Writer's Guide to Reading People - The Expert, Margot Kinberg, Speaks!

I am so honored to have Margot Kinberg on Listen to the Voices. She is one of the few daily stops on my blog list. I respect her knowledge of mystery writers, their books, and writing in general. Today, she talks about one of my favorite topics: Body Language.

One of the most important skills that a sleuth has to develop is the ability to “read” people. So I was very excited and flattered when Clarissa invited me to guest post on her excellent “Reading People” series. Thanks, Clarissa!!!

Since I have a background in linguistics, I’m always interested in the way that people use language (or don’t use it). And it’s things that people say that give sleuths clues about whether someone’s holding something back, being forthright, or outright lying. Lying doesn’t come naturally to most people; in fact, most people are not comfortable with lying. So our body language and use of words give away our discomfort. The smart sleuth notices those little clues and uses them to figure who’s telling the truth and who isn’t. A quick look at some crime fiction shows how people sometimes react when they are hiding something.

The Hesitation

A hesitation is often a sign that someone is thinking consciously about what he or she is going to say. Sometimes, it’s a clue that someone is trying to come up with something plausible to hide something else. For example, in Agatha Christie’s Dumb Witness (AKA Poirot Loses a Client), Hercule Poirot investigates the poisoning death of Miss Emily Arundell, a wealthy woman whose relations are desperate for their share of her fortune. One of those relatives is Miss Arundell’s nephew Charles Arundell, who’s got a bit of a shady reputation. During one of their conversations, Poirot asks Charles about an argument he had with his aunt before her death, and gets him to admit that had an argument with his aunt and in fact, stole some money from her. When Poirot asks him if he would murder if it were made worth his while, Charles says:

"Thinking about a spot of blackmail, M. Poirot? Nothing doing. I can assure you that I didn't put" - he stopped suddenly and then went on - "strychnine in Aunt Emily's soup."

Poirot makes note of the pause and mentions that Charles spoke as though he were

“…thinking of something else and thought better of it.”

As it turns out, Poirot’s instincts are right. Charles was, indeed, thinking of something else. His hesitation is covering up something he knows, but doesn’t want to reveal.

The Bluster

Some witnesses and suspects try to avoid answering questions by blustering. They become defensive or they snap at the sleuth. Of course, most witnesses know that the more negatively they react to questions, the more likely they are to call attention to themselves. Still, a bluster can cover up nervousness at being questioned and the discomfort caused by lying.

For example, in Colin Dexter’s The Dead of Jericho, Inspector Morse meets Anne Scott at a party and becomes smitten with her. He’s called away on a case, though, so nothing comes of it. Then, six months later, he’s in Anne’s neighbourhood and decides to stop in. That’s when he discovers her body. It seems that Anne has hung herself, and Morse is determined to find out why. Even though DI Bell is officially on the case, Morse and Sergeant Lewis get involved and eventually, take over the case. In the course of their investigation, they find out that Anne Scott’s private life was complicated and that several people might have had a motive to kill her. Then, while they’re sorting out the clues, there’s another murder. When Morse figures out who the killer is, he has an interview with that person:

“You’ve been charged …and that charge still stands. So we’d better get back to think about where you were on the night when –“[Morse]

“I’ve told you – I don’t know! …there are millions of people who couldn’t prove where they were that night!”

“That’s true.”

“Well, why pick on me? What possible evidence-?”

“…give us a little credit.”

“You’ve got some evidence? Against me?”

“……yes, we’ve got some evidence. You see, there were several fingerprints…and as you know I asked my sergeant to take yours.”

“But he did. And I’ll tell you one thing, Inspector, my prints could quite definitely not have matched up with anything there because I’ve never been in the bloody house – never!”

The Prepared Story

Lying doesn’t come naturally to most people. So when some people think they’re going to be called on to lie, they prepare their stories carefully ahead of time. Good sleuths know that answers that are too “pat” and come to quickly could also be covering up a lie.

For example, in Andrea Camilleri’s The Snack Thief, Commissario Salvo Montalbano is investigating the murder of Aurelio Lapècora, a semi-retired businessman who was stabbed to death in the elevator of his apartment building. At one point, Montalbano is interviewing Lapècora’s widow:

“So this morning, today being a Thursday, your husband should have stayed home”[Montalbano]

“That’s right.”

“Instead he got dressed to go out.”

“That’s right.”

“Do you have any idea where he was going?’

“He didn’t tell me anything.”

“When you left the house, was your husband awake or asleep?”

“Asleep.”

“Don’t you think it’s strange that, as soon as you went out, your husband suddenly woke up, got dressed in a hurry and –“

“He might have got a phone call.”

A clear point in the widow’s favor.

As we find out later, Lapècora’s widow knows more than she is saying about her husband and his murder. She’s covering up what she knows with a story she’s rehearsed.

The Sympathetic Listener

One way to avoid being asked too many questions is to appear to be very helpful and sympathetic. So people with something to hide sometimes cover it up with offers to help and sympathy. They may say something like, “Oh, I wish I could help you, but……If I think of anything, I’ll sure let you know!”  For instance, in Donna Leon’s Through a Glass, Darkly, Commissario Guido Brunetti and Ispettore Vianello are investigating the death of Giorgio Tassini, who worked nights at a glass factory. At first the death looks like an accident, but Brunetti isn’t convinced, and it’s not long before the evidence proves that Tassini was probably murdered. Brunetti interviews one of the people who knew Tassini:

“How may I help you?”

“I’d like to ask you about Giorgio Tassini, if I might,” Brunetti said.

“That poor devil who died over there…it’s the first time anyone’s been killed out here for as long as I can remember.”

Telling One Secret to Hide Another

This same novel offers an example of another strategy that people sometimes use to cover up something they are hiding: telling a small secret so as to hide a larger one.

In the next part of the conversation I mentioned just above, the same character seems to be hiding something and Brunetti asks about it, promising that he’s only interested in Tassini’s death, not any other illegal activities that may have been going on:

“He was working in nero [not officially – “under the table”], Commissario.”

“I’m not interested in how he was paid, only in what caused his death; nothing else.”

After a long pause, the character says:

“My guess is that he was making glass.”

As it turns out, this character is hiding something much more important, but covers it up by revealing a little secret.

As you can see, people who are hiding something have several tricks to keep the sleuth from finding out. I’ve only had space to mention a few. What do you think? Which are your favourite that people use to hide things? 

Isn't she amazing! Seriously, I don't know anyone with more knowledge on the mystery genre than her. Thanks so much, Margot, for stopping by. If you haven't been to her blog, you're missing out! Go there at once! 

