Criminal Minds

I Said Oh, Oh, Domino

2012-01-28T05:35:00.000-08:00

To paraphrase Henry Hill in Goodfellas, “As far back as I can remember, I wanted to be a domino player.”

When I was a kid and I’d go with my dad over to his cousin’s house to visit the relatives originally from Kansas City and big foot country, Seguin, Texas, the men at some point would depart to what would be termed a Man Cave today, a room off the garage really, to play bones – dominoes that is. Us kids weren’t allowed back there unless one of the wimmin’ folk had a message for one of us to deliver. When I got to do it, I’d just stand there in the doorway to their room, watching the fancy set of ivory dominoes, face down, getting mixed over the surface of the card table. The men would be smoking Camels or Lucky Strikes, my dad’s brand, cans of Hamm’s and Pabst beer at the elbow of each one of them.

I didn’t know then how they figured out, what with all those dots on those tiles, their scores. But the men would call out “ten,” “fifteen,” and sometimes one of them would be ecstatic and slap down a domino with gusto and yell out “twenty,” to the consternation of the others. I can’t remember now if it was pop who taught me or how I picked it up, but, wow, once I learned, I found out the game was part luck – you draw your dominoes face down so you don’t know what you’ve got until you got ‘em – and part strategy as there are moves when you can block another player form putting down a tile or you can lock up a fame if you think you have the lowest amount left in you hand, then you get the points of the others.

Dominoes, or so I’ve cobbled here from them internets, are believed to have originated in China in the 12th century, though Egyptian or Arabian origins are also theorized. Dominoes appeared in Italy in the early eighteenth century, and spread to the rest of Europe throughout the remainder of the 1700's, becoming one of the most popular games in both family parlors and pubs alike.

The word domino appears to have derived from the traditional appearance of the tiles - black dots on a white background - which is reminiscent of a "domino,” a kind of hood, worn by Christian priests.

Unlike chess, playing dominoes isn’t a metaphor for other aspects of life. But puffing on a good cigar, maybe a short glass of rum or scotch at your elbow, some Coltrane or John Lee Hooker on the juke, three or four other players around the table, coupled with some mild trash talking, and you got yourself an afternoon of fun and frolic, my friend. And as you can see from the graphic on the side here, there’s various domino tournaments sponsored by diverse entities. There’s one this one that seems to be a combination of playing the Madden 11 NFL game on xbox and dominoes. I wonder if like so-called Chessboxing, you have to play the video game, gain a level, then freeze the game and play a round of dominoes, going back and forth. Then there was also a domino tournament in Houston sponsored by La Gloria Cubana cigars, who make a fine product as far as I’m concerned.

But the best tournament has got to be the one in Abkhazia. A place that sounds like one of these countries you’d make up for your thriller novel. It’s on the Black Sea and apparently they see themselves as independent, though others would say they are part of Georgia. Anyway, skipping lightly over that deep bone of contention, turns out they get down in Abkhazia. They had themselves their 8th domino championship go-round last October. The Dominican Republic took the top honors with a team of Abkazian and U.S. representatives coming n 14th place.

So, snap, I know what I’m doing this coming October. Getting myself ready for the 9th annual world wide, smack down, camp-peen-ship…Abkazia here I come.

This Tastes Gamey

2012-01-27T00:01:00.000-08:00

By Gabriella Herkert

Catnapped and Doggone

Like most of us who spend our time plotting against strangers and psychologically manipulating our characters, I love games. Love, love, love. I have since I was small. Confession time: I prefer to win. I’m talking everything from hopscotch to checkers to the master class we call Clue. I won’t cheat to win (okay I would if I still thought of it as winning under those circumstances) but I’ve been known to throw an elbow or two despite never having been officially asked to leave the pitch. It’s the game within a game that is the biggest rush. How do you get the best soccer player so distracted he doesn’t keep shelling your keeper? Or talk your real estate broker brother-in-law into trading you Pennsylvania Avenue and the green monopoly for a promise of cut-rate rent at the budget conscious yellow properties and a Get Out of Jail Free Card? The best games always turn out to be the ones where the real rules aren’t found on a slip of paper in a box (or in the case of Mille Bornes when the rules are written in French and no one is still sober enough to translate). My favorite games aren’t the ones in the middle of the table.

Gaming 101 starts with (insert evil laugh) scheming against friends and teammates. They may be playing Life but you can be living one. If your newly-dating brother picks up the card announcing the birth of twins, ask him what he’d name them. Horace and Mortimer? Bet on the new girl flinching for every turn and not lasting the week. Ever done a Dominoes fling pool? Quietly let the good sports pick a round in which your calling out numbers while the control-freak accountant counts points sets him to whipping the double-twelve at your head. Duck and collect your cash while he loses all ability to strategize. Or how about the Bananagrams post-game reveal? After everyone’s board is complete, take loud note of how many of the words on your up-tight neighbor’s space have some link, however tangential, to her sex life and how much too much information that is. This is a particularly effective game winning technique. Not only will she hesitate before using her tiles to make even innocuous words like leash and ache but the rest of the group will also drop to wolf-boy verbal levels. Take your near-perfect verbal SAT score and go to the head of the class.

Some of the newer games already have the insidious let me dig into your head element built-in. On a more sinister note, they even portend to be non-competitive. These malevolent cubes are called Tabletop Conversations like they are a happy walk in the park with a puppy on a string. So not true. If my neighbor is asked how old he was when he got his first kiss (Date Night Collection) and answers thirteen, you know his roommate will claim a pre-teen pucker. When you sputter for an answer as to your soul mate, your best friend will be quick to use your ex’s name when she gets asked to one animal she’d never let sleep in the house (Pets Edition). That’s what friends are for. If her husband lists the same former as the guy he’d most like to hang out with in a bar (Party Pack), you can return the favor by looking pointedly in his direction when asked who is most likely to be the next one camping (Travel). If things get really nasty, the cube itself weighs about five pounds and has sharp edges. Check your home owner’s insurance before throwing a game night, then have a ball.

Have I mentioned that I’ve been devising a political game of my own? This one is built to get the political reactionaries to double-check their issue positions and see a little common ground. Here’s a taster. What president said that “where free unions and collective bargaining are forbidden, freedom is lost?” You’ll never guess but if you do, let me know. I’d love to know I’ve got you on your toes.

Thanks for playing.
Gabi

The Most Dangerous Game

2012-01-26T00:01:00.000-08:00

By Michael

I don’t play board games, a fact that annoys the rest of my family, especially my daughter who would happily spend every afternoon cycling through Monopoly, Risk, and Clue, reserving backgammon (her favorite) for the couple of hours between dinner and bedtime. My sons have started playing chess – a game I admire but little understand – and also play Risk and sometimes Battleship: the common themes are territorial incursion and world domination. My wife will play any game, though like my daughter she’s partial to backgammon.

My intolerance extends to most card games. I can manage a few hands of blackjack because they last, on an average, three or four seconds. If I’m in northern Canada and the weather is bad and the bookshelves are bare and the power is out, I’ll play a game of Gin Rummy without complaining. Same thing goes for getting stuck overnight in an airport -- as long as the airport is in northern Canada. I’ve sometimes enjoyed playing Scrabble, but only against linguistically challenged opponents, which is to say, only when I’ve won.

I suspect I would like these games better if we changed the rules every fifteen minutes. For instance, all the pawns would move like queens and then at the fifteen-minute buzzer if your fingers so much as touched a rook an electric shock would knock you off your chair. Or Colonel Mustard would be having an affair with Professor Plum and would refuse to betray him and then at the buzzer Mrs. Peacock would become a homicidal maniac and march over the board knocking down the other game pieces.

But for now, I’ll sit on the sofa reading a newspaper while the rest of my family maneuvers to buy Park Place. If my kids get upset because they’re losing, I’ll offer fatherly advice about how to be good sports. And if my advice fails to calm them (as it inevitably will), I’ll tell them to pretend the dice are asteroids and their goal is to wipe out the houses and hotels at Marvin Gardens.

To Play The Game

2012-01-25T07:12:00.000-08:00

by Tracy Kiely

I have to admit that when I joined 7 Criminal Minds, I didn’t foresee the amount of online confessing I’d be engaging in, but since I’ve been here, I’ve publicly admitted to a certain fixation to Jane Austen, Eric Northman, peanut M&Ms, as well as a host of other odd quirks.

And now I see from this week’s topic that once again I must bravely stand before you and admit yet another obsession.

Of course, at first glance one might think that the topic of “What is you favorite game?” is a rather innocent, even mundane question.

I am here to tell you that it is not.

Now, I could tell you that I love Blink, Rat a Tat Cat, and the Pride and Prejudice Trivia Game, and while I would still be within the realm of truthfulness, it would not be the complete truth.

The complete truth is that my favorite game is Minesweeper. And the complete truth is that I am no longer allowed to play Minesweeper.

It started out innocently, as do most obsessions. I found the game one day on my computer at work. The object of the game – if you are not familiar with it – is to clear an abstract minefield without detonating a mine. To play, you must click on the squares to reveal what is underneath; either a number or a mine. If the square contains a mine, it explodes, and you lose. If a number is revealed, it indicates the number of adjacent squares (typically, out of the possible eight) that contain mines. By using logic – or dumb luck – the player can deduce which squares are mine-free and which are mine-filled.

Trust me, it’s waaaaay cooler than it sounds.

Anyway, I started to play a little during my lunch break. Then I began to play all through my lunch break. Then I played while on the phone. Then I played instead of doing any real work. I got my husband hooked as well. We’d call each other during the day and good naturedly compare our times. Then it wasn’t so good natured. Pretty soon my wrist started to ache, and I began to exhibit the early signs of carpel tunnel syndrome. But that was nothing compared to the dreams.

Almost nightly, I found myself running across a giant grid, hopping from square to square with sweat pouring down my back as I prayed that my next hop wouldn’t land me on a mine.

I knew I had to quit.

I eased myself off with a bit of Spider Solitaire and then just plain Solitaire. It took some time and yes, there were setbacks, but I have been Minesweeper free now for almost five years. To be honest, I don’t even think about it anymore. Mainly because I’ve been playing a new game – one that I’m happy to say is not addicting. You might have heard of it – it’s called Angry Birds.

The Most Dangerous Game

2012-01-24T13:00:00.000-08:00

by Josh

Since life is a game we're all doomed to lose - thanks, Ingmar - I prefer playing games that I can win. Unfortunately, this considerably narrows my options.

There's baseball, of course, and football and basketball and ice hockey and field hockey and street hockey. There's tennis and badminton and ping-pong. There's even golf, although one could argue that golf, much like drinking, is less a game than a excuse for silly behavior. Interestingly, I can elevate silly behavior to a spectacle, but I am a terrible drinker and an even worse golfer.

This brings us, I suppose, to board games. To the surprise of no one, I have always fancied chess -thanks again, Ingmar - but I know I'll never be as good a player as I imagine I want to be. This actually strikes at the crux of my problem, and why detective fiction - especially that modeled after Poe and Doyle's genius-sleuths - leaves me so frustrated. When I was in second grade, my IQ tested at 139. This is one point below genius. Genius minus one. If I have a monkey on my back, in between banana chews that monkey is taunting, "Genius minus one, genius minus one!" over and over into my left ear while giving my right ear a wet willy.

Yes, my monkey can talk. Why? Is that unusual?

But I'm getting off-topic. I was talking about games. And I do enjoy poker, if only because it's little more than theatre with gambling. Every so often I'll play poker with friends or family and I'll have a grand old time, but the enjoyment is really 99% social and 1% game. Playing poker online, for example, leaves me sensationally bored.

So what's left? Ah yes. The game of love, baby, the game of love-love-love-love-love.

Well...the less said about this, the better.

In the end, I suppose, in this game as in the rest, it just comes down to the fact that I don't enjoy losing. But that won't stop me from making a fool of myself driving to the hoop or castling my king and rook or raising on a 10-high or asking a stranger on a date; like I said, I can elevate silly behavior to a spectacle. Come and see.

Wanna Play?

2012-01-23T00:05:00.000-08:00

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

Playing indoor games is such a warm, cozy part of my childhood memories. Until I was nine, we lived in Massachusetts. During long, cold winters we played lots of board games and cards – even the adults. We watched very little TV. Every few weeks, my parents, or one of my aunts and uncles, would host a card night. While they had cocktails and played hearts at the dining room table, the cousins would be sprawled on the floor in various age groups, wolfing down popcorn and immersed in Monopoly, Chutes and Ladders, Sorry, Scrabble, and Candy Land.

My mother loved Yhatzee and a game called Chicken, which is an offshoot of Yhatzee. I spent several hours playing it with her the night before she died.

My father also loved Yhatzee and Chicken, but I’d have to say his favorite game was Cribbage, and my brother and I were taught it at an early age. Whenever I visited my dad, he and I would play it far into the night. When he died, my stepmother gave me my father’s hand-carved cribbage board, which sits proudly in my living room.

I still love cards and board games. Whenever I need to relax after a day of work and writing, I turn to playing Backgammon and Dominoes online. The fun thing about Internet games is that there is always someone to play with, no matter the time of day. And I’ve had some interesting Backgammon games with players from around the world.

And as much as I fought it in the beginning, I’m now playing Words With Friends. Me and Alec Baldwin. No, I’m not currently playing Baldwin, but if he’d like to challenge me – game on!

So what’s my favorite board game? Hmm, so many games, so many memories … eeny, meeny, miny, moe. If I have to choose just one, it would be Backgammon, a game I learned in the seventies when it was very popular in night clubs.

I once referenced Backgammon in one of my books. In Booby Trap, Odelia Grey talks about meeting someone playing it online, who then becomes a real friend who needs her help.

Guest Stephen Blackmoore Talks About Joe Lansdale

2012-01-22T00:01:00.000-08:00

Hilary here, with a guest I'm thrilled to introduce you to: my friend Stephen Blackmoore. If his name sounds familiar, that's probably because his debut novel, CITY OF THE LOST, released by DAW Books on January 3rd, has been racking up raves. That's not hyperbole: Kirkus Reviews gave it a starred review, calling the book "A remarkable debut" and "A head-shakingly perfect blend of zombie schlock, deadpan wit, startling profanity, desperate improvisation and inventive brilliance." Judge for yourself: read the first three chapters of the book online at Criminal Element.

Stephen was already well-known—okay, fine, notorious—for his hard-kitting short stories, which have appeared in publications such as Needle, Crimefactory, Plots With Guns, and Thrilling Detective, to name a few. His work has also been featured in as anthologies such as Deadly Treats and Uncage Me. Stephen just had his launch party for CITY OF THE LOST at Mysterious Galaxy Redondo Beach, and if you're interested in finding out where else he'll be causing mayhem, check out his blog and Twitter for updates.

Glad to have you here today, Stephen. Take it away!

"Which author would you most want to take a master class from?"

Joe Lansdale.

What, you want more? You want to know why?

Man, you people are greedy.

Fine. First let's assume you don't know who I'm talking about. And if you don't you better not come 'round these parts, 'cause we shoot people like you.

Ha. Kidding.

We skin 'em.

Joe Lansdale writes horror, westerns, science fiction. He writes screenplays and comics. The man is a pulp writer's pulp writer. He's over the top and light as a feather. He can do humor and horror in equal measure. He can make you cry and think and laugh your ass off.

He's won eight Bram Stoker awards, nominated nine other times and recently got the Horror Writer's Association Lifetime Achievement award. He's been nominated nine times for World Fantasy Awards for his short stories, novellas and anthologies. He won the Edgar for Best Novel in 2001 for THE BOTTOMS.

He has a mastery of subtext. The things unsaid. The lines between the lines. And he does it the way a magician does a trick, hiding it among the outrageous, redirecting your attention to the pretty girl he's about to saw in half.

Take BUBBA HO-TEP, his novella about two men in a nursing home who believe they are Elvis and JFK fighting a soul-sucking mummy who's killing the residents. Only that's not what it's about. It's about old age. It's about fighting the inevitable. Pushing against entropy and time and going down fighting.

Or GODZILLA'S TWELVE STEP PROGRAM where the Tokyo destroying monster tries to go straight. It's a story about alcoholism, or maybe about anger management, or maybe it's about addiction in general and what it does to a person and how hard it is to fight it. Maybe it's just a jaunty little tale about a B movie monster who's hit rough times.

And then there's his voice. The way he phrases things is uniquely Lansdale.

Go read ON THE FAR SIDE OF THE CADILLAC DESERT WITH DEAD FOLKS, a twisted little zombie tale with post-apocalyptic cowboys. Here's a taste:

The last bounty hunter had been the famous Pink Lady McGuire—one mean mama—three hundred pounds of rolling, ugly meat that carried a twelve-gauge Remington pump and a bad attitude. Story was, Calhoun jumped her from behind, cut her throat, and as a joke, fucked her before she bled to death. This not only proved to Wayne that Calhoun was a dangerous sonofabitch, it also proved he had bad taste.

If that doesn't hook you, then, I got nothin' for ya.

You can learn a lot from reading Lansdale. Far as I'm concerned the man's a fucking living legend. And seeing as I can't actually, you know, take a class from him, looks like I'm just going to have to read everything the man's written.

Oh, what a hardship.

Thanks, Stephen. Now, since my modest friend hasn't said a word about his own book, let me tell you a bit about CITY OF THE LOST. A quick summary:

Sunday’s a thug, an enforcer, a leg-breaker for hire. When his boss sends him to kill a mysterious new business partner, his target strikes back in ways Sunday could never have imagined. Murdered, brought back to a twisted half-life, Sunday finds himself stuck in the middle of a race to find an ancient stone with the power to grant immortality. With it, he might live forever. Without it, he’s just another rotting extra in a George Romero flick.

Everyone’s got a stake, from a psycho Nazi wizard and a razor-toothed midget, to a nympho-demon bartender, a too-powerful witch who just wants to help her homeless vampires, and the one woman who might have all the answers — if only Sunday can figure out what her angle is.

Before the week is out he’s going to find out just what lengths people will go to for immortality. And just how long somebody can hold a grudge.

Also, more praise for CITY OF THE LOST.

Criminal Minds Unbound

2012-01-21T00:01:00.001-08:00

By Reece Hirsch

While I would love to have a one-on-one master class in writing from one of my favorites like Elmore Leonard or Richard Price, that is unlikely to come to pass. However, I recently picked up a new book entitled Now Write! Mysteries: Suspense, Crime, Thriller, and Other Mystery Fiction Exercises from Today’s Best Writers and Teachers that provides a far more attainable dose of writing wisdom.

Here’s some of wise writing advice dispensed by a few of our own Criminal Minds:

Graham Brown on “Humanizing the Character Arc”: “If readers connect with your main characters, identify and mentally put themselves in the place of those characters – in other words, feel their pain – then, when your heroes overcome whatever deadly and impressive obstacles you’ve put in their path, your readers will feel the great endorphin boost that goes along with succeeding, as if they’d done it themselves. And that’s what makes them remember your book, because the triumph of your novel is the reader’s victory as well as the character’s.”

Rebecca Cantrell (who has already mentioned the book here at CM) on “Murder from the Point of View of the Murderer, Victim, and Detective”: “In my early drafts [of A Trace of Smoke], Ernst talked from beyond the grave. Unfortunately, it was never quite right. My writing group struggled with it, and the first question my future agent asked was, ‘If I agree to represent you, would you be willing to consider removing the dead brother’s voice from the manuscript?

I was willing. … I also made a surprise discovery: Writing the murder from the victim’s point of view gave me a very clear picture of all the events surrounding it. It gave me the sights, sounds, and feelings for the very heart of the book.”

