On Passing Down What We Have Learned So Far

By Mary Osborne

A number of years ago, when I was writing book one of my Alchemy Series, a friend gave me an unusual gift—a decorative key.  Composed of Venetian glass spun with gold, the key is embellished with crystals and metallic floral filigree.  As my friend presented me with this magical object, he explained that it symbolized my success in having integrated writing into my busy life as a mother and nurse. My friend is an author who had provided me with valuable guidance when I was working on my book project; he knew that I was not just talking about writing, I was doing it.  I had discovered the key to following my bliss. 

Years earlier, this same key was given to my friend by a female writer, who presented it to him in recognition of his ability to do the same—to live as a productive artist and author.  After I gently returned the key to its silk-lined box, my friend told me that I could keep the gift for as long as I wanted.  But eventually, I was supposed to pass it along to someone else who was coming up the ranks and discovering the secret to living an artist’s life.

That was more than five years ago, but the key still sits in my dresser, tucked inside the black box.  Why haven’t I passed along the gift?  Every now and then I would come across the box, take out the key, admire it, and consider possible recipients.  But then I would return the box to the dresser and forget about it again.   I was caught up in my own struggles, always in the midst of a project which needed my urgent attention.  And there was no one I had really guided along the artist’s path for a length of time, as my friend had guided me.  

I confess that I am now, officially, a middle aged woman, and I have achieved some success along with the failures.  There is still much to learn, but I know a few things about writing and publishing.  Like many women my age, I am trying to juggle multiple jobs (as a nurse, author, and landlord) while raising a child.  There is never enough time, which is why I am writing this post at 11:30 pm.  The truth is that I will probably never feel “caught up” with work, at least not for a long time.  There will never be a perfect time, perhaps, to be a mentor.

But if all of us who have succeeded in our careers are too busy to teach the next generation, our life lessons will die with us.  One study showed that 77% of women felt that it was difficult to find a mentor in their workplace.  (Kelley M. Butler, Wooing women:  Today’s working women seek mentors, motherhood transition)  Men, who often have less to juggle than women, have been cultivating the art of mentorship for a long time, and this is a skill women now need to develop.  In order for younger women to move into positions of leadership and to expand their voice and influence in the world, they need the guidance of those who have come before them.  They need favors, they need questions answered.  It is our turn to pass it on.

This summer I’ve had the opportunity to work with teens at various Chicago Public Library locations.  During these events, I discuss my new novel, Nonna’s Book of Mysteries, and encourage participants to dream and explore their life goals. Each teen receives a paper scroll which she decorates with sparkles and feathers, and she writes her goal in the center of the scroll.  While we are working on these projects, one of the teens invariably ask me about the process of becoming a published author.  I’m always happy to offer some encouraging words.  At the end of the program, I often feel as though I’m the one who has received a gift.  Sharing what you know has a way of making the struggle all the more worthwhile.

All of us women over forty have a wealth of knowledge and experience to share.  I know we’re all busy and sometimes still struggling ourselves.  When someone asks us for advice, guidance, or help of some kind, it’s tempting to say we just can’t at the moment.  But if we can manage to take just a little time to pass on our hard-won wisdom, we get an amazing gift in return:  the knowledge that we have contributed to someone’s future.  And this person might continue on to accomplish something we had never foreseen.  In this way, we become part of something bigger than ourselves.

The key of Venetian glass still sits in my dresser.  Out in the world, there are young writers with strong visions and the determination to express themselves and publish books. One of them will receive the key, and I hope her success and influence far exceeds mine.  As the heroine of Nonna’s Book of Mysteries is told by her dear friend, “We all stand on the shoulders of those who came before us.”

Mary Osborne is the award-winning author of Nonna’s Book of Mysteries (Lake Street Press, June 2010) and the forthcoming Alchemy’s Daughter.  A registered nurse, teen advocate, and artist, she lives in Chicago.  

Interviewing Victims Of Crime

By Diane Fanning, Guest Writer

As a true crime writer, I am often asked if I feel fear, apprehension or anxiety when interviewing a murderer or travelling to a remote site where a killer left a body or going into a less than optimal neighborhood in search of an interview subject.  The short answer is: Yes, of course, I am.

However, my reaction to those situations pale in comparison to the intensity of my nervousness I feel when doing another aspect of my work—talking to the family members and friends of the deceased.  The first telephone conversation or face-to-face meeting churns acid in my stomach and makes my hands shake.

I am not afraid of these people but I am fearful that I might say the wrong thing or display the wrong reaction and, without intending to do so, cause a surviving loved one additional pain.  When I meet the victim’s family members and close friends, they are experiencing the worst time in their whole lives.  The world has turned upside down.  They are shattered by grief, desperate for justice and fearful of the emotional price a trial will exact or depleted by the one they just survived.  Their pain is palpable and infectious.

At times, I have been known to cry along with them.  At other times, I’ve sat silent and listened as they ranted about the perpetrator, the crime and the agony of the judicial process.  Some have told me later that being able to share their sorrow and anger with someone not directly involved in their tragedy eased some of the oppressive burden. 

There have been a few along the way, who refused to talk to me or set up conditions that made it impossible because their demands crossed my ethical boundaries or financial limitations.  Although I could readily understand their reluctance, it always broke my heart because I knew that I had failed to reassure them.

One of the reasons I write true crime books is because the most important person in any of these stories is the victim.  I believe that any time we lose a life to a senseless act of violence; it impacts all of us even when it is a stranger.  Those closest to the deceased person feel the loss most keenly but the pain ripples out to the community and beyond to all of us who value life.

When my readers pick up one of my books, I want them to see the victim as a real person—as someone who deserved to live their life to the fullest.  Only family and friends can supply me with the anecdotes and the information about personality that enable me to shape a portrait of their deceased loved one and thus, allow my readers to understand the magnitude of the loss suffered by this crime.

I have found through the years that the people who shared their memories and thoughts with me are grateful that they did.  I’ve received many notes and emails thanking me for remembering their loved one in my book.  Some of these people continue to maintain contact, years after publication.

The more in-depth information I can gather, the better job I do.  When I wrote GONE FOREVER, I had an amazing treasure chest of information about Susan McFarland—access to her personal journal, a sibling’s perspective on her childhood and the memories of friends throughout her life.  I felt a strong emotional connection to her.  I wrote about this feeling in the Afterword of the book:

One morning while driving up Interstate Highway 35 to Austin, Susan McFarland became so real to me that I thought about how much more I would enjoy the ride if she were sitting beside me sharing stories and passing the time together.  Then the realization struck—I would never be able to meet her.  I would never bump into her in Central market.  I would never laugh with her over lunch.  I would never hear the sound of her voice or see the sunny glow of her smile.

At that moment, I was hit by a sense of loss so visceral; it took my breath away and formed pools of water in my eyes.  The light of a life-enriching personality was snuffed out, never to brighten anyone’s day again.   Gone forever—all because of the violent selfishness of one man.

To this day, I think of Susan when I enter the dark recesses of a crime—talking to killers, looking at crime scene photos, reading autopsy reports.  She is my bridge to surviving family and friends, one that allows me to glimpse the inner strength and determination that many of them possess.  She reminds me that her story has the potential to save the lives of other women.  I owe her a debt of gratitude that I can never repay.  

God bless you, Susan McFarland.






Diane Fanning is the author of several true crime and mystery books, including "Mommy's Little Girl," the story of the Caylee Anthony case.  She is also a contributor to the blog, Women In Crime Ink.