She's a mystery novelist and professor, who loves to read and talk about mystery and crime fiction. Everyday, she takes a topic and analyzes how it's found in mystery fiction.

She written a book entitle Publish or Perish and another entitled B-Very Flat. Catch her on  Facebook and Twitter as well.

Mystery Writer's Guide to Forensic Science - Rigor Mortis

What is Rigor mortis?

It's caused by a chemical change in the muscles after death, causing the limbs of the corpse to become stiff (Latin rigor) and difficult to move or manipulate. (See two reasons below.)

When does it start and how long does it last?

In humans it commences after about 3 hours, reaches maximum stiffness after 12 hours, and gradually dissipates until approximately 72 hours (3 days) after death.

Why does Rigor Mortis happen?

1) (See photo below) Once the actin and myosin molecules stick together, they stay that way until another molecule, adenosine triphosphate (ATP), attaches to the myosin and forces it to let go. Your body uses the oxygen you breathe to help make ATP. That oxygen supply ends, of course, with death. Without ATP, the thick and thin filaments can't slide away from each other. The result is that the muscles stay contracted -- hence rigor mortis.

2) During rigor mortis, another process called autolysis takes place. This is the self-digestion of the body's cells. The walls of the cells give way, and their contents flow out. Rigor mortis ends not because the muscles relax, but because autolysis takes over. The muscles break down and become soft on their way to further decomposition.

Rigor Mortis at the Crime Scene

A body goes stiff in the exact position it was in when the person died. If the body's position doesn't match up with the location where someone found it -- for example, if it's flat on its back in bed with one arm sticking straight up -- that could mean someone moved it.

Although it's an imperfect marker of the time of death, rigor mortis is useful because it's like an alarm clock set to go off and stop ringing within a known time span. Several variables affect the progression of rigor mortis, and investigators must take these into account when estimating the time of death. These include:

* Ambient temperature: Warm conditions speed up the onset and pace of rigor mortis by providing a hospitable environment for the bacteria and processes that cause decay. Cold temperatures, on the other hand, slow it down. If someone dies outside in freezing temperatures, rigor mortis can last for days. Investigators might abandon it entirely as a tool for estimating the time of death.
* Physical exertion just prior to death: If someone dies while engaged in strenuous activity like exercising or struggling against drowning, rigor mortis can set in immediately. This instant onset, sometimes called cadaveric spasm, happens because the person's muscles, at the moment of death, were depleted of oxygen energy and ATP. This is why the victim of a violent attack may still be clutching the attacker's hair or a piece of clothing.
* Fat distribution: Fat acts as insulation, causing rigor mortis to develop more slowly.
* Age or illness: In people with low muscle mass, such as children and the elderly, or in those with a fever or a debilitating disease, rigor will progress quickly.

Because rigor mortis leaves a lot of room for doubt, forensic pathologists rely on other indicators that provide greater certainty as to time of death. These include:

* Body temperature: The body cools at the rate of 1.5 to 2 degrees per hour. A body that registers approximately 92 degrees Fahrenheit (33.33 degrees Celsius) has been dead about four hours.
* Stomach contents: By determining the degree of digestion of the last meal, examiners can gauge how long the person lived after eating.
* Insect activity: Flies gather around the eyes, mouth and other openings to feed on the body's fluids. Forensic entomologists can determine approximately how long someone's been dead by observing the life cycle of the flies, as well as their eggs and larvae.

Sources: Wikipedia
Discovery Health
About.com
Deathreference.com

Chapter Critique - Talent's Blood by Laura Diamond (YA Dystopian)

Wow. That’s all I have to say about this chapter. It’s fantastic. You had me on the edge of my seat and when the end hit, what a shock! I don’t read much of this genre but you made me want to start.

The first line was intriguing and the first paragraph caught my attention and forced me to read on – why the siren? Who’s coming? What’s coming?

You really painted a picture for me - description was great. I could see the dim surrounding and smell the stench. I was living the experience with you. My only suggestion is to really know what you see. You say you’d be blind on the roof but in the pouring rain a five year old recognizes in seconds that there’s no fire escape? Also, I hear the sounds of screaming and sirens but have a difficult time believing that someone would hear a door creak on the floor below unless an Anemie’s hearing is super.

Some suggestion:

1)      Watch for plot issues. For example, why do you call an abandoned high school a safe house? It doesn’t appear safe at all. I would call an underground bunker a safe refuge, not something with squeaky wooden doors. Be careful you make clear your reasons for picking certain locations and actions.

2)      Make sure your main character is strong. I assume the narrator is the main character and that he survives, right? Well, you might want to make sure you know him well. I found him go back and forth in his feelings often. For example, your character’s main concern is for the safety of his sister. I don’t feel he did enough in that aspect. He decides to leave the other five year old because it would hold him back but his sister gets killed because he was afraid of a tantrum? As a parent, I would have grabbed the girl – kicking and screaming – and bounded off the building. I wouldn’t have had a conversation about it. It makes him appear weak and you don’t want to do that -not at this point in the novel.

You have a great book here, full of excitement. I can’t wait to see what you do with it.

Chapter 1—Fire and Fangs

A siren broke the night’s tense silence. I jerked my head from the nearly flat, musty pillow and listened. The sound grew louder. Son of a bitch.

“They’re stopping here, Justin.” Sammie huddled closer to me, trembling.

“Shhh.” I smoothed my little sister’s greasy hair. Showers came far and few between. (I didn’t think you needed this line, it sort of broke the action for me. I thought the showers were part of the raids. Like in WWI the sirens and the showers of bombs…If you’re talking about her hair, you can leave it out, we assume that’s why her hair is dirty.) So did luck. Hell, maybe this was our time to die. Really, how many more times could we escape a raid?

Our room had no door and the only light came from a low voltage bulb halfway down the hallway. I stared at the dim outlines of bunk beds, searching the murky space for movement. The other Anemies(How is this pronounced – enemies?)—huddled in pairs to maximize space—crouched lower, as if curling into living meatballs would prevent the Sharpies from finding them, tearing them out of their beds, and burning them alive.

“I’m scared,” Sammie’s shrill voice cut through the others’ whimpers. How could they call our refuge—an abandoned two story building that was once a high school—a safe house? Safety didn’t exist. Neither did hiding. How could you hide when they heard your heart beating, when your scuffling movements sounded like thunderstorms, and your decay oozed out in waves?

“You have to be quiet. It’s important to wait for the right time.” I grimaced at the salty, dank odor of sweat emanating from my pores. No wonder they hated us. Our stench. Our weakness. Our frail humanity.

