A Day in the Life

Gabriella Herkert

Catnapped and Doggone

How would I describe my typical writing day? Well, first, let’s be clear. Unlike many of my more prolific colleagues (Tim Maleeny, I am talking to you), I don’t “write” every day. I know I should but I never have. I don’t even work on my writing every day by researching or editing or blogging. If you want to see the never take a creative day off schedule, talk to Janet Evanovich. By contrast to her six days a week, nine hours a day commitment, I am the original slacker.

I write as part of my day job. You know the one that pays the bills and keeps my dog in treats? Letters, contracts, memos, endless emails are an all day, every day occurrence. Frequently that extends to what the Europeans call personal time. As Americans, lashed to our Blackberries and via the informational superhighway to our desks, we’ve become the 7-11 work force. As a result, I draft, edit, compose and send email like Slurpees twenty-four hours a day. There’s only so much energy to do that in my tank not to mention the spiking likelihood of carpal tunnel syndrome. So I do not “write” every day. It’s a choice and my personal priorities can be very messed up. Think of me as a bad parent telling you fellow writers to do what I say and not what I do.

There are numerous good reasons to “write” every day. My writing flows better the more often I do it. I’m less likely to have forgotten I’ve already used that clever phrase or revealed that subtle clue if it hasn’t been three weeks since I so much as sat down to my next project. Plus, the characters remain truer to themselves if you visit with them more often. This is true in life, as well. Have you ever noticed? The more real conversations you have with a person, the more you have to say to them? The more time you spend in a character’s voice, the more they have to say. And remarkably, the more ways they have to surprise you. If you’ve got an outline or an idea and you wander away for too long, you are forced to go back to that same starting place to reset yourself when you return to the story. If you are with your characters every day, you don’t rely on that crutch. That’s when they’ll do something interesting like wake up on the wrong side of the bed and let the sarcastic retort slip from their lips or look across the cube at a co-worker and see hot body under that frumpy suit. Imagination is brain sour dough. If you add daily yeast, it grows exponentially. And then you’ve got to clean the refrigerator.

Now that we’ve established that my typical writing day isn’t every day, I should break them down into two categories: a regular writing day and a writing weekend day.

If it’s a work day and a regular writing day, you can be sure that if I haven’t written by 5:00 p.m., it’s not going to happen. Once my butt hits the couch and my hand caresses the remote control, I’m done. You can also be pretty sure that I didn’t write before I left for work at 5:00 a.m. Creativity for me is like hot yoga, my brain and body just aren’t going to play nice at that time of day. Which usually means I’ve carved out some time mid-day to write. As a diet technique, this is highly effective. With my hands on the keyboard, I can’t be eating Oreos. I know this from personal experience plus crumbs embed between the keys and the whole thing is a mess. Ironically, writing in the middle of the day puts fuel in the tank. I’m much more likely to come home and workout for an hour, do a little research, clean up my typos from earlier in the day or even write something else before I assume the vegetative position if I’ve managed to choke out a few lines while others are eating bad cafeteria food.

If it’s a writing weekend day, things are very different. Today is one of those. I wasn’t writing enough and it showed in the final output, not just the deadlines but the actual finished product, so I imposed on one of my writing friends to keep me accountable. It is a thankless job for which I will probably end up killing him in a later book in some ghastly way. But it’s working. Once a month, we set a weekend aside for writing. One day at my house, one day at his. We write for two hours with an alarm set. Then we eat. Then we critique each other’s work. Then we write. We usually add in an hour of exercise in the middle. Sunday comes and we repeat. Today I am working on my blogs because I didn’t have any regular writing days this week. I want to work on my new book (not that I don’t adore chatting with the blog) but I’m holding it out as a present for being diligent today. So tomorrow, Sunday, I shall take the Lord’s Day and break about six commandments on paper. A perfect writing day.

I know lots of writers and everyone has a different approach. Some things that used to work for me don’t any more. Some people have jobs that allow them to expend most of their creative energies on their passionate writing without siphoning them off to take care of business. There are warm up exercises and daily word requirements and master classes. My typical day isn’t even typical for me. The only thing I’ve learned is that if I’m not writing, I need to figure out how to get writing. I need to keep an open mind and a non-judgmental inner voice. And a butt-kicking good friend or two are a must.

Thanks for reading and writing.

Gabi

Writer Interrupted

By Michael

Writing? Who writes anymore? I market, market, market. In the past eight days I’ve driven 2,600 miles and then boarded a pre-dawn flight to Phoenix only to return to Jacksonville on a red eye.

Call me the Fuller Brush Salesman. Call me Willy Loman. I’ll sell you a magazine subscription and swear that it will help put me through college. I’ll sell you a copy of THE BAD KITTY LOUNGE and tell you that the sale will send me to the moon.

But write? I don’t know about that.

This is the predicament of having a new book – which is to say, it’s a good predicament, but a predicament nonetheless. During the marketing road trip in the first weeks after the book comes out, writing takes a backseat (literally if I arrive before a bookstore appearance).

Not that the tour doesn’t have its own pleasures. It’s great to meet readers, great to reconnect with friends. And there are few other places I would rather be than in a bookstore.

But a successful tour leads to only one destination: the writing desk. So, after a few more bookstores, I’ll put fingers to keyboard and try to reconstruct what might look like a typical writing day.