Kelli Stanley, “She Can Bring Home the Bacon”: “Playing right tackle in football demands a certain kind of strength. Caring for an ill relative demands another. Women can be quite tough – anyone who’s been through childbirth can testify to that. You don’t need to resort to gender clichés to write a female detective.”

Michael Wiley on “Writing in Place”: “Robert Graves used to advise writers to adopt the perspective of ‘readers over their own shoulders’ when making revisions. In observing a familiar place, you need to defamiliarize yourself; try to watch yourself in the act of looking and notice both what you see and what you miss.”

And you will even find the mutterings of yours truly on “The Most Common Mistakes in Plotting a Thriller (from Someone Who Has Made Them All)”: “A thriller is like a rock-and-roll song. Immediacy is one of the most highly valued virtues of both forms and, while the basic elements are well established, there is nearly infinite room for variation and expression within that framework. You can take a few basic chord progressions and a time limit of three minutes or so and get everything from ‘I Wanna Be Sedated’ to ‘Strawberry Fields Forever.’ But if you stray too far from the rules, like, say, the Beatles' ‘Revolution 9,’ then it may be interesting, but it ceases to be something that will ever get played on the radio."

There are 86 authors represented in the collection and anyone who is interested in reading or writing mysteries or thrillers will find these three-to-four-page exercises less addictive than crack but more addictive than Maui Onion Kettle Chips.

Can you be taught how to write?

2012-01-20T00:01:00.000-08:00

by Meredith Cole

It's may be strange to think about the question of whether or not great writing can be taught--especially for someone who is about to teach another class on Novel Writing at the University of Virginia. But here goes. I would say yes--and no.

To just say that yes, you can go get an MFA, learn everything you need to and then go on to win a Nobel Prize seems wrong. I believe there is something special in a great writer that is present from birth. Writers have a drive to tell stories, a unique point of view, and the ability to live without the company of others for long stretches of time. None of these qualities can be taught.

But I would be doing myself and other writing teachers a disservice if I claimed we don't matter a whit. It's tremendously exciting to work with a student and see their writing grow and change. To be part of the moment when writing fiction "clicks" for them, and they finally see how they can write the kind of wonderful stories that they enjoy reading--that's incredibly satisfying for me.

So who would I like to learn from? All my favorites, of course. I have been lucky enough to hear Stephen King, SJ Rozan, Laurie King, Sue Grafton, Harlan Coban and Lee Child all talk about their writing life and their process. And I've learned something from every single one of them. But I've learned from so many more by reading their books. Every writer should read widely as part of their personal MFA program.

I hesitate to name one master I'd like to study with one-to-one because not every great writer is also a great teacher. I've been lucky enough to have had a few great writing teachers in my life for everything from poetry to screenwriting, and very few of them shared their writing with me. I took their classes for their teaching skills, not their writing skills.

So what does a great writing teacher do that makes them so great? They push their students farther out of their comfort zone. They point out what their students are doing right and help them to become braver about taking risks and trying new things. They help the student see the bigger picture of the work and how to see it as a cohesive whole. And they gently correct grammatical errors, tense problems and shifting points of view in order to help their students become better editors of their own work.

So many thanks to all those teachers over the years who read my work and helped teach me how to be a better writer--and a better teacher. Which reminds me, I've got to polish up that syllabus. Class starts in just two weeks!

"I felt a cleavage in my mind..."

2012-01-19T00:08:00.000-08:00

By Jeannie Holmes

There are many types of authors. Yes, you could say there are three main categories: fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. But, this is an oversimplification of the greatest magnitude. There are dozens of forms within each of these broader categories--thrillers, mystery, literary, memoir, biographers, ekphrastic poetry, limericks, etc. So when I was asked to fill-in for Kelli and take on the question of Which author would you most want to take a master class from? I not only had a lot of thinking to do regarding the author but also the form.

Now some of you may recall from my previous time here among the Criminal Minds that I write a lot of dark fantasy. Naturally I considered naming authors such as Edgar Allan Poe, H.P. Lovecraft, Shirley Jackson, Anne Rice, and Stephen King as my master class instructor of choice, but these are a little too obvious, don't you think? While I greatly admire each of them, I wanted to select an author whose writing is both celebrated and misunderstood and who wouldn't necessarily be considered for a mention on a blog full of genre fiction writers.

The author I would most desire to see seated at the head of a master class is Emily Dickinson. Yes, I, a humble fiction writer, would like to learn from a master of poetry. I've enjoyed reading Dickinson's work for years and as I stated earlier, her work is often misunderstood. Yes, it's filled with curious and dark imagery, such as the poem in which she seemingly shares a ride with Death, but it's also filled with intelligence and a biting wit. Her poetic forms may appear simplistic at first glance, but her command of the English language and willingness to create her own words when others fail show a level of mastery that few (in my opinion) have matched since her untimely death in 1886.

Dickinson expressed complex and complicated emotions and thoughts with an economy of words. Since we're all in the words business, I suggest that fiction writers would do well to study more poetry, to increase their vocabulary, and stretch the reader's mind. We taut Hemingway and Faulkner for their mastery of both beautiful language and the art of storytelling, but poetry can do the same and with fewer words. (Just for the record, I'd like to mention to that I'm not a fan of either Hemingway or Faulkner. Shameful blasphemy, I know, but it's the truth.) There is nothing wrong with adding a little poetic flair to your fiction. I'm not condoning the use of purple prose, but just a little poetic flourish here and there could lend an already interesting tale a vibrancy that others in the same genre lack. Who says genre fiction can't contain truly beautiful writing?

In closing, I'd like to offer one of my personal favorites from The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson and ask you, dear reader, to truly consider the writing and the story behind it.

It sounded as if the streets were running,

And then the streets stood still.

Eclipse was all we could see at the window,

And awe was all we could feel.

By and by the boldest stole out of his covert,

To see if time was there.

Nature was in her beryl apron,

Mixing fresher air.

- Emily Dickinson

Jeannie Holmes is the author of the Alexandra Sabian series and fears spiders, large bodies of water, and bad weather. She moved from the backwoods of southwestern Mississippi to the Alabama Gulf Coast where she now lives with her husband and four neurotic cats. For more information, visit www.jeannieholmes.com

The Shoulders of Giants

2012-01-18T01:12:00.000-08:00

This is a fantastic topic because we all learn from each other. I find myself picking up inspired thoughts and ways of doing things from reading so many other authors. And on rare occasion I think someone even learns something from me. It could be what not to do - but its still a lesson.

I've said in the past how several great authors have taken the time to talk with me about writing I think I learned something fantastic from each of them.

Steve Berry sat down with me and we talked extensively about the actual writing - not the plot or the story or the characters - so much of that is subjective but the actual way those things go down on the page - it was a revelation and he's brilliant at creating gripping prose in the most clear and concise way.

Linwood Barclay and I had a long conversation about suspense from which I came away with the realization that a book is more about what's looming in the future than what is happening right now on the page. I think its genius.

Another brilliant author who I've been fortunate enough to talk with is Clive Cussler. He's a genius at combining historical fact and present day fiction, and he has a way of connecting with readers that is unlike anything I've seen elsewhere.

I've learned something from every member of this blog and from countless others I've met at conferences, but what about those we can't meet.

Michael Crichton was and is one of my all time favorites. I love including science in my books as he did, but I'm well aware that I only gloss the surface of what he was able to do so well. Would have loved to take a class from him and get some insight and talk writing with him.

Herman Melville - Moby Dick is such a powerful story, not just because the whale is an unstoppable force of nature - a brilliant and prescient forerunner to almost all thrillers ever written, but because he created such a deep story around this force of nature - all the characters are revealed in their quest for the whale, and I can only imagine what secrets and fun would be had talking with him.

William Shakespeare - not just because I want to ask him why everyone always dies in the end of his stuff, but because I would love to speak with a man who changed the world with his words. In the end that's something we're all trying to do, if just a little bit. I wonder did he know what he was onto, did he sense the growing power, or was he just trying to pay the bills?

Of course there are hundreds of others, but these three would top my list for sure.

Author Master Class?

2012-01-17T09:49:00.000-08:00

by Rebecca Cantrell

Judging by the lateness of this post, I might be better off taking a class in time management.

Instead of talking about writers I'd like to take a master class from, here's a list of those I have.

Stephen Spittler. He was my English teacher senior year. He loved literature and seduced all of us into loving it to. He was smart, enthusiastic, and he never cut me a bit of slack in my writing. Whatever good fundamentals I have, they came from him.
Sharon Dilworth. She was part of the creative writing program at Carnegie Mellon. She was kind and generous with her time, and made me feel like writing was a craft that could be learned and not just a talent given from the gods.
Christopher Keane. He taught at the now defunct Maui Writers Conference. He taught me to revise and throw things away and start with a completely different perspective, and the simple value of putting in the hours.
Michael Palmieri. Maui Writers Conference again. Structure. Structure. Structure. Michael knows it, and he teaches it with humor and intelligence and grace.
James Rollins. OK, also Maui. Pacing, setting, and moving characters through scenes. It sounds simple, but it wasn't for me.
Julia Cameron. A bit of a cheat, because I never took a face to face class, but her book "The Artist's Way" taught me as much about being a writer as anything else. I thank her most for this line (I'm paraphrasing, I'm sure she said it better). "If you had a job at the 7-11, you would show up whether the muse inspired you or not. So why are you treating your heart's work as something less than a 7-11 job?" Busted. Busted. Busted. And as soon as I was busted, I started taking writing seriously and within three months had started "A Trace of Smoke," my first published novel.

Thank you all, teachers and mentors, for helping me to get where I am today. You helped me more than you know.

How about you? What's your favorite writing class/teacher/book?

Which Author Would You Most Want to Take a Master Class From?

2012-01-16T00:05:00.000-08:00

Which author would I most want to take a master class from? Hmm…here’s the thing: I don’t get much out of long workshops. I find that an hour is my limit. Maybe I have too short an attention span, but I find that after an hour, my mind begins to wander, and my eyelids grow heavy. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that most of the time these workshops are held in exceedingly warm conference rooms. If there’s a PowerPoint presentation, it’s worse because the lights are dimmed to perfect nodding-off conditions. And if the presenter isn’t all that good a public speaker (no matter how well a writer he or she is)? Well, that’s the Trifecta of Snooze as far as I’m concerned.

So chances of me ever taking a master class from someone are pretty slim. I’d learn more by reading their books and any books and articles they may have written on the craft of writing.

That doesn’t mean there aren’t authors I’d love to hear speak. Just not for more than an hour at a time.

I write humorous mysteries. Writing any humorous genre is hard, but adding humor to something as serious as murder is a real challenge. I’ve sat through talks by various humorous mystery authors, many of whom I greatly admire, but their talks are generally more about their journey to publication and less about the art of writing the humorous mystery.

I’d probably gain more knowledge from attending a workshop given by someone who makes a living writing humor, as opposed to humorous mysteries. Mo Rocca recently interviewed Kathy Griffin on CBS Sunday Morning. I learned more about humor from that interview than I’d ever learned listening to my favorite humorous mystery authors.

I’d love to have the chance to sit down with Jon Stewart for an hour. Just me and Jon. No cameras. No audience. I’d love to pick his brain about writing humor.

But the person I’d most like to spend time with is Alan Alda. Disclaimer: I think M*A*S*H is the best sitcom ever shown on TV. I own the complete eleven season DVD set. Every few months I’ll watch a season. The episodes that Alan Alda wrote are my favorites. The man had an incredible knack for taking something as serious as war and adding humor while still maintaining the seriousness of the subject. He showed how humor can help get people through difficult situations. And he did it brilliantly. That’s what I try to do in writing my humorous mysteries.

If Alan Alda were to give a master class on writing humor, there’s no way I’d start nodding off, no matter how hot the room.

Lois Winston is the author of the critically acclaimed Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mysteries. She’s currently on a blog tour to promote the release of Death By Killer Mop Doll, the second book in the series. For a chance to win a copy of the book, stop by any of the blogs on her blog tour and post a comment. You can find the complete blog schedule at her website and Anastasia’s blog.

My Ideal Writing Retreat

2012-01-15T02:00:00.000-08:00

Vicki here on a snowy Sunday.

What’s my ideal place to write? Right here. Where I am now.

That’s how I was planning to begin this post. And then I read Gary’s. Geeze how do I top that?

Now, I don't really want to write in the bat cave. But a villa on a Greek Island might be nice. Overlooking turquoise waters and white houses. While the cook prepares dinner and the butler brings a glass of chilled white wine.

A cottage on Lake Muskoka’s a good choice. Overlooking dark blue waters and wooden cottages. While a boy-toy prepares dinner after bringing me a glass of chilled white wine.

By the fire at a resort at Whistler in ski season. While the restaurant chef cooks dinner and the waiter brings me a glass of red wine.

Come to think of it, there are a lot of ideal places to write in this world. But if we had our choice, I suspect most of us would prefer to have help than a bucolic setting. Someone to do the time-wasting stuff. Such as not only cooking the meals, but cleaning the house, watching the kids. Most importantly - earning the money.

Isn’t that what a writer’s retreat is? Some place one can not only go to write for a period of time, but sometimes even get a grant or something to enable one to write.

But seriously, my ideal place is here. Where I live. I retired from a job as a systems analyst at a big bank a few years ago. I sold my house in the suburbs and bought a small place in the country surrounded by farmer’s fields.

I have a little house, but it’s big enough to have one room devoted to being my ‘office’. In the summer, I take my laptop out onto the deck to sit by the pool. In the winter, I sit in the office next to the wood store. Which is burning, even as
I type.

Although sometimes it gets so hot in here, I have to retreat to the dining room table.

A writer, as has been said, can write anywhere. Should be able to write anywhere. But of course the right environment helps.

You need quiet, a chance to be alone for hours at a time. A nice view out the window helps, I believe, for those moments when you’re stuck and you just lean back in your chair and look out the window. And inspiration strikes.

Here are some pics of my office and the view out my window

This last picture is of the work I have to do to create my writing retreat. Wood, stacked and piled by me, myself.

To the Batpole, Old Chum

2012-01-14T00:01:00.000-08:00

Aw snap, here’s my office supreme, yessiree, the Batcave. I get up on the morning, tell my high tech coffeemaker to grind some fresh beans and start brewing it strong and dark the way I like it. Take the secret entrance via the grandfather clock in the study decked out in a tasteful combination of old school and modernistic furniture. I descend via not a batpole but a forced air column that gently lowers me into my secret lair. In case of emergencies, should this air suddenly be shut off, naturally I’m in such great shape I merely fling out my grappling line – ‘cause of course I’m never without this bad rascal – catch hold of one of the designed metal outcroppings just for this purpose, and lower myself manually.

I sit at one of the bank of super computers I have down there, my coffee delivered by my assistant, Ms. D’Arcy, who’s so fine she makes Alicia Keys look like a buck-toothed tomboy. But it’s strictly business with us, naturally. So then, sipping my brew, I take note of current tweets as I have the likes of Lady Gaga and Mark Zuckerberg following me. The computer is programmed to tweet for me, and every ten minutes or so for a specific period each day it’ll tell me in that warm feminine voice of the computer from original Star Trek (because Hal’s from 2001: A Space Odyssey is way too creepy) what thread is going where and I can dictate my responses. The computer also corrects to make me sound witty and clever.

Meanwhile I’m in the midst of my workout in the gym area/level of the cave, easily benching 350, curling let’s say a set of eighty reps 100 pound barbell, and running a cool five miles on the treadmill – barely breaking a sweat. As I do this I go over my week’s schedule with the fetching Ms. D’Arcy, speaking appearances, workshops I’m giving over Skype and so forth. I shower off, get dressed in my smoking jacket and slacks, and sit down to pound out at least 3,000 words of sparkling prose. Afterward I take a break, have a wonderfully prepared late lunch prepared by my personal chef, then a light workout and meditation session. Next I get dressed in my gear for night patrol, for the crime I foil by such malefactors as Dr. Greyface or the Green Mamba, also serves as first hand material for my books, plays, scripts and short stories.

It’s a wonderful life…and slowly as I awake from my delusional daydream, a pearl of a tear appears in the corner of my eye as I blink at my humble surroundings. But I suck it up and get back to work on the keyboard, spinning them yarns.

Sound Retreat

2012-01-13T00:01:00.000-08:00

By Gabriella Herkert

Catnapped and Doggone

What is my idea of a favorite writing retreat? I have gone on many an excursion with journal and pen in hand expecting the soothing quiet of a remote location and the not-available-at-my-house perfection of room service to provide the idyllic tranquility and undiminished concentration to dash off the great American novel. So far, mostly all I’ve achieved are frequent flyer points. As it turns out, preparing for the perfect writing experience actually strangles the moment for me. It’s too much pressure, too much opportunity, too much much.

When I think of the places I’ve actually written well, when the words flowed like honey onto the page, well, I am lead to the conclusion that more prisoners should be best-selling authors. And those Chilean coal miners? Well, they had time to brainstorm adventure series while waiting for daylight to break through. No distractions, no lovely beach, no tanned hard bodies wandering into view. Distractions, distractions, distractions. They are the nemesis of my moment of literary retreat.

A writer friend of mine told me that if I wanted to write more, better, faster, I needed to make my writing less precious. I needed to stop waiting for the retreat – the perfect moment, the picturesque location, the soothing environment – and find my retreat in every free hour, half-hour, ten minutes of unexpected time, in every location from parking lots to busy coffee houses. She encouraged me to discover my writing retreat serendipitiously, in every opportunity that presented itself. I may long for Maui and sultry tropical breezes but the best writing retreats now require the true writer’s passport --my journal. Basically, she taught me that to write I needed to retreat from retreat. I needed to live, make the words part of the daily life, the real life that gets lived and breathed without thinking.

In my journey during 2011, when I decided I needed to recommit myself to myself as writer, I made some changes that I hope will pay dividends in 2012. The first, to keep my journal always with me, seems to be working. I’m not writing stories in it, I’m just jotting ideas, capturing moments of life and laughter as they jump out at me. That journal is giving me daily “retreats” without requiring a budget or a rental car. More importantly, they string from day to day like fairy lights, magically leading me down adventurous paths built of imagination and grouted with language. Have you ever walked a labyrinth in your own town? Go online and see if you can find one. Take fifteen minutes and put one foot in front of the other, opening your mind and your heart to whatever comes. Then take forty-five minutes and write, write, write. Then give everything, anything, everything that comes into your mind as an offering onto the page right there next to the maze. And tell me if you don’t feel renewed. Rested. Re-energized.

Writing, for me, isn’t a retreat. Not when it’s good and pure. It’s the opposite, regardless of atmosphere and geography. It’s an advance. A charge into the life that gives me the stories. So for 2012 I won’t be doing any writing retreats. Forward charges only. I’ll look forward to meeting you all there.

Thanks for reading.

Gabi

A Room of One’s Own

2012-01-12T00:01:00.000-08:00

By Michael

My wife wants me to buy a desk. A fifty-year-old writer writing books on top of a piece of plywood that he has stretched across two banged-up metal file cabinets is – I don’t know what – Cheap? Pathetic? She also would like me to replace my desk chair, which I found in the basement of a house I rented thirty years ago when I was in college. The paint would be chipping off the chair if it had any paint left to chip.

After I sold my first mystery, my parents bought me a beautiful glass organizer for pens, paperclips, and the like – all those desktop items that I would keep neat if I owned a proper desk instead of a piece of cheap, pathetic plywood.

Recently, my aunt, who lives in Williamsburg, Virginia, bought me a quill and inkpot, which are, I assume, what writers in Williamsburg keep on their desks or once kept back in the pilgrim days.

