The LOL of ROI, by Gabriel Valjan

 

What do your writing expenses look like for a conference? (Percentages are fine.) Airfare, hotel, meals, books, booze? What about ROI (return on investment)? Are conferences worth the expense?

Let’s just say I could fly to Europe, or I could go to Bouchercon. 

 

Same price point, wildly different emotional outcomes.

 

Rough breakdown:

X% hotel (writers need sleep, allegedly)
X% travel (planes, trains, Uber, and the privilege of TSA judging your bookmarks)
X% meals (half of which are Hit-or-Miss)
X% books (some are signed, some to support friends, some I swear are ‘research’)
X% Registration fee (for the right to speak on a panel called Murder Is Success)
X% bar tab (which somehow buys more responses than your query letter ever did)

 

X varies with the venue. Both Malice Domestic and New England Crimebake are fixed on the map, whereas Bouchercon is a mobile beast.

 

ROI? [Return on Investment, if you didn’t know the acronym]
If you mean “Do I make back the money in book sales?” Excuse me while I laugh through the ambiguity of tears. If you’re looking for a clean return, go invest in crypto. The answer is NO. Definitely not.

 

Conferences aren’t stocks. But if you’re talking about the kind of ROI that builds careers—maybe. Cons are where relationships start, where a face replaces a social media handle, and where people remember your name two years later when a panel needs a chair filled, or an editor needs to fill a vacancy in an anthology.

 

Malice Domestic is where the bodies are politely arranged in Bethesda. Heavy on traditional mysteries, light on blood spatter, but don’t mistake cozy for soft. The fans are loyal. If you show up with respect for the genre, even if you write darker—they notice.

 

Bouchercon is Disneyland with corpses. Bright lights, big names, packed panels, and sensory overload for the introverted soul. It’s loud, fast, chaotic—and it’s where you swim in international waters. Things happen there. You just have to stay afloat long enough to catch the wave.

 

Crimebake is smaller, local, and fun, though the location and food leave much to be desired. You come to work. To connect. To pitch. To learn. It’s the least expensive, but not lightweight. The lobster mascot Lola might be cute, but the writers are sharp and smart. And if you’re one of them, they take you in because Crimebake is like attending a family reunion.

 

So yes—conferences cost money. But they also build trust, visibility, and community, which are the currency of this business. You don’t “buy access.” You show up. You listen. You contribute. That’s the investment. If you’re lucky, you land an agent, walk away with an Agatha teapot, or an Anthony award, and friends for a lifetime, especially when writing and the rejections diminish you. We write outlines of bodies in fiction, other times we feel like real ones.

 

The returns don’t show up on a receipt, even if all you do is come home with a stack of new books, a fresh burst of inspiration, and a slight hangover.

 

That’s still a win until I open the door and I have to make amends with my cat Munchkin.

 

Money Money Money...

 

What do your writing expenses look like for a conference? Airfare, hotel, meals, books, booze. What about ROI (return on investment)? Are conferences worth the expense?

 

What a question! And a question that every writer probably has asked themselves at one point or another during their journey. I saw a post from a fairly well-established writer a while ago struggling with a decision on whether to attend a major upcoming conference. They ultimately decided against because the royalties they earned this year would not cover the cost of the conference. Something I had never thought of before. To be fair, if I used my royalties as a deciding factor on whether to attend a conference it might be a while before I saw any of my wonderful writing friends again.

The last conference I attended was Bouchercon 2024. In between flight, hotel at a massive, expensive resort where nothing cost less than $20, food, books, and of course wine, that conference cost me a few thousand dollars, easy. For that price I got the pleasure of seeing old friends, meeting a few new ones, and hopefully finding a few new readers. Was it worth it?

I think how you answer that question depends on where you are in your writing journey. If you are a new writer, I think a good writer’s conference is invaluable. Writers need other writers, to encourage, support, and tell us we’re not absolutely crazy for fighting so hard to be a part of this world. And when you’re used to writing alone there is no better place to find other writing friends than a writing conference. If you’re lucky those friends will stay with you throughout your writing career. I honestly believe I would not have a writing career had I never went to a writer’s conference. We live in a world where sometimes it’s not what you know, it’s who you know, and the writing world is no different.

There is another benefit of attending a writer’s conference that cannot be measured in dollars and cents. Inspiration. I never feel more inspired than after returning home from a few days of being surrounded by all things writing. The nights at the bar talking writing. Listening to a writer you long admired talk about their process. Meeting your writing hero or heroine. And, of course, feeling like a writer. That’s a big one. Most of us, especially those of us who still work a 9 to 5 never really get to feel like a writer in our everyday lives, so it’s cool to feel like a writer only, even if it's just for a few days. That feeling is priceless.

I have three conferences that I love. I try to go to at least one of them every year when my coins allow. I come home feeling refreshed, accomplished, and loaded down with more books than I'll ever be able to read. It's the best feeling in the world.

 So, are writing conferences, worth it? Maybe not on paper, if you look at it from a strictly dollars and cents standpoint. But for me the FOMO is far greater than my struggling bank account. So, I’ll see you there.

 

Deleting the 'is' and 'was' - possible or impossible? by Harini Nagendra

Look at your last book and count the number of times you used is, are, was, and were. Thoughts? Lessons learned? 

I must confess, the first time I saw today's question, I was very confused - what was wrong with using 'is, are, was and were'? Then I read some more. Many contemporary writing coaches and editors suggest that this entire set of words - all variants of the verb 'to be' - should be, if not deleted from one's writing vocabulary (which is clearly an impossible task), at least minimized. 

