M.L. Barrs's Blog

The holidays always bring to mind those who are no longer here to celebrate with us. I'd like to share something I wrote about my Mom.

Four young girls, the youngest perhaps eleven, the oldest still a teen, fell sobbing at the sight of the twisted, fallen steel. They had walked for days, hungry, scared, hiding in trees as soldiers searched below. The railroad bridge, the only route across the river, hung creaking, its once strong straight lines now contorted into a sagging, misshapen V over the water far below. They could go no further.

Her memory that of a child grown old, Mom told the story of the bridge many times in her later years. It might have been months, or maybe years after the start of the war, that she and her sisters faced the bombed-out skeleton of the bridge.

Mom was just ten when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor in December 1941. Hours later they invaded the Philippines. Days later they took over the city of her birth, Manila, whereher family had lived and prospered for generations. Every aspect of her young life was torn apart,except for the love of her family, and her faith.

As the war went on, Mom’s family had to separate to avoid the fighting, to find shelter, to find food. She and her sisters were sent to stay with relatives in another province and had to cross that bridge.

I remember Mom telling that story when I was a child. Mom used to say they prayed and prayed to God for help, and somehow made it across. I imagined how terrifying it must have been, clinging to jagged, broken metal, trying not to look down as the remains of the railway bridge swayed and creaked and threatened to give way under the weight of their four small bodies.

Growing up, I assumed that was why she was so afraid of heights, a fear I shared without having had anything remotely like her frightening experience.

After the war, Mom met the American soldier she loved for the rest of her life. Dad, the teenaged son of a coalminer, joined the U.S. Army Air Corps and was sent halfway around the world to a place as unlike Logan County, West Virginia as one can find. They went on to have thirteen children. I am the oldest girl, with three brothers before me, a position I often described as the worst possible, but one I wouldn’t change for anything, even if I could.

I left my family when I was fifteen and did not see my mother again until my father’s funeral five years later. Dad died rescuing my four sisters from drowning in a swollen Oklahoma creek. It is the greatest sorrow of my life that he and I never reconciled, that we never spoke as one adult to another, never hugged and said I love you.

The decades that followed were years of joy and heartbreak, of babies and new places, new opportunities, of irrevocable misunderstandings and terrible loss, of grief and healing and growth and new understanding. My Mom and I grew close. We talked and cried and laughed, traveled together and shared meals and family and love.

That is one of the greatest joys of my life.

In recent years, when she talked about the bridge, Mom would simply say that it was a miracle; that they prayed and prayed and the angels must have carried them across, that she had no memory of the physical crossing.

On a few occasions when I was called upon to make a speech, I told the story of my mom and her bridge, as a metaphor for perseverance and strength and accomplishing goals. In my journalistic compulsion for factual storytelling, I would gloss over the part about the angels and miracles, substituting that with the far more mundane statement that somehow those four young girls managed to make it across.

My mom died too soon at the age of eighty-six. I thought we still had many years of sitting in kitchens, of sharing family updates and gossip, of remembering and laughing, of just being together.

But Mom got the flu, and the angels carried her across the bridge to join Dad, and my brother and sister who awaited her. She is deeply missed by those of us still on this side.

My Mother's Bridge was a finalist at the San Francisco Writers Conference contest in the adult non-fiction category.

At dinner recently, a friend said he saw my Instagram post that included a quick clip of the audiobook version of my debut mystery, Parallel Secrets. He had just read that same passage in the physical book. I asked whether it sounded like he pictured it while he read. He said, “Absolutely. She nailed it.”

Kudos to the narrator of Parallel Secrets, Susanna Burney.

My characters lived in my mind for months at a time, so I know how they look, sound, act, and think. I feel a bit possessive of my peeps, so it was, let’s say, interesting to have someone else interpret how they sound to the world.