Several years ago, my mother-in-law bought me a khaki safari jacket, telling me she thought it looked “writerly” – and it probably did in a Hemingway kind of way. If I wore it while writing, I could use the roughly two dozen pockets in it to store all the extra pens and paperclips that didn’t fit in the desk organizer. That is, if I had a desk.

But I like my workspace. It includes only the essentials, nothing that gets in the way –physically, emotionally, psychologically – when I’m writing. A laptop and a PC fit comfortably between my manuscripts and notes, my boxes of paperclips, my pens, and my post-office scale. If I’m thirsty, I can squeeze in a coffee cup. Pictures of my wife and kids smile at me from the top of an extra file cabinet.

At my smiling wife’s insistence, I agreed – reluctantly – to stain and polyurethane the plywood “desktop.” The fanciness of the glossy finish bothered me for a couple of weeks until dust started to settle. As for the rest, some day I hope to visit Williamsburg wearing my safari jacket. I’ll carry my quill in one pocket and my inkpot in another. When I do, I’ll bring my aunt a beautiful glass organizer.

A Well-Appointed Room…

2012-01-11T08:00:00.000-08:00

By Tracy Kiely

I once had a writing teacher tell me that “one doesn’t need a special place to write; that if one wants to write, one simply does.”

Among the many things I learned from this teacher was that I really hate the constant use of the word “one.” As in, “one got pretty sick of his advice once one had been to a few of his classes.”

I need my space, my nook, my niche. I cannot plop down in any random spot and produce anything more serious than a laundry list of tasks that I hope to fulfill (but know that I won’t as I am constantly losing said laundry lists). I have a study/office in my house that I lovingly decorated in anticipation of the day when I would ink my first book deal. The thing is I never use it. It’s downstairs and has no windows. At first, I thought this would be ideal as I would have no distractions, but the problem with that line of thinking is that I also have three kids. Three kids who, when not properly supervised, do things. Things like decide to bake cookies, despite a proven lack of ability to follow directions. Things like decide to reenact battle scenes from Star Wars despite being repeatedly told that when you whack someone in the head with a light saber – even if it is made of plastic – it still hurts. Things like decide to use the outdoors as a bathroom. (Don’t ask. Granted, it was years ago, but I doubt I - or the neighbors - will ever forget it.)

Where was I?

Oh, yes; the perfect office for the perfect book.

Well, until the children leave, I think I am stuck where I am now; at a desk off the kitchen where I can head off such inadvisable endeavors. I have trained myself to drown out Sponge Bob, iCarly, and horrible video games, only letting certain phrases penetrate my focus (“Bet you can’t do this!” “Want to see something gross?” “Where do we keep the vanilla?”). I make it work, but, in the meantime, I can dream. And in my dream study – which looks strikingly similar to a room ~~one~~ you might find if visiting Pemberly or Downton Abbey, I image I would create literary brilliance.

In addition to being a well-appointed, brightly lit room, my dream study has a breathtaking view of the extensive gardens for which the house is (of course) renowned. The ceiling is a masterpiece of molding and craftsmanship. The walls are papered in some faded French tapestry. There is a fire in the large, stone fireplace and an adoring dog (of me, not the fireplace) snoozes on the hearth.

Plus - if I did find myself writing in such a room, I’m pretty sure it would mean I was now the kind of wealthy usually described as “filthy.” (Either that, or I’ve wandered off the official tour and am mere moments away from being escorted off the property.) However, should this all really be mine, then it most likely means that there are servants lurking about as well.

Which means someone else can run interference on the children and I can focus on writing.

Not goodbye

2012-01-10T08:46:00.000-08:00

by Josh

I met Kelli Stanley's mother Trish for the first time this past September in St. Louis at Bouchercon...but, no, that couldn't have been the first time. It sure hadn't felt like the first time. The words of strangers dance awkwardly around each other. Ours glided.

Prior to St. Louis, Kelli and I had encouraged our mothers to correspond with each other. After all, they seemed to have a great deal in common. They both were hyperliterate woman who had raised hyperliterate children. They both were battling stage four ovarian cancer. There is always a certain comfort found in kinship, not matter what the source, and Mom and Trish had been emailing each other for a few months by the time September mosslessly rolled around.

At the last minute, Mom was unable to come with me to St. Louis.

I met Trish (but not for the first time - it couldn't have been) in the dealers room at Bouchercon and she immediately invited me to lunch. The level of company can raise the quality of a meal, and so the food in the hotel that afternoon was delicious. She, Kelli, Kelli's partner Tana, and I bantered about politics and religion. Strangers can't do that. I told Trish how much I admired her cane, which sparkled - much like her personality. Trish informed me that she had a small picture of Kelli as a child which she kept on a bracelet. She promised to show it to me the next day.

She showed it to me the next day. She was so proud of her daughter. Five minutes later, Kelli won the Macavity. Trish watched it happen from the first row.

Over the course of that weekend, I spent many hours in Trish's company. With pleasure and good fortune, I listened as she regaled me with vivid tales of her childhood. When, finally, we said goodbye, we didn't say goodbye. Later, too, when we continued our conversation via email, we spoke about how we would see each other again, perhaps at another convention where Kelli would receive another well-deserved honor.

This past Sunday, on January 7, Trish Stanley passed away. She did so on her own terms, not in a hospital but at home and in the presence of Kelli, and Tana, and love.

I never got to see her again. I never got to tell her goodbye. But that's OK. After all, how can you say goodbye to someone who is still with you, to someone who was with you before you even met them?

Office Envy

2012-01-09T00:05:00.000-08:00

By Sue Ann Jaffarian

My desk 2009

This is a photo of my writing space taken on January 4, 2009. It's in a corner of my bedroom, which is quite large. As I wrote, I could hear traffic noise from Palms Boulevard three stories below and people arguing on the street.

My desk 2012

This is a photo of my writing space taken on January 7, 2012. Same bedroom, same corner, same desk. It's tidier, has a new chair that the cats don't claw, and the tower has been replaced with a laptop. Across most of the top of the hutch are items sent to me by readers. There are others, but they are out of camera range or in my office at the law firm where I have more room. The book to the left is a signed copy of Nose Jobs for Peace by Selma Diamond, who I consider my ghostly muse. My trusty, huge white board is still to my right. Three floors below, Palms Boulevard is as busy as ever. As you can see I haven't come far in three years.

Well, that's not true. During the three years between these two photos, I've written 8 novels and 5 short stories at that very desk. But as far as location goes, I'm in a rut that doesn't look to change soon.

This week's question is to talk about a writing retreat that would inspire me to write my best book ever. I find it an odd question because my best book is going to be written no matter where I am. Writing comes from within, not from without. In the debate on nature vs. nurture, I'd say when it comes to writing, nature wins hands down.

Sue Grafton's Office

But it sure wouldn't hurt to nurture it a little, would it?

There are two offices I envy. One is real; one fictional. The real one belongs to Sue Grafton. I mean, just look at that awesome space!!! Miles and miles of counter tops and drawers, and a freaking big window with trees. I drool every time I look at the photo. I'll bet Ms. Grafton can't smell her neighbor's excessive use of lighter fluid on their barbecue, or hear sirens and city buses while she works.

The fictional retreat is the writing space Diane Keaton used in the movie Something's Gotta Give. Although it was in her bedroom, like mine, it faces a fabulous window and was located in a gorgeous house in the Hamptons.

Office in Something's Gotta Give

I don't need to "retreat" to some secluded location to write. And, hopefully, I will always write my best wherever I find myself, but it sure would be nice to have a beautiful work space like one of these in a nice quiet cottage in the mountains or at the beach.

Maybe some day ...

Much to Look Forward to in 2012

2012-01-08T00:01:00.000-08:00

By Hilary Davidson

My last post was a look back at 2011, and some of the many moments that I loved. But now it's a new year, and I'm looking ahead. Some of the things I'm eagerly anticipating:

The Release of The Next One to Fall: I'm not normally a person who gets excited about Valentine's Day, but this year it's my release date! If you're in New York City, the launch party will be at The Mysterious Bookshop on February 15th at 6:30. After that, I'll be on tour in Houston (Murder by the Book on Feb. 17th), Austin (BookPeople on Feb. 18th), Scottsdale (The Poisoned Pen on Feb. 21st) and Glendale (Velma Teague Library on Feb. 22nd)... plus plenty of other places after that (Long Island, Toronto, Denver, Los Angeles, San Diego, San Francisco... and more in the works). If you happen to pre-order a copy before Valentine's Day, please enter the pre-order contest; not only will you be eligible for a prize, but I'm donating a dollar to Heifer for each pre-order, so every one absolutely makes a difference.

Joining Two Boards of the Mystery Writers of America: on the National Board, I'm a Director at Large, which I love because the "at large" part makes me sound like a gunslinging desperado, or maybe a miscreant from an FBI "most wanted" poster. On the board of the New York Chapter, I'm a general rabble-rouser. Seriously, it's a huge honor to be elected (twice!) to serve on an organization with the power to do so much to help writers, both established and aspiring. I hope to do much to justify the confidence placed in me.

Visiting Israel: I'm heading there later this month. In a way, I can't believe I'm doing this now, with so much on the go (second book coming out, third book being revised). On the other hand, I've dreamed of visiting Israel for so long that I can't believe I've waited this long.

Attending Crime Conferences: So far, I'm scheduled for Left Coast Crime in Sacramento, Murder 203 in Easton, Connecticut, Bloody Words in Toronto, and Bouchercon in Cleveland. I love going to conferences (when else do I get to see — or meet — so many of my friends?), and I'm hoping to wriggle one or two more into the schedule this year.

Seeing the Release of Friends' Books: Some of the novels are ones I've already had the pleasure of reading (Chris F. Holm's Dead Harvest, Jake Hinkson's Hell on Church Street, Frank Bill's Donnybrook); others, I'm just looking forward to (Stephen Blackmoore's City of the Lost, Brad Parks' The Girl Next Door, Chuck Wendig's Blackbirds, Sophie Littlefield's A Bad Day for Mercy)... it's a long list, actually. There's nothing more exciting to me than delving into a friend's latest work.

A Dog's Notes on the Creative Process

2012-01-07T00:01:00.000-08:00

By Simon Hirsch

I’m pleased to welcome my dog Simon as a guest blogger this week. He has some thoughts on writing and the creative process that he would like to share, in the form of an open letter to me.

First of all, I hate it when you refer to me as “your dog.” I’m a Brussels Gryphon, and no one owns me, man.

As you know, I’ve been there at each stage of the writing process. Curled up on the rug in the office while you’re at the computer. On those long walks where we’ve solved plot points. I'm not asking for a co-author credit, but I wouldn't turn one down if it was offered, if you know what I'm saying. Anyway, I think we’ve established a good working relationship, so I hope that you’ll take these observations in the spirit in which they are offered.

* I think it was Flaubert who once said -- Wait a second. Did you see that? There’s a squirrel in the backyard. DID YOU HEAR ME? THE PERIMETER HAS BEEN BREACHED! A SQUIRREL! IN THE FREAKING YARD‼ You’ve gotta let me out of here. NOW!

* Okay ... I'm good now ... where was I? I’ve munched a couple of pages of the new manuscript and I find them far superior to the last one. Nice texture, delicate bouquet, and smoky undernotes of ... what's that? ... toner, I think ...

* I hate to say it, but your last chase scene lacked a certain intensity. Here's a writing exercise: try to capture the intensity that I bring to chasing that squirrel in the backyard. Then think of me carrying a gun.

* I've been spitballing some marketing ideas and, I have to say, this one's genius. Forget bookmarks, I'm talking branded bags of doggie treats. Bacon flavored ... no liver ... no, I should never question my instincts, definitely bacon.

* I know I’m cute, but don’t pimp me out for your book promotional efforts. That’s such a desperate move, man. I see that you’re using me as your Facebook profile photo these days. You’re a lawyer -- you know that I didn’t consent to the use of my likeness for commercial purposes. If this doesn’t stop, I’m going to retain my own counsel.

* And, this doesn't really have anything to do with the writing but -- the holiday-themed doggie outfits. Is that really who you are? Is that who we are? No one's laughing.

* You know, sometimes I think you don’t respect my taste. I admit that I do occasionally eat my own poop, but that doesn’t mean that my opinions aren’t valid.

Fellow writers make your journey easier

2012-01-06T00:01:00.000-08:00

by Meredith Cole

When I started off writing a book, I thought a book belonged solely to the writer who wrote it. I imagined that writers wrote alone in their hovels. The world intruded now and then, demanding rent and their attention. But everything else was about being alone in the silence.

I didn't have the luxury of heading to a desert island or heading to an artist retreat when I started my first book. I had a small baby at home, I was a freelance writer/producer, and I couldn't just walk away from my responsibilities. I wrote my book in my free moments, and wasn't sure if it would ever come to anything.

Once I was published, I discovered that many writers write just the way I do. They have jobs, families and other responsibilities. They give up their vacation time to attend mystery conventions and spend their own money to go on book tours. I felt more normal and learned the value of having a writing community with which to share ideas. Not every writer is social, so they often look at me oddly when I tell them they need to join writing groups and organizations and meet other writers. They believe, like I did, that the best writing is done in isolation. But for everyone who resists joining a group with Mystery Writers of America or Sisters in Crime, or getting involved in a group blog like this one, I'll let you know how the organizations have helped me.

Share information: It's easy to be hoodwinked or enter a bad situation if you lack information. If you have a community of writers you can let them know if an agent has demanded money to read your book (a big no-no) or if a small publisher seems a bit shady. They might know someone who knows someone who can let you know if you're instincts are correct. Or if the company has a solid reputation. You don't have to go it alone and be taken advantage of by anyone unscrupulous. Not only have I learned stuff like that, I've also used the writing community to find out about competitions (like the St. Martin's/Malice Domestic Best Traditional Mystery competition, which I entered and won!), to find my agent and to learn about other opportunities like anthologies.
Stop talking to yourself for awhile and get some new ideas. Writers are wonderful storytellers, and I've spent many evenings laughing myself silly at a bar surrounded by wonderful people. And not only writers come to conventions--I've met poison experts, federal agents, police dog handlers, fingerprint analysts, forensic examiners, private eyes and so many others. I got great ideas from them all, and many are generous about answering questions later on if something comes up in a story I'm writing.
Be prepared to be a published author. I started meeting agents before my book was done, and learned about pitch sessions, the publishing world and met lots of writers (some who generously blurbed my first book). I took home bookmarks and new books, and started reading great writers who were being published right now. Although it's no guarantee, I really think that getting out of the house and meeting your community will help you get published sooner. So will reading current mystery writers. If nothing else, you'll certainly be more prepared when your moment comes and you get the "call."
Don't go it alone.

Bouchercon 2010 -- Criminal Minds do brunch (photo courtesy of Shane Gericke)

So many people are involved in publishing and making your book a finished wonderful thing. Editors, copyeditors, publicists, cover artists, booksellers, librarians... Your publishing company will ask if you're blogging, tweeting and if you have a Facebook page. Getting involved with a group blog like 7 Criminal Minds means you're not diving in all alone. Your fellow blogger's fans will find out about you. You won't have to write a blog post every day, or drive traffic to your blog all alone. And you'll have even more friends to hang out with at the next convention.

Those Three Words

2012-01-05T00:05:00.000-08:00

This week we're thrilled to be hosting one of the original members of 7 Criminal Minds--CJ Lyons! Since the last time we had her here on the blog, she's hit the New York Times bestseller list and published scads and scads of novels. Before she became a bestseller (or a 7 criminal minder, even), CJ worked as a pediatric ER doctor, so she's lived the life she writes about in her cutting edge Thrillers with Heart.

CJ has been called a "master within the genre" (Pittsburgh Magazine) and her work has been praised as "breathtakingly fast-paced" and "riveting" (Publishers Weekly) with "characters with beating hearts and three dimensions" (Newsday).

Learn more about CJ's Thrillers with Heart at www.cjlyons.net.

Now, on to CJ!

The holiday season always leads to reflection. Did we accomplish what we wanted this past year? What do we want for the next?

One blogger I follow suggested finding three words to guide you for the New Year and choosing new ones each year to keep you aligned with your vision.

My three words for 2012 are: Inspire, Empower, Engage.

This exercise made me think: what inspires my writing?

When I was a kid, it was my own need to learn how to become a hero, someone strong enough to change the world for the better.

After my pediatric internship when one of my fellow interns was brutally murdered, writing became my way to understand my grief and control the chaos around me. That's when I wrote my first thriller, BORROWED TIME, and I dedicated it to Jeff's memory.

Much of my fiction since then has been inspired by my patients and their families. Ordinary people facing tragedy with courage and grace, proving that heroes are indeed born everyday.

I still search for order in the chaos--after practicing pediatric emergency medicine and pediatrics for seventeen years, that will never change. But now, after having sold hundreds of thousands of books and receiving fan letters from all over the world, I have another inspiration: my readers.

Discovering that I had the power to connect with people I'd never met, to inspire as well as entertain--that felt almost as good as saving lives in the ER!

I treasure each fan letter as much as the very first one. There have been people facing the pain of chronic illnesses who have been able to make it through the night because of my books. Fellow medical personnel, EMS, firefighters, and police officers have written, thanking me for the way I "tell it like it really is." And readers who simply needed an escape from their lives have found refuge in my words.

Honestly, no matter how much money or which bestseller lists I hit, I can't imagine any feeling as wonderful as the feeling I get when I hear from readers who have fallen in love with my books. It's an adrenalin rush that fuels my writing and inspires me everyday!

So I guess those three words, Inspire, Empower, Engage, have been with me all along. But now I can focus on taking them all to the next level in 2012.

Tell me, what three words define your vision for the New Year?

Thanks for reading!

Lacks Guidence

2012-01-03T21:56:00.000-08:00

I think that should be the title of my blog today because I've now started it and deleted it and started again three times. It seems I don't know what to write without a guiding command.

Sometimes it's that way when working on the books too. Usually you have a plan and a plot and in my case an idea of the end. But some days you don't know where a scene is going to go. You may think this is a good thing - "Ah freedom" - but it sucks. It's like driving on soft sand: it's hard to get anywhere, and the harder you press the gas the deeper your tires sink in.

I've known that subconsciously for quite some time but I've only recently noticed it on a conscious level. Suddenly the production line bogs down, the ideas grind to a halt, and it seems far more imperative that I wash my car than finish the chapter. I used to think something strange was happening - but now I can take a look at my position in the story and invariably I'm at one of those blank moments - where my one page synopsis says something like - the heroes find the treasure. Great words for a synopsis - they make it short and sweet - make your agent and editor think you know what you're doing and have it all plotted out. Trouble is you no WHAT happens, but you don't know HOW. And now you have to stop and think.

I don't like thinking. It gives me a headache - I pretty much thought I was done with it after high school and was never very much good at it to begin with. I like doing. But if I haven't figured out HOW the characters will DO any particular thing I actually have to stop and figure it out now and that means time to think even less.

What? Think even less? Yes for me, thinking less is better. In fact if I'm not thinking at all I usually do my best work. So when the writing bogs down and I have to think something up its time to get my mind of off what I'm trying to think of.

Cue the Dredd Pirate Roberts saying: "You have a truly dizzying intellect."

It's true so here are some of my ways to think by not thinking.

Wash the car,
Walk the dog,
Swing a golf club,
Play a mindless video game where you get to blow stuff up,
Try to figure out the stock market (Ha!)
Try to figure out how the Eagles missed the playoffs,
Try to figure out why I moved in September and yet I'm still sleeping on a mattress on the floor, (Oh yeah, putting the bed together requires thinking)
watch The Wrath of Khan... "Khan!"Eat a bowl of cereal - Apple Jacks are great thinking food - all the crunching you hear inside your head drowns out the outside world just like in that commercial,

-and, when all else fails, as it usually does,

Run the shower but don't get in, just lie on the bathroom floor listening to the water and staring up at the ceiling and watching the room fill with steam until finally, eventually, it comes to you.