But why? Experts argue that these words are 'passive' (some even insist that these words belong to constructions written in the passive voice - which is not always true). Many argue for the use of stronger word choices, which could vastly improve the construction of their sentences, making their writing more powerful.

I did what several of my fellow Minds did this week, like James Ziskin - who found thirteen uses of 'was' and 'were' in the opening paragraph of A Tale of Two Cities. I love the book too, it's one of my all time favorites. 

I looked at another of the writers I love best - albeit one who writes in a very different style from Dickens - A.A. Milne. 

“Well," said Pooh, "what I like best," and then he had to stop and think. Because although Eating Honey was a very good thing to do, there was a moment just before you began to eat it which was better than when you were, but he didn't know what it was called.

How could you rewrite this beauty of a paragraph without the 'was' and 'were' and improve on it? I defy you to. It would remove the very Pooh-ness of Winnie The's character if you edited his speech.

Ah, but that's dialogue, you might argue. What about narrative?

Here's another of my favorite writers - Lewis Carroll, writing Alice in Wonderland, in a descriptive paragraph without any dialogue.

Either the well was very deep, or she fell very slowly, for she had plenty of time as she went down to look about her, and to wonder what was going to happen next. First, she tried to look down and make out what she was coming to, but it was too dark to see anything: then she looked at the sides of the well, and noticed that they were filled with cupboards and book-shelves: here and there she saw maps and pictures hung upon pegs. She took down a jar from one of the shelves as she passed: it was labeled "ORANGE MARMALADE," but to her great disappointment it was empty: she did not like to drop the jar, for fear of killing somebody underneath, so managed to put it into one of the cupboards as she fell past it.

This is writing packed with action - a descriptive paragraph that no one (in their right mind) would term passive.

Phew. Such a relief to see this. Despite my explorations, it was with some trepidation that I decided to follow the rules of the assignment, which was to look at my own writing and see how much I used the various variations of to-be.

In my non-fiction? 2-3%. Sample size - 4 books. 

In my fiction? 2-2.4%. Sample size - 4 books.

That seems about right. Non-fiction, especially about ecology, is descriptive and I tend to use more of the 'to-be' words - but looking back at my fiction books, there are certainly sentences which I feel I could rewrite, replacing these verbs to create alternate versions that would make them punchier. And of course, equally, there are sections where I've used these words, but wouldn't want to edit to delete them.

It's been a fun exercise responding to this question, and a very educative experience too. If you'd like to read an interesting exchange of views on Reddit on this theme (with some hilarious comments) - here's this one

What is your opinion about "was" : r/writing  

 Until next fortnight!

-Harini 

   

  

To Be Is the Strongest Verb from James W. Ziskin

Look at your last book and count the number of times you used is, are, was, and were. Thoughts? Lessons learned? 

This week’s question deals with the verb “to be.” Since we mostly write in the past tense, I’ve decided to concentrate on “was” and “were,” instead of the present “am,” “is,” and “are.”

Dickens opens A TALE OF TWO CITIES with this famous passage: 

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way – in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

That’s thirteen instances of “was/were” in the first paragraph. (And “being,” too.) Technically, in the first sentence…

We writers are taught to embrace so-called strong verbs (except when attributing dialogue. I’ve written about that random contradiction several times in this space, most recently on January 9, 2025.) The implication of this week’s question—posed by me, true enough—is that the verb “to be” is weak. If that’s so, how should we feel about Dickens’s colossal run-on sentence above? Not only does he repeat a form of “to be” thirteen times, he blatantly flouts the rule of three in the process! They say he wasn’t actually paid by the word, but that opening passage begs to differ.

Regardless of the word count, A TALE OF TWO CITIES makes me feel a little better about sharing how many “was-es” I use in my work. In my latest book, THE PRANK (July 2026), “was” accounts for 2.45% of all the words I wrote. I choked on that number. That seemed like a lot to me. So I counted “was” in a different book I’d written, TURN TO STONE. Whew! Much better: 1.69%. In A STONE’S THROW, the total was 1.65% and STONE COLD DEAD clocked in at 1.54%.

Why the discrepancy? Without proof, I can only hypothesize that the narrator in THE PRANK is to blame. He is a thirteen-year-old boy, after all. Perhaps his age explains why. His language is simpler than that of my trusty heroine, Ellie Stone, in TURN TO STONE, A STONE’S THROW, and STONE COLD DEAD.

But is this a problem at all? Is the overuse of “to be” wrong? Is it a weak verb?

I’ll be contrarian here and say that, despite popular opinion, “to be” is perhaps the strongest verb there is. (Notice how I used it in one form or another four times in that sentence?) 

We’re taught in school that verbs describe action, and “to be” certainly doesn't do that. But it is a verb. It describes essence (a word that comes to us from Latin, from the present participle of esse—to be). “To be” is actually a tremendously versatile word, which is why we use it so much. It can act as an intransitive verb with many shades of meaning, from existence, to belonging, identity, coming and going, and more. 

It’s also an essential (another word related to “to be”) auxiliary verb, used in many tenses: 

present continuous—I am going

present perfect continuous—I have been going

past continuous—I was going

past perfect continuous—I had been going

As well as the conditional and future continuous tenses:

I would be going

I would have been going

I will be going

I will have been going

And, of course—my favorite—“to be” used to be used as the auxiliary verb for several intransitive verbs in the present perfect:

He is come

He is risen

How the mighty are fallen

As a French and (former) Italian teacher, I am happy to point this out to my students who struggle to understand why the auxiliary verb for some verbs is être in French and essere in Italian. (Hint, these are intransitive verbs—they can’t take a direct object.)