"A noun martini, my good man. Shaken, not stirred ..."

By Shane

Birds chirping.

Faint light leaking around the window shades.

Dawn.

I'm rolling out of my satin sheets, ready to do battle with the forces of Evil that threaten our world as we know it ...

Or I would be if the woman next to me, bejeweled in gold and very little else, wasn't reaching for me, moaning, "Shane, master, darling, you can't leave, I need you so badly ..."

"Later, baby," I say, flipping my fedora end over end and watching it land on her heaving chest. "Gotta go save the world."

"At least it smells like you," she murmurs, clutching my hat to her face and waving goodbye. "Hurry home. We're due at the White House at 6 for cocktails."

"Does the president know to shake them?" I ask.

"I told him."

"Good girl," I say, patting her behind. She purred fetchingly.

Whereupon I slip a Walther PPK into my tuxedo holster, slide through the mansion, and waltz into the garage, where my Aston Martin purrs with horsepower.

"Where to, Sir Gericke?" my chauffeur asks, his flinty British voice echoing off metal so perfectly polished and waxed that each syllable breaks crisp as his starched cuffs.

"My publisher," I say.

"Which one, sir? You have so many . . ."

"Ah, right. Random House. The new owner's flying in from Hong Kong, and I said I'd try to make time to meet him."

"Very good, sir." He opened the door. "Your martini is chilling inside, next to your laptop and research notes. Shaken, not stirred . . ."

Well.

That's how I'd like my writing day to go.

The reality, as you might imagine, is wee different.


I roll out of bed at 8. Cotton sheets, not satin. The babe, who is my wife, and she is a babe, make no mistake, even suffering the likes of me for thirty years, has been at her workplace for hours. I pull on my writing attire--surfer pants, T-shirt, crew socks--and rumble down the stairs for coffee.

Which is cold. She brews it at 6 when she leaves, and these newfangled coffeemakers, unlike the percolators I grew up on, shut themselves off after two hours. Safety first. Me, I'd rather have the occasional kitchen fire than suffer cold coffee. But hey, insurance lawyers.

So, coffee, mug, no-fat cream, microwave, bleh.

Repeat.

Then it's back upstairs, to the spare bedroom that serves as my Bat Cave. I read e-mails, looking for stuff I gotta do NOW. There is none. Everything screams of now-cessity on the Internet these days, but I won't be fooled; most is bullshit, safely ignored.

So I head for a workout. Three days a week at the gym, lifting weights; two days hiking in whatever woods I feel like driving to. Only in movies do novelists live in rambling, charm-ridden homes pouting languidly into forest and lake. Rest of us gotta drive. Herb Alpert and Black Sabbath on the iPod, please ...

Exercise finished, I head to Grandma Sally's for breakfast. I've always longed to eat at a place regularly enough to have a usual. As in, "The usual, hon?" Grandma's is it. My usual: Denver omelette with EggBeaters; side of low-cal cottage cheese; side of pancakes with sugar-free syrup. Used to be full-fat everything. I used to be young. I devour a couple newspapers. They aren't what they used to be. Too much celebrity vomitus. But I used to be a newsman, and still read them religiously. Spill coffee on the funnies. Drip syrup on the editorials. Doesn't matter. It's newsprint, not a Kindle.

Head back home in my ten-year-old Civic. No Jeeves, drive myself. Reheat more coffee--fuckin' pot went cold again--wander back into the Bat Cave.

Where I write the day's words.

I don't have a set amount. Some authors insist on a thousand words a day, or five thousand, or three hundred. Others say, "Three hours in the saddle or I've failed." Me, as long as I write something most every day--emphasis on "most"; some days I just don't, needing to concentrate on ThrillerFest, blogging, marketing, or the hundred-and-one other things that Modern Authors are obliged to do besides write. Or, I cut the grass. Fix the sink. Go to the gun range and shoot paper zombies. Physical movement unrusts my brain, which spurs my writing, so it all comes full circle into the words.

But at this moment, I'm BISCW. (Butt In Swivel Chair Writing. My acronym. Pronounced "Bisquick," like the pancake batter, bringing the words full circle back to Grandma's; side of bacon, hon? No, thanks, I mus'n't ...) I'll type madly for an hour, which turns into four, which sometimes turns to all day. (Rarely, though. Too many hours at one time, my back aches like granny's bunions.) Mostly, the time is productive. Sometimes, it's like that famous writer--Oscar Wilde?--said about his writing day: "This morning, I put in a comma. This afternoon, I took it out."

I rewrite as I go, so the scene might be redone a dozen times before I think it's polished enough to leave alone for awhile. Then, it's on to the next scene. I write chronologically, Pages 1 to 415. (I tried 515 once, but my editor got fumey; those extra words needed pages to put them on, bucko, and that costs a truckload of money. So I cut back.) I think in scenes and keep a bunch fully formed in my head, like little movies on freeze-frame. But I don't write them until it's time chronologically. Don't know why; it just is. I don't worry about forgetting them. If they don't stay in my head like a neural Post-It, they're too weak for the book anyway, and good riddance.