And that's the other crazy thing - it never feels like I actually think anything up, either the idea pops in there or it doesn't. Maybe writer's block is when the ideas stop popping in for an extended period. Guess the hot water bill will be through the roof if that happens. But in the mean time - at least I know how the heroes find the treasure.

Happy New Year and Good Writing,

Graham

Fixing the Blank Page

2012-01-03T00:03:00.000-08:00

by Rebecca Cantrell

First off, happy New Year!

In the tail end of 2011 I had a writing exercise included in the writing book Now Write: Mysteries: Suspense, Crime, Thriller, and Other Mystery Fiction Exercises from Today’s Best Writers and Teachers (no, I don’t know how I snuck in).

I’m quite happy with the exercise I submitted, entitled rather prosaically “Murder from the Point of View of the Murderer, Victim, and Detective,” but the exercise I wanted to write was about letting go in your work, about giving yourself permission to throw words away.

Don’t get me wrong. I love some of my sentences just as much as the next writer. I’ve let go giant subplots that I still mourn (remember Hannah’s brother, Ernst? He used to talk from beyond the grave and those were great scenes).

I think throwing words away is a hard lesson for most writers to learn, and it was for me. It’s easy to get caught up in your perfect words. Revisions were hard for me until a friend told me that when she revised her novel it felt like “losing a child.” That shocked me out of my own over-attachment to any word in my story.

Because writing is about using words to transport people into your world. If the words are wrong and the world isn’t clear, the words have to change. Period. It’s just part of the process, like hitting the Shift key at the beginning of a sentence. And it doesn’t have to hurt.

This year I’m giving us all permission to write and revise joyfully. Sometimes the act of putting down words on paper knowing that they can change, they will change, they are not set in stone, is the only thing that gives me the courage to put down words on paper at all. Like Nora Roberts said, “You can fix anything but a blank page.”

Fill those blank pages up with words, then have fun fixing them!

A VISIT WITH ANASTASIA POLLACK

2012-01-02T00:05:00.000-08:00

Sometimes the writing gods shake up the firmament and align the stars just right. This is one of those weeks, thanks to 7 Criminal Minds member and scheduling guru Gabi Herkert. This week is a free week where we can post about any topic of our choice.

As it turns out (and no, I didn’t pay Gabi to rig the schedule in my favor,) Death By Killer Mop Doll, the second book of my critically acclaimed Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mysteries, officially released this week. So today I’ve invite Anastasia to tell you a bit about the book.

Bear in mind, though, that my amateur sleuth protagonist has more than a bit of Jersey ‘tude. So welcome, Anastasia, and thank you for allowing me to write about your adventures. Given your life and family, you make my job relatively easy.

Anastasia: Hey, you can choose your friends, but you can’t choose your relatives…or even what you inherit from them.

Lois: Very true.

Anastasia: Well, let’s get on with the important stuff -- me. In this latest book author Lois Winston has chosen to write about my foray into morning television.

Lois: Why don’t you tell our readers a bit about the book to whet their appetites?

Anastasia: Sure. Here’s an official blurb:

In Death By Killer Mop Doll crafts editor Anastasia Pollack’s stress level maxes out when her well-intentioned mother meets and seduces TV producer Lou Beaumont. Suddenly, Anastasia and her fellow American Woman editors find themselves roped into unpaid gigs for a revamped morning TV show. However, not everyone involved enjoys the idea of the overhaul, and a disgruntled staffer takes action by trashing the studio set. When that doesn’t halt production, vandalism escalates to murder, and a member of the production team is found with one of Anastasia’s knitting needles plunged through his heart.

The network decides the show must go on, but morning TV turns crime drama as a blackmail plot is uncovered, and another body is found. Because Anastasia fears the killer might go after her and Mama next, she has no recourse but to launch her own investigation.

Lois: Things got a bit complicated, though, didn’t they?

Anastasia: Did they ever! You nearly got me killed. For the second time in two books!

Lois: Hey, you were snooping. Killers don’t like that. You snoop, you land in the crosshairs.

Anastasia: Don’t remind me! That was one harrowing experience, and unlike the time I found myself locked in a killer’s trunk, this time I didn’t have any of my trusty craft tools to help set me free.

Lois: Don’t give away too much. We want people to buy the book. Let’s just say you live to snoop again.

Anastasia: Yes, but readers will have to wait until next year for that one. And speaking of buying the book, Death By Killer Mop Doll, is available from all the usual suspects, both brick and mortar and online.

Lois: Anything else you’d like to tell people while you have a captive audience?

Anastasia: We could tell them about the free books you’re giving away.

Lois: Why don’t you do the honors?

Anastasia: Lois is going on a virtual blog tour throughout January to promote Death By Killer Mop Doll. As part of the tour, she’s giving away 5 copies of the book. To enter the drawing, just post a comment to any of the blogs on the tour or to today’s post. You can find the schedule for the blog tour on her website and the Killer Crafts & Crafty Killers blog.

In addition, Lois will also be giving away 3 copies of Death By Killer Mop Doll on Goodreads.

But wait! There are still more goodies available! For anyone attending The American Library Association’s Mid-Winter conference January 20-24 in Dallas, Midnight Ink will be raffling off signed copies of Assault With a Deadly Glue Gun and Death By Killer Mop Doll, along with the hand-crafted mop doll shown in the photo (you were all wondering what a mop doll is, weren’t you?) during the opening reception Friday evening. Register for the drawing at the Midnight Ink booth #1459.

My 2012 Resolutions. Uh… Resolution.

2012-01-01T03:00:00.000-08:00

Vicki here, on the first day of the new year. 2012. Here at last. Do you remember when the year 2000 seemed soooo far away? First, here's a couple of fun pictures taken in 2011.

I’m being put to shame here by the resolutions of my colleagues. If you haven’t read them yet, particularly Gaby’s, be sure and do so. Now that’s an impressive list. And I’ll bet she’ll go a long way toward accomplishing them.
Here’s my list:

1) …

That’s it. No resolutions. In the past I have resolved to lose 40 pounds, to run a marathon in October (at least a half-marathon) to write the Great Canadian Novel.

Never happened.

So, now I just let life progress as it will. Who knew at the beginning of 2011 that I’d spend three weeks in South Sudan or go on Safari in Kenya? Or that I’d get a TV option for the Constable Molly Smith series. (Notice how I snuck that in? Yup, it just happened! Stay tuned and keep fingers crossed.)

So no resolutions for me.

I have however, just sitting here typing, thought of one thing I should resolve. And that’s to spend less time on the Internet.

The Internet has got to be the greatest time waster ever invented. It’s definitely a writer’s curse (this writer anyway). I always come up with some plan to stop checking e-mail so much and stay off Facebook except for set periods during the day. Do you know, I can’t think of the last time I got a time-sensitive e-mail. As in, here’s a million dollar advance on your next book. But to get it you have to respond within the next ten minutes.

When I was on safari I went an entire week not only without e-mail but without any Internet access at all.

And guess what? I lived!

So that’s my new year’s resolution. I’ll stop spending so much time on the Internet. Particularly my writing time.

A very Happy New Year to all my 7 Minds colleagues and our readers. May all your resolutions come to pass.

P.S. Poisoned Pen Press is offering e-book editions of the first book in ten of their series for $0.99 for a limited time. That includes In the Shadow of the Glacier, the first in my Constable Molly Smith Series. Here’s a link, if you want to rush over and check them out.

Imitating Michael, Here’s My 12 Resolutions for 2012

2011-12-31T00:01:00.000-08:00

1. Be like Kim. Did I mention Ms. Kardasian is getting 600 grand just to be at a nightclub in Vegas for New Year’s Eve? Damn. This at a time when at least one bookstore, I’ve heard, will start charging mid-listers for the privilege of doing a book signing. Damn.

2. No more Fight Club. Seeing double way too much – though not on my checks. See Number One.

3. Don’t cry about missing Fight Club. No, really, don’t cry.

4. Write the Herman Cain Story, to star Danny Glover in the title role and a robot or bleached scarecrow, as Ann Coulter.

5. I would say what Mike said in his second resolution, only with the crowd I run with, that might get misinterpreted quite easily...if you catch my meaning.

6. Not that there’s anything wrong with Number Six in its reference.

7. Knock back a little Jack and play some Hubert Sumlin, David “Honeyboy” Edwards and Clarence Clemmons -- and light a candle for Etta James.

8. Pray that Nic Cage does Drive Angry II and not get more hair extensions to do Season of the Witch II.

9. Won’t be envious of Kim.

10. Read all of B. Traven’s works.

11. More gym, less fries.

12. Be happy, happy, joy, joy.

Dream a Little Dream

2011-12-30T00:01:00.000-08:00

When do my resolutions become my revolution? I think that 2011 was my year for baby steps. Every year, in the tradition of Monk in an OCD crisis, I start a new journal on New Year's Eve complete with written resolutions in all the alphabetically organized BIG categories: Creative, Financial, Personal, Physical and Spiritual. I'm just better with a checklist I can cross off things on as the year progresses.

Last year, my resolutions numbered 61. They included a recommitment to myself as a writer and an artist. I'll be honest and confess the touchier-feelier the resolution, the more likely I am to be spending the following New Year's Eve rewriting the resolutions I didn't quite get done into the next year. But this year is different. This year I was positively scary in my willingness to take the leap of faith required of every writer who longs for people to read her work. I moved. I changed jobs. I reinvented my life. It hasn't been easy. It wasn't without hiccups and seismic shifts and it isn't over. My resolutions merged and melded and became my revolution. Maybe even my revelation.

The thing is, once you take that step off the cliff, you've got a long time to imagine splatting at the bottom. A long, long time. I honestly don't know how Wile E. Coyote has managed to stay sane facing the dropping of the ball in Times Square. But here I am, spending what is my Thanksgiving thinking not only of the amazing, horrifying, challenging (good and bad) things I'm thankful for in 2011, but looking forward to my next Turkey Day and what might be. To hold myself accountable, and to be able to rely on my friends to kick my butt if it comes to that (which it always does) here are my resolutions for my revolution in 2012:

Creative: 1. Finish new thriller and send to someone, anyone who might read it. 2. Finish my screenplay. 3. Take a class with other writer's who make me want to get better. 4. Support the writer's who have made me as good as I am. 5. Submit a short story to the MWA anthology.

Financial: 5. Budget for Thrillerfest. 6. Buy a round (or 10) for our first Criminal Minds panel. 7. Write full-time at least through April 1.

Personal: 8. Meet Shane Gericke. 9. Maui. 10. French Rosetta Stone.

Physical: 11. Run a mudder. 12. Danskin triathlon with Susan. 13. Bikram yoga. 14. Splits.

Spiritual: 15. Attend a Quaker community meeting without fidgeting. 16. Ask more people what they believe and listen with my heart as well as my head. 17. Community service with the homeless.

So there are only 17 this year. More importantly, they are mostly dream bigger, continue on goals. My resolutions, an inch at a time, have become the revolution, the evolution of me. It's fitting that I'm drafting my new plan on a day I am so thankful for all of you. I wouldn't have had the courage to set my bar this high without you and I certainly wouldn't have come this far in your absence. Sharing the list, inviting our blog readers to share our success and insisting that all of you know you are an integral part of the people we are, on the first day of the year and the last, I know my 2012 will be filled with opportunity and adventure.

What're your resolutions? How can I support you as you've always done me?

Thank you for...well, everything. I look forward to being amazed by all of you in 2012.
Gabi

12 Resolutions for 2012

2011-12-29T00:01:00.000-08:00

This year, I resolve

To pay my taxes without complaining
To eat something I never would have imagined putting in my mouth
To save a dolphin even if it doesn’t want to be saved
To break a board with my head
To listen, watch, and learn
To grow another inch taller
To be inconsistent when it suits my purposes
To forgive others
To forgive myself
To walk the dog and feed the fish
To speak my mind
To know when to shut the hell up

Michael is the author of the Joe Kozmarski novels, including A Bad Night's Sleep, which January Magazine has called one of the the best crime novels of 2011.

Readers' choice

2011-12-27T12:45:00.000-08:00

Last year, my New Years Resolution was to limit the number of fictional animals that my fictional characters fictionally injured, and so, in 2011, over the course of 2.5 novels, not one fictional animal was harmed. I hope to continue this trend.

However, this leaves me with a bit of a conundrum.

I don't know what my New Years Resolution for 2012 should be.

I want it to be related to my writing. I really like the idea of forcing myself to change bad habits. And so I want to open it up to you. What bad habit should I correct for 2012?

Those $#*@ Resolutions

2011-12-26T00:10:00.000-08:00

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

Every year, people make New Year's Resolutions. Every year, most of them are broken before the end of January.

Some of my recent past resolutions:

Lose weight - didn't happen.
Balance my check book faithfully - didn't happen, though I have been better about it in the past few months.
Work out regularly - lasted 2 months, a new personal record.
Read more - I'm seriously trying to make this happen, hoping my new Kindle will help.
Clean out my bedroom closet - like losing weight, this made the resolutions list several years with about the same progress.

Considering my track record, I wasn't going to make any resolutions this year, but that ship sailed when I read this week's question. So here is my one and only New Year's Resolution for 2012.

[drum roll, please]

I hereby resolve to curtail my swearing, particularly my use of the F-bomb.

I may write mysteries with few to no swear words, but truth be told, I can and do swear like a drunken sailor with Turrets. Funny thing is, I don't recall swearing much until I hit my late 30's-early 40's. After that it was Potty-Mouth Is In The House, especially when I'm pissed off. Oops, sorry. I mean, especially when I am angered. Then again it's not January yet, is it?

So between now and January 1, don't be surprised if all the curse words I've learned in my life bubble out of me like lava under pressure. I'll just be getting them all out before my resolution hears the starting gun.

Reflecting on an Amazing Year

2011-12-25T00:01:00.000-08:00

By Hilary Davidson

I love this time of year, not only because of Christmas, but because it's a great time to reflect on the past 12 months. By any standard, 2011 has been a wonderful one for me. Some of the highlights:

Edgar Week in New York City. This event draws so many great people to town — and just about everyone comes to the Mysterious Bookshop on Warren Street for the release of the latest MWA anthology. That's me with Reed Farrel Coleman, Ben LeRoy, and Ruth Jordan. It doesn't get better than this!

Attending Mayhem at BookHampton with Cara Hoffman, Linda Fairstein, and Karen Bergreen. This only happened because the amazing Ms. Fairstein is unfailingly generous towards other writers, and always seems to be looking for a new way to help them out.

Another first: I've attended Book Expo America before, but never as an author with a book to sign. My signing slot was at the Mystery Writers of America table with Megan Abbott early on the first day of the event. That was wonderful. Even better: Jen Forbus came by to see us!

Being nominated for an Arthur Ellis Award by the Crime Writers of Canada meant so much to me. Here I am at the award dinner in Victoria, B.C., with my friends Deryn Collier and Robin Spano. We had a blast at the Bloody Words conference afterwards.

ThrillerFest Debut Author Breakfast: It starts early, but it's worth getting up for. It was an honor to be part of the 2010/11 "class," which meant I was onstage with amazing writers such as Ethan Cross Jennifer Hillier, and Alma Katsu (in photograph with me) as well as Daniel Palmer, Todd Ritter, Sandra Brannan, Lynn Sheene, Taylor Stevens, and Allison Leotta. (A big thank you to Library Journal's Barbara Hoffert for covering the event.)

Reading "Necessary Evil" — my story from D*CKED: Dark Fiction Inspired by Dick Cheney — at St. Louis' Noir at the Bar was fantastic...

But being photobombed by Scott Phillips was priceless! (With Jedidiah Ayres and Glenn Gray.)

Bouchercon in St. Louis got off to an incredible start: I won the Crimespree Award for Best First Mystery for The Damage Done and Kelli Stanley won the Macavity Award for Best Historical Mystery Award for City of Dragons!

You never know who you might meet at the Bouchercon bar... (With Kent Gowran, Daniel Woodrell, Melissa McBride, Johnny Shaw, Keith Rawson, Greg Bardsley, Cameron Ashley, and Matthew McBride. If you look closely at the left, you'll spot Frank Bill, too!)

At my first Bouchercon (San Francisco in 2010), Elyse Dinh had the genius idea to suggest a "Charlie's Angels"-style shot with Brad Parks, Christine McCann, Lauren O'Brien, and me. Now we've made it an annual tradition!

What I love best about Bouchercon: hanging out with friends. I got to meet Sabrina Ogden and Kent Gowran for the first time, and to see Neliza Drew again.

Also finally got to meet Chris F. Holm (author of Dead Harvest, coming out soon!) and his wife, Kat Niidas Holm (here with Brad Parks and Lauren O'Brien).

Being on a panel — moderated by my hero, Laura Lippman! — with Duane Swierczynski, Bill Loehfelm, and Bryan Gruley.

Winning the Anthony Award for Best First Novel for The Damage Done!

It was such an honor to be invited to speak at the first-ever QuebeCrime conference in Quebec City. Not only did I get to be on a panel with Lawrence Block, Daniel Woodrell, Andrew Pyper, John Brady, and Craig McDonald, I got to be locked up in an 1813 jail (er, "gaol") with Mr. Woodrell.

At Murder and Mayhem in Muskego. Not sure that it's legal to have this much fun in one weekend, but maybe there are special rules in Milwaukee (or, at least, in Castle Crimespree). I had the good luck to be on the "Anytime, Anywhere" panel with Megan Abbott, Sean Chercover, Jen Forbus, and Martyn Waites.

I'm incredibly grateful to everyone who made this year such a special one for me. I'm looking forward to 2012 for many reasons: the release of The Next One to Fall on Valentine's Day is the biggest (the pre-order contest is open now), but I'm also excited about the book tour and conferences (Left Coast Crime, Murder 203, Bloody Words, and Bouchercon). And the paperback release of The Damage Done is just days away — it comes out on January 3rd.

Wishing everyone all the best for the holiday season and the new year!

Ray Day

2011-12-24T00:01:00.000-08:00

By Reece Hirsch

If I could propose a new national holiday I think it would be July 23 – Raymond Chandler’s birthday. There were great hard-boiled writers before Chandler like Dashiell Hammett and James M. Cain, but Chandler formulated a way of writing crime fiction and a way of looking at American life that changed everything that came after. At least it did for me, anyway.

I know that the writing was so sharply stylized that it lends itself to easy parody, but how can you argue with sentences like these:

“Dead men are heavier than broken hearts.”

“The girl gave him a look that ought to have stuck at least four inches out of his back.”

“There is no trap so deadly as the trap you set for yourself.”

And, of course, there is the wonderful opening paragraph of the short story Red Wind:

“There was a desert wind blowing that night. It was one of those hot, dry Santa Ana’s that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands’ necks. Anything can happen. You can even get a full glass of beer at a cocktail lounge.”

And who was wiser about writing good genre fiction than Chandler in this quote from the introduction to the short story collection Trouble Is My Business:

“The emotional basis of the standard detective story was and had always been that murder will out and justice will be done. Its technical basis was the relative insignificance of everything except the final denouement. What led up to that was more or less passage work. The denouement would justify everything. The technical basis of the Black Mask type of story on the other hand was that the scene outranked the plot, in the sense that a good plot was one which made good scenes. The ideal mystery was one you would read if the end was missing.”