Je suis allé au marché.

Sono andato al mercato.

It’s fascinating to me that, despite English and Romance languages coming from different language families, the word “to be” fills (or used to fill, in the case of English) this function as auxiliary verb for intransitive verb constructions. And guess what. In German it’s the same. “Sein” (to be) is the auxiliary for the present perfect of intransitive verbs, e.g. “Er ist wahrhaftig auferstanden!” 

Damn! “To be” is one bad m&%^fing verb!

“To be” is also our most irregular verb. I am, you are, he/she is, etc. And it’s our most common verb. If it weren’t so common, of course, its “irregularity” would never survive. It would “regularize” because no one would remember its forms. “To be” is also the most irregular verb in German, French, Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, etc.

Okay, but I’ve strayed from the subject at hand, which is do we overuse the verb “to be” in our work and what do we think about that? As a reality check, I counted the word “was” in Raymond Chandler’s THE BIG SLEEP. 1.45% of the words. That’s a lower percentage than I use. Hmm. I should definitely pay attention to this. Not necessarily change anything, but definitely be aware of it going forward. 

Then, when I was feeling down about my overuse of “was,” I had the idea to check a book written with a young narrator, THE CATCHER IN THE RYE. And what did I find? Approximately 2.5% of the words in that book is “was.”

VINDICATION!🎈🎉

Finally, just to cover all (some of) the bases, I thought I’d check a book written in the present tense and chose our own Terry Shames’s MURDER AT THE JUBILEE RALLY. As I suspected, “was” accounted for a far lower percentage of the words used, a paltry 0.925%. (Great book, by the way. Love me some Samuel Craddock!) Bravo, Terry!

CONCLUSIONS

I’d like to think that a book can have anywhere from 0.8% to, say, 3.0% usage of “was” and still be okay. It all depends on the narrator, the point of view, and the individual style. Still, as for any other word we choose to include in our writing, we should always remain vigilant and challenge it at every turn. “Was” must be the right word or we must strike it out.

Let the arguing begin in the comments!

Slvjkn

Lurking in the prose

Look at your last book and count the number of times you used is, are, was, and were. Thoughts? Lessons learned?

by Dietrich

Overusing auxiliary verbs weakens the prose, waters the action and makes the story less engaging. The question got me thinking about whether I was guilty of this, so I took a look at the opening for Dirty Little War. It’s a small part of the first chapter (just 564 words), but let’s check it for culprits.

Huck was getting a sinking feeling about the whole set-up, no place for the Marquis of Queensbury rules here, that’s for sure. No fancy dancing around a roped ring, just a good punch-up, two men going toe to toe till one went down. Taped hands and thirty seconds between rounds, the fight over when one fighter went down and stayed down past an eight count.

This city where pro fights had been banned along with the booze, where every man loved his sport as “much as his drink. The sport living on in secret alleys and out behind boxcars like this, waiting for its comeback on this one-time swampland connecting to the city’s rail lines, out of sight of the Exchange. The foul stench coming from the stockyards, stinging the eyes, the livestock pens holding hundreds of hogs.

Not a corner man or ring doctor — no corner and no ring, not even a spit bucket — and not a man in this crowd caring about the size or reach of either opponent, just a crowd fueled by booze, come to bet on the bare-knuckling. One or two of them giving the occasional look over at the man holding the bet money. The man with a smile on his face, and the bulge of a pistol under the coat.

Huck stepped to the line and showed his hands, Nails Morton pitting him against a rawboned Neanderthal now stepping to the line, giving Huck a hard look, a front tooth missing.

“I seen a hundred of you, and . . .” Grinding his hands together and growling.

Nails clapped Huck on the back like they were pals, saying, “You want some good advice, take the fall.” Smiling over at his gangster pals, two of them working the crowd, taking the bets, both with satchels holding the wagers slung over their shoulders, both with pistols shoved in their belts. Both scratching on notepads, taking bets on the rounds, giving odds on the prediction.

“Thanks just the same,” Huck said, smelling booze on the guy facing him.

“Maybe I ain’t being plain enough.” Nails smiled, leaning in again, his jacket falling open enough for Huck to see the butt of the pistol.

“I get you fine,” Huck said. “You say it nice and promise me more than the five, undo your coat and show me you ain’t asking.”

“You do catch on.” Nails kept the smile.

Huck looked at the circle of men on the tear, some still placing bets, and this two-bit crook acting like that Rothstein, the gangster who put in the fix and got the Sox to throw the World Series a year back, eight players in on it, all taking payoffs, losing to the Reds and causing a scandal that got them banned for life for their troubles.

“It’s more than advice,” Nails said. “A show of friendship if you will.”

“We friends now?”

“Could be.”

“Well, friend, like I told you, I don’t dive.”

“Then here’s my final number. Around here we call it a cut . . .” Looking eye to eye, Nails said, “A good show and it’s ten points of what we pull in. This crowd, I’m guessing you make ten easy, could be more. How’s that sound?”

“Sounds like you’re not hearing the no part.”

“Then, you could be looking at a different kind of cut.” The smile was gone now.

I used “was” twice and “were” only once. So, no overuse there. But, there are a couple of instances where “ain’t” was used, although I can get away with the improper contraction in dialog, pointing to the speaker’s low socio status.