When the manuscript is finished, I make a printout and stuff it in a drawer with the Kleenex box and spare mouse batteries. Why? Well, if I proofread it immediately after the first draft, I'd think, "Why, that's a darn fine job, chum, how could I change anything?" Let it sit a few weeks, and the potholes, warts and butt-uglies jump me like so many vampires loosed from their coffins.

Which is the opening bell for the rewrite(s) process.

I'll redraft a book three or four times before I'm satisfied. Then I e-mail it, and my editor points out the stuff that works, and doesn't. I beam at the what-works. I grimace at the doesn't. But she's got an excellent ear for this stuff, so I do the redrafting without complaining. My name's on the book, so I'll get the praise for the miracle that is partly my editor's sharp eyeballs. Thus, it'd be stupid to turn down her sage advice. And, I want the rest of my advance. Publishers hold them like bank hostages to ensure Darn Good Cooperation.

We're supposed to write better with each book. Fortunately, that seems to hold true for me. I'll never be perfect, because perfection doesn't exist, except maybe in a John Sandford book. But "better" is obtainable with hard work and sound advice. Case in point: My editor loved the first half of my debut, Blown Away, but thought the second half sucked dead mice. Lots o'rewriting on that puppy. My second book, Cut to the Bone, brought the comment that the premise was divine but the crime I chose to wrap the premise around was a four-letter word--dull--so could I pretty please find a better crime? She was right, and I did. Fair amount of rewriting on that one, but much less than the debut.

My upcoming book, Torn Apart, is the first that's entirely mine. I e-mailed the manuscript, immediately figured out eight major ways it could be better (why oh why can't I think of that stuff before hitting Send, right?), and suggested all the edits before she could find them. She agreed with my assessment, I got to work, she accepted it as final draft. So this book, for better or worse, is me without an editor's parachute.

I can't wait to see what you think on July 6, when it goes on sale at a favorite bookstore near you! (In the business, that's known as SSP, or Shameless Self-Promotion. Become familiar with that term, as you will probably see it again as July 6 draws near. I need the sales.)

Oh, and then I'm done writing for the day, and so I answer the e-mails and update Facebook and recruit literary agents for ThrillerFest and worry that I haven't talked to my sisters for much too long but God there's just no time and then The Babe comes home from work, and we eat dinner in front of Law & Order cause we love the show even though we've seen every rerun a thousand million damn times, then clean up, then hit the hay, then before you know it, I'm rolling out of bed at 8 o'clock. Time to make the doughnuts ...

Shaken, not stirred.

Shane Gericke would love you to join him in New York this summer for ThrillerFest V, as (a) it'd be fun to see you, and (b) he's this year's chairman and his peers will tease him unmercifully if he fails to break last year's attendance record. So take pity on his poor soul and check it out at www.ThrillerFest.org. He also invites you to visit www.ShaneGericke.com. He paid a lot of money to make his new site spiffy and bright, and it'd be a shame if you didn't come check out the drapes and furniture.

Written on the Wind

By Kelli

Writing is the sweet science of words on the page instead of dancing in the ring. It beckons always, sometimes just beyond your reach or your ability to capture the fleeting images that play out like an old 16mm film, mind's eye, dreaming, awake, early morning or late at night or with a cocktail in a favorite restaurant.

It's magic, it's murder, it's pain and it's ecstasy. And my dream is to be able to do more of it, to be able to wake up and go to my keyboard and let the images and demons and emotions cascade over me like a waterfall and somehow shape themselves into symbols ... pixels on a screen, letters on a page.

Until then ... well, I write in my head. Keep the story going, keep the subconscious open to stimulus, and there's always plenty of that in San Francisco. Riding the bus, walking to work, taking the dog out by the ocean, watching cars drive by, or downtown and the glitter of neon against dirty yellow masonry. I write when I sleep, I write when I dream, I write when I should be concentrating on other things.

When things go badly, a voice tells me to remember what it feels like, to use it someday, to translate the agony or the anger and share it.

When things go well, same voice, same direction.

And when things don't go at all ... well, there's an unopened bottle of Old Crow on my desk if writer's block sets in. In case of emergency, break glass. ;)

No day is typical for me, because no day is typical ... and I fight for every bit of writing time I get. Til the bitter end ...

Now, in case you need a good chuckle over the more comedic aspects of writer's block, let me offer Paris When It Sizzles, a charming 1963 farce with William Holden as a screenwriter and Audrey Hepburn as his secretary/muse. I've seen this film more than once--and let's face it, anything with these two, Tony Curtis, Noel Coward and a cameo by Marlene Dietrich simply has to be entertaining. ;) Enjoy!

A normal writing day - is there such a thing?

The crazy thing about writing - at least in my world - is that there is no normal day. There are days when the interruptions are endless and there are days when everything goes smoothly and there are days somewhat in-between.

The days when things are going smoothly are the best of course - you sit down at your desk, a cup of perfectly made coffee in your hand. The birds are chirping outside and the ideas are flowing in a constant stream. On days like this you marvel at how perfect the world is. But these are days of deception because most days are...

The phone rings - problem.
The dog eats something - hope I didn't need that?
Computer crashes - did I back everything up?
Phone rings again - problem number 2.
Coffee tastes like motor oil - but its all I got.
Dog throws up - good thing is: I didn't need what he ate after all, the bad news is: I gotta get a Haz-mat team in here to clean up.
Finally the Haz-mat team leaves - time to get writing. What? It's four pm already. Where did the day go?