I used ACX (Amazon-Audible) to produce the audio version. The process was simple. It was easy to find a clear answer to every question I had, including financials. There are three payment options: pay the narrator/producer a pre-agreed-upon rate for each completed hour, split royalties 50-50 (ACX takes 60% of each sale, so I would get 20% per audiobook), or some combination of those two. I decided to use the per-completed-hour option.

I uploaded two pages that included different characters and moods. Twelve people responded with sample readings within two days. Two I liked very much. I sent them a few notes and asked that they audition again. I chose Susanna because her changes were exactly responsive to my observations. We formalized our agreement on ACX.

Because I want my concept of my characters to live on in the world of audio, I sent her a fairly detailed description of how I envisioned the main ones. Here’s a sampling, edited to remove spoilers:

Vicky is 36, a former TV reporter, now manager, so her diction and delivery are clear and strong. She is normally upbeat (at least outwardly) and cheerful, and her speaking style is often brisk and matter of fact. I know you know this, but I dip in and out of her internal thoughts while she’s talking, so it’s important to use your voice to differentiate between her thoughts and her dialogue. She grew up in California.

Pete’s 40, from Colorado, a low-key sweetheart who’s competent and self-assured, with sexy undertones. You’ll find out that he used to sell furniture and can be very persuasive. Good strong voice.

Don the volunteer firefighter—Missouri born and bred. In his late 70s, so a bit of old-man creak in his drawl. He puts on the sweet old guy act but has a darker side.

Sam—diner owner—she is 21 or so, raised in Chicago, guarded, a bit secretive, wise beyond her years.

Liz Ann, middle-aged head librarian. I hope you have fun with her. She’s from Savannah GA but talks very fast.

Once Susanna had fifteen minutes recorded and uploaded, ACX notified me. The 15-minute check-in is to make sure everything’s on track. I made a few comments, and she launched into the rest of the book. We kept in touch about her progress. When she finished, I listened to the entire book while reading it and making notes in a spreadsheet. The recording is broken up by chapters on ACX, so it’s a manageable process. I then sent her a list of changes to make. I included the chapter, page, time in the audio, what I wrote and how she spoke it, along with minor explanations (ex: please put more emphasis on X and less on Y). She made those changes, and I approved the book.

And a bonus: It turns out we live within an hour of each other, so we got together for coffee. It’s fun to talk with someone who’s read my book so carefully, and who talks about the characters like they’re as real to her as they are to me.

Parallel Secrets, the audiobook, is now available on Amazon, Audible, and Apple Books. Susanna and I hope you enjoy it!

I was asked recently how I resolved problems I faced on my Parallel Secrets writing journey. I share some solutions here in hopes they can help another writer along the way.

It pains me to admit that the first draft of my first published book was confusing. Parallel Secrets takes place during two periods of time almost a decade apart, involves almost a dozen characters and as many story lines, and features plenty of dialogue freely mixed in with internal narrative. I hopped from head-to-head, time-to-time, assuming readers would follow along. Surely they’d get what I meant.

My beta readers set me straight. In my experience, paying attention to feedback from direct and knowledgeable beta readers is the best way to identify overall story and structural deficiencies and missed opportunities.

Once I accepted that I needed to restructure, I got to work.

I do all my writing in Word. The program has great tools. I’d used Word for memos and reports for many years. It was a fairly seamless transition to writing a book, once I learned to use Headers and Navigation Panel to form a fluid outline. Those tools allowed me to easily move chapters around and to spot duplications and omissions.

‘Find and Replace’ is another of Word’s most valuable functions. F&R ruthlessly pointed out many, many opportunities to improve my prose.

Parallel Secrets includes a fair amount of people talking while sitting around drinking various beverages—but I was shocked when I ran ‘Find and Replace’ for certain words like nodded, smiled, shrugged, etc. HUNDREDS of repetitions, sometimes multiples on the same page. The words that? Said? Like? Literally thousands of occurrences in my 85k document.