 

In the back of my mind, I’m generally aware of grammar slip-ups like subject-verb agreement, overuse of passive construction, dangling modifiers and so on, but, I tend to toss the rule book out the window, especially when I’m writing dialog. That’s when I dip into the modal verbs and idiomatic phrases like “Going toe to toe” and adverbial phrases like “looking eye to eye.” And I often use fragments to give my writing that clipped tone, although at times I go the other way and use run-on sentences and comma splits if it suits the flow. I must drive my poor copy editor bonkers.

In the end, I believe creative writing stems from a deeper place than where the knowledge of grammar rules lies. And I look up to the greats like Cormac McCarthy, Elmore Leonard, Jack Kerouac and Toni Morrison, who all broke the rules and pushed the boundaries of language.

Not "To be"

 

Terry here, with our question of the week: Look at your last book and count the number of times you used is, are, was, and were. Thoughts? Lessons learned? 

 I have belonged to a particular writer’s group for thirty years. Many years ago one of the members brought the use of the word “to be” to our attention. She cautioned that those words—is, are, and were--could be stand-ins for stronger verbs: Instead of “Jim Ziskin IS coming for dinner. Mary IS going to serve soup,” say, “Jim Ziskin promised to come for dinner. Mary plans to serve soup.” The second is livelier, with verbs that have more action than the simple “is.” 

 Oh those pesky “favorite words.” I hardly see them when I’m writing. It’s not just the verbs stemming from “to be,” but also words like “just” or its twin “just about,” or “thing,” as in “something, anything, nothing.” The problem IS that replacing them might lead to stilted usages. But often their use IS lazy, and that’s (IS) what editing hopes to ferret out. As writers we can try to replace them with stronger words, words that actually have more meaning. 

Once, in a critique I told an author that he used the word “thing” to hide what he really meant. As in, one character asking the other, “What is this thing we’ve got between us?” “Thing” could mean, well, ANYthing. I wanted to know what the real question was: “What is this emotional pull we’ve got between us?” “What is this animosity that comes between us?” “What is this…” And by the way, “got” is another one of those lazy words. How much stronger this would be: “What feelings are we fighting?” Oops, “are” shows up in the sentence. So another stab at rewriting, “What feelings between us do we constantly struggle with?” (using “do instead of are feels like a cheat). Oddly, it feels stilted. Would one person actually say that to another? And that’s the bottom line: IS it authentic? 

 “To be” is powerful. As humans “being” is everything. By using the conjugations of “to be” we are always announcing ourselves. “I AM here!”

And we acknowledge others, “He IS here.” 

 In order to fulfill this week’s question, I reread the first couple of pages of the latest Samuel Craddock that will come out in December: The first page: 

“It’s (IS) just me.” 

 It’s (IS) Loretta…She’s (IS) here with another bagful of… 

 It’s (IS) only seven in the morning…” 

 Later in the page, “He (Dusty) IS sniffing the air…” 

 I thought about how I could I make those sentences stronger, how I could avoid the use of the dreaded “Is.” In the first sentence, nothing came to mine. This is the way people talk. “Hi, it’s me.” A human announcing herself: I am! 

 But in the second instance I could amend it to, “Loretta has arrived with another bag of…” 

 And then, “It’s only seven.” Can’t think of another way to say it. That’s the way we use time: IT IS. 

 As for Dusty, I could say, “Dusty sniffs the air….” But is it really worth combing through acres of prose to find those little nits to pick?

 I try in my writing to use lively language, verbs that convey more than “It is.” But in dialogue, to be authentic, it’s sometimes impossible to avoid "it is" without having a character sound awkward. Still, I write with an eye to punching up the language, making it livelier and more engaging. That IS all we can ask.

By the way, the title of the new Craddock is (note is) The Curious Poisoning of Jewel Barnes. No cover yet, but stay tuned...

The Was Word

Look at your last book and count the number of times you used is, are, was, and were. Thoughts? Lessons learned?

Brenda

This question looks innocuous on the surface, but it brings up a writing no-no. Overuse of the little 'is' verb in all its tenses. It's a non-action, boring word and often overused. A writing pit we often fall into.

I'm always aware when writing not to overuse the passive voice (which uses the was word). For example: "The pie was eaten by us," is passive while, "We ate the pie" is active. In other words, the subject is doing the action not having the action done to it.

The conundrum for me is that when writing in the past tense, there will always be a lot of was and were required. "She was dressed in a sheepskin coat and knee-high boots." The 'was' is needed to put the active verb into the past tense.

And then, sometimes, it's more fitting to say, "She was a nurse at the Ottawa Hospital," instead of "She graduated with a nursing degree and held down a full-time position at the Ottawa Hospital". Sometimes concise works better, but this depends on the context, the importance placed on the information, and the surrounding text.

On another note, I've noted in my writing of late is the repetition of action verbs. After rereading an entire manuscript, I noticed that I'd used the verb 'strode' several times. Strode (stride, striding) does provide an image of someone walking briskly or with purpose, but it's difficult to find another one-word verb synonym. Still, it's easy to overuse a verb or any word for that matter. Sometimes, 'was' or 'were' is all that's required so as not to become too over the top. But I digress.

This week's question asks what I've learned about the use of was. I would say that writing requires all word usage in balance. It's not always wrong to write something in the passive voice, but you should be aware of when and why you're choosing to use it. I also believe that too many action verbs can detract from a story and 'was' or 'were' can be a welcome break.