The siren’s call came to a crescendo. My heart hammered even faster in response. Please let it pass us by.

It didn’t.

The shrieking of old hinges and splintering of wood followed the bellowing sirens(Be careful how you describe this…it’s hard to believe hinges and wood breaking would overpower the sound of sirens and screams..). Screams erupted from the Anemies downstairs. A whoosh of compressed gas mingled with the yelps (It must have been loud whooshes if it could be heard…). The smell of gasoline burned my nose. “They brought flamethrowers,” I murmured. (Make this dialogue a new paragraph.)

Sammie buried her face into my chest. Her body shook with sobs.

“It’s okay, we know what to do, right? We’ve practiced this a million times,” I soothed her, but found little relief in my words. 

Since I’d landed a spot for us in one of the second floor communal bedrooms, we had time to escape(This makes it sound like you did escape) while the Sharpies (sorted) [busied themselves with sorting] the victims below. Some they’d take hostage—no one knew why—and others they’d slaughter outright. I’d heard the stories hundreds of times, but I never stuck around long enough to see it myself.

The only reason we survived the raid two years ago was because our dad distracted them while I escaped with Sammie. His screams still haunted my nightmares. I wanted to stop them, but how could a fifteen year old fight a horde of superhumans made immortal by a vaccine? Besides, I’d promised [him] to keep Sammie safe. Even if it meant stealing blood to give her a transfusion or starving myself so she could eat.

“Let’s go to the roof, like I showed you,” I hissed in her ear. We scurried across the linoleum tile floor toward the hallway. I tucked Sammie behind me and peeked around the doorjam. An orange yellow glow flickered on the stairwell and smoke billowed across the ceiling. Fierce heat warmed my face. The fire would spread fast.

“Can I come with you?” A boy, no more than five or six, grabbed my arm. His voice was high-pitched and small, much like his frame. His sunken eyes and chapped lips stabbed my heart. Poor kid took the only spot left by the door because no one else would share their bed with him. The worst place to be, not that it mattered. Anemies never lasted long anyway. If not death by Sharpie, it was usually death by anemia. I’d seen it all—they’d be drowning from wet lungs or their heart would give out. How many bloated bellies had I seen from spleens the size of soccer balls? I lost count.

“Can he, Justin?” Sammie extended her thin, pale hand to him.

“No. We go alone.” I swatted her hand away from him. Sure, I felt bad for the kid, but he’d slow us down and then we’d all end up dead. No way I’d sacrifice my sister for some stranger(You want to make us feel for the MC so I would use terms like “dying boy” or something because he is a child and no reader wants to see a child die…just a thought). Plus, I had a hard enough time keeping two mouths fed, let alone a third.

The boy cried. I blinked away the tears burning at my eyes and swallowed the rage building inside. Anger at the injustice of it wouldn’t save him. Neither would hating myself.

I shoved Sammie into the hallway before guilt forced me to reconsider(I would switch the sentence around “Before guilt forced me to reconsider, I shoved Sammie into the hallway.” Why? Because the way you have it, it sounds like he did reconsider…). Our bare feet slapped against the cold tile floor as we ran. My sweaty grip around her slender wrist slipped.

“I can’t see, Justin,” she cried.

“Keep going anyway.” Please God, don’t stop. Don’t pitch a fit. I wanted to clamp my hand over her mouth, but the Sharpies heard our heartbeats calling to them like beacons anyway. They were the ultimate predators chasing after weak prey and I really thought an escape plan would work?

The cries echoing behind us turned to screams of agony. I glanced over my shoulder in time to see the fire flickering at the edge of the stairs. “Sammie, come on! You must go faster.” I tugged on her arm again. Her brown eyes were so wide they looked like perfect circles.

“I can’t. You’re hurting me.” How her arm didn’t break from me polling (pulling?) at her, I’ll never know.

We reached the end of the hallway. I slammed all my weight against the metal door leading to the roof. It creaked and shuddered, but opened. Outside, heavy rain sheeted down, slicking every surface like lacquer. We’d be blind if it weren’t for the city lights glowing all around. I led Sammie to the edge of the building and looked over. We could make it. (Make it where?)

I swung a leg over the ledge.

“No, Justin. They’re down there.” Her dirty blond hair slapped her face as she shook her head. If her bottom lip quivered then we’d be done. (Why?)

“And they’re chasing us. Look, the alley is empty. We still have time.” I pulled her closer to me, jerking my head to get wet bangs out of my face.

“I can’t. It’s too far.” She yanked out of my grasp and backed away. Her feet slopped in a puddle.

“Come. Here.” I barked, pointing at the ground. In seconds, we’d be overrun with Sharpies.

“No.” She shook her head and crossed her arms in five-year-old defiance.

My hands clenched into fists. “We don’t have time to argue. This was the plan.”

“You said there’d be a fire escape. A ladder.”

There was. Yesterday. Human slaves—mortals tranced to carry out whatever order a Sharpie gave them—had torn it away from the brick façade. I should’ve known they were planning a raid and not making repairs like they said. How stupid of me to trust them. The suddenness of their appearance should’ve been warning enough, but no, I had let my guard down and we were gonna die because of it. Seventeen-year-olds shouldn’t have to make these decisions.

“Come on!” I swung my leg back and lunged at Sammie. She slid out of my grasp, wet and slippery from the pelting rain.

The door we’d just come through burst free from its hinges. A Sharpie, tall and darkly clad, stood in its wake, his body backlit by the flames overtaking the building. Yet he wasn’t singed.(How does your MC know this? What does he SEE?) He stood well over six feet, judging by how his head skimmed the doorframe. His fitted suit seemed out of place, considering he’d come here to maim and destroy.

Sammie screamed. I grabbed her shoulders.

“Going somewhere?” The monster’s deep voice echoed in my ears despite the heavy downpour. A rich accent gave away his Spanish origins.

“Cover your ears!” I pressed my hands to either side of my head. The immortality vaccine also enhanced brain chemistry, allowing Sharpies the ability to put us into an automatic and unbreakable trance. It would be impossible to run or fight, no matter how much we wanted to.

Sammie didn’t move. She was too young to fight off a mere suggestion(What is the mere suggestion? All the man said was, “Going somewhere?”.

The Sharpie kneeled. “Come here, little one. What’s your name?” His voice wrapped around me like a blanket of rusty chainmail. Heavy and dark, it sapped the energy from my limbs.

“Samantha.” She stepped forward.