In my writing, I gradually came around to the same conclusion that a good plot was one that made good scenes, but wish I’d read that passage sooner. It might have saved me some false starts.

Chandler was a master of good scenes (which admittedly did not always add up to thoroughly coherent plots), heightened by that inimitable style. As Chandler said, “The most durable thing in writing is style, and style is the single most valuable investment a writer can make with his time.” And Chandler is as durable as they come.

I’m proposing the Chandler holiday in honor of the work, not the man, who by all accounts was a pretty difficult individual. If you’d like proof that sublime art can be produced by collaborators who hate each others guts, read the sections of Otto Friedrich’s City of Nets devoted to Chandler’s working relationship with Billy Wilder on the screenplay of Double Indemnity. At one point in the writing, Chandler stalked out of the room, off the Paramount lot, and went home. Shortly after, he declared that he wanted off the project. Chandler was only convinced to return after a kind of settlement agreement was struck involving a list of grievances against Wilder that Chandler had been scribbling on a yellow legal pad throughout the writing process.

John Houseman, then a producer at Paramount, said the settlement went into considerable detail: “Mr. Wilder was at no time to swish under Mr. Chandler’s nose or to point in his direction the thin, leather-handled malacca cane which Mr. Wilder was in the habit of waving around while they worked.” Wilder remembered that one of the demands was, “I can’t work with a man who wears a hat in the office. I feel he is about to leave momentarily.”

So on July 23, when those wicked Santa Ana's are blowing, remember the great Chandler. And when you celebrate, have a whiskey because, as the man himself once observed, there are no bad whiskeys, only some that aren’t as good as others. Happy holidays.

Do you have a favorite Chandlerism?

A Day of Gratitude and Forgiveness

2011-12-23T00:01:00.000-08:00

by Meredith Cole

Christmas is supposed to be a day of giving, but unfortunately it appears to have turned into a day of greed for way too many people. We're encouraged to spend more money then we have on stuff no one really needs. And the holiday has even become for some a symbol of our differences.

So if I had to start over and create a brand new holiday, I would create a Day of Gratitude and Forgiveness. This sounds heavier than it is, but bear with me. I think I might have found something that not even Hallmark can mess up.

Be Grateful:
On this holiday, you are encouraged to write to people you are grateful to. In your handwritten letter, you detail the many wonderful things they have done for you and how important they are in your life. Some excellent people to include would be your teachers, parents, friends and mentors. They all would love to hear how important they are in your life!

Forgive:
It would become unacceptable to carry a grudge past this day. Not just a grudge against your neighbor for running over your snow shovel, or your ex for ruining your holiday plans--but whole countries would be pressured to move on and forgive each other. No holding onto anger over incidents that date back to the Middle Ages. So Serbs and Croatians, Pakistanis and Indians, Palestinians and Israelis--it's time to forgive and move on. You'll be amazed how powerful you feel. And you'll be way less likely to die in an act of terrorism.

There's a wonderful story in The Singing Tree by Kate Seredy about a Christmas truce during World War I. All the soldiers came out of the trenches and greeted their enemies, sang carols and exchanged gifts. For one day, they were friends and not enemies. But with my new invented holiday, that magic would continue all year round.

Peace! And I hope everyone has a wonderful holiday, whatever it may be.

And the winner is...Sinter Klaas!

2011-12-22T00:05:00.000-08:00

Rebecca here, but just for a minute, because today I am thrilled to be hosting the very talented Leighton Gage. Leighton Gage lives in Brazil and writes crime novels about that country’s federal police. His latest, A Vine in the Blood has been starred by Publisher’s Weekly and dubbed “irresistible” by the Toronto Globe and Mail.The New York Times used exactly the same word to describe his previous book, Every Bitter Thing. After reading it, I can see why. His characters are fun and quirky and his dialogue reminds me of Elmore Leonard's (very high praise indeed!).

For more on Leighton Gage and his books, do visit him on the web at http://www.leightongage.com/.

Without further ado, here’s his contribution on the theme for this week, "Create your own holiday."

When I was a kid, I measured the success of a holiday almost exclusively by the acquisition of stuff. And that drive for the acquisition of stuff was so strong that even now, more than half-a-century on, I can still clearly remember those Christmases where I got (or didn’t get) some particular item I was hoping for.

Then I grew up. And the balance shifted to giving, not receiving.

But giving and receiving remain key elements for my evaluation of a holiday. Another key element is the aspect of sharing, i.e. experiencing the event with others.

Not just with my family, but with the world at large.

Sharing gives me a warm, fuzzy feeling. It makes me feel part of something bigger.

A story, myth, or legend also goes a long way, for me, toward making a holiday special. Even if the story isn’t true. If you’ve ever had joy of the Easter Bunny, or Santa, you’ll know what I’m talking about.

And, oh yeah, special foods. What would Thanksgiving be without turkey?

Give me all of those elements rolled into one and you’ve got my ideal holiday. And ya know what? I don’t have to create it, because the Dutch and the Flemish already have it. It’s called Sinterklaas, and they celebrate it on the 6th of December.

Here’s the story: Back in the third century AD a chap by the name of Nicolaos (that’s our spelling, he wrote it Νικόλαος) was born in a Greek colony called Patara on the Southern Coast of what is now Turkey.

He adopted Christianity, suffered for his faith under the Emperor Diocletian, became a bishop and died on the 6th of December in the year 343.

Flash forward 50 years of so. He was canonized.

Flash forward another 350 years. His remains were transferred to Bari, in present-day Italy.

And placed in this tomb.

Got all that?I hope so, because now it gets complicated.

Bari, in 1442, became a part of the Spanish Empire. Which is why today, half a millennium later, Low Country kids continue to believe that the Sint, as Saint Nicolas, the patron saint of children is affectionately called, comes to visit them from Spain.

Not from Turkey, where he was born. Not from Italy, where his bones lie. But from Spain. And it also explains why they believe he has Moorish servants.Because, back then, lots of people in Spain did.

What it doesn’t explain is why the Netherlands, an overwhelmingly Protestant country, would want to venerate a Catholic saint.

The answer is – they don’t.

In the course of the last half-millennium, the day of Nicolaos’s death has morphed into a secular rather than a religious holiday, even in Northern Belgium, which is largely Catholic, and despite the fact that the Sint appears in the guise of a bishop.

Here’s how he’s portrayed. He brings his horse with him, and he comes by boat. (He’s also the patron saint of sailors.)

In the Low Countries, his journey northward is played up in the newspapers and on television. Journalists interview him, giving him a chance to make critical remarks about how naughty the government and the politicians have been – and what he intends to do about it. But it’s done in a way that goes over the kids’ heads. So they take it all seriously.

They start putting out their shoes, not for one night, but for several. And into them, they put some hay, or a carrot, for the Sint’s horse. The excitement builds.

Very different, as you can see, from Santa Claus. No North Pole, no sleigh, no elves, no reindeer, no stockings. Instead it’s Spain, a boat, Moorish servants, a horse and shoes.

If you’ve been naughty, the Sint could leave your folks a switch to beat you with. And, if you’re really naughty, you could get stuffed into a sack by one of his Moorish servants and carried off to Spain, never to see your parents again.

The people of the Low Countries have been perpetuating these stories, virtually unchanged, for about five hundred years. Have a look at this early seventeenth-century painting from the Dutch painter Jan Steen.

Can you spot who’s been naughty and who’s been nice?

When the Sint finally arrives, he rides his horse through the towns, continuing his mission of rewarding the nice. His Moorish servants, called “Black Petes”, fling sweets to the kids in the crowd.

It’s seldom that you see a black person playing a Black Pete.
Black Petes aren’t supposed to be people with dark skins. They’re supposed to be white people with their faces blackened.
Because that’s how they’ve always looked, and portraying them any other way dilutes their character.

There are lots of other customs connected with Sinterklaas.
One is the writing of silly poems to accompany presents. The poems follow a traditional style and contain hints about what might be within the wrapping. But they’re usually more than that. In them, comments, sometimes rather sharp ones, are generally made about the personality or comportment of the recipient.

The whole family gets presents, and the whole family competes to write the best (worst) poems.

Black Petes also have the task of visiting the homes of the children.
And, when the kids are least expecting it, hands (some families have black gloves squirreled away for this purpose) have a way of appearing through doorways…

… and deluging them with a shower of pepernoten (ginger biscuits).
You’d think the kids would chase them down to the source, wouldn’t you?
But Black Petes are scary – so they don’t.

Then there are the other traditional foods: hot chocolate, and speculaas (gingerbread).

Sometimes filled with marzipan.

And chocolate letters fashioned with the first letter of the recipient’s name.

Best part of it all?
The Low Country folks celebrate Christmas too, so we won’t have to trade one for the other.

What do you think?
Interested in helping me to adopt Sinterklaas?

Day of Electronic Darkness

2011-12-20T00:01:00.000-08:00

On this day there is no email, no text messges, no blogs, no twitter, no electronics of any kind.

You just sit home and read books on paper and have face to face conversations with living people.

This day used to be celebrated every day in most of the 20th century.

And I'm bringing it back.

Today.

Enjoy it!

NATIONAL BUY A NOVEL DAY

2011-12-19T00:05:00.000-08:00

For the past several months, ABC World News has featured an ongoing series called Made in America. One of the points made is that according to economists they spoke with, if everyone in America spent just $64 on goods made in America, it would create 200,000 new jobs. Given that the average person will spend $700 this year on Christmas and Hanukkah presents, it should be relatively easy to budget $64 for gifts made in America. The show even has a map on their website for finding goods made in America by state.

I propose that we create a National Buy a Novel Day to be held in December. This day would encourage people to buy novels as gifts. Most books sold in America are written (and illustrated) by Americans. Many are published by small and medium presses headquartered in America. Those publishers that are now part of worldwide conglomerates still have offices in America and employ thousands of Americans. Although some publishers are outsourcing their printing and even their copyediting overseas, for the most part, books are still printed in America.

Think about all the people whose livelihoods depends on book publishing. Not only the editors, cover artists, publicists, marketers, and salespeople who work for the publisher, but the clerks and secretaries and switchboard operators. The accountants and bookkeepers. The cleaning staff. The people who work in nearby businesses that these people frequent during their lunch hour.

Then there are the people who work for the printers, the bindery, the warehouse. The truckers who ship the books. The booksellers who sell the books. Librarians. The journalists who review the books.

If everyone in America spent just $64 on books this holiday season, we’d create 200,000 jobs in publishing and publishing related industries. How cool would that be? So cross off those must-have tchotchkes you were going to buy as gifts. They’ll go the way of the Furby and Pet Rock by the end of January anyway. Join the National Buy a Novel movement and buy books instead. Starving authors everywhere will thank you, and so will a lot of other people.

Lois Winston writes the critically acclaimed Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mysteries series. The first book, Assault With A Deadly Glue Gun, was a January 2011 release and received starred reviews from both Publishers Weekly and Booklist. Death by Killer Mop Doll will be a January 2012 release. Visit Lois at http://www.loiswinston.com and Anastasia at the Killer Crafts & Crafty Killers blog, http://anastasiapollack.blogspot.com.

How I Learned to Write

2011-12-18T02:13:00.000-08:00

If I may quote loosely Stephen King in his great book, On Writing. There are bad writers, competent writers, good writers, and great writers. You can’t make a great writer out of a good writer and you can’t make a competent writer out of a bad writer.

But you can make a good writer out of a competent writer.

And the way to do that, King suggests, is to learn the craft.

King also says, that to be a writer you have to do two things: you have to write and you have to read.

I’ll echo Rebecca here and say that perhaps the first thing a beginning or wanna-be writer must to is to read.

I have always been a reader, from a family of readers. When my children were small I decided one year to write them an individual Christmas story, with them as the characters. I did so, and was very pleased with my efforts so I thought I’d try my hand at writing for children.

I went to the local community college and signed up for a writing course. I also went to a meeting of a national children’s authors group. I decided almost instantly I didn’t want to write for children – mainly because I didn’t like the community. Mostly women who said things like “When we were posted to Paris I decided to write a book to keep me busy.” (Caveat: I am sure there are very nice children’s writers – I’ve met some of them – I just didn’t meet them that day). However, I was liking this writing thing and liking the course I was taking, so I decided to try an adult book. I read mysteries most of all, so that seemed like a logical fit.

The rest, as they say, is history.

I continued to take courses at community college (a shout out here to two of my best teachers: Sylvia McNicoll and Lynda Simmonds.)

Taking courses is learning the craft of the business. You wouldn’t try to be a doctor without learning what’s a normal body temperature or how to wield a stethoscope, would you? A good writing course will teach you about stuff like using effective dialogue (remember: good dialogue must appear completely natural, while not being at all natural), how to show-not-tell (critically important) as well as some grammar basics (think it doesn’t matter, it does). A good course will also give you feedback on your writing, from the teacher and from your classmates as well as give you contact you might enjoy having and teach you a bit about the publishing industry and how it works.

And, most of all, I continued to read.

I was totally dismayed a while ago when I was on a panel at a conference talking about what we read, to find that I was the only panellist who reads crime novels.
How can you write if you don’t know what people these days want to read?
How can you write something you wouldn’t read yourself?

But more than that, reading is sort of like keeping your skills up to date. Read: see what works, see what doesn’t work. How does the book create tension? What’s interesting about these characters?

The third thing I did was to join my local writing community. Sisters in Crime at first and then Crime Writers of Canada. Writing is a community and its important to be a part of it (one of the best things about being a writer as well.)

Speaking of reading: I have a new book coming out in April titled A Winter Kill, that’s something different. It’s a Rapid Reads book from Orca Publishers. It’s a short, fast read (about 15,000 words) specifically aimed at reluctant readers. It’s an adult book, with adult language and adult themes for those who can’t read well or who don’t have time to read much. Above is a peek at the cover.

Edgar wins the Edgar

2011-12-17T00:01:00.000-08:00

Once upon a daytime dreary,
While I pondered weak and weary,
The pages blank as driven snow causing me teary,
Came a rapping, tapping at my chamber door,
Must be the bill collector, merely this and
nothing more.

I ducked out the rear to ease my fear,
To trod my way to the local tavern,
Mayhaps to partake of grog in the darkened cavern,
In this way settled, yet another attempt to test my mettle,
Pen in hand again, alone with no friends,
Deep in my mind turning,
All my soul within me burning,
Came the stranger from my chamber door,

Harken he decried, no debt arranger am I,
‘Tis good news I bring on gentle wing,
For I impart you word of joy to buoy you from folly,
As known you prone not to be jolly,

But as the father of the detective tale,
There was no way we’d send the news by mail,
For your works have been true,
And no one deserves this mighty award more than you,
Henceforth you shall bore anonymity
...Nevermore.

Alfred Hitchcock Presented

2011-12-16T00:01:00.000-08:00

Gabriella Herkert

Catnapped and Doggone

We’ve all done it. With a hairbrush microphone in front of a mirror audience, we’ve practiced our moment in the sun. We’ve dreamed of the day when our peers, our audience, our potential readers and the financially helpful media shine their light upon us as masters of our craft. If you’re like me, you’ve imagined even the unimaginable – an Olympic gold medal (completely uncoordinated), the Oscar for Best Actress (I’d rather be under a bus than on stage) or a Presidential Medal of Honor (fast approaching middle-aged and too pragmatic to play hero). Writers are, by our very nature, not spotlight people. We write the scripts for the front-and-centers even when they themselves are writers. Even if we aren’t there in person, we can scribe the self-deprecating humor, the genuine astonishment, the revelatory acceptance if only for someone else.

Winner for the Edgar for Lifetime Achievement in Mystery and Suspense – Alfred Hitchcock.

Good evening and welcome to our program. I could pretend to be surprised by my selection for lifetime achievement even in so august company. But I’m not. You see, this was like doing a who-done-it and making Charles Laughton the butler. I wouldn’t have been asked if I wasn’t going to win.

I became a writer at the age of five. I was sent along with a note to the chief of police, who read the note and promptly put me into a cell and locked the door for five minutes; and then let me out, saying, "That's what we do to naughty little boys, you see." What effect that had on me at the time I can't remember, but they say psychiatrically if you can discover the origins of this or that, it releases everything. Where was I to go from there? So I went where my world took me, to this moment, I suppose and as I am here, I will share what I have learned from my journey with the writers in this room.

Your story is all around you but it’s not easy. It will not come to you in whole cloth. You must reach out and take it. You mustn't let the characters take themselves where they want to go. They must come where you want to go. So it's really an inverted process. It is a bastard form of story-telling. But the kernel of them is there always. You look at your adoring uncle long enough, and you find something. I certainly did.

You must always remember that real people, the ones that fill your pages or your screen, are three-dimensional. You can't root for a hero who doesn't want to be a hero. So it's a negative thing. It comes under the heading that all villains are not black and all heroes are not white. There are grays everywhere. It’s that contrast that makes character work. For example, look at Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window. He’s the hero, right? He has risen to the challenge of exposing the killer. Well, the poor man. It's the climax of peeping tomism, isn't it? "Why did you do it?" he says. "If you hadn't been a peeping tom, I would have gotten away with it." Stewart can't answer. What can he say? He's caught. Caught with his plaster down. That’s a guy an audience can relate to because haven’t we all been caught with our plaster down a time or two or ten?

The stories that work, well, they reflect the audience, don’t they? Their values, their imagination, their sense of disbelief. When I came to America, the first thing I had to learn was that the audience were more questioning. I'll put it another way. Less avant-garde. In the first Man Who Knew Too Much, the characters jump around from one place to another--you're in a chapel, and you've got old ladies with guns--and one didn't care. One said, "An old lady with a gun, that's be amusing." There was more underlying humor, at least for me, and less logic. If the idea appealed to one, however outrageous it was, do it! They wouldn't go for that in America.

As writers, you have to remember your readers. They will travel the road you’ve laid before them if you place the stones honestly. I’m not just speaking of factual or scientific accuracy. I’m talking about good, old fashioned pragmatism. Always assume your readers are figuring out what they themselves would do in the shoes of your hero. Give them a chance to play along. In The Thirty-Nine Steps, the hero had to be on the run not only from the criminals but also from the police. Why? The audience will wonder, "Why doesn't he go for the police?" Well, the police are after him, so he can't go to them, can he? Suddenly, the hero makes sense to the audience.

There’s no way to pretty up the circumstances, either. In The Man Who Knew Too Much I used a very famous incident, called the Sydney Street Siege. There were anarchists holed up in a house there, and they had to bring the soldiers out because the police couldn't handle it. Winston Churchill went down and directed operations. I had great difficulty getting that one on the screen because the censor wouldn't pass it. He called it a black spot on English police history. He said, "You can't have the soldiers." And I said, "Well, then we will have to have the police do the shooting." "No, you can't do that. The police don't carry firearms in England. If you want to do those Chicago things, we won't allow it here." Finally the censor relented and said I could do it if I had the police go to the local gunsmith and take out mixed guns and show that they're not familiar with the weapons. Silly. I ignored it, and I had a truck come up with a load of rifles. I knew the audience wouldn’t believe the lie no matter how politically correct. In many ways, you could say I have achieved in my lifetime by assuming there isn’t a dummy in the room.

I have also reached this position, not just as a storyteller, but as a working writer. A businessperson, if you will. I adapted as opportunities presented themselves. I had no intention of becoming a film director, you know. It was quite a surprise to me. Sir Michael Balcon is really the man responsible for Hitchcock. At the time, I had been a script writer, and when I finished that job I became the art director or production designer. And I did that for several pictures, until one day Balcon said that the director (I worked with the same director all the time) didn't want me any more. I don't know what the reason was, some political reason. And it was then that Balcon said, "How would you like to become a director?" With that I became a director.