As an aside, I also recall some advice about selecting a more obscure word that will stand out in a reader's mind and only using said word once in a story. The same would go with an image or phrase. For example if I wrote, "He bolted down his meal," I would not use the verb 'bolted again and definitely wouldn't have him or another character bolt down another meal.

The book should work as a whole and not have any words to jar the reader out of the story. Writing a novel or any piece of text is a balancing act with a final product that should appear to flow effortlessly without showing all the work that goes on behind the scenes.

Website: www.brendachapman.ca

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The Artist's Choice by Poppy Gee

CW: reference to a paedophile

A writer whose work you admire A LOT turns out to be a disgusting pervert. Do you stop reading their work? Do you hold your nose with one hand as you turn the pages with the other? Do you refuse to be on a panel with them?

Personally, I think it’s important for writers to stand for something. You should have something to say, otherwise your work risks being boring or pointless. Every creative project needs to have a purpose – even if it’s as simple as making people laugh or seeing beauty in the ordinary. Writers block, in my opinion, happens because you don’t have anything urgent to say. And I think that if you stand for something in your writing, then you should stand for something in your life, too.

If asked to sit on a literary panel beside a pervert, I would decline the invitation. This is not a situation where you disagree with someone over politics or ideas. If a person has been found to be, or has admitted to being, a disgusting pervert, they’ve hurt someone. That’s a clear-cut case - they don’t deserve my time or attention.

However, if I knew a book was written by a disgusting pervert, I might be curious to read it. I wouldn’t necessarily recommend it to others. If I was compelled to talk about it with someone, I’d also share the pervert’s background information. Readers, and consumers of art, should be given this information as they consider the merits of the artistic endeavour.

This is where some institutions have got it wrong in the past. A decade ago, in the Tweed River’s undulating hills of orchards and rainforest a few hours’ drive south of here, an art gallery featured a photographic portrait of the self-confessed paedophilic painter Donald Friend. The now deceased Friend lived in Bali for more than twenty years where he employed houseboys and gardeners and spent his days entertaining famous guests with orchestras of local musicians, eating and drinking decadently, and collecting art and antiques. Many of the paintings the famous painter produced in his lifetime – he died in 1989, aged 74 – are sexually suggestive images of local boys.

In 2016, the Tweed Regional Gallery displayed a portrait of Friend and was selling copies of a biography about him in their gift shop. The biography was compiled from Donald Friend’s own extensive diaries, in which he wrote candidly about ‘sexual experiences’ he’d had with boys in Indonesia and other island nations throughout his life. For the casual visitor, strolling through that gallery, there was no context in the exhibition revealing that this man was a self-confessed serial paedophile. After six months of public pressure, the gallery removed Donald Friend’s portrait.

At the time, this gallery was not alone in this moral dilemma, as major art galleries across Australia had displayed Friend’s work. Even when it is not on display, you can view his art on their websites. To date, most organisations have added contextual statements regarding Friend’s paedophilic proclivities.

As a society, we don’t quite know what to do when sex offenders create art that we like. The list stretches from Paul Gauguin to Rolf Harris, and Roman Polanski to Bill Cosby. There is a writer I could name but I think his case is still grinding slowly through the judicial system – although I note he was mentioned in the comments of Catriona’s piece! Do we burn their work? Do we put it on display with contextual explainers? Do we hide it away in storage? Even storing it, though, seems to suggest that there is public interest in allowing it to survive for future perusal.

In my opinion – the art/film/book should be available with context. People should be able to see it and decide for themselves. Have a note on Netflix – this actor or director is convicted of (insert crime here). Have a sticker on the book – Convicted of (whatever it was). It might sound silly but there is a bit of sense in it.

My ideology on the ethics of consuming art produced by questionable people can be applied to other issues. When it comes to Palestine, the layers of Australia’s so-called civilised literary scene have been peeled back. There is a woman writer who went out of her way to have (mainly Arab) writers fired from their day jobs, to get their publishers to cancel contracts, to get their workshops etc cancelled. Recently, I almost signed up to a writing workshop that interested me. When I saw this woman was involved in it, I decided not to do it. I don’t want to support someone who tried to destroy the careers of other (in some cases, very financially vulnerable) writers.

Thinking about the art you consume is as important as thinking about the art you create.

Oh HAIL no, by Catriona

A writer whose work you admire A LOT turns out to be a disgusting pervert. Do you stop reading their work? Do you hold your nose with one hand as you turn the pages with the other? Do you refuse to be on a panel with them?

"Perversion" is an odd word, isn't it? I mean, there are loads of areas in life where I do think there's "one true path" to lose sight of and end up perverted. Children should be safe and warm and fed. That's an easy one. All people are created equal. Thanks, America - you nailed it there. 

But we're rarely thinking of sociopaths and supremacists when the word "pervert" comes up.

In the usual meaning of the word - hissed through pursed lips while pearls grind from all the clutching, I don't really care if someone else's enthusiasms disgust me as long as I'm not expected to take part in them and they're the freely-made choice of everyone who does take part in them.

There's the rub. If "pervert" is taken to mean "predator" then, as Eric said, I'm happy for the freed-up shelf space. Roman "but it was years ago" Polanski - no thanks. Woody "she's not my *biological* daughter" Allan - nope. Alice "I'm just the enabler" Munro - still no. Brendan Dubois - I didn't own anything to throw out but take a guess. 