I looked at each one of those individual words and decided whether they were necessary or best for the job. Very often they weren’t. Whenever I could, I changed dialogue tags to actions. “…said Vicky” appeared in my first draft more than twelve hundred times. One pass through the manuscript easily brought that down to under eight hundred. I used the same technique to check timelines, settings, and character development. A search by name allowed me to review every occurrence of every person in the order they appeared. I found consistency errors, but more often found ways to add to character arcs.

This task forced me to examine my manuscript closely and critically, to tighten up parts and expand others. The devil’s in the details, as the saying goes, and fixing a myriad of details created a much stronger foundation on which to build the intricate and satisfying story that is Parallel Secrets.

I was asked recently how I resolved problems I faced on my Parallel Secrets writing journey. I share some solutions here in hopes they can help another writer along the way.

It pains me to admit that the first draft of my first published book was confusing. Parallel Secrets takes place during two periods of time almost a decade apart, involves almost a dozen characters and as many story lines, and features plenty of dialogue freely mixed in with internal narrative. I hopped from head-to-head, time-to-time, assuming readers would follow along. Surely they’d get what I meant.

My beta readers set me straight. In my experience, paying attention to feedback from direct and knowledgeable beta readers is the best way to identify overall story and structural deficiencies and missed opportunities.

Once I accepted that I needed to restructure, I got to work.

I do all my writing in Word. The program has great tools. I’d used Word for memos and reports for many years. It was a fairly seamless transition to writing a book, once I learned to use Headers and Navigation Panel to form a fluid outline. Those tools allowed me to easily move chapters around and to spot duplications and omissions.

‘Find and Replace’ is another of Word’s most valuable functions. F&R ruthlessly pointed out many, many opportunities to improve my prose.

Parallel Secrets includes a fair amount of people talking while sitting around drinking various beverages—but I was shocked when I ran ‘Find and Replace’ for certain words like nodded, smiled, shrugged, etc. HUNDREDS of repetitions, sometimes multiples on the same page. The words that? Said? Like? Literally thousands of occurrences in my 85k document.

I looked at each one of those individual words and decided whether they were necessary or best for the job. Very often they weren’t. Whenever I could, I changed dialogue tags to actions. “…said Vicky” appeared in my first draft more than twelve hundred times. One pass through the manuscript easily brought that down to under eight hundred. I used the same technique to check timelines, settings, and character development. A search by name allowed me to review every occurrence of every person in the order they appeared. I found consistency errors, but more often found ways to add to character arcs.

This task forced me to examine my manuscript closely and critically, to tighten up parts and expand others. The devil’s in the details, as the saying goes, and fixing a myriad of details created a much stronger foundation on which to build the intricate and satisfying story that is Parallel Secrets.

I was struggling recently with some technical difficulties and took a walk to clear my head. It reminded me of a story from my days in TV news....

Winner of the San Francisco Writers Conference 2023 contest, Adult Non-Fiction category.

by ML Barrs

Maybe it was something about attending Mass three times in as many days. That’s a lot of religion for someone who’s not used to it. This Mass drew so many worshippers they almost filled the convention hall. The altar was on a dais and there were candles, incense, and priests in brocaded vestments, but the cavernous space was seriously lacking in stained glass and statues of saints. It felt more like an event than a sacrament.

Mom came up the bleacher steps after receiving communion, looking serene in her long flowery dress and light sweater. She knelt down in front of her seat. No padded risers here. It felt wrong to sit while she knelt, so I got on my knees next to her. When we sat back up she held my hand until the priest said the last blessing and sent us on our way.

Day three of the Catholic Celebration of Family, put on by the Eternal Word Television Network in Birmingham, Alabama. I was about at my fill. After mass Mom tugged me back toward a crowded room packed with booths filled with icons and prayer cards and books. The faint aroma of incense floated amid the bouquet of sweat, perfume, and distinctive smell of cigarette smokers.

