What I'm Working On

After five books in the Emerson Ward mystery series, I took time out a couple of years ago and wrote a one-off called Island Life. The story of a suburban everyman whose wife disappears, I wanted to explore the notion of how you live without someone who's been part of your life for twenty years. Ultimately, the book turned into a suspenseful mystery, and I hope one day it will find a home with a good publisher.

When I finished Island Life, I turned with renewed vigor to the sixth Emerson Ward mystery, Death On A Budget. I realized that even after five books I didn't know that much about Emerson himself. Determined to write a break-out book and do something unusual with the character, I took Emerson back to his home town after an absence of 25 years to look into the suicide of a childhood friend.

The journey has given me an opportunity to explore a number of themes -- small town values vs. big city, urban/suburban sprawl, progress, recreating the past -- as well as the family, friends and environment that shaped Emerson's personality and value system. It's been a wonderful process, but long. I'm now into my sixteenth month of writing, and still have a little way to go.

The question is, will the opening hook you long enough to want to go on the journey with Emerson? Here are the first few paragraphs. I'll post the first chapter on my web site soon. Let me know what you think.

If George Saunders had been lucky as well as cautious that Tuesday, he might not have ended up lying on the pavement, an ever-widening pool of his own blood oozing beneath him like primordial pitch, reflecting black under the leaden sky of early morning. Then again, maybe no amount of luck could have saved him. Whoever had gotten to him had wanted him badly.
His body – most of it – had been found in Montrose Park, near the lake. A shotgun blast had turned his knee to hamburger. SecondA second shotgun blast had torn off his right arm at the shoulder. Probably ended up as fish food – it wasn’t found anywhere near the body. The third load of shot had blown away most of his face. It was several days before the body was positively identified.

That particular day had been dreary and rainy. Maybe the result of warmer than normal Pacific currents and a low pressure system over the Azores. Or global warming, which has become a catch-all for blame of every sort. On such days, the wind blows in off the lake, whipping its surface to an angry froth on careening swells of menacing green water. It forces the waves crashing ashore, blows geysers of spray across Lake Shore Drive, drenching passing cars. It hurtles down city streets, gaining speed as it squeezes between the tall buildings. The keening as it careers past the big bay windows of my house rises and falls with each furious gust. The sheets of glass heave in and out as if breathing, tattooed by rain that sounds as loud as a handful of pebbles thrown against the panes. It finds its way into every crack and crevice, little rivulets of cold that stream indoors like the rain coursing down the window. It is the frosty breath of a callous beast, a moisture-laden cold that seeps deep into my bones, leaving me chilled and shivering.

Spring. In Chicago. An oxymoron to anyone who’s spent any time here. There are usually a couple of weeks in May that are representative of spring, a week or two in October that could be construed as fall. Hard to call them seasons, exactly. Those who live here know Chicago has only two seasons – winter and construction. Metaphors for life.

Mike Sherer
www.emersonwardmysteries.com