Same goes for bullies and "bully" includes, for me, all racists, sexists, homophobes, transphobes, Islamophobes, Antisemites, ableists and eugenicists. It doesn't matter if they're bullying me. In fact, I tend to be fiercer when it's someone else getting it. And I get really angry whenever some fellow straight white assumes they can relax and put down the burden of pretending to care about others because it's just us and I'm one of them. Surprise!

Then, OMG the whining. No one whines like a straight white who thought they could take a rest from the endless weight of having to be . . . a halfway decent human being. Waaah. And bringing it up is so divisive! Sob.

I'm a huge fan of divisiveness. Some people are Nazis. If we weren't divided, it'd be Nazis all the way down.

Cx

p.s. You'd think I'd be in a better mood today what with the Anthony nominations coming out and we at Criminal Minds racking up five between us. Two for Gabriel, two for me and one for Eric! 

 

Life's Too Short For Bad Behavior by Eric Beetner

 A writer whose work you admire A LOT turns out to be a disgusting pervert. Do you stop reading their work? Do you hold your nose with one hand as you turn the pages with the other? Do you refuse to be on a panel with them?

Boy do I wish this was a hypothetical thought experiment and not a real-life scenario.

The question of how to separate the art from the artists is a long-standing one. In recent years a small handful of writers I've known casually, and been friendly with over the years, have been exposed as unsavory characters. One from some vile things he said, another for truly the worst thing someone is capable of. 

It was easy for me to back away and distance myself from these people since I wasn't terribly close to them and it was easy to claim ignorance to their actions. But when it's happened over the years that someone has shown behavior that isn't criminal, but doesn't align with my own values, then I have little trouble putting space between me and the offender. Whether I like their books or not.

Shelf space is at a premium in my office and it's always a struggle to find space for new additions. When the revelations about Cormac McCarthy's history came to light I welcomed the chance to remove my copies of No Country For Old Men and Blood Meridian and make way for books whose authors aren't misogynists. 

When an author I'd given a hand up as they started publishing began making comments and starting arguments with other authors at conferences, my support for that author immediately stopped. If I'm in a position to give a writer a platform, then I'm in a position to deny the spread of someone's hate speech too.

There are so many books in the world, more than you or I could ever possibly read, that there's no reason to keep a troublesome author on my shelf. 

Same goes for films and music. There are actors and directors I've enjoyed, but their behavior has made them unwatchable for me. The association with their off-camera persona taints the work. For some it's criminal behavior, for others political views.  

There are some who are a product of their time. Some who are troubled individuals who seem like folks I would never want to hang out with, but it doesn't spoil the work for me. But someone who engages in hate speech, who disrespects women, who does something truly vile and illegal, those people and their books go directly in the trash. 

The Seat Not Taken

 

A writer whose work you admire A LOT turns out to be a disgusting pervert. Do you stop reading their work? Do you hold your nose with one hand as you turn the pages with the other? Do you refuse to be on a panel with them?

Trigger warning: This question wasn’t easy for me, and my answer may upset some people.

It depends.

 

I’m not talking about Issei Sagawa, who was a pervert, a cannibal, and an author who profited from murders. That’s clear-cut. But once you move away from extremes, the line blurs. ‘Perversity’ is a slippery word. I live in a country that outlawed interracial marriage until 1967. My grandmother needed her husband’s permission to buy a refrigerator. In that context, even the cowgirl position is considered deviant.

In literary theory, we talk about the death of the author—the idea that a work exists independently of who created it. But the corpse sometimes sits up.

Let’s walk the gallery.

Dickens emotionally abused his wife, possibly had a long affair with a teenager, and tried to institutionalize his spouse to control the narrative. Burroughs shot and killed his wife. Mailer stabbed his. Naipaul hit women. Koestler, posthumously accused of rape. Iceberg Slim was a pimp. Salinger groomed a teenage girl. David Foster Wallace stalked and beat Mary Karr.

Lovecraft was a racist, even by his time’s standards. Céline cheered for Nazis. Dahl was openly anti-Semitic.

Women authors, too, are not exempt. Highsmith was racist, anti-Semitic, cruel. Sexton admitted that she abused her children, incest implied. Woolf wrote racist screeds in her diaries, though she later recanted some. Gertrude Stein backed fascists. Lessing abandoned her kids and called motherhood ‘oppressive.’

Even now, we watch the halos dim on names like Gaiman, Munro, and DuBois.

If that were enough for the hallowed halls of Literature, we have a POTUS with a rap sheet that most mobsters would envy.

Crimes are on a continuum—because crimes scale.

James Ellroy broke into homes to sniff women’s underwear. Kink? Compulsion? I don’t know, but let’s continue to look at crimes and misbehavior as a continuum.

Something stolen? Replace it.

Something broken? Fix it.

I think of the victims because: Fear and Violation—those linger for a lifetime.

Americans love to clutch pearls. Fewer ask: What about the victims? I find the U.S. view on justice perverse. Cruelty lurks beneath the patriotism. Look no further than the Potomac. Or look back to Willie Francis, 17 years old, electrocuted twice in one week in 1946 and survived. A year later, they succeeded. Third time’s the charm.

Some say there’s honor among thieves. Some killers I’ve known were calm, even philosophical. Most saw themselves as soldiers carrying out orders. One told me: ‘You step outside yourself. You do what you must.’ It's a statement I came to understand because I’ve had to defend myself. Twice. Violently.

Victims live with rage. It doesn’t disappear—it just redirects.