But all was not sweetness and light. Success was not a given. I may be receiving a lifetime achievement award now but let’s not forget too quickly that I’m the one who made Waltzes in Vienna in 1933. I was at my lowest ebb. A musical, and they really couldn't afford the music. An Alfred Hitchcock musical, no less. But I survived. I perservered. I put one word and then another on another page. When your batteries run dry, when you are out creatively, you have to go on. Perhaps that is my greatest achievement and my legacy. In Sabotage, ironically, the bomb should never have gone off. I know that now. Given another chance, and an unwillingness to cower before bad reviews, editorial purgatory or financial expectations unmet, I would choose otherwise. I would write a different story. And I would discover, that in learning, evolving, I am telling a better story. I may not know it then. I may only know it in retrospect. But if I am patient, and relentless in my craft, one day those decriers will come to me, as they may come to you if you endure, and offer their mea culpas for having lost faith in the art that is your storytelling. They may become your Gary Coopers who, having rejected the Robert Donat role in Foreign Correpondent, come to you and say "Well, I should have done that, shouldn't I?"

And so should you. Thank you very much.

And thank you for reading.

Gabi

P.S. The quotations used here come from an interview Alfred Hitchcock gave to Peter Bogdanovich in 1963 just prior to the release of the Oscar-winning Marnie. The interview became part of an interactive exhibit by the Museum of Metropolitan Art in 1999 and can be found at http://www.moma.org/interactives/exhibitions/1999/hitchcock/interview/index.html

My Edgar's Eyes

2011-12-15T00:01:00.000-08:00

William Shakespeare accepts an Edgar for Hamlet . . .

My Edgar’s eyes are nothing like the sun;

The sky is far more fair than his coat’s blue;

If lips be red, why then he must have none;

If hair be soft, his must be made of glue.

I have seen roses damasked, red and white,

But no such roses see I in his cheeks;

And caterpillar eyebrows, like his, might

Be elsewhere found on circus sideshow freaks.

In many velvet paintings there’s more art

Than issues from poor Edgar’s poor sad face –

A bobble head shows more of mind and heart;

A mug like his ne’er graced a Grecian vase.

     And yet, by heaven, I think my Edgar as rare

     As any prize belied with false compare.

Miss Austen Accepts

2011-12-14T08:15:00.000-08:00

by Tracy Kiely

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a writer in possession of the Edgar Award would never find the experience a tedious waste of an evening. In fact, my feelings as I stand here tonight are quite the opposite. I am certainly the most fortunate creature that ever existed!

I don’t know how to begin to thank you for this honor. This experience has pierced my soul. I sat here tonight awaiting the announcement of the judges, half in agony, half in hope. And while, I think I may boast myself to be, with all possible vanity, the most unlearned and uninformed female who ever dared to be an authoress, I am nevertheless grateful to those of you who saw more in my little bit of ivory.

I know there are those who regard my books as light and frivolous; a kind of literary Indian Muslin. But to those critics I say this; let other pens dwell on guilt and misery. I quit such odious subjects as soon as I can, impatient to restore everybody, not greatly in fault themselves, to tolerable comfort, and to have done with all the rest. For me, three or four families in a country village is the very thing to work on.

Thank you again. I will treasure this award forever.

If ee cummings ever won the Edgar

2011-12-13T01:21:00.000-08:00

by Josh

finally:

having not lost

(having been lost)

i cant help but

help take my compass please

let it point its blame elsewho

'cause meandpoe are southing

(psst - here's a secret he told me so

the carrionpigeons always find a way)

Thank you for your.

You Like Me! You Really Like Me!

2011-12-12T02:02:00.000-08:00

I have many favorite authors. Some I read. Some I consider good friends. Some fall into both categories. But, truth be told, my favorite author is me. Not to sound arrogant, but if we can’t love ourselves and our own work, how can we expect others to love it enough to actually pay for it. So, while the question of the week is to write your favorite author's Edgar acceptance speech, with your indulgence, here is my Edgar acceptance speech.

Picture a short, fat middle-aged woman dressed in a lovely black lace dress and wobbling around in uncomfortable shoes because, let’s be frank, Crocs doesn’t yet make a style for formal wear. Her newly grown out gray hair is perfectly spiked, and for a change she is wearing lipstick and mascara (but only because her manager threatened her with bodily harm if she didn’t). In her hands she clutches an ugly bust of a man with black painted hair and moustache and a deathly white face. Sue Ann Jaffarian has just won the Edgar, mystery writing’s most coveted prize. It doesn’t matter which category.

In the background Kelly Clarkson croons A Moment Like This.

For a moment like this,

Some people wait a lifetime…

On stage I’m blubbering like a kid whose favorite doll just fell in the mud. I stand before the microphone, sniff back the tears and open my mouth. Nothing comes out but the rasp of mucous. More tears fall. My mascara is running down my face like roots from hell-trees.

Oh, I can't believe it's happening to me.

Some people wait a lifetime,

For a moment like this

The crowd quiets, waiting for me to pull myself together and say a quick word of thanks so they can return to their cocktails. I want a drink, too. Desperately. I clutch the statuette so hard, the microphone picks up a pronounced crack.

“Damn,” I say with wet and swollen words. “I think I broke Edgar’s neck.”

Lessons From Holly Golightly

2011-12-11T00:01:00.000-08:00

By Hilary Davidson

"Anyone who ever gave you confidence, you owe them a lot." — Holly Golightly in Truman Capote's Breakfast at Tiffany's

I can't pinpoint the moment I knew I wanted to be a writer; it feels as if the desire to write has always been in my mind. And I don't really know how I learned to be a writer, either; somewhere, somehow, after reading countless books, the lessons must have sunk in, when I wasn't looking.

What I am aware of, every day, is the fact that there have been some amazing people who've given me confidence. I know I wouldn't have become a writer without them.

My Mom: I dedicated my first novel, The Damage Done, to my mother, because she's the person who has encouraged me more than anyone else in the world. When I was a (greedy) child, I used to come home from school with lists of books I wanted to order through the Scholastic Book Club; my mother never said no. She taught me to read, took me to libraries, and told me I could do anything I wanted. She's usually my first reader for books and short stories, too. When I say that she encourages me, that doesn't mean she gives me unalloyed approval; she tells me when things don't make sense and points out awkward phrasings that act like "speed bumps" in my writing. Mom, you are awesome.

My Dad: I remember a conversation my father had with me when I was 12: he told me that the only difference between me and a professional writer is that the pro would outline. Sadly, I still haven't learned to successfully outline, but that hasn't stopped my dad from being one of my biggest cheerleaders. He occasionally gets jealous that my mom gets to read my books before he does, but he understands that his tendency to charge up to total strangers, tell them about his daughter the writer and occasionally blurt out major plot points is at the root of this issue. Dad, you are awesome.

My Grandmother: You may have read about my amazing grandmother before. She's the person responsible for my love of mystery and noir. She bought me boatloads of books and introduced me to the films of Barbara Stanwyck (Double Indemnity, The Strange Love of Martha Ivers, Baby Face, et al). She also gave me a wealth of wonderful sayings, including the one I live by: "If you're going to sin, sin big." I miss her every day.

My Grade Four & Five Teacher, Mrs. McIsaac: She once gave me a book — Mary Stewart's The Little Broomstick — inscribed with the words, "To Hilary — I expect to read a book by you one day." She let me start my own newspaper (using the school's photocopier, of course), helped me produce a play I wrote, and encouraged me to enter short-story and poetry contests, a few of which I actually won. (If I ever get famous, Scholastic will undoubtedly release my classic prize-winning story "Ametafear's Tomb." Wait for it!)

My Grade Six Teacher, Mrs. Lampert: All I can say is that Bonnie Tyler-lookalike Mrs. Lampert believed that I could do absolutely anything. She was an incredible inspiration, and she had impeccable taste — she's the person who introduced me to Lois Duncan's books, which were a huge inspiration.

My High School English Teacher, Mr. Baker: It would be hard to underestimate Mr. Baker's influence on me. It's only because of him that I get the beauty of Elizabethan English, and I'm positive that his crazy, in-class "Don't Stop Writing" exercises — in which we had to keep writing, no matter what, even though Mr. Baker was literally standing on his head to distract us — help me keep my focus when I'm writing today. I got to see him at a reunion just before The Damage Done came out, and his reaction to my book deal was classic Mr. Baker: "You're being published by Macmillan? Holy shit!"

My Husband: Can't leave him out. Other people get to read the books; he gets to live with the crazy. And that's why my second book, The Next One to Fall (coming in February 2012), is dedicated this way: "For my husband, Dan — my first, my last, my everything."

* * *

Congrats to the winners of the GoodReads Giveaway for The Next One to Fall — your advance reading copies are in the mail. This week, I'll be launching the pre-order contest (here's a preview of one of the prizes). My book tour is taking shape, with dates in New York, Houston, Austin, Scottsdale, Denver, San Diego, San Francisco, and other cities already planned. And if you're interested in reading the first chapter of the new book, you're in luck — Chapter One is on the Macmillan site!

Writing Lessons: The Early Years

2011-12-10T10:40:00.000-08:00

By Reece Hirsch

I learned how to write by writing badly and often. Here’s a core sample taken from the early years of my writing life, along with the lessons learned.

The Historian. Around age seven or so, my parents bought me a typewriter and I embarked on my first ambitious writing project. I was fascinated by the early explorers of the Americas, so I began writing a history of adventurers like Cortez, Vasco da Gama and Erik the Red. I was extremely focused in my research, which consisted of combining and rewording entries from the red-bound Junior Encyclopedia Britannica. Lesson learned: the pages just fly by when you’re plagiarizing.

The Middle School Muckraker. In middle school, I was an editor and contributor to a profoundly juvenile, and borderline libelous, underground newspaper. The newspaper came to an end when I was busted by one of the gym coaches for selling it for a nickel a copy on the playground. Lesson learned: the First Amendment does not offer much protection for an obnoxious 11-year-old satirist.

The Journalist. In the Eighties, I was a journalist in Atlanta, including editing and publishing a free arts and entertainment magazine and working as associate editor of a business magazine. Like a lot of journalists, I was dreaming of writing fiction on the side. I was a disciple of the so-called New Journalism of Tom Wolfe, Gay Talese and Hunter Thompson that combined reporting with the writerly flourishes of fiction. Lesson learned: journalism helped teach me to be concise in my writing and to recognize when the writerly flourishes were getting in the way of telling a story.

The Screenwriter. In the early Nineties when I lived in Los Angeles, I tried my hand at screenwriting. I had a couple of scripts optioned, but none produced. Lesson learned: Screenwriting is a collaborative art form, but it is the author of an original screenplay who gets collaborated upon. I resolved that the next time I seriously committed myself to writing, it would be a novel.

The birth of a writer

2011-12-09T00:01:00.000-08:00

Are writers born or made? I can't claim that I actually emerged from the womb in an inner city Chicago hospital telling stories. At least not right away. I was too busy figuring out how this crazy world works. But here's what I do know--I started writing before I actually could write.

Impossible you say? Let me explain.

Mom

Every writer should have a mother like mine. An academic and historian, she was working on her dissertation when I was in the womb. Some of that must have seeped into my brain. She was always writing and reading, and so of course I wanted to as well. Before I could really write, I would do curly cues on the page that I thought looked like cursive and announce that they were stories. I would then proceed to read them aloud (editing them on the fly, as necessary). I also dictated stories (fiction and non-fiction) and songs to my willing secretary, otherwise known as Mom.

Here's one of my songs (written at age 4):

Alexander the Great
He's the best in the state
He's the king, he's the king, he's the king.
He jumps on the bed and and he stands on his head
He's the king, he's the king, he's the king.

Pretty snazzy, huh? I still know the tune, too. If you buy me a drink at Malice or the Edgars, I might even sing it for you.

My mother was my first audience. She made me want to share what I wrote with others (not always so appreciative, but hey, developing writing skills takes time). And so my writing career began, and I hope my writing continues to bring myself (and readers) pleasure for the rest of my life.

Run! Hide the Children! Shane's Back!

2011-12-08T00:05:00.000-08:00

You expected to see Kelli's lovely face here today, didn't you? Well, gotcha. She's away this week, and so the Criminal Minds scraped the hardened goop at the bottom of the barrel and found me to fill in. As an emeritus CM (emeritus is fancy-talk for "old"), I was happy to do so. If only to make you whine and groan and miss Kelli even more. You're welcome.

On with the show!

This Week's Question: Where and When Did You Learn to Write?

Funny you should ask. Me, I was walking down a dark alley late one night, looking to score. I'd been trembling all day, needing a fix bad. A friend of a friend of a brother of a girl I knew told me this was the place to get what I wanted. I hoped he wasn't wrong . . .

Out of the gloom stepped a kid I recognized. He was older, one of the eighth-grade "bad boys" from school, the ones moms warn you to stay away from.

He grabbed my shoulder. I tried to run. He held firm.

"I got whatcha want, kid," he whispered.

"You do?" I said, ceasing my struggle. Clearly he was aware of my addiction, knew it demanded to be fed.

"Yep," he said. "Anything you want."

I blinked. "How?" I said. "The cops put the hammer down. I couldn't find it at any price."

The kid smiled.

"I got connections," he said.

"Anyone I know?"

He made a fist of his hammy little fingers. "Whatchu gonna do, go to them direct and cut me out?" he barked. "That ain't wise, Gertrude."

"It's Gericke."

"Potato, potatoh."

I shook my head. "I'd never go around you. Just wondering if I knew your suppliers, is all."

He softened, appearing to believe me. "Miriam Webster's my main guy," he said. "Know him?"

I shook my head. "I'm only second grade. Haven't been around much."

"Well," the kid said, "Ol' Web's a good guy. When he's not spoutin' talk I don't unnerstand." He pulled open his raincoat.

I gasped.

His gold tooth flashed in the sodium vapor lights. "That's right, kid," he said. "Them's is verbs."

" 'Them's is' is redundant," I managed to gasp. I couldn't stop staring. "You have adjectives. Nouns. Modifiers. And . . . and . . ." I couldn't say it.

He laughed, knowing. "Dangling participles," he said. "Put that in your pipe and smoke it."

I shoved my hand in my pocket, brought out all my milk money. "I'll take everything," I said, trying to keep my voice from quavering.

He snatched the money, then stared over the tops of his Man From UNCLE spy glasses. "You're not gonna overdose, are ya?" he demanded. "That'd make me look bad--"

"No," I promised, holding my right hand in Scout's Honor. "I'll be careful."

He nodded and gave me all the words he had.

"Plenty more where those came from, too," he said with a wink. "See ya next time, kid."

"I-I don't know if I can afford to come back . . ."

"You'll find the money. Words are an addiction ya can't beat." He hawked and spat, then melted back into the shadow of the alleyway.

Clutching my precious words--my God, there was even a gerund!--I ran home. Poured them into the big metal typewriter my folks had bought me for Christmas. (That's me and the typewriter at the top of the page, with me dressed in fashionable Kennedy-era bow tie, white shirt and Hush Puppies.) Started banging the keys. The first sentence gathered from the words I'd worked so hard to buy:

"It was a dark and gloomy night . . ."

And that's how I learned to write.

In other news that caught my eye this week:

Monsters Under the Bed

An artist thought: Hey, what if I took children's sketches and rendered them realistically? And thus a nifty site was born. Check it out at: http://www.elezea.com/2011/12/realistic-childrens-paintings/

Blimey! They're Musical Limeys!

The good blokes and blokettes on the British warship HMS Ocean will be home in time for Christmas.

That wasn't a certainty. Way back early this year, they were told they'd be away for seven weeks, to participate in naval exercises with other nations' ships. But like Gilligan's S.S. Minnow and its fabled three-hour tour ". . . yes, a three-hour tour . . ." the ship was diverted to Libya, and thence to other war operations. Total time away from home: 225 days, with 176 of them at sea. Everyone was gloomy, figuring, Santa at sea this year. Ho-ho-effin-ho.

But the Christmas gods smiled upon them, and they found out they'd be back in Jolly Olde on December 9: tomorrow. So they put together a video to celebrate their good fortune and that they'd be spending the holidays with loved ones after all. Here it is, set to Mariah Carey's "All I Want for Christmas Is You." It's bright, whimsical, and full of joy, so I wanted to share it with you here:

Merry Christmas to those who celebrate it, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Kwanzaa, and Happy December to those who don't.

About Yr. Hmbl. Corrsp.

Shane Gericke has been held at knifepoint, hit by lightning, and shaken the cold sweaty hand of Liberace. He was born to write thriller novels!

His latest is Torn Apart, a finalist for the Thriller Award for Best Novel and a Suspense Magazine Book of the Year.

Shane, whose last name is improbably pronounced YER-kee, spent 25 years as a newspaper editor, most prominently at the Chicago Sun-Times, before jumping into crime fiction. An original member of International Thriller Writers, he was chairman of the ThrillerFest literary festival in New York and founding director of its agent-author matching program, AgentFest. His novels—available in print and e-books—are in translation worldwide, and his national bestselling debut, Blown Away, was named Best First Mystery in 2006 by RT Book Reviews. He lives in the Chicago suburb of Naperville, the home of world-famous detective Dick Tracy, with whom Shane shares no resemblance except steely jaw and manly visage.

Check him out at http://www.shanegericke.com, and on Facebook and Twitter.

The Never Ending Process

2011-12-07T07:10:00.000-08:00

Good Question - I remember starting out writing because I loved reading and thinking -"I can do this."

Then things got complicated.

Funny thing is they still are - in some ways more than ever, because writing is not a multiple choice question - it's not even an essay question where you can swirl around, baffle the teacher with enough BS to get a grade. Fact of the matter is, there's no one right answer. You're never done learning, you're never "there", you're always on the journey. That's part of what makes it fun and part of what makes it painful.

But to answer the question with something helpful I'll explain how I got at least to where I am now.

In all my years at school I was a good student, in everything except English. I couldn't spell back in elementary school, I couldn't pass basic grammar comprehension in middle school. I couldn't stand reading all that depressing literature in high school. 1984 comes to mind. So naturally I decided to be a writer.

At first I thought all that mattered was the story. Tell a good story. As one of the characters in Get Shorty says "They'll find someone else to put in all the commas and question marks and the rest of that &#*@."

Turned out that wasn't true, so at age thirty I reluctantly tried to figure out grammar and punctuation and how to put a sentence together. I bought books on writing and style and read the really skinny ones and used the thick dictionary like ones to construct imaginary cities on my desk. Needless to say its a work in progress, but at least passable now.

Then I thought I was ready - but hold on. Story comes first, writing it in English comes second, telling it in a compelling style comes third - how on earth was I going to do that.

Turns out the old high school trick of cheating off someone else's paper when you don't know the answers was the most important thing I learned in my years of education. I went to the bookstore and looked at books I liked, I opened up novels I already owned, I studied how they did their dialogue and when they introduced the characters and how they described things. I broke down what I liked and what I skipped over and why. And then I realized I liked different things from different authors who were, well... totally different.

I love the way Lee Child describes things, he's absolutely brilliant at getting the right details out there the ones that matter and make something as simple as an empty road or a fallow field come to life. You can see these places and things when you read his writing. But I also loved the way other authors, described as little as possible, leaving it up to the reader to come up with those details. I heard Bryce Courtney give a keynote speech once and he insisted he describes nothing. He writes: "The sun rose over Africa." and lets the reader come up with what that looks like for them. Maybe its different in each persons mind, but I understood what he was talking about.