“No!” I caught her shirt collar and tugged. It took all my concentration to do just that. “You can’t have her, bloodsucker.”

“Such boldness for an Anemie. But really, what makes you think you can disobey me?” A throaty laugh squeezed my head. He extended an arm. His pinky finger was missing and a white jagged scar marked the back of his hand. A Sharpie with an imperfection. My eyes shifted to his ruby signet ring. He belonged to the elders, an elite class. Why would he be a part of the raids? Usually that was left to the newly vaccinated lower on the totem pole. “Come here, Samantha.”

Sammie turned to me and slashed my arm with her nails. The shock of it raked through my body and I let go. Freed from my grasp, she ran to the Sharpie and he collected her in his arms, lifting her above his head. One twirl. Two twirls.

She giggled. The sound of it drilled against my eardrums.

“Stop it! Let her go.” I yelled. Why didn’t my legs move? Why did I just stand there, watching?

The Sharpie set Sammie down. He sniffed her neck and grimaced. “No good, I’m afraid.” His dark eyes shifted to me. My heart paused so long my vision dimmed. “Is that your brother?”

“Hm-hmmm. Justin.” She sucked her thumb. Regardless of the Sharpie’s trance, her fear came through.(I want to see how…)

“Let her go, please,” I begged.

“Justin doesn’t like to play, does he? All right, then. Fun’s over.” He put a hand on either side of her head and twisted. A sick snap stole my breath. Sammie slumped to the ground, dead.

“No!” Tears blurred my vision, racing down my face. Pain seized my chest, cutting my cry short. Each drop of icy rain struck my skin like a liquid razor blade.

“She was going to die soon anyway.” He waved a hand, flicking his fingers at me in a ‘come here’ gesture. “Your turn, Justin.”

The coldness of his words triggered a shudder. I stood there, immobile, unable to suppress the thought of what it would feel like to have my limbs torn away, one by one. (That’s a powerful ending… Just one thing. Why does he think his limbs will be torn away? We haven’t seen the Sharpies do that yet. They didn’t do that to the girl did they? I would like to have a glimpse into them doing that  - briefly – earlier in the chapter so I can feel the last line more.)

If you would like a chapter critique click this link.

Please, leave your thoughts on the chapter and on my review of it below in your comments.

Three Hours and an Award!

I meant to have the review done by today but I never completed it on time so I will try for tomorrow or the next day.

If I had three hours to live
I would make sure I was good
with two:
my son and God.

If I had three weeks to live
I'd record a video message for my family and friends,
I'd forget house-cleaning, laundry and debt,
I'd hug my son a lot and stop to smell the roses,
And I would make sure I was good
with two:
my son and God.

If I had three months to live
I'd quit my day job and finish that book,
I'd travel to England and cry a lot,
I'd eat what I wanted and die obese,
And I would make sure I was good
with two:
my son and God.

If I had three years to live
I'd work part-time
and do something meaningful with my remaining years,
I'd let the dirt build up in the corners,
I'd take out credit to travel the world,
But before I die I would make sure I was good
with two:
my son and God.

If I had forever
I'd sleep the first year.
What else?
Let me get back to you later,
how does a thousand years sound?

If I just didn't know how long I had,
I'd probably continue to work at my job
even though I hate it.
I'd tirelessly clean my house
and fret over what people thought
even though they drove me nuts.
Why write today what you can write tomorrow?
I wouldn't stop and smell the roses or water them.
They'd die and I'd buy another pot.
I'd never get to England.
And I'd probably forget to tell my son that I loved him
and felt so proud of him.
I'd forget to make sure I was good
with two:
my son and God.
Again.

This Friday, Margot from Confession of a Mystery Novelist is guest blogging. (link below) She's an amazing blogger. Make sure you return Friday!

Pamela Jo from There's just life gave me the wonderful I'm a Literacy Builder Blog Award.

The rules for this one are as follows:
1. Thank and link back to the person who gave you this award.
2. Display the award logo on your blog site.
3. Tell us five of your favorite words and why you like them, (add as many as you like).
4. Pass the award on to three bloggers you feel are excellent literacy builders, and link to their sites.
5. Contact the bloggers you’ve chosen and let them know about the award.

Here are five of my favorite words:

Epitome- I love this word because I rarely hear it pronounced correctly.
Remember -  A long word with three vowels and the vowels are all the same. Remember that.
Conversate  -  It's not a word but I think it should be.
Baroque  -  I just like the sound of it.
Brilliant!  -  Enough said.

The three people I would like to give this too:
Margot at Confession Of A Mystery Novelist
Jan at Crazy Jane
Dorte at DJs Krimiblog

Blogging Shouldn't be Pulling Teeth

Actually I don't mind getting my teeth pulled so I should have said 'shopping in December' because that's just bloody torture. Anyway, I like blogging but lately it's taking all I've got and I don't want it to be that way so I've decided not to force myself to stick to such a strict schedule.

I'll do it if I'm up for it and I won't when I'm not. That makes sense, doesn't it?

For instance, today, I'm suppose to do the last post on making a book trailer. But, I'm tired. I was faced with opening the program, cutting screen shots, numbering them, explaining them and perhaps making a sample video. Um, no thanks, not today.

It's not like my blog readers aren't worth it but, I want to give each post I write my all and I didn't just want to throw one together.

I think I'd rather watch Matt Cardle sing on the X Factor over and over and over and over...and over. *sigh* or read a good book with some decaf coffee. Or have a conversation with my son. So, that's what I'm doing today.  I promise next week to get on the bandwagon... or not.

Have a fun weekend!

Everything I know about writing I learned from TV (Compelling Characters Blogfest)

Cold Case Episode Two of Season Three

Elana Johnson, Jen Daiker and Alex Cavanaugh are having a blogfest. Check it out!

The talent of TV script writers amazes me. They have a difficult job. They have to draw in a view in only a minute or two. One TV series I really admire is Cold Case.

Why is Cold Case amazing?

Every week, they have a new case with new plots and characters the writers have to make us, the viewer, care about and all that knowing the person we're suppose to care about is dead. Sometimes long dead. Their job every week is to create compelling characters all in the first minute or two (before the credits).

How do they do this?

Well, let's look at a couple of examples..

1) Season 3, episode 2: In the first minute, we see an overweight girl dancing and singing in her bedroom. Her father knocks on the door and tells her she's beautiful and that it's an important night for her. He asks about her friend, "Will he be there? He hasn't been around lately." And gives her a gift, a shawl that belonged to her mother.

The next minute, there's a house fire and the girl is lying on the ground as the flames surround her body.

