
“No. It’s not a fit.” Knighton glanced at the dowager. He was
reluctant to inform her that her son was dead, most likely murdered. She
already appeared to have suffered more grief than she could bear. Her tired
eyes and gray face made him fear any further pain would bring about a complete
collapse.
How much could one woman bear?
“Lady Crowley.” He caught Miss Barnard’s eye and to his relief,
felt an immediate flicker of understanding. She put an arm around the older
lady’s shoulders, bracing her for the shock. “Lady Crowley, I’m sorry,” he
said. “Your son is dead.”
“Dead?” Lady Crowley repeated, her voice quavering. She glanced
down as if she could not comprehend what she saw. “How can he be dead? You must
be mistaken.”
Miss Barnard bent over the dowager and murmured, “I’m sorry, so
terribly sorry.”
A sob broke from Lady Crowley’s throat. Miss Barnard held her
more tightly, speaking softly, trying to comfort her.
“Dead!” Miss Spencer leapt out of her chair. She whirled to stare
into the gloomy recesses of the room, her hands covering her mouth. When Mr.
Denham touched her arm, she shrieked. “A ghost! It must be! That thing I felt hovering behind me when the
candle blew out. It touched me—I felt its cold fingers! It passed by me on its
way to kill Lord Crowley! It will kill us
all! We must leave, now! Now!”