Since I liked both styles I tried to meld them in my own writing. A little Lee Child, a little Bryce Courtney. And a little of a dozen other writers whose work I admired, including Clive Cussler, Michael Crichton, James Rollins, Steve Berry. I studied how they built and revealed a plot. How they paced their chapters. How they worked the science I so loved into their books. And somehow through all this a style of my own formed. I'm not promising its great or even good but its my own, to whatever extent something you learned from others and amalgamated can be your own.

And then I began talking to other writers. Mostly asking dumb questions but occasionally getting good answers. I thought I was there. Story: check. Grammar: check. Style: check. And then someone I consider a good friend told me she didn't care about all those things. TO HER BOOKS WERE ABOUT CHARACTERS. WHAT?!?

So I asked and probed and thought and realized a new thing I needed to try and master: developing characters. And I went through the same process. And I'm still going through it today. I pick up new books all the time and when they wow me, I stop for a moment and think and study what I've read thinking; that's good how did X or Y do that? Why did it work so well?

Your own collection of books. This is the most masterful set of resources you can ever turn to because its all the stuff you love the best and nothing you don't like at all. If you want to play baseball you study other hitters and pitchers, if you want to be a cop, you learn what to do on the job from other cops. If you want to write, study other writers. I still do.

Now where is that Kelli Stanley book I was highlighting the other day?

First read, then write

2011-12-06T00:03:00.000-08:00

by Rebecca Cantrell

Where did I learn to write?

By reading. Reading. And then some more reading. When I was a kid I read a novel just about every day, and I miss having the time to do that. Now I’m

lucky if I get one novel finished a week. But I’m glad I did it before I had a kid and got a job and

started working as a writer, because all that reading taught me about story, characters, description, voice,

tone. Everything.

Formal education helped. I studied creative writing in college. It was one of my triple majors. After that I took courses in the craft afterward in the evenings and at conferences.

Learning on my own has been essential too. I am still trying to learn more. Every day I try to push the boundaries of what I think I know and find new ways to tell stories. Remember iDrakula? That was a wonderful experiment in how to tell a story using only a fraction of my regular writing tools. Today I’ve been thinking about the nature of evil and the evil characters in my books, and if they’re not too Lawful Evil and not enough Chaotic Evil and why that might be. If I figure it out, that’ll help my writing. If I don’t, the time I spent thinking about it, will also help my writing.

Paid work gave me a new perspective. From technical writing I learned how to communicate clearly and efficiently, how to write to a deadline, and how to research the tiniest details because they are always more important than you think (especially when documenting things that can kill people if used incorrectly!). I also learned to expect to be paid for my work. No one thinks you will write a troubleshooting guide for a multidimensional database without someone ponying up some bucks. That taught me that words have value.

But, really, it’s mostly about the reading.

Happy reading!

Where/how did you learn to write?

2011-12-05T00:05:00.000-08:00

Today’s question doesn’t have one answer for me. I can’t pinpoint a specific Eureka! moment when a switch was flipped in my brain and I suddenly became aware that because of this, that, or the other thing, I had learned to write. For one, there’s a huge difference between learning to write and learning to write well.

I hope that when it comes to learning to write well, I will continue to learn, improving my craft with each manuscript. No matter what we do for a living, we should always be striving to do better. Otherwise, we become complacent, and we stagnate.

I can say that I owe my knowledge of the mechanics of writing to a very special junior high school teacher. I may have mentioned her previously when the question of the week involved our grammar pet peeves. Peggy Riley Hughes was my English teacher for both seventh and eighth grades. She had a reputation that made students quiver in their shoes.

Pity the poor kid who didn’t know an answer when called upon in class or worse, forgot his homework. Peggy made you pay for your transgressions. She also ran through dozens of yardsticks each year because she’d emphasize her points by smacking the blackboard or a student’s desk with them. Her blackboards were covered in dings and gouges from those yardsticks, and rumor has it, she actually cracked a blackboard once. However, as far as I know and as much as she may have wanted to, she never cracked any skulls. She took her displeasure with us out on inanimate objects.

These days, Peggy’s teaching methods would probably land her in front of the school board. Or worse. However, anger issues aside, she forced us to learn. Those grammar rules are forever seared into my brain, and in part, have helped me accomplish wonderful things in my writing life.

Lois Winston writes the critically acclaimed Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mysteries series. The first book, Assault With A Deadly Glue Gun, was a January 2011 release and received starred reviews from both Publishers Weekly and Booklist. Death by Killer Mop Doll will be a January 2012 release. Visit Lois at http://www.loiswinston.com and Anastasia at the Killer Crafts & Crafty Killers blog, http://anastasiapollack.blogspot.com.

The Writer's LIfe

2011-12-04T03:00:00.001-08:00

What’s the biggest risk I've taken as a writer?

Probably switching from writing gothic standalones to a police procedural series. And then back. But let's talk about that another day.

I'm wrapping up my trip to Juba today and It's occurred to me that one of the best things about being a writer is that you can write literally anywhere. As long as you have a scrap of paper and the stub of a pencil or power in your computer’s battery (Theoretically you don’t even need that, you can write in your head.)

As I posed two weeks ago, I am visiting my daughter in South Sudan for three weeks. I’ve had a wonderful trip and part of what made it a success is simply that I can work anywhere I happen to be. My daughter is at work all day and there sure isn’t much to do in Juba on one’s own, so an extended visit might get pretty boring. But I have my computer and I can write all day if I like. And I have done so.

I’ve even sketched out some ideas for a new book about an RCMP officer seconded to the UN here in South Sudan. We’ll see if it works.

As you read this I am in Kenya on Safari. I do not have my computer with me, and I do not plan to write. I might do some thinking though. Can always do that.

Writing Down the Bones

2011-12-03T00:01:00.000-08:00

Like Michael I’ve been to strip clubs but not with the wife and kids in tow. Come to think on it, I might not have had a notepad with me as I assembled my single bills for, er, those ginger ales, yeah, that’s it, it was for research and the onion rings why I was at the Spearmint Rhino, the Hauf Brau…hmmmm, well as Herman Cain might say, “Nein, nein, nein.” Indeed the less said on this tainted past the better.

So winding my way to the question of the week, recently I had the pleasure to be on a panel with friend, the prolific writer and departing president of the Private Eye Writers of America Dick Lochte, and Judith Freeman. Judith wrote a book about Raymond Chandler and his relationship with his wife Cissy Pascal, The Long Embrace: Raymond Chandler and the Woman He Loved. Chandler and his creation, Don Quixote in a fedora, private eye Philip Marlowe, was on my mind the other night as the fiercest winds I can ever recall blew down from the canyons this past Wednesday night.

“There was a desert wind blowing that night. It was one of those hot dry Santa Anas that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands' necks. Anything can happen. You can even get a full glass of beer at a cocktail lounge.”

Fed Ex trucks were knocked over, trees toppled and smashed onto the roofs of houses and cars, power lines snapped like rubber bands clean off their poles and sparking fires. Chandler’s “Red Wind” blew like the tormented breath of the damned through the Gates of Hell -- clocking at 80 mph at times as those winds rent and tore. A friend told me his low-storied apartment building was shaking. Thankfully it seems there were no deaths but plenty of property destruction.

My biggest risk as a writer was not teaching incarcerated youth, some of whom committed homicides or were in for sex crimes; being with bangers hammering out a gang truce post the ’92 riots in a housing project in Watts; or being on the picket line with cops and their batons opposite,, all of which I’ve experienced. My biggest risk is obscurity. Every time I put the words down I’m hoping that somehow this will keep me from being left in the unmarked grave of the nebulous. Yeah, I guess it’s ego. But I don’t so much want fame or the money…not there’s anything wrong with either of these things as my role model Kim Kardasian reminds us…heh.

Did this fear of being forgotten haunt Chandler? After all, when you think about it, his output wasn’t all that much: seven novels, some short stories – some of which he cribbed from to compose his books -- and a couple of screenplays. But his work endures, as it should. He blazed a path in this crazy business of mystery writing, a funny guy born American with British upper class ways, with his white glove wearing self and what not.

And yet his work endures. Can there be anything sweeter than writing down the bones, to riff on Natalie Goldberg’s title? I don’t think so.

Risky Business

2011-12-02T00:01:00.000-08:00

Gabriella Herkert

Catnapped and Doggone

What is the biggest risk I’ve taken to be a writer? I should clarify. What is the biggest risk I’ve taken to be a mystery writer? They are completely different questions. To be a writer, the risks tend to be financial (I am committed to eating a couple or dare I say three times every darn day) or personal (sorry, honey, I’d really like to clean the kitchen so that there are at least some clean spoons but I’m on deadline). On the other hand, the risks a mystery writer takes are more of the curious by nature, don’t seem to have learned much in the way of common sense variety. Whatever way you cut it, this writing thing isn’t a gimme.

Let’s start with the financial. I am currently writing full-time. I needed a little time off from my day job to reset my creative brain and, unsurprisingly in this era of no patronage for the arts, I’m paying my own way. It’s not as big a risk as some people have taken. I’m way too anal retentive to just metaphorically pack a guitar and hit the road. I planned. Endlessly. Budgets and timing and projects I wanted to focus on all made it to a master calendar. For me, the financial risk is inherent in choosing to pursue writing instead of just squeeze it in. It turns out pursuing corporate compliance pays better and more consistently. So I’m taking a chance in the short term. I recognize that I’ll probably have to return to my former guise at some point, in some manner, to keep a roof over my head and food on the table. In the meantime, I’m investing in me. In terms of objective standards, it’s not nearly the flyer that the stock or real estate markets have been in the last decade. Okay, then, a financial risk but not like jumping over the Grand Canyon.

Personal risks. Let’s be honest. I’ve thought about killing nearly everyone I know and sometimes my internal thought processes turn into my verbal diarrhea. Will an acquaintance hang around long enough to be a friend if you start the relationship by asking them to ride in your trunk and scream loudly? I suppose the fun ones will. What about the significant other you ask to “be the victim” in a pantomime of being tossed down a steep nasty set of concrete stairs in Echo Park? Yeah, upon reflection, the specificity of that is a little creepy and any romantic interest exuding enthusiasm out to be let out at the next stop. The biggest personal risk of being a writer is the internalization of the story. We live in our heads. There’s not room for many more voices in there so we tend to avoid the babble. When we do “come out” into the light, our demons, our conflicts, our grammatical fanaticism tend to follow us. I’m not sure the personal risks our consciously accepted on our part but they are there. Unlike the financial ones, though, I’m not sure we can avoid them without some sort of electroshock treatment. A risk that comes built into the suit isn’t really a risk so I’m not giving myself any points for having met that particular challenge. Then again, the only one listening to me right now is the dog so maybe I haven’t exactly put myself out there to be a writer and have a life.

I have many “risky business” moments in my mystery writer memory. Have you ever had a homeless person defend you to a tourist for lying down in the middle of a street? I have. Ever cut and pasted an envelope and waited for the postal police to arrive? Me, again. Or stayed in a no-tell, motel and scared the bejeesus out of two guys who outweigh you by at least a hundred pounds each. That’s my hand that’s raised. Someday, I suppose, one of these little research trips will go horribly wrong and I’ll end up in the pokey trying to explain the unexplainable. On the upside, I’ve no doubt I’ll be sitting next to one of my fellow travelers on this less than smooth path. I only hope we’re not in a foreign country. Unless the weather’s good…

Thanks for reading.

Gabi

The Things We Do for Love

2011-12-01T00:01:00.000-08:00

When my three kids were very young – riding in car seats, waking my wife and me in the middle of the night, needing nearly constant attention through the day – I read mysteries whenever I had an hour (or five minutes) to myself. At this time, I mostly was writing nonfiction articles and book reviews, but, enjoying the mysteries as thoroughly as I was, I decided to try my hand at writing one. The plot, I decided, would involve the murder of a stripper. (And yes, as a father who spent his days changing the diapers of three young kids but chose to spend his imaginative life thinking about strippers, I was compensating.)

The problem – which some (for example, my wife) would consider less of a problem than a virtue – was that I knew no strippers. What was a would-be mystery writer to do when he lacked the necessary information for his story? Research, research, research. It would be the responsible thing to do. It would be tax deductible.

That summer, we took a driving trip from Florida to Illinois, where I’d decided to set my mystery. We bought a car-top carrier, strapped it onto the roof of our station wagon, and stuffed it with suitcases, strollers, and toddler toys. We crammed the kids into the car and strapped them into their car seats. We drove north looking like we’d just entered the world of National Lampoon’s Vacation – though, for all his mishaps, Chevy Chase never takes his family to a strip club.

I’d researched the strip club online before we started driving. Located in an unincorporated stretch near the Illinois-Wisconsin border, it was the perfect spot for my murderee to work. Isolated. The kind of place frequented by long-haul truck drivers and lonely dairy farmers. The kind of place where the prairie wind would blow away a girl’s dying screams. And best of all, we would pass it during one of our vacation side trips. “I’ll just run inside for a few minutes,” I told my wife. “You know, take a quick look around, talk to a couple of strippers. No more than a half hour. I promise.”

So, early on a July afternoon, I steered the station wagon onto the mostly empty parking lot of the strip club – the car-top carrier bulging above me, my kids hollering in their seats behind me, my wife seemingly willing if embarrassed beside me.

The bouncer – precisely the man I’d imagined: burly, barrel-chested, thick armed, wearing a black t-shirt and black polyester pants – stood outside the door to the club. He eyed the station wagon. He eyed my wife and kids inside it. He eyed me climbing out of the car with a notebook in hand. He didn’t look amused.

I don’t know what he thought was happening. In his mind, was I there to offer salvation to any sinners who would leave the club and follow me to a church? Was I there to offer a family act? Whatever I was there to do, he wanted none of it. He charged toward me, waving his thick arms, shouting, “No, no, no! Get back in your car! No!” I would have opened my notebook and recorded the scene right then except for those thick arms and my aversion to being punched in the face by the fists at the end of them.

I got back in the car. I did as I was told. And as we pulled from the parking lot onto the highway, the bouncer looked very relieved.

For a while my wife and – for the first time in over a thousand miles – my kids were quiet. Then my wife asked, “Have you thought about writing a cozy?”

Risk (and reward)

2011-11-29T00:04:00.001-08:00

by Josh

Well, I'm not sure what the biggest risk I've ever taken to become a writer is...but I can share with you one of the biggest risks I've ever taken as a writer...because it happened this past Friday.

You see, last week, I started to write WATCH ICARUS FALL, the third novel in my Esme Stuart series. Naturally, I had the whole thing outlined - not by choice, but because my publisher (at the time) requested that I do so. This particular outline was - and is - about ten pages, double-spaced, and essentially summarizes the entire plot of the novel. One of the premises in ICARUS is that Cain42, the villain from the previous novel, has recruited his remaining internet disciples to help him get his revenge against Esme and her mentor, Tom Piper, for taking down his How-to-Be-a-Successful-Serial-Killer self-help website and message board. One of these disciples, a rather icky fellow named Hank Berry, proves to be Cain42's most loyal lieutenant and, about a third of the way into the novel, he helps Cain42 abduct Esme's 8 year-old daughter Sophie.

And then I wrote Chapter One:

Chapter One

Of course Mercedes knew not to touch any of the items on the shelves - this was hardly her first trip with her mama to the Piggly Wiggly – but someone had left a Mars Bar within reach on the bottom shelf in the bread aisle and she had been so well-behaved all week and if she picked it up quickly, surely Mama wouldn’t-

“What do you think you’re doing?”

And suddenly the candy bar was in Mama’s left hand and she had it raised up as if she were the evil witch from Snow White and the candy bar was her wand and any minute now she was going to use it to transform Mercedes into a shriveled turnip or a warty toad right there in the bread aisle of the Piggly Wiggly.

“You should know better,” said Mama. “Sometimes you make me so disappointed. And don’t even think of crying, child. Disobedience is a sin and stealing is a crime. You’re just lucky there isn’t a policeman around or you’d be in real trouble. What did I say about crying?”

Mercedes sniffled back her tears and stared at the floor. The egg-white tiles were smudged with dirt and dusty shoeprints. She imagined her tears tumbling down her cheeks and washing clean over the aisle floor and for a moment she’d forgotten all about Mama and the candy bar and then she felt a tugging on her wrist and Mama was dragging her down the aisle toward the front of the store and Mercedes had no idea why they were leaving their cart by the bread and going to the front of the store but Mama was walking so fast and tugging at her wrist so forcefully that she knew it had to be bad and she tried to pull away but Mama’s grip was too tight, as if she’d glued her hand to Mercedes’s wrist, and then through teary eyes Mercedes finally saw what – or rather who – awaited them at the front of the store and she cried out, “No! No!” but all that did was attract the stares of other adults all too half-hearted to rescue her from her fate, for at the front of the store, between the lottery machine and the Fed Ex box, stood a very tall policeman who had a nightstick and a gun and everything.

Oh God, she was going to jail.

“Can I help you?” he said. Her voice sounded like wind-whistles. “Is something the matter?”

“Well, it’s funny - I was just trying to remind my daughter Mercedes here about how stealing is a crime and how she’d be in real trouble if a policeman was around and then I look over here and here you are.”

“Here I am.”

Mercedes tasted blood. She must’ve bitten her lip. She took a deep breath to keep from crying again and winced as the blood droplets slosh down her throat. Could this day get any worse?

“Ma’am, you want me to have a little chat with your little girl here?”

Mama became all flowers and sunshine. “That…that would be very helpful. Yes. Thank you. I’ll just be a few minutes. I’ve got to finish my shopping.”

“We’ll be right here.” His brown eyes found Mercedes. “Won’t we?”

Mercedes nodded mutely.

Mama strolled back to the bread aisle.

The policeman let out a heavy sigh and turned around toward the store’s vast fore window, which was more or less clear save for a thousand oily fingerprints and the black smudges of dead gnats. An early February drizzle covered the parking lot, leaving its two dozen cars and trucks – mostly trucks – shiny and sopping.

Then he spoke to Mercedes:

“I feel sorry for you, kid,” he said. “Your mother’s one sorry class-A bitch.”

Mercedes’s eyes became as wide as moons. He’d just said a bad word! A policeman! No matter that she didn’t know what it meant.

“Kid, if you keep your trap open like that, the wrong person will get the wrong idea.”

Mercedes shut her trap so quickly her lips made a popping sound. Then the policeman pointed at one of the trucks in the parking lot, a red one with a flatbed like she rode on through that peanut farm on her fourth birthday and Mama had held onto her tight on her lap and the road had had so many bumps and every bump sent Mercedes and Mama bouncing up into the air and it was like being on a trampoline with wheels …

Another drop of blood squeezed its way down her throat and as she stood there beside the policeman, Mercedes strangely felt as if like she was back on that flatbed truck and was bouncing up in the air except Mama was gone and the only person to catch her was this tall policeman and she knew that even though he was a policeman, he wasn’t going to catch her, no, he was going to let her fall, all the while muttering that bad word: Bitch.

“What’d you try to take?” he asked. His brown eyes remained fixed on the wet red truck in the parking lot. “What’d you try to steal? Huh?”

Mercedes’s swollen, leaking bottom lip trembled against her paste-dry upper lip. She tried to think of words to say but all she could think of was how the grocery store seemed to be tilting and how the policeman, so very, very tall, always kept one hand on the butt of his holstered gun.

“Kid, you ever licked a lit match? It tastes like the world should be - instead of the way it is.”

An elderly couple in yellow rain slickers smiled their gummy dentures at the policeman and the little girl and pushed their shopping cart, filled as it was with bagged bananas and a package of pantyhose and assorted TV dinners, through the automatic exit doors. The policeman watched them as they slowly passed through the light rain and across the cracked black tar of the parking lot to their wet red truck.