2) Season 3, episode 1: It's prom and a young man is making his way through the dance floor at his school. People approach and have various conversations, some angry, some flirtatious, some silly. Then, he makes his way over to a young girl who says, "It's time."

The next scene, the boy's on the pavement dead and the baby is in the storage room garbage.

Why did those scenes compel me to keep watching the episodes?

Because of the compelling characters. In two minutes I cared for the boy and the girl and I wanted to know why they died. Who would kill these two seemingly wonderful people.

What does that tell us about writing our characters? How do we create compelling characters?

Well, in both episodes the characters entered the lives of the viewers at pivotal moments. We didn't see him arrive at prom or get dressed for prom or see him dance his first dance. We didn't see her dress or go to the house or see the fire start. We only saw what was important. We saw them when they were in difficult situations and yet, they shone! In episode one, we didn't know how the girl became pregnant or why the baby was being born at prom or why he left her after the baby was born. We just see a moment... We don't know who the friend was in episode two or how her mother died or why the fire started...

What does that mean for writers? Three things to create compelling characters:

1) Leave out the boring bits until later - when introducing the character, have them act out something important in their lives. Leave he back-story until later. The character may be the most boring character in history but there has be something unique about them. Find it and use it!

2) Leave questions about the character the reader wants to find the answer to - that may means starting in the middle of the story and using the rest of the book to fill in the beginning and the ending.

3) Make the character a hero - if we hate or if we're not rooting for the character we're not going to care about what happens to him or her. We can always add some bad truths later.


Source: Cold Case

Blogfeast: A poem and An Excerpt

I am in no way a poet, as you will see with my poem below. But, I had fun writing it. (Canadian spelling)

 

The Dinner Party

It's a dinner party.

You've all been there.

This looks scrumptious, you say

as you sit in your chair.

You bite a morsel,

Filled with flavour and zest,

Another few bites 

and you've gulped down the rest.

You sit back in your chair 

your stomach a happy beast.

You give kudos to the chef

for the wonderful feast.

Now this is where 

it starts to go awry.

The host looks at the food

and out escapes a loud sigh.

Rather than accept with a nod

or a gracious thank you.

The cook starts a long spiel

Oh, what a to-do.

The meat was no good,

To hell with the lot.

It's the worst meal they've made.

It was like eating wood-rot.

The next bash comes at time,

there wasn't enough.

Had they had longer,

it would not be so rough.

Oh no, you start

but get interrupted.

Then they go on,

the herbs calumniated.

It goes on for minutes,

but you sit there and wait.

The time will come

to say what you hate.

From those in need of approval

it's a cry out for praise.

Their self-esteem

in need of a raise. 

So you support their habit

like drink for a drunk.

I shake my head,

oh, to what lows I have sunk.

I always say

as I'm leaving the house,

the next time they seek

they will find a louse.

I'll agree their cooking

was rotten as hell.

Almost went for the toilet

because of the smell.

But would that solve the problem?

I think that's how it started.

Not enough praise 

from parents long departed.

But, what do I do?

I keep my words to myself.

Cause I hate to cook

and want free meals at their house.

Now for an excerpt. This is taken from one of my novels in progress. It's not done nor edited...

I sat across the table and watched my husband suffocate. The first time I’d seen anyone die – so helpless and scared - gasping for one last breath. It was oddly enthralling.


I didn't think I'd be able to go through with it - not really. My hands shook as I dialled room service. The words wouldn't form as I ordered. And, I knocked over my glass of water as I mixed the minuscule shrimp pieces in his Mole.


"You're lucky that's not my beer," my husband, Angus, said as he came out from the bathroom drying his hands. He threw the towel behind him and it landed on the toilet seat. I ran to pick it up as it slowly made its way into the bowl.


After throwing the towel in the garbage, I came and sat down at the table. I bowed my head as I did each night but I didn't pray for anything. How could I ask God to help me murder my husband? When I raised my head, I saw he had started devouring the brown sauce and I expected, at any moment, he would suspect. For his hands to reach for his throat, or worse, mine. Perhaps the five cervezas dulled his senses. (Read more by clicking the link under my signature)

Mystery Writer's Guide to Forensic Science - Reader Question

I often get emails or comments from writers wanting me to post a topic on a specific subject. Okay, so today I'm going to post my first Reader Question.

Reader Question: What shape would an exhumed body be in after almost twenty years?

Answer: Not pretty. This question is difficult to answer because the results would depend on many factors. 

• How long has the body been buried?
• Where was it buried?
• How was the casket made? 
• Was it in a casket? 
• How much bacteria in the body? 
• Have animals got to the body? Bugs?

 A body left alone can be reduced to bone in nine days. However, if placed in a nice coffin, with good conditions, the body could be preserved for years.

CLICK TO ENLARGE

CLICK TO ENLARGE

PROCEDURE

 

Time
Exhumation is usually done in broad daylight. For this reason, the exhumation team should reach the site of burial (graveyard) in the early morning hours. The grave is identified properly, with the help of relatives and the official in charge of the graveyard.

Screening off the area
If there are too many curious spectators, the area should be screened off. Professional diggers are then requested to remove soil from the grave. When the coffin becomes visible, strong ropes are passed beneath the coffin, and it is lifted up.

Collection of soil
Soil from above, below, and from all four sides of the coffin should be collected and preserved in separate glass jars, with identification tags. In addition, at least two samples must be taken from some distance - say around 25 to 30 yards from the grave (figures 3, 4). This is very necessary in some poisoning cases. One example would make the situation clear. If the person is alleged to have been killed by administration of arsenic, and arsenic is found in the body after exhumation, the defense may take the plea that the arsenic found in the body leached in the body from the surrounding soil. It is well known that soil may contain traces of arsenic. An examination of soil recovered from around the grave would reveal whether there was arsenic in the surrounding soil or not. Even if arsenic is present in the surrounding soil, it does not necessarily mean that the defense would become very strong. If the concentration of arsenic found in the body is more than that found in the soil, it clearly indicates that arsenic could not have passively diffused from the soil to the body.

Examination-in-situ
It is customary to open the lid of the coffin once it is brought out of the grave. It not only allows foul gases to escape in open air (rather than be released in the mortuary later), but also enables the pathologist to make a quick examination of the remains. When the coffin is opened, the medical officer in-charge should first of all examine the body in situ, and preferably take photographs. Bones may be friable, and may break during subsequent handling, so in situ examination is often quite helpful.