But as Vince Lombardi once said - its not how many times you get knocked down - its how many times you get back up. So these are days that make us or break us - these are the days that you have to push through until you get to where you are going.

For me a good day always ends late. Starting is rough. I tend to procrastinate and do all manner of other things. And then, when I finally get going I don't want to stop. As I was finishing the rewrites on Black Sun - which comes out in August - every night of work got later and later. I stopped at midnight and then one am and then two and then three and finally the day I was supposed to send it in I finished at four o'clock in the morning. But for some reason I am just sharper late at night. In the day I'm kind of fuzzy.

So for me a typical day is this: Try to overcome procrastination - take lots of vitamins because I'm eating like crap and stock up on Jolt Cola - anyone remember that? All in all its a lot like cramming for final exams.

Till next time.

Graham

How to Write Like a Me

by Josh

So I’m working on this novel and I come to a point where I get stuck.

(Stop me if you’ve heard this one before.)

Here’s the gist of the scene that’s tripping me up: the protagonist’s wife, Helen, is meeting with a well-respected Muslim architect for a business lunch at an Algerian-American cafe. She needs to get him to agree to build a mock Auschwitz in the Pine Barrens of South Jersey. He doesn’t want to because he finds the idea of replicating an extent structure to be a waste of his artistic talent.

(Like I said, stop me if you’ve heard this one before.)

What was tripping me up about this scene last Saturday was…well…I wasn’t quite sure what was tripping me up, but whatever it was sure did the trick because I couldn’t type one sentence without the words feeling forced and mechanical. Now usually when I get stuck, it means that I haven’t laid enough pipe in the previous scene and so I need to go back to the previous scene and examine what’s missing from it and only then I can move on. I guess it’s the house of cards theory of writing.

And so, I studiously examined the previous scene…and found nothing to be inherently wonky (aside of typical first draft mediocrity). This brought me back to square one, and I hate square one. I hate squares in general. Huey Lewis can suck it.

Regardless, my problem remained, and my writing would be at a standstill until I solved it. But how? I wasn’t even sure what the nature of the problem was (and unlike Gregory House, I don’t believe in reckless experimentation as a means of problem-solving – yeah, you heard me, I said it).

So I did what almost everyone does when confronted with a seemingly insurmountable obstacle: I quit.

Well, OK, not permanently. But I stepped away from my desk and went over to my sister’s apartment (she lives a few blocks from me) and spent some quality time with my fourteen-month-old nephew (who referred to me as either “dork” or “duck” – both accurate). We all went for a nice walk and then I returned to my apartment and I took a brief nap and I woke up and I returned to my computer and I still hadn’t surmounted my barrier but I did remember a tried-and-true way that these mysterious barriers had been surmounted in the past.

I did research.

God, I love research. Don’t you? I think maybe half of the enjoyment I get out of writing is the research I do to prepare for it (even if the research is about Auschwitz and “enjoyment” is the wrong word). I grew up with my head buried in books and now I spend a great deal of time with my head buried in the internet. There’s so much to learn and I am, in anything, a very curious boy. For me, the process has always been Write What You Want to Know.

I delved into articles and recipes on Algerian cuisine (for the cafe scene). This led me to Algerian culture, which led me to the history of the Ottoman Empire, which led me to Turkish immigration, which led me to…well, you get the picture. My point is, before long I was minimizing my internet browser and maximizing my Word document and the scene that had seemed impossible was now being formed.

I hadn’t been able to write it before because I lacked the verisimilitude of its setting. My internal bullshit detector had (thankfully) prevented me from lying on the page. Once I had the details I needed, the scene itself zipped out of my fingers at a brisk 75 WPM (via hunt-and-peck, yo) and before long I was even typing the first few sentences of the next scene (which is an old Hemingway trick – never end a day’s work without first leading into tomorrow’s).

Was this a typical day of writing for me? Well, pretty much. I try to do 1,000 words/24 hrs. and I do most of my writing at night. This has been my routine for years, and circumstances sometimes bounce it around a bit, but overall it has remained the same (with the addition, of course, the appropriate chocolate candy or beverage on hand to goose the imagination if need be).

As a bonus of sorts, I’ve uploaded the seven-page scene here from Saturday's Song that I wrote this past, well, Saturday, so you can see the end result. Bear in mind that it’s very much a first draft but sometimes when discussing matters such as these, it’s good to have illustrations handy...if only for verisimilitude.

Where does the time go?

From CJ

Describe a typical writing day

BREAKING NEWS UPDATE!!!  Our own Rebecca Cantrell has won the Bruce Alexander Memorial Historical Mystery Award at Left Coast Crime for A TRACE OF SMOKE!!!

Congrats, Becky!!!!

Now we have TWO Bruce Alexander award winners among us--Kelli and Becky!  Guess you guys will have to both win next year!

Okay, back to our regularly scheduled blog....A typical writing day in my life:

Oh boy. Another one of those questions that you really don't want to hear my answer. See, the only rule I have about writing is: No Rules, Just Write!

In other words, there is no typical writing day for me.

Some days I don't write. Ah, the heresy! I can smell the smoke from the stake they'll be burning me at!