Maybe I simply didn’t want to look at any more rosaries and statues. We’d already spent hours doing that. I stopped and pointed. “I think I’ll do that instead.” I might have been even more surprised than she was when I headed toward the arrowed sign that said ‘confession.’  

The line stretched down the hall, so I had plenty of time to question what I was doing, certain that people could tell I didn’t belong with them. There were a few young people, but most looked older than my fifty-plus years. Some held rosaries and read missals. I tried to remember the words I’d learned for my First Confession. I only got as far as, “Forgive me Father, for I have sinned…”

The line moved so slowly I almost jumped out of it a few times, but it would get moving again just then so I stayed. I made lists in my mind of what I would confess. This wasn’t like when I was a kid and most of my sins had to do with fighting with my brothers or complaining about chores. Now there was a lot more ground to cover. When I finally turned the corner I saw people formed two lines to go into two separate rooms. When I was up next whoever was in that room must have done a lot wrong because three people went in and out of the other room while I waited.

When a woman finally came out a man rushed out right after her. He had on a priest’s white collar and black clothes and looked flustered as he said, “Go on in. I’ll be right back.” It was kind of funny. It must be tough, needing to use the restroom while listening to people beg forgiveness for their misdeeds.

I entered the small meeting room, with a chair set up next to a screen. Good. My knees still hurt from kneeling next to Mom. The priest came back, and I got a good look at him. I’d never before seen a priest who heard my confession. He was a regular-looking guy with curly grayish-brown hair, about my age or a little younger. He went around the screen, opened up the little confessional window, and thanked me for waiting.

I said, “No problem,” then added, “I’m not sure whether this is the right time or place, because it’s been 38 years since my last confession.”

He actually chuckled. “Oh, this is definitely the right time and the right place.” 

Oh good, he has a sense of humor. “I don’t remember the words.”

“The words aren’t what’s important,” he said. “What’s important is that you’re here now. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

“It’s been so long I don’t even know where to start.”

“That’s okay. Do you remember the Ten Commandments?” 

“Most of them, I think.”

"We can start there." There was smile in his voice. “I can help if you don’t remember them all.”

“Ok, I’ll just kind of go down the list.” I immediately began re-sorting and editing my mental catalog of wrongdoings, discarding some as relatively insignificant, trying to remember if any of the commandments even applied to others.

“We can start with the big one. I haven’t killed anyone.”

When you have COVID on the day your book comes out, you do a book launch from bed!

The day of my book debut is one I've imagined often....although it's never looked quite like this. But despite being under the weather, I can't help but be grateful more than anything. I hope you enjoy Parallel Secrets as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Sincerely,

ML Barrs

Today’s the Day! Take a chance on my first book. Go on. Surely you’re curious… 

My first book is out tomorrow! My book club recently critiqued my first book, Parallel Secrets.  

These are very forthright readers. One said, "I had trouble imagining Vicky, because all I could see was you—she sounds just like you." Later she said, or maybe (I hope) it was someone else, "I didn't like Vicky at all at first. I did later, but not at first."  

I had to laugh. Even I didn’t much like Vicky at first—she’s rather pushy and tends to take people for granted. But she has a big heart, despite her dark history. She grew on me as she worked to save a little girl. I hope you’ll come to like her as much as I do.

Two Days to Launch! I dipped into my draft of the second book in this series, Parallel Lies: 

“(Vicky) pulled over near the back, where news trucks were parked behind a high fence. Two people walked toward a news truck emblazoned with the station call letters, topped with a microwave dish. The bearded young photographer carried his camera in one hand, tripod on the other shoulder. The young woman wore heels and a blazer, looking exactly like a small-town reporter making crappy money and trying to look nice on TV. Exactly like Vicky when she started in the business fifteen years ago. She toyed with the idea of dropping in, but doubted she knew anyone who still worked at the station. She hadn’t made close friends or even socialized much in the two years she spent there.”