Post-mortem
After an in situ examination is done, the body is transferred to the mortuary for a post-mortem. Here the post-mortem is done as in any other case. If there are worms or other insects over the body, it might be tempting to sprinkle insecticides over the body, but it should never be done, as it might interfere later with the determination of poison in the body. If the smell is too offensive, it is advisable to wear a gauze mask dipped in a solution of potassium permanganate. Samples of viscera should be taken for detection of poisons. Many poisons, such as metallic poisons remain in the body for several years. Hair, nails and bones such as femur may also reveal metallic poisons like arsenic.

Exhumed Bones
If only bones are recovered in exhumation (as in very old graves), the bones must be boiled before examination. Maceration by this process may reveal diagnosis not available otherwise by ordinary examination.

Sources: Exhumation (Warning: Disturbing photos on main page)

Book Critique 6: Shimmering Angels by Lisa Basso

Hello, Lisa, thank you for being so brave! You’ve got a great story here! I can tell you that this type of story is really popular right now. You write the story in first person and you have a good voice. The girl is young and so I would imagine this would be popular with the YA audience.

After reading the chapter, I’m left with more questions than answers and I think that’s great because it makes me want to turn the page. Keep going with the story and I’m sure you’ll sell lots of copies.

You have some great descriptions and your dialogue sounds authentic for the age group. Well done!

I love working on the first chapter because it’s the one editors/publishers/agents see first. If the first chapter isn’t good enough, chances are, they won’t read the rest of the story. Here are my thoughts:

First sentence – it has an interesting message: The girl can see angels and she’s the only one. Intriguing. However, the sentence does not, in my opinion, state that message as clear as it could. One reason, I feel it’s too long. What happens when the sentence is long is too much is said. For instance, you start the sentence with “I’ve seen them before” and end with “only because I seemed to be the one person who could see the abnormalities…” These two statements don’t quite tie in together. I think you’re trying to make two statements and you need to make them two sentences: (a) you’ve seen men with wings before, and (b) you seem to be the only one who can see them this way. I believe if you break up the sentence, it will be more powerful.

Paragraph formations – there are no rules with paragraph formations but don’t believe that means we can write whatever, wherever. I have made notes below showing what I mean.

Perhaps you can set the scene a bit better. I thought she was sitting in the booth the whole time and halfway though find out she’s only walked in.

In a future edit, concentrate on showing and less telling. Also, she says a lot of paranoid things without there actually really being a reason. I would like to see more of a reason for her actions and feelings.