But, that's how my brain works—I do "think" about my writing every day, every night, and times in between. I need that fermenting time to figure things out. I've learned that if I force myself to "write through it" what comes out isn't terrible (I wish it was, it would make it sooo much easier to slice and dice) but it just isn't "right."

I also don't wear a watch, don't time my writing, don't monitor my page count or word count, and I don't write in order.

I write in scenes—and they could be scenes from anywhere in the book. Usually I can tell if they're from the first act, before or after the midpoint, or if they're from Act Three.

Yet, despite this lack of discipline, I've been told that I'm a fast writer. I guess I am—I've already finished one novel this year (begun in December) and am more than halfway done with the first draft of my next.

Also so far this year, I've edited an anthology with Lee Child (FIRST THRILLS—due out June 22nd and featuring some familiar names from here at 7CM, like myself, Rebecca, and Kelli!), written a new keynote speech, created two new month-long online classes, and three new live workshops.

But all that productivity is because of deadlines—I pride myself in never missing a deadline, so even though I don't keep track of my progress, there's a little ticking bomb inside my brain ensuring that I keep my butt in the chair, working.

Oh, and by the way, I don't have an office or a big desk. I write on my laptop, sitting wherever feels comfy (and wherever I don't have to move a snoring cat out of the way), usually in my rocking chair looking out over a pretty lagoon lined with centuries old magnolias and live oaks.

My one regret is that I have yet to figure out a way to make exercise a can't-miss-routine. I have gotten a small laptop desk that is high enough I can work while standing in the hopes of burning some extra calories while reading email and perusing the web. But to me exercise is just time away from writing.

When the dialogue starts churning through my brain or I figure out a devious plot twist, then even a walk on the beach gets cut short. I've tried taking a handheld recorder with me, but talking it out just isn't the same as writing it out (maybe because I despise the sound of my voice on recorders).

So you guys tell me—how do you make exercise a priority and incorporate it into your writing life? I'd love to hear any secrets you have!

Thanks for reading,
CJ

About CJ:
As a pediatric ER doctor, CJ Lyons has lived the life she writes about in her cutting edge suspense novels. Her debut, LIFELINES (Berkley, March 2008), became a National Bestseller and Publishers Weekly proclaimed it a "breathtakingly fast-paced medical thriller."

The second in the series, WARNING SIGNS, was released January, 2009 and the third, URGENT CARE, October, 2009. Her newest project is as co-author of the first in a new suspense series with Erin Brockovich. To learn more about CJ and her work, go to http://www.cjlyons.net

Does This Cape Make My Butt Look Fat?

Gabriella Herkert
Catnapped and Doggone

Who is my favorite super hero? I suppose that depends on how we define super hero. Yes, it is the quibbling lawyer in me but I am always looking for the linguistic loophole. To me, hero means extraordinary, with a commitment to his friends, his family and his world unmatched by his neighbors. A hero is bold, brilliant and sincerely modest about it. He's humble and hilarious. Heroes are magic.

If we’re talking old school – capes and super powers, I’ve got to go with my “man” Underdog. He came the farthest. Clark Kent spent his days as a reporter, chasing stories and making a real living, working in a job where his boss wasn’t too concerned about his current whereabouts and where Clark always knew he’d make the rent. Ditto, Bruce Wayne who was rich and eccentric with a butler to cover for him. Underdog was a working class super hero. As Shoeshine Boy, he wasn’t breaking the bank with his take home and probably didn’t have benefits. No matter how much time he spent saving the day, he was still going to have to put in some hours on his knees buffing and shining or there wasn’t going to be any kibble on the table that night.

Underdog had a better lover interest. Peter Parker is dating an actress. We all know how flaky they can be. Then there are the female super heroes and their bad dating choices. Wonder Woman hooks up with Steve Trevor played by Lyle Waggoner of all people. This is a guy who laughed so hard at Tim Conway’s antics on the Carol Burnett show he couldn’t actually deliver his lines. Is this the man for WW or should she try match.com. Then, there’s Jeannie from I Dream of fame. Is anyone buying J.R. Ewing as a successful astronaut? Working for the brilliant minds of NASA who don’t see anything the least bit odd about a relationship between one of their own and a harem pant wearing blinking blonde who refers to her boyfriend as “master?” Underdog undertakes his daring deeds for Sweet Polly Purebred. Sweet and pure, now there’s a reason for a dog to get up in the morning.

Finally, there are the villains. Batman can’t take a Penguin? Superman is felled by a rock that doesn’t even have to hit him in the head? These baddies are mere cartoons compared to the likes of Simon Bar Sinister or Riff Raff. Underdog’s nemeses are genuine mutts. And on style points, Underdog takes it going away. He challenges in rhyme! He’s got all the real talent of both G.I. Joe and Dr. Seuss. Plus, he can fly and is a snappy dresser. Un-der-dog! Un-der-dog!

Of course, there are super heroes made of flesh and blood. Teenager William Kamkwamba brought electricity, education and hope to his entire village by building a windmill he made from trash using a design he found in a library book written in a language he couldn’t read. Muhammed Yunus practically invented the microloan and offered an escape from poverty to thousands one hundred dollars at a time without ever losing his initial investment. There’s also Norman Borlaug who found a way to raise dwarf wheat which wouldn’t collapse under its own weight during the rainy season in India and Pakistan, two countries with, at that time, some of the world’s highest rates of child mortality due to malnutrition. The number of lives he saved is unquantifiable. When these people released damsels in distress tied to train tracks, they stayed free. They stayed alive. They lived to fight another day for themselves. Some of them got the chance to pass on what gifts they’d been given. They may not have Saturday morning cartoons dedicated to them, but Underdog would welcome them into the pack at any time.