I despise those who profit from their crimes, especially under government deals that skirt the Son of Sam laws. Gravano. Confidential informants who kept on killing. Bulger and Scarpa. Our justice system, in these cases, is a co-conspirator. Justice for the greater good? Utilitarian, I suppose.

I loathe cruelty to animals. When Cheryl Head kindly blurbed my novel Hush Hush, she asked why Shane throws a man down the stairs for hurting his cat, but barely touches the thugs who hurt his girlfriend. Fair question. It was drawn from personal experience. I couldn’t give her the answer I wanted. I’m private. Guarded.

Remember Dave in Mystic River? I was that kid.

Children bounce back, they say. Sure. Resilience is admirable but something stays broken. We all carry damage. Life is trauma. Victim and victimizer, sometimes in the same skin. Black. White. I see gray.

To answer the question:

I don’t care what you do in the bedroom—unless it involves a child.

Anything else, I’d probably sit next to you.

Hurt a child? Torment animals? No.

I can admire your language.

I can separate fact from fiction.

But that doesn’t mean I’d break bread with you.

 

 

NO PERVS ALLOWED!

 

 

 

A writer whose work you admire A LOT turns out to be a disgusting pervert. Do you stop reading their work? Do you hold your nose with one hand as you turn the pages with the other? Do you refuse to be on a panel with them?

Personally, this is the easiest question in the world for me to answer. No! I’m tired of disgusting perverts on all levels. Just tired. With all the truly incredible writers in the writing community I wouldn’t waste one second on a writer who is revealed to be disgusting pervert. I couldn’t be persuaded to read one more word from such a writer, and regardless of how much clout it might earn me, no way could I see myself sitting on a panel beside someone who has been revealed to be a disgusting pervert.

I’ve heard the arguments that talent should or could be separated from the misdeeds of the artist, but it’s an impossible distinction to me. There’s been a debate raging for years in music circles regarding R&B legend R. Kelly. His talent is unquestionable, some might argue genius. But based on his 30-year prison sentence, I think it’s safe to say he is a disgusting pervert.

Radio stations and individuals alike had to decide to either continue to listen to and play his music or leave him in the dirt where he belongs. Shockingly, to me at least, it appears to be a 50/50 split decision. I can still turn on the radio and hear any number of his songs playing on the local R&B station. I can still find myself in a heated argument at any cookout or card table on the morality of continuing to listen to him, despite his heinous crimes. And just last week mainstream media seemed positively gleeful at the news of a new song release, from prison. So, what do I know?

Unfortunately, the world we live in today has given us all too many opportunities to check the strength of our convictions. Seems like every other day there are new reports of people we’ve held in high esteem being revealed as vile, racist, or yes, a disgusting pervert. I’m a hard pass on working with all disgusting perverts, even from my lowly perch as new author.

Would I be so adamant about my position if writing was my only job and working with a disgusting pervert might help my career? I’d like to think that wouldn’t matter, I really would. But sometimes when I’m dreaming of my breakthrough, I’ve wondered what I would do if someone like a Harvey Weinstein were to offer me a movie deal. Would I have the strength to stick by my principals and say no, or fold at the chance of success? That is the question that we all have to ask ourselves.

I’m choosing to believe that no matter the circumstances I remain a hard no to working with or continuing to support all disgusting perverts. What about you?

Three questions for today - and such good ones too.

What’s the best question you’ve ever been asked as a writer? 

There are two, and both are asked quite frequently 

The first is this - what was your inspiration for Kaveri (the main character in my 1920s colonial Bangalore historical mystery series, The Bangalore Detectives Club)? 

I love this question because it lets me jump into one of my favorite places - Bangalore of the 1920s. Starting with the story of how Kaveri parachuted into my head one fateful day in March 2007, and demanded that I write a book about her (it took 14 years to get it done, but that's a story for a different day) - I then tell them about how Bangalore was a Princely State in British India, buffered from some of the worse excesses of colonialism by the Mysore Maharaja, who along with his wife the Maharani of Mysore, was a huge proponent of women's education and empowerment. Bangalore provides an aspect of colonial India that most readers living outside the country are not aware of - indeed, some readers still associate India with the 'black hole of Calcutta' type of books they read about, but there is so much to India that defies typecasting. Anyway, that's why I love this question so much - through a story of fiction, it allows me to draw readers into an animated discussion of history, ecology, colonialism and women's empowerment in the 1920s Golden Age.     

How do you do your research? That's a second question that people frequently ask me. When I was a beginning writer, this is one of the biggest questions I had, and I wished someone would explain it to me in detail - not just "go to the archives" or "ask a librarian" but by actually breaking it up into what I did for different parts of books, linking it to how I actually incorporated this research into my stories. I like to spend a bit of time responding to these queries, and always hope that someone taking notes in the audience will write a shelfful of historical books of their own some day.  

What's the worst? 

Hmm. I can't think of a 'worst' question really - perhaps I've been fortunate so far, and I hope it stays that way. There is one question that usually stumps me though - 'where do you find the time to keep down a busy day job and write?' I know I'm far from unique - so many writers do this, and more - and each has their own process. My own process changes from book to book, year to year, depending on what else is going on in my life beyond work and fiction writing - and again I know this is not unique. I won't call it a 'worst question' because I understand what motivates the people who ask it - people who also have really busy lives (don't we all!) and badly want to fulfil a life's dream to write alongside everything else. But it's just a difficult one to answer, because my way is not going to be anyone else's way. 