Chapter One

I’ve seen them before, the men whose white wings sparkled opaquely and glimmered in the sunlight, walking around the same as the rest of the population, blending in eerily well—only because I seemed to be the one person who could see the abnormalities protruding from their backs. (Be careful using the word ‘seemed’ (especially in the first sentence) because it’s automatically ‘telling’. Instead of saying ‘seemed’ SHOW why the character believes that. For example, you could write: Couldn’t Mr. Smith see the wings? “Mr. Smith, look, a man with wings! Don’t you see them?” Mr. Smith ignored me.)
A plastic cup bounced off the black and white checkered floor and the noisy diner flared to life. (Does that mean time stood still? Why would the diner flare to life when a cup fell on the floor? If that’s what you’re trying to say, keep it the same…) Waitresses scrambled to take orders, shouting over some of the louder patrons, exhausted parents wrestled with their children to eat their runny eggs, and a table of college kids sprinted toward the door without stopping to pay for their meal.
Yes, men with white wings were occasional, but the dark-haired older teen with the sexy-enough-to-be-a-model profile across the room was different (I would go with a different word. Because white wings are occasional, his black wings wouldn’t be just ‘different’ they would be ‘rare’). His were black with a rainbow-like sheen of an oil slick.
Could he be real? I slid my feet under me and stepped out of the booth toward it (It or him? Because you called it a he in the sentence before). Three and a half months. Three months, twelve days, and fifteen hours to be exact. I was just starting to get used to freedom again. Doctor Graham said I was cured the day he signed my release papers, but there was nothing like a big fat set of wings to pour on the doubt. (Paragraphs. Here’s an example of what I’m talking about. Although there are no rules, per se, paragraphs should stick to a common theme. Remember in school when we were told to write essays and we had a topic sentence and supporting sentences, well, fiction paragraphs should be similar. Not the same but similar. For example, the first sentence, ‘Could he be real?’ should lead into a paragraph that sticks to those same lines. Perhaps you could list reasons why he may not be real or what happens when you slid out of the booth. As it is, you go into the past and it gets confusing.)
“Darlin’?” A woman called with the ease of sandpaper (I love the description but does that mean it was easy to listen to or not?). I didn’t listen, didn’t falter, didn’t take my eyes off the strange angel. “Darlin’?” Her fingers folded across my arm, jetting my attention toward her. “You still interested in the job?”
“Job?” Lines of bewilderment etched my brow and my ponytail slapped the side of my face as I turned toward her.
Duh. The waitress job. I flecked my gaze to my best friend, Lee—Leland Kyon—the timid-looking teen fiddling with his latest electronic device, lost in its complexities. (Why do you look at him? Where is he sitting? Is he trying to get you the job?)
I flipped on the happy switch—the one I’d been perfecting since I went in.(In where? Into the restaurant or into the place where Dr. Graham treated her?) The corners of my lips fluttered as I tried to hold the smile that wasn’t as solid as I remembered. It must have been those damn wings throwing off my not-crazy game.
The nametag pinned to the waitress’ pink and white frilly number read Daphne. Nude stockings and white nurse shoes topped off the outfit. The ultimate crime of fashion. But, a job’s a job. (The paragraph is good but perhaps it should go up with Daphne’s dialogue. Here it sounds out of place.)
I prayed the revulsion that knotted my stomach after surveying Daphne’s wardrobe didn’t show on my face. Just in case, I turned up the florescence.
“Yeah, I’m here for the waitress position.” The absence of excitement in my voice surprised me. Usually I was better at linking together the necessary chains of sanity. (Why? Why are you better at it? You’ve only been working on it since you came in)
She gestured to the empty booth on her right. I stumbled in and nearly face planted into the table, convinced the wings tangled more than my tongue (Does she have wings or is she talking about the wings on the boy?). Daphne’s notepad slapped down on the table and her pencil disappeared beneath it, probably sliding into her frilly apron. “We open at six every morning. We close at ten at night—midnight on weekends. The work is hard, the tips are crap, and the neighborhood gets rough after dark.”
What a way to sell the job.
She leaned her head to the side and propped it up with her hand, a gesture marking just how much she loved said job. “That said, we pay minimum wage, we have flexible hours for students, and we’re desperate.” She leaned in closer, dropping her arm. I watched to see if her head would fall without the support. “How old are you, Sweetie?”
“Sixteen.”
An ambulance siren blared and squealed around the corner. I jerked, withdrawing from the pseudo-interview (Why is it a pseudo interview?), and stared out window to watch the commotion. (What commotion? What happens?)
Daphne’s cigarette-etched voice rose above the extra noise. “You’re not one of those runaways, are you? ‘Cause I’ll need a parent or guardian’s signature for the work permit.”
Was she implying I was jumpy? Wouldn’t seeing your first black-winged angel make you a little on edge, too, lady? (I’m not sure I understand why the angel with the black wings makes her edgy. Your character knows he’s different but why would she assume he’s bad? Does he have evil eyes? Does he do something to make him appear dangerous?) I steeled myself from looking over at him again, scratching my index finger against my thumb to keep the worry at bay.
“No, not a runaway. Just new to a big city.” I fought against the current of memories old Safford Arizona had afforded me. But that small town held twelve years of them.
Then Mom died. And everything changed.
Daphne pushed off the table and squirmed halfway out of the booth before stopping. “You want the job?”
A strange feeling brushed the back of my neck and my ponytail followed suit. The bell above the door chimed melodically. I checked the counter. The black-winged angel’s seat was empty. Steam still wafted up from the speckled cream and brown mug. I scanned Sutter street, avoiding the could-be-mistaken-for-a-parking-lot bumper-to-bumper traffic from the safe side of the plate-glass window, but there was no sign of him. (This sentence is a mouthful. Perhaps it could be broken up.)
“Depends.” My voice sounded far away. I returned my gaze to Daphne. “Does that guy, the one with the dark—”say hair, not wings, hair “—uh, hair, who was sitting at the counter, stop in often?”
“You mean Kayde? He’s in here two, three times a week. Sometimes more. Usually at night though.”
Kayde. Interesting name.
My heart thrummed against my ribcage and perspiration slicked my palms.
The job I needed. The mystery of the dark-winged angel? That was the bonus (Bonus sounds like a good thing.). Though the last thing I needed was another stop through crazy-town. (Okay, now here she’s not worried, she’s intrigued? Why was she worried before?)
I rubbed my sweaty palms over my dark-washed denim to banish the stress. (Now she’s afraid again?)
“Then you’ve got yourself a new waitress.”
Daphne slid her ordering pad toward me. Her other hand stirred below the table, searching. I noticed a pen stuck through the bun of her thick, spring-loaded silver hair and imagined the other unsanitary places it could’ve been before being lodged there. I freed my own pen from the inside of my plaid jacket and held it up so she could see. (So she’s got a pen in her hair and a pencil that fell I her lap?)
She stopped searching. Thank God. “Jot down the hours you’re available and any previous references.”
Finally, something I could handle without spiraling into an all-out swivet. “Oh, that’s easy. School lets out at three fifteen. I can be here by three thirty and I don’t have any previous references.” Actually, I did, but somehow I didn’t think library apprentice or student gardening instructor at a sanitarium would look great on a resume.
But she (Who is ‘she’? Did you switch POV here?) shouldn’t feel bad. I glanced at Lee two booths back. No one here knew that part of me. And that was the way I intended to keep it.
Daphne’s stubby finger drummed down on the table. Convinced her droopy eyes incredulously peeled back my layers (of?) madness, I bored the toe of my black and white Converse sneaker into the checkered linoleum floor. (Why would she? You don’t make her seem too intelligent enough to suspect. Besides if she did, would she hire her?)
So much for something I could handle.
“Hmm. You’ve got a sweet face. It’s a good face, the kind that’ll bring in more business. Come back in a day or two with all the proper paperwork, including a parent’s signature.” She climbed out of the booth, her joints popping as she stood. Though I had no doubt her bones were as iron-clad as her mouth.
“Great.” My tone settled into honesty.
She shuffled away. My lip curled as I took one last critical look at the uniform. It could be worse. I could be back at the hospital in those itchy white pj’s.
When I returned to our booth, Lee was still consumed by his new brain-draining handheld. (Oh, so you were sitting…)
“So, you get the job?” He asked between clicks.
A second waitress—one with a little too much cleavage for any job other than streetwalker—scooped up the angel’s still-steaming mug on the counter and wiped the area beneath it with a filth-covered gray rag.
“Guess so.” The softness in my voice resembled defeat, but I was too focused to steer it back on course, still drawn to the seat the man with the dark wings inhabited only moments ago.
This isn’t happening. Not again. It couldn’t. It’s a slip, just a slip.
But the only way to find out for sure was to see him again; that dark angel, that Kayde.
“Ray,” Lee said. Dark shadows the shape of wings danced before my eyes. “Earth to Rayna, we’re gonna be late for school.”
I blinked the haziness away, shaking my head for good measure.
Lee snorted his famous laugh, the one that never failed to bring me a smile. I caught a glimpse of myself in the metal napkin holder and regretted ever calling that sad excuse a smile.
“Late, right.” The zippers on my backpack clanked together as I yanked the heavy bag out by its marker-colored purple handle that brought thoughts of my favorite orchids. Lee meticulously wrapped his ear buds, wiped down the tiny screen, and tucked the gadget away in its velvet lined case. The bell above the door chimed as we left.
A forceful fall wind caught my ponytail, plopping it down in tangles over my face. I shrugged my backpack on, easing it into the right spot, and pulled my jacket’s faux-fur hood over my rumpled hair. While smoothing down my bangs, I glared enviously at my friend.
Lee’s spiky, overstyled hair didn’t so much as quiver under the winds. It never did. And the only thing on him resembling a school supply was his newest gadget. “Ready for school again, I see.”
“Y’know, if you used your locker, Ray, you wouldn’t have to keep bringing your books back and forth.”
We dashed across the street on a yellow light, a dangerous feat in San Francisco.
“I know but,” I could see the neon excuse pending sign flicker above my head. “I don’t trust them. I’m used to keeping everything I need with me. Force of habit, I guess.” More like learned necessary instincts of the sick who could be tossed back in for even thinking about angels, let alone seeing them.
Lee popped a piece of peppermint candy from the diner in his mouth. The sucking sound that followed attracted much unwanted attention from a fellow pedestrian. “Your old school didn’t have lockers?” (Why would he assume that?)
While he and I had become fast friends on my first week, Lee never took my evasive hints about the past.
But my best friend was naturally curious, thus, the questions never stopped. So I adapted. I got good at lying. Lying about what I‘d seen and where I’d been.
I tried not to let my thoughts drag me back there, tried not to remember the tiny rooms and inedible food, tried not to relive the inhumane, experimental treatments. But most of all, I tried not to remember how I wound up there. “Yeah, no lockers.”
“Bizarre.” His tone turned Downey-soft as he swung around to watch a woman in a miniskirt on the other side of the street.
I shook my head.
“Ray,” Lee’s voice got half-clipped by the wind.
“Yeah?”
“Mind if I ask why you need a job anyway? I mean, you’re dad’s rich, right?”
My pace slowed. I shrugged, forcing it to look natural, still feeling the tension edge in around my shoulders. “Dad’s got a strong work ethic. He worked his way up the ladder, wants me and Laylah to do the same.” I ignored the pitch change in my voice when I said my little sister’s name. “He’s pretty adamant about it.”
Lee was right about one thing. We’d been well off, years ago, but those days were echoes now. Thanks to my three year stint at the Sunflower Sanitarium. “Dad says he’ll put me through my first year of college, but the rest is on me.”
The peppermint candy crackled as he chewed. “So why the diner? You been a waitress before?”
“No. It’s just a means to an end.” Money for college—if he’d ever agree to let me go—(I don’t get this… two paragraphs ago the dad said he’d put her through college) and an end to seeing things. A necessary end. Working at Roxy’s diner would debunk the dark winged angel’s existence. (Why?) It had to.
My gaze darted around. Is my crazy showing? My throat seized up. Not now. Concentrate. Don’t regress.
As soon as I was able to swallow, the weight on my chest lifted and I correct myself. “It’ll get him off my back and prove I’m adjusting well to the move.” And sanity.
This particular job would show Dad-the-computer-techie-workhorse I was serious, committed to getting better, reintegrating into society.
Lee and I skirted around the corner just in time to hear the bell ring and raced to the middle of the block. I flung open the fingerprint smudged glass door, and trampled up the steps of S.I.—Stratford Independence High School.
“See you at lunch,” I said, half out of breath when Lee saluted me at the second floor and we parted ways. (I would break this into two sentences for clarity. Something like: “See you at lunch,” I said, out of breath. Lee saluted me at the second floor and we parted ways.)
Dad, Laylah, and I were all hoping the move here would make a difference, start us fresh like planting flowers in the Spring. It was working because I planted the seeds early and watered regularly, keeping watch for predators. It was working because I forced it to. Until today.
A strange stillness settled on the third floor, but I pressed forward, the buzz (where does the buzz come from?) from my classroom slashing through the hallway the moment I opened the door.
The usual bodies occupied the twenty or so seats, but the boy standing up in front of the class, rubbing the back of his head was different, new, and what he carried behind him in place of a backpack sent my head reeling.
My stomach contracted to anorexic proportions. (I liked this description)
The faint, gray light shining in through the windows illuminated the sparkle coming off his eight-foot wingspan. (Why don’t the wings hit people? Ah, so many questions!)