Thanks for reading.

Gabi

A Superhero for Writers

Having a small boy in my house means that I have become an expert on superheroes. I can recite Wolverine’s biography (to sum up: he had a troubled childhood) and tell you what happens when Spiderman dons that crazy black suit. In the comic books, there’s so much anxiety about the nuclear age, and a world ridden with crime that the stories often feel a bit dated. They don’t really touch on fears of terrorism or earthquakes or tsunamis (yet). I am impatiently looking forward to the day when he can read his own darn comic books, though, and I can once again return to my ignorant state about the world of Gotham. I honestly prefer reading mysteries.

I was never a big superhero fan. Quite frankly, most of the female superheroes come of as pandering after thoughts to the males (Spiderman/Spider woman, Batman/Batgirl, etc.). I wasn’t fooled for a minute. I got my fantasy heroes in my childhood mostly from fairytales and Ursula LeGuin.

But there is one superhero I’m tremendously fond of these days. You might not know about her, unless you watch PBS Kids on a regular basis. Her name is Word Girl. She is a smart-mouthed kid who yells “word up!” as she takes to the sky. She battles super villains using her impressive vocabulary, and with help from her sidekick, a monkey named Captain Huggy Face, who eats everything. Her parents, of course, have no idea that their daughter Becky is a superhero. My son loves the show, and doesn’t even seem to notice that he’s learning something when he watches.

The actual show is charming, but that’s not why I like Word Girl. I like her because I think of her as the patron superhero for all writers. Stuck in some paragraph where you can’t find the right word? Call Word Girl! She’ll rush to the rescue and provide just the word you were looking for—and your novel is magically written! Hurrah! She will magically end writer’s block, sluggish plot twists, and abrupt unsatisfying endings. And she will also keep the streets safe for writers so engrossed in their own stories that they don’t notice cars, asteroids or muggers.

Isn’t it time we had our own superhero?

"Speed of lightning, ball of thunder ..."

By Titanium (aka, Shane)

My very first superheroes were the Metal Men.

They hailed from the 1960s comic books of the same name. I used to read them huddled in my tiny bedroom closet with a flashlight, cause comics came alive when surrounded by pitch darkness.

They were a buncha shapeshifting robot-men forged from metal--according to Wikipedia, the team consisted of field leader Gold, strong man Iron, slow-witted and loyal Lead, self-doubting and insecure Tin, hot-headed Mercury, and Platinum, or Tina, who thought she was a real woman rather than a robot and was, in a Pygmalion twist, in love with fictional (and the only human on the team) Metal Men "creator" Doc Magnus. (Big surprise there, huh? Many women in the 1960s weren't allowed their independence, for real or in most entertainments, including comics.) The Metal (Wo)Men wore their chemical names on their tights--how nerdy-cool is that?--and ran around the universe kicking ass to solve the latest Crisis That Could Doom Humanity. What's not to like? I did, and I read every installment as if it were gold. (So to speak.) The Metal Men could have remained my favorite superheroes of all time ...

Then we got a television.

And I met Underdog.

"Speed of lightning, ball of thunder, fighting all who rob and plunder, Underdog, ohhhhhh, Underdog ... Underdog!"

Undie was a cartoon dog of mixed parentage--i.e., an all-American mutt--who wore a red-white-and-blue cape and tights with a U on the chest. He flew around fighting bad guys as if a canine Superman. (And if a viewer was too dense to get the joke, Undie dashed into phone booths to change when he heard the call to action.) He fought villians like King Kup, ruler of the Flying Sorcerers, who needed a baking slave because his own cakes were so bad, and therefore sets his eyes on Earth and TV personality Sweet Polly Purebred, who is Underdog's gal pal:



OK, so the writing wasn't exactly Playhouse 90. Or even Captain Kangaroo. But there was that great theme song, which was even better than Mighty Mouse's:



And when he got tired, Underdog popped a big-ass "super energy pill" he kept hidden inside his ring. Talk about your sly drug references!

Another cartoon superhero I liked was George of the Jungle. A takeoff on the Tarzan shows, it had one of the hippest theme songs ever, with that monkey jumping on the kettle drums. Particularly cool was the dropping of Yiddish phrases throughout. I didn't catch them at the time, but as an adult, I think it's hilarious:



"... and away he'll schlep on his elephant Shep ..."

For the uninitated, schlep is Yiddish for a boring or stupid person, though these days, it means more of a loping along clumsily, as in, "Oy, Herman, schlep your tired self over to the store for lox." In another episode, the bad guy is named Nudnick (Yiddish for a pest or boring, annoying person). The hidden-in-plain-view language makes cartoons fun to watch when you're grown-up enough to figure out the jokes!

Superheroes today just aren't as cool as these guys. They don't wear their hearts on their sleeves.

Or their names on their chests.