“You want to see something real cool?” the policeman said. His whistle-voice lifted in pitch. It had becomes a nighttime wind, and even though he was a policeman, Mercedes did not feel safe with him, no, not at all, but his long hand was now glued to her wrist and the back of his long hand mottled with dark brown freckles and cross-thatched with dark brown hair and she looked away from his hand and up to his face upon which had sliced a wide, wide grin, though not meant for her. His focus remained on the red truck.

Mercedes peered out through the glass. She tried to see what was so special about the red truck or the old people, who were loading their bagged groceries onto the flatbed. The truck was parked maybe forty feet away. There were no other cars in its row so the view was unobstructed, but why did it matter? They were just an old couple a lot like Mercedes’s own Gramps and Gram and –

Oh. Hm. There was a stick propped up underneath the front end of the truck. That was weird. And at the bottom of the stick was a piece of silver garbage, as if the stick were pinning it to the ground. Why had the policeman – because it had to be him who did it, it had to be – why had he stuck a piece of garbage underneath the front end of the red truck? Was he playing some kind of prank?

The elderly couple got into the cab of the truck, he behind the wheel and she in the passenger seat. He pulled his seat belt over his shoulder and then leaned over and helped her with hers. A shiver vibrated through Mercedes and she opened her mouth – her trap – to shout out to them, but all sound in her throat must have been trapped with dried blood.

The truck’s engine started.

The old man shifted into reverse.

The truck rolled back.

The stick toppled.

And the entire front end of the truck exploded into a blue-orange bubble, roaring dragon-like across the parking lot, louder than anything Mercedes had ever heard, screaming, really, truly, only the screaming, she realized, was her own, for she had finally found her voice, and she screamed and screamed and screamed as truck-pieces that had been tossed into the air by the explosion now rained back down onto other vehicles, shattering windshields and denting roofs and the truck-pieces were still on fire and some of the truck-pieces maybe weren’t truck-pieces at all because at the end of one of the pieces were what appeared to be four wiggling fingers.

*

Some two hours and two hundred miles hence, in a Waffle House just outside Chattanooga, Tennessee, the very tall policeman – who of course wasn’t really a policeman at all but an unemployed Georgia Tech dropout named Hank Barry – took a seat at the counter and waited for his associate to arrive. Hank wasn’t entirely keen on having his back to the door but the owner of this particular Waffle House had installed an electronic bell which chimed every time the door opened; plus, Hank didn’t want to appear to his associate as if he was on his guard. No, he wanted to appear - what was the word? “Nonchalant.” Yes. He wanted to appear nonchalant, this despite the fact that his nerves remained electrified with hot adrenaline over what he’d done to the old couple and their car in the parking lot of the Piggly Wiggly. When Hank waved the snaggletoothed snow-haired waitress over with his right hand, he noticed the hand was positively shaking.

“Coffee?” she asked him.

“Decaf,” he replied. “Please.”

Hank took out a thin vinyl wallet from the back seat of his blue pants and removed a gas receipt tucked behind his array of 1s and 5s. On the back of the receipt was scribbled the address of this Waffle House just outside Chattanooga, Tennessee and, below it, the number 6. The digital clock above the cook’s stations displayed in large red LCD the current time: 6.

He looked around the small establishment. Maybe his associate was already here. The problem, however, was that he had no idea what his associate looked like. Few did. He imagined a large man, a swift-legged brute, with thick callused hands and a world of pain barely submerged behind a pair of ice-dark eyes.

“Don’t worry, Hank,” the man had assured him on the phone. “If you follow my instructions, I’ll recognize you.”

And his instructions had been simple. Lacking a notebook, Hank had written them on a series of receipts he’d let accumulate for whatever reason in his wallet. Although his handwriting hadn’t really progressed since the third grade, he’d made an effort to write slow and keep it legible because, if all went well, he, Hank Barry, college dropout, would become a star.

The Waffle House was half-full with its dinnertime crowd: a hodgepodge of loud families and sullen loners. Because the jukebox was broken, the sounds inside the restaurant became a mix of white noise chitter-chatter, with ceramic dishes clacking together for percussion, and meals sizzling in the open kitchen to fill out the bass. Customers left. Customers arrived.

The digits on the clock glowed a red 6:10.

This was not good. A man like this would be punctual – if he was coming at all.

Why wouldn’t he come? Hank had followed his instructions to the letter. He’d picked up the package – unusual as it might have been - from the men’s room locker at the YMCA on Preston Ridge Rd. in Alpharetta. He’d mailed the package at the blue postal box inside the Piggly Wiggly off I20 in Conyers. He’d then, according to instructions, “used the premises to demonstrate his prowess.” The homemade land mine he’d left under the pickup may have been simple but no one could argue its effectiveness.

Hank was recalling the first IED he ever built, way back in high school, when the waitress refilled his mug and scratched at her hairnet said:

“If you want something to eat, it’s on the house.”

Oh?

“In these parts,” she added, “law enforcement eats free.”

Ah yes. The costume.

“So what’ll you have, sweetheart?”

“I’m fine right now,” said Hank. “Thanks.”

The waitress shrugged, pocketed her order pad, and teetered off.

At that moment, Hank took note of a man sitting alone and reading a moist newspaper in one of the corner booths. The man had a scraggly beard, plaid shirt, florescent orange hunter’s vest, wore a tight John Deere ball-cap over his greying scalp, and peered up from his paper and locked stares with Hank Barry for well over ten seconds before returning to his newspaper.

Could it be? It had to be. No one else in this restaurant, except perhaps the burly-armed fry cook, fit Hank’s preconception of his legendary associate. Hank gathered his courage, got up from his stool, and crossed to the man’s booth.

And waited.

The moist newspaper lowered.

The men once again locked stares.

Then the scraggly man with the moist newspaper spoke:

“You got a problem there, flatfoot?”

Hank opened his mouth. “I…uh…”

“How about you stop invading my privacy, Himmler?”

Hank walked away. He walked all the way out of the Waffle House, his refilled mug of coffee still steaming inside on the red countertop. He walked into the winter drizzle and walked toward his twenty-two year-old black Trans-Am and didn’t even want to stop walking when he put his key into the door lock and folded himself into the driver’s seat. Coming here had been a mistake. This had all been a mistake. He’d failed somehow, somewhere, failed again, and his face filled with hot blood and his hands squeezed at the leather steering wheel and he kicked the floor with his boots repeatedly, angrily, because he knew he hadn’t failed – he’d followed the instructions down to the letter. His associate was the one who’d failed, his associate, Cain42, so revered, so high and mighty, so full of shit.

Hank had been nothing more than a courier. That had to be it. Because of his high profile, featured as he was on the FBI’s most wanted list, Cain42 probably hadn’t wanted to risk mailing that unusual package himself and so he’d falsified this offer of employment, this fake test, and Hank, optimistic fool that he was, had fallen for the bait.

“I’m going to kill him,” Hank muttered. “I’m going to watch his flesh melt.”

He inserted his key in the ignition and started his Trans-Am’s purring engine and popped the clutch and glanced in the rear-view to make sure the coast was clear - half-hoping someone was there, maybe the scraggly newspaper man, so he could back over his body and crunch his bones - but no one was there and so he shifted in reverse and stomped down on the accelerator. The muscle car’s chrome 20” wheels screamed with friction against the moist pavement and then the car zipped backward but only an inch or two before the stick Cain42 had propped underneath the front end tipped over and the handmade land mine Cain42 had propped underneath the stick exploded its main charge (1.3 lbs. of sawdust soaked in nitroglycerine), erupting like a volcano under the driver’s seat of the Trans-Am and cooking the driver’s seat, the steering carriage, and Hank Berry into black-hot mulch.

So I guess Hank Berry won't really be helping anyone do anything, eh? I was sticking very close to my outline until about the last 200 words of the chapter when Hank began to do a bit of self-flagellation and I realized that Cain42 wouldn't ask this pathetic excuse of a human being to even change a tire. No, Cain42 would use him and dispose of him and hope none of Hank's loser germs had migrated. However, with Hank Berry out of the picture in Chapter One, so much of what comes next would have to change. The comprehensive outline, which I'd slaved over, which I'd taken apart and put back together to make sure all the gears clicked in perfect unison, might as well be tossed in a bin. Still, I needed to trust my instinct. Hank had to die.

But what would come next?

Well...

Give me about three months and hopefully I'll be able to show you.

ALL IN

2011-11-28T00:10:00.000-08:00

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

When I first made the solid and serious commitment to be a writer, I had just been laid off from a company that had merged with its biggest competitor. In spite of having nearly no money, I decided not to pursue another full-time job, but took a part-time contractor paralegal position. Money was extremely tight, but I managed. I worked about 5 hrs a day and wrote the rest of the time. Not quite two years later, that company was sold and my new employer insisted I come on the payroll full time, which I did. By then I had finished two novels, still yet unpublished.

Two more years brought another company sale and another layoff. It happened the month Too Big To Miss, my first Odelia Grey mystery, came out in self-published format (which is another story for another time). It would be nearly six months before I would land another full-time job. By the time I did, I was dead broke and on the brink of bankruptcy.

In spite of my situation, I wrote every day. I marketed my book and wrote the second in the series. I self-published that, as well. With a steady job again, albeit one I disliked, I was able to begin paying back the wonderful friends and family who helped me out during difficult times. It was also during this time I landed a new agent and she sold my Odelia Grey series to Midnight Ink. Just before the re-release of Too Big To Miss, I found myself without a job again. This time I had the good fortune to catch a lot of temp work in the legal field and one of the firm’s turned out to be the lovely firm I’m still with today, going on six years.

Okay, so now things should be starting to smooth out – right? Wrong. No one had told me that even though you have a publisher, you are still expected to bear most of the marketing and publicity costs. My early advances were too small to cover conferences and bookmarks, mailings and everything else I was expected to do to get my books into the public eye. Those expenses came out of my already squeezed pocket. I was still paying off personal debts and now took out more loans to cover book marketing costs.

I was sinking again. Oh – but I was a published author! I had accomplished my dream, but the dream was bittersweet.

When offered the opportunity to write a second series, the Ghost of Granny Apples series, I jumped at it for several reasons: 1) I really wanted to write it; 2) I felt having a second series would boost my name recognition; 3) I needed the advance money to pay for conferences, PR travel, and debts incurred because of my book marketing. I took on the third series for the same reason, even though I was already pushed to my limit time-wise with the other series and my day job.

Things are much more stable now. The debts to friends are repaid. The commercial loans almost repaid. I still have a job I love and many books under contract, although I am no longer under contract for three books a year – whew! With my name more established, I have cut back considerably on conferences and focus more on social marketing for my publicity.

Would I do it again if I had a do-over? Many things, yes. Some things, no. The loss of jobs couldn’t be helped. The business world was experiencing buyouts, mergers and downsizing long before the present economic crisis. It was the tip of the iceberg of the disaster we have on our hands today. Would I still agree to write three series? Probably. It has done wonders for my exposure to readers. Would I take on so much debt to market my books? No, probably not.

When asked to speak to budding writers, I emphasize that they will be expected to sink their own funds into much of their marketing efforts. You spend the money hoping your books will catch fire with the reading public. It’s a big risk, not unlike throwing your cash on a craps table. Another point I try to drive home is that the percentage of writers who actually support themselves with their writing is very small. I’m talking about really supporting themselves – solo – making enough money without a spouse or partner or parents or a trust fund or other savings picking up some of the tab. Some believe me, others don’t. I can see it in their eyes. They look at me and think: “That might be true for her, but not for me. I’m going to make millions.”

I hope they do make millions. Truly.

The business of writing is different from the actual writing, yet the two are co-joined like Siamese twins. It was the business of writing that brought me to my knees, not just once, but several times. But like Rocky Balboa, I continue to get to my feet, battered and bruised physically, financially and emotionally, and motion to my opponent to bring it on!

And as a call-back to last week's question: I am very thankful for my writing career, with all its bumps and bruises, and, of course, for my readers, who inspire me get through the mine field of the business.

Reed Farrel Coleman Gives Thanks

2011-11-27T00:01:00.000-08:00

Hilary here, with a very special guest: my amazing friend Reed Farrel Coleman. How do you introduce an author who's already so well-known and revered? I could mention that Reed is the author of the highly acclaimed Moe Prager series, seven other novels, and countless short stories and poems, but you undoubtedly know that already. I could tell you about Reed's three Shamus Award wins and his two Edgar Award nominations.... wait, you know about that, too? Well, have you heard that his latest Moe Prager book, Hurt Machine (which will be released in December), has already been named one of the Top 10 Mysteries of 2011 by Publishers Weekly? Or that his novel Gun Church was just released as an audiobook exclusive? Damn, you guys are well-informed.

Maybe it's best to let Reed speak for himself. This week's question, for Reed: For what, in your writing, are you most thankful for? Take it away, Reed!

Man, talk about a loaded question, Hilary. As I’m sure you and any other writers out there know, there are days when we’re not thankful for much about writing. As proud as I am of what I’ve accomplished, there are times my calling is more a curse than a gift. And that’s what writing is, a calling. I tell my writing students that if they’re getting into this field because they can’t wait for bouquets of roses to be thrown at them or because they are anxious to spend their millions, give up writing and get into hedge funds. Sure, you and I know some very very financially successful writers, but the fact is that writing to publish is something you should only do because you feel compelled to do it.

My first novel, Life Goes Sleeping, was published exactly twenty years ago, so I’ve been taking a hard look back at my career. What I’ve realized is that a lot of people have made sacrifices in order for me to pursue my dream. I owe a lot to my wife, Rosanne, and to my kids, Kaitlin and Dylan—though they’re not really kids anymore. I would have to say that my family is what I’m most thankful for in my writing because without them I couldn’t have come this far. Lately, I’ve thought a lot about the vacations we didn’t take, the schools my kids didn’t apply to, the clothes my wife wore one year too long. All this in service of my dream, my calling. I owe everything to them. I consider myself very lucky in that way.

But it isn’t all sturm and drang and misery, of course. For instance, one of the things I love most about writing is the flexibility of it. You needn’t look any further than the two novels I have coming out this month—Gun Church (Audible.com) and Hurt Machine (Tyrus Books). I’ve had lots of jobs over the course of my life and very few if any afforded me the flexibility to do as I pleased and get paid for the privilege. These two novels couldn’t be more different, yet here they are, both written by the same man. See the charts below:

Gun Church

Format: Audio Download

Publisher: Audible.com

Time to Write: 6 years

Type: Stand-alone

Narrative POV: First Person, Third Person (book within book)

Protagonist: Washed Up Writer/Professor

Contract/Spec: Spec

Hurt Machine

Format: Hard Cover/Trade Paper

Publisher: Tyrus Books

Time to Write: 5 months

Type: Series (7th book in Moe Prager series)

Narrative POV: First Person

Protagonist: Private Investigator/Shopkeeper

Contract/Spec: Contract

The list could go on and on, but I think I’ve made my point. As tough a profession as writing can be, it offers me something that I can’t find anywhere else: freedom. And there’s something else too, happiness. I thank that’s the tradeoff my family was willing to make. Again, I owe that to Rosanne, a woman happy in her work. She always said it was more important for us to be happier than wealthier. And it’s been reflected in our kids’ approach to their careers. My daughter is pursuing a career in the animal behavior branch of psychology and my son, God help him, is an artist. They have chosen these professions not as a calculation on high finance, but on happiness and satisfaction.

Thanks so much to Reed for visiting Criminal Minds today! You can keep up with what Reed is doing on his website, on Facebook, and on Twitter. Here's a little more about Hurt Machine and Gun Church:

HURT MACHINE: Two weeks before his daughter’s wedding, Moe is given very grave news about his health. If things aren’t hard enough, his ex-wife and partner, Carmella Melendez, reappears after a nine year absence to beg Moe’s help. It seems Carmella’s estranged sister has been murdered in Brooklyn, yet no one, not even the NYPD, seems very motivated to find the killer. Why? That’s the question, isn’t it?

GUN CHURCH: Kip Weiler is a former 80s literary wunderkind fallen on hard times. As a result of his own foibles, Kip has landed in the rural mining town of Brixton, teaching creative writing at a community college. One day he saves his class from being taken hostage. Not only does he get a second fifteen minutes of fame, but, more importantly, his spark to write is relit. Little does he know that the book he is writing may be the blueprint to is own demise. As this book—think WONDER BOYS meets FIGHT CLUB with guns—progresses, the lines between art imitating life imitating art begin to blur.

Thankful

2011-11-26T00:01:00.000-08:00

By Reece Hirsch

Like most writers, I am thankful for my agent, for being published and for the readers who take the time to spend a few hours with my book. But, above all else, I’m thankful for my wife Kathy for supporting and tolerating my writing. The spouses/partners of writers are the unsung heroes of the bookish world. In fact, every literary award from the Edgars to the Nobel Prize should add a category for them – Best Supporting Spouse.

The Supporting Spouse award would be given not based on the quality of the book, but rather on the degree of egomania, insecurity and neediness of the writer in question. I don’t know who would win that award this year -- although I do have a few educated guesses. I do know, however, that the category would be hotly contested each and every year.

For many books that are written, whether published or unpublished, there is a spouse who has:

* spent dinner conversations mulling a thorny plot point (in my case, how best to kill someone, a topic which always seems to alarm the diners at the next table);

* said, when needed, that the book was fantastic (even when they knew that it was still half-baked);

* managed to indicate that an element or chapter wasn’t working without inflicting psychic trauma;

* tolerated a constant air of distraction, particularly during the final month or two;

* padded out the crowd at a poorly attended reading;

* indulged detours while on vacation to scout book locations; and

* made the sacrifice of letting the writing spouse spend hundreds of hours sitting in front of a computer polishing a manuscript and living with one foot in another world.

And so I give thanks this Thanksgiving for my wife Kathy, who, in addition to her countless other lovely qualities, is the best, shrewdest and kindest reader and editor any writer could ask for.

Giving thanks

2011-11-25T00:01:00.000-08:00

by Meredith Cole

When I sit down to count my blessings this time of year, I'm always overwhelmed by their number. A lovely family. A cozy house. My very own study (with a door). Good health. A garden. My MacBook. Dark chocolate in my fridge and fresh brownies (made by my husband) in a tin on the counter. How lucky can one writer be?

Getting published felt like winning the lottery. Only better. But that original moment of euphoria did eventually fade in the months that followed. The nitty-gritty business of being a writer intruded on my rose-colored dream. I had a little rain on my parade, but I also had wonderful things happen. And this Thanksgiving, I want to give thanks for all writing gifts I have received.

For ideas that flow from somewhere in my brain

Not everyday brings new ideas. But on those mornings when I wake up to an exciting idea bubbling up in my head that must be written down, I feel more blessed than all the billionaires in the world.

For the chance to put my words onto paper

My busy life is sometimes hard to negotiate. But for all those days when I can squeeze my writing in, I feel very blessed. And on those days where the hours slip away, and I sit up after writing thousands of words, I feel incredibly lucky.

For the chance to experience writing "the end"

Finishing a piece of writing and declaring it as great as I can make it is an amazing feeling. I encourage new writers, stuck on their first chapter, to surge ahead in their draft. Leaving writing unfinished is the worst feeling for a writer.

For the chance to share my writing with others

Getting feedback and having someone say "I know just what you mean" or "I get it" is a such a great feeling. So that last bit is about being published, admiring my books on the shelf, and getting feedback from readers. So thank you to all the people in the business who make it all happen (editors, agents, copy editors, book designers, publicists, book sellers, librarians)--and thanks to the readers for continuing to pick up books by unknown authors. We couldn't do it without you.