I hate it when writers freely hand out advice such as "write every day or you won't be a writer." In my life, that is not going to work - weeks go by sometimes when I've planned a complicated schedule that includes fiction writing time but someone falls ill at home, or there's a work crisis, or something else happens at home that needs my attention - and then boom! there goes my writing time, blown up in smoke. If there's one piece of advice that I can offer, it's persistence - when you fall off the horse, find the next-best time and get back on again. And second, be kind to yourself - beating yourself up for not achieving your targets never helps. It only breeds anxiety. 

And what question do you wish you were asked but nobody’s ever asked it?

I don't know, but what a lovely question this is! I'm saving this up for the next time I moderate a writer's panel at a lit fest or a writer's retreat. I'd love to see what others have to say to this - also my fellow Minds.

I Hate that Question! from James W. Ziskin

What’s the best question you’ve ever been asked as a writer? What's the worst? And what question do you wish you were asked but nobody’s ever asked it? 

This week’s question is a difficult one. As Dietrich pointed out in yesterday’s post, writers get plenty of questions on the craft of writing. Things such as where do we get ideas, how do you approach your research, or are you a plotter or a pantser? And while these questions may prompt interesting answers, they’re not in and of themselves particularly memorable.

So I struggled mightily to come up with some examples for this post. I wondered if I should mock honest, if naive, questions about my books. Or, make something up out of whole cloth and pretend someone once asked me that. But I found myself at an impasse. In the end, I decided to concentrate on one question—the worst one—and milk it for all it’s worth. Here goes!

INITIATE DREAM SEQUENCE

Picture me at a writer’s conference, sitting in the book room waiting to sign my latest mystery for eager readers. Either the track is slow or I’m not as hot a writer as I imagined because there are no takers. Everyone’s lined up at Michael Connelly’s table… Come on, Mike! Share the wealth!

Wait a sec! Here comes one. A reader! She approaches cautiously, makes one pass, glances at my book, and slows but doesn’t stop. No! She keeps walking, eyeing the next table whose author is proudly displaying a book with puppies and a florist’s shop on the cover. Damn it! Why didn’t I think of writing a book like that? 

But wait! She stops, turns on her heel, and—ignoring those really adorable puppies—directs her piercing gaze at my stack of unsigned books. She seems to be debating. Is my book worthy of her attention? Should she chance it?

She’s made up her mind. One step, then another. She’s taking her time. Oh, she’s a cool one. But since she was only three steps away from my table in the first place, there’s not far to go. And here she is. Standing above me. My mouth has gone dry. But I’m worried for nothing. She’s actually a fan. A fan of my books!

It’s like a dream. She confesses that she’s read all my books and can’t wait to get her hands on this one. The reason she walked past my table was because she needed to work up the courage to speak to me. She’s fan-girling. We talk for ten minutes, and I feel like a star. (There’s still no one else interested in my book, by the way, so I shouldn’t let this go to my head…)

Finally, she says she’d like to ask a question. Authors love questions! (Even if they’re not particularly memorable.) She draws a breath to steel herself, gulps down her nervousness, and asks…

When are you going to make your books into a TV series?

Okay, DREAM SEQUENCE OVER. Back to real life.

I hate that question. 

Mind, I don’t object to people wondering if a movie or TV deal might happen someday. No, what bothers me is the idea that somehow all I need to do is wave a wand and my books will magically be a hit Netflix series. So whenever I get this question, my first instinct is to give a snarky answer, something along the lines of,

“Oh, no. I’m too principled to sell out like that. My œuvre transcends the genre, after all. (And, yes, I spell œuvre with the ligature.) I would never jeopardize my legacy by trucking in popular media. Television? That rubbish consumed by the unwashed masses? Ha! I spit on the hoi polloi. In fact, when I spit on the hoi polloi, that’s the very sound my expectoration makes. Hoi polloi!”

My second instinct is to answer with something less precious but more sarcastic:

“Well, of course I intend to make my books into a TV series. But I’ve been tied up lately and just haven’t had the time to get it done. In fact, I’ve been dodging Apple + and HBO Max for the past month. My agent is begging me to take a meeting with Netflix. They won’t leave me alone! Maybe I’ll get to it over the Memorial Day weekend.”

But cooler head prevails—I only have one so, yes, the singular—and I offer an apologetic reply instead: 

“Gee wiz, I’d love that. Maybe someday. Fingers crossed. From your lips to God’s ear. Um, you wouldn’t happen to know anyone in Hollywood, would you?”

That response usually leaves my questioner and me standing there in awkward silence. We both search for an excuse—any excuse—to slink away. The discomfort ripens then sours. My questioner’s expression now betrays wincing pity, inspired no doubt by my pathetic film and TV prospects. To chase away the humiliation, I mop my sweaty brow and offer a more nuanced explanation: 

“Well, you see, it’s very expensive to make a television series. They cost millions of dollars, so it’s always a long shot. You’re lucky to get a modest option. A couple of thousand dollars at most. Probably less, really. And an option is no guarantee, of course. Only one in (fill-in-large-number-here) books optioned for TV or film ever gets made.”

In situations like this one, you’re lucky if your questioner has lost interest in you, remembered something urgent they had to do, and wandered away, probably to check out the book with the puppies and florist’s shop on the cover. If you’re unlucky, your questioner is still standing there, feeling as screwed as you do, so you’re stuck. You start to pray to a God you don’t believe in for deliverance in the form of a fire alarm, a power outage, or a chandelier falling from the ceiling. Any distraction will do. But no. That only happens in books. Or on TV.

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