Shane Gericke's newest thriller, TORN APART, launches worldwide July 6. Please visit him at his radically cool new website, www.ShaneGericke.com. Well, Shane thinks it's radically cool, anyway. Maybe he's just a schlepper.

Noir in a Cape

By Kelli

Confession time. I am a comic book geek. No, I mean really. Look at the facts:

I owned a comic book store for almost ten years.
I was an Overstreet Guide advisor (the bible of the industry).
I combined comic book and cultural history and Classics in many an academic presentation, and wrote a very well received scholarly journal article on Wonder Woman (and how her image reflects American society's attitude toward women from the 40s through the 90s) that is actually cited occasionally (validation!)
I own a huge comic book collection--including every issue of Detective Comics from 1959 to 1989.
Our store was actually in an issue of Batman, thus making me part of the DC universe.
And ... here's the clincher. I can name the Legion of Super-Pets.

Convinced?

OK.

So I'm not going to go on and on with this post ... for one thing, only fellow geeks would enjoy it, and for another, I'm fighting (and losing to) a cold, and I have to fly tomorrow and be ready to rumble and read at a signing at the legendary Book Soup in Los Angeles tomorrow evening ... so my time and energy is limited. But--now that my geekiness has been confirmed--you know you won't hear the last about superheroes from this corner.

So, who's the favorite? Batman, of course. I grew up with Batman, watched the TV show, and (according to my mom) used to run around with a towel around my neck pretending to be Batgirl. But the Batman that I knew best--the one that "turned" me, so to speak--was the Batman of the '70s, a true dark night detective. Why?

Well, during the "bronze age", as it's known--days of 20 cent comics or 50 cent 100 Page Super Spectaculars--comics were forging ahead into adult themes. The 70s was a generally pessimistic era, but one of social consciousness and a lot of psychic and paranormal emphasis. Batman was returned to his 30s gangster roots during the decade, a figure born of tragedy and personal pain, who decided to get revenge ... and then decided to try to harness the rage and power for the benefit of other innocent victims.

Nowhere is this more clear than in a seminal story (and still my vote for best Batman tale ever) called "The Night of the Stalker." These ten or so pages made me a Batman fan for life, because I understood the sense of fury and loss and frustration and anger and obsession--all the noir underpinnings, in fact--that drove Batman to become Batman. I still clearly remember the day I read it--when I was nine years old.

There have been other heroes and heroines, of course. I am a DC girl, and only flirted with Marvel's darker titles (like Tomb of Dracula). But DC, during this time, was reprinting golden age stories from the 40s to fill out those 100 pages for 50 cents ... so I became acquainted with Dr. Fate and the Spectre, two dark and supernatural Golden Age heroes, and The Black Canary, who was a femme fatale crime fighter, right down to her fishnets and blonde wig.

I also eagerly followed the adventures of psychic Madame Xanadu, created in the 70s, and illustrated by the great Michael Kaluta, and the cool and mysterious Phantom Stranger. And really, I liked 'em all, from Green Arrow to Green Lantern to Superman's extended family.

But Batman ... I understood him. He was a totem, a symbol, a sacred representation of something very dark and very powerful.

And he still is.

Batman is noir in a cape ... and the most vulnerably human of the twentieth century myths we call superheroes.

Plus, let's face it ... who doesn't want a batcave??

I'm heading south tomorrow with some of my fellow Criminal Minds ... and hope to meet any CM readers at Left Coast Crime!

No Flash and Little Hope - My Kind of Hero

by Sophie

SUPERHEROES

Superheroes' appeal generally eludes me. Not only are they far too flashy for my taste when in character, but they are just too public. Yes, I know that many of them in their heart of hearts are lonely seekers,but their deeds are generally performed amidst or above crowds - screaming needful unwieldy crowds.

Sidebar: have I ever told you how I feel about crowds? No? Crowds make me want to take a vegetable peeler and remove my own skin in strips. Crowds make me want to dig a hole in the floor and disappear. If you don't have a crowd issue, let me educate you; it's not about any person in particular; in fact it could be all your favorite people in the world assembled in one spot. The problem is that they are all assembled in one spot. Now if you have seen me in a crowded bar you will protest that I seem to be doing just fine. Yeah...that's because it's a bar. Nah, just kidding. I'm working on the crowd thing...

Anyway, when it comes to heroes I prefer one like Richard Fell in the comic book series written by Warren Ellis and illustrated by Ben Templesmith.

Richard Fell is a homicide detective in the city of Snowtown, a blight of a place inhabited by the desperate and the twisted. The Snowtown police department is a ruin within a ruin, understaffed, indifferent, underfunded, callous, mean. But Fell tackles the job anyway, and from issue one bumps up against crimes so heartless that you feel Snowtown's despair leeching off the pages into your own soul.

There are no Jokers here. No femmes fatales, no boyish sidekicks. No character actors of the underworld, just the feral and hungry and vicious - and their crimes are hardcore, ugly things. As drawn by Templesmith, the victims leave a lot of doubt as to whether they are already past salvation, but that never takes away from the imperative to act - and act Fell does.

There is something haunting and beautiful about the artwork, and I'm sure that is part of the appeal this series holds for me. It almost wavers on the page, details of faces and scenes lost in inked smudges. There is no other comic art like it, that I am aware of.