My Top Ten TV Shows

Note: I usually reserve Mondays for my Chapter Critique but because today is Alex's blogfest, I'm postponing it until tomorrow.

Alex Cavanaugh is hosting a TV BLOGFEST and we're suppose to pick our top ten TV shows. It was hard but I think I narrowed it down. I love a variety of shows so I thought I would choose my favorites from each group.

1) Comedy - THE OFFICE US  - This one was difficult because there are so many funny shows out there: Faulty Towers, The Office - UK and US, The IT Crowd, Corner Gas (Canadian Show), Chuck. But ultimately, with Micheal's craziness and Jim and Pam...I had to go with The Office US.

The Office and Silent Witness UK

2) Mystery - SILENT WITNESS - I would have to say, of all categories, this one is the one I watch 90% of the time so narrowing it down was also difficult. Cracker, Wire in the Blood, Prime Suspect, Blue Murder. Silent Witness is gritty, disturbing, full of dead bodies and blood. A crime writer's dream.
3) Reality - THE AMAZING RACE - What's not to like. People get smacked in the head with watermelons, travel the world, eat bugs...

4) Crime - NCIS - Cold Case, Law & Order UK, Law & Order US (All Series), Bones. I write mysteries but I'm a real fan of love and I happen to love TIVA!
5) Other - TOP GEAR - I didn't know what category to place this one so I put it in others but I have seen every episode of every *New* series (Fifteen or so seasons (series)). My favorite? South America Special! Can you say Viagra at 17,000 feet?

6) Sci-fi -  STARGATE SG1 - Stargate (ALL SERIES), Quantum Leap, Battlestar Galactica. Yes, I'm also a sci-fi fan. I own all seasons of Stargate SG1 and watch them repeatedly. What do you notice about the pics below. I was seriously a sad teenager - I wanted a Jeep, had a Swiss Army knife and used duct tape on everything! "I'm stuck on a glacier with MacGyver!"

7) Teenage Love - MACGYVER - Quantum Leap is a close second with 21 Jump Street trailing close behind. You should read my fan fiction... actually, if you did, it would be classified under comedy.
8) Action - SPOOKS UK - Alias. Yes, the show is still a favorite of mine.

9) Old - I DREAM OF JEANNIE -This too. I still watch the five seasons over and over.
10) New - CASTLE - I don't know why I'm drawn to this one. Perhaps it's because he does what I wish I was doing... who knows. Well, and the chemistry in this TV show is pretty amazing.

How to make a Book Trailer: Part IV - Adding Pizazz!

So far we've discussed adding music, photos and videos. Now we're going to make it look good! We are going to add words and effects.

To add words: You click on the TITLES AND CREDITS link on the left hand side bar or under the EDIT tab on the menu bar at the top. When you do, you'll find this picture below:

There are four options.

• When you want to add a title to your movie, click the first one.
• When you want a title before a picture or video, click the second.
• When you want words to appear on a picture or video, click the third.
• For the end credits, click the fourth.

The first three options will lead you to the picture below. You enter a main heading or set of words in the first box (1) and a sub-heading in the second (2). To change the animation or add effects click the link with (3). To change the font or color of the text, click (4).

When you click (3) the box below opens. There are so many options you can do with the text. Experiment some and find out what fits best with your movie or trailer. 

When you click (4) the box below opens. Here you have the option of changing the font. (1) You can change the font color. (2) You can change the background color. (3) You can change the transparency of the text. Play around until you get what you want.

Now for effects. You can add so many affects not only to your font but to your pictures. You can change a photo or video by right-clicking on the photo you want to change and clicking the star button (EFFECTS). I have made a video of some of the effects below.

Next week, we discuss transitions and publishing your video.