But the best part of the series is the writing. It's minimal even for a format known for minimalism. Ellis communicates entire stories in the words he leaves out, and I appreciate that - it's a near-impossible trick.

Oh. And there's an evil nun. A mysterious evil nun. C'mon, how can you beat that??

*** OOPS I made a serious omission - I forgot to credit Keiran Shea for turning me on to FELL, *and* for giving me his old issues of lots of comics, thereby establishing my entire comic education. Keiran is awesome. ***

The Tick

by Rebecca Cantrell



My favorite superhero?


The Tick.

Du-dwee-du-du-du-dwee-dou. The theme song still plays in my head.Hands down. For those of you who aren’t familiar with him, The Tick was a cartoon that ran on Saturday mornings on Fox in the 90s. Even though I was a grownup by then (I owned my own car, house, and cat), I still got up at the ungodly hour of nine (or maybe it was ten) to watch it. Later, I would have a child and never sleep in past seven for ten years and counting. But back then getting up at nine (or ten) on a weekend was a big deal.

The Tick is nigh invulnerable. He wears a giant blue suit with antenna on his head that cannot be chainsawed off. And his sidekick is a former accountant named Arthur who found a supersuit at a garage sale and flies around like a moth (but everyone calls him a bunny). Arthur worries about their damage deposit when the Molemen tunnel in through the basement and trash the apartment. He does complex math problems in his head. And he does his own taxes.

Together they battle evildoers. Nobody is ever killed, although Thrackazog does get sent back to Dimension X via a process that sounds fairly unpleasant. But that’s what you get if you try to conquer earth by cloning The Tick from his mucus.

Why do I love The Tick? Because he’s gentle. Nobody is killed or even hurt. The Tick protects puppies (OK, it was a capybara, but how was he to know?), babies (OK, it was the evil Mr. Mental), and citizens everywhere. Why else? Because he’s funny. Where else can you get a line like this one from The Terror to his son (who is doing evil deeds just to spend time with his father): “You want to impress me? Do something bad. Not badly.”

I just don’t think we hear enough adverb jokes in superhero shows…

Hope to see you all at Left Coast Crime!

Is there a Doctor in the house?

When I first learned this week’s topic would be favorite superheroes, I thought it would be a huge amount of fun. As I began running through my list of faves, I quickly discovered a few disturbing facts:

1. Choosing a favorite superhero is much tougher than it sounds.

2. I qualify as a major geek because I can name far too many superheroes, and in most cases, I possess more than just a passing amount knowledge regarding their histories.

3. I don’t like a lot of the superheroes I can name. In fact, I tend to identify with super villains more than heroes. Let’s face it –- the bad guys are having all the fun. (Watch the late Heath Ledger’s performance in The Dark Knight if you want a prime example of someone who’s having way too much fun being evil.)

Despite my revelations, I was able to narrow the field. My first thought was Ghost Rider. Flaming skulls, motorcycles, pacts with the Devil, vengeful spirits…yeah, Ghost Rider hits many of my geeky buttons. My second choice was Buffy Summers, the plucky vampire slayer who first appeared as the title character (played by Kristy Swanson) in a comedic horror film in 1992. She later grew to a complex kick-ass heroine capable of taking down the meanest big nasty the Sunnydale Hellmouth could spew forth. Oh, yes, I’m a proud Buffy fan.

However, there is really and truly only one hero who rules my geeky heart of hearts. A lone traveler from the distant world of Gallifrey. A Time Lord with a passion for scarves and Converse sneakers. His weapons of choice are quick wits and a sonic screwdriver. And he never goes anywhere without his TARDIS.* Literally.

That man is The Doctor.

Doctor Who?

Yes, that’s him.

No, doctor who?

He’s just The Doctor.

Actually, there have been eleven Doctors. (The photo at the right shows only the first ten.) As a Time Lord, he has the ability to regenerate when near death. (It’s also why the television series has been one of the most beloved of sci-fi fans since the show first appeared in Britain in 1963. A new Doctor is introduced every few seasons to keep things interesting.) As a Time Lord, The Doctor has a unique vision of the universe. He sees infinite time and possibilities. Fixed points in time, such as the undying Captain Jack Harkness, are anathema to him and he will avoid them. (Captain Jack is a whole story unto himself and one I adore. I recommend checking out the Torchwood series for more info.)

The Doctor is known for saving the day “in the nick of time” and has a list of enemies that would stretch from Earth to Gallifrey itself, if Gallifrey hadn’t been destroyed in the Time Wars with the Daleks. Other notable foes include The Master (an evil Time Lord), Cybermen, and Sontarans.

In his two hearts, The Doctor is an explorer but when he sees a wrong, he will do what he can to set it. This is certainly one of the main reasons I enjoy watching the show. Another is that The Doctor rarely resorts to violence and killing isn’t something he does lightly or without intense regret. A point of view I find often lacking in other “superheroes.”

If you aren’t familiar with the Doctor Who series, I highly recommend you do acquaint yourself with it soon. It’s sort of like Sherlock Holmes in space. Each episode usually begins with a mystery, involve quirky humor, adventure –- and The Doctor, the good guy, is the one having all the fun for a change.

*TARDIS = Time And Relative Dimensions In Space. Seen in the form of a blue police box, the TARDIS is larger on the inside than outside and is the primary mode of transportation for The Doctor and his companions.