Everything is a weapon by Eric Beetner

  There are a limited number of ways to kill someone. How do you keep from repeating them? Or do you not worry about that at all? 

One of the highest compliments I’ve ever received on my novels came from a reviewer who remarked, after reading a few of my books, that I treat “everything as a weapon.” It’s true I have used unusual implements to cause mayhem and harm in my books. It’s one of the ways I like to keep things fresh.

Statistically, most murders take place with the expected items: guns, knives, blunt force trauma. But how many times can we see that and not get bored? It’s why I like to make characters improvise sometimes. Finding new and interesting ways to knock people off is one of the most fun parts of being a crime writer. And as if we didn't already look at the world in a slightly skewed perspective anyway, it really makes you look at ordinary objects differently. Do NOT take me into any kind of kitchen supply store. All that stuff is good for killing. A Williams-Sonoma is a death trap for a crime writer.

True, if you do use a unique way of bumping someone off, then it stands out if you use that method again, so often I have to say, “ok, I already used garden shears in that book. Can’t do that again. What else is there?” Not repeating myself does become a concern.

Still, one of my favorites came in a book that very few people have read so I’m tempted to re-use it. It is also the most graphic and disgusting death of anything I’ve written before or since. I had two characters facing off in the middle of a violent storm. The wind tears off a Yield sign and sends it hurtling through the hurricane-force winds to decapitate one of the characters. It gets more gross from there, but I always liked that one and it came as quite a shock for the people who did read it. Maybe someday I'll recycle that one.

One of my favorite unexpected deaths will always be from Raiders of the Lost Ark when Indiana Jones is faced with a sword-wielding badass and instead of some elaborate fight sequence or impromptu feat of daring from Indy, he simply removes his gun and shoots him. It’s a hilarious subversion of the expected and also, I think, highlights how dull simply shooting someone can be. In that scene, it comes of almost as cheating, it’s so easy for him. And it subverts your expectation of the big fight you were expecting. I think that scene is a great reminder that a more inventive way of doing in with someone is good for the audience. It only works there because all the other deaths have been so exotic – hidden spikes, plane propellers, giant boulders.

 

Ultimately, it comes down to the character behind whatever implement of death you choose. You can use nothing but guns, but how the characters use them is the unique element. They can be conflicted, confident, expert at the tool or rank beginners. They can be well matched with an opponent, or out classed entirely. There is a lot more that goes into a murder weapon when we understand the person behind it.

And, of course, the weapon itself can be used to obfuscate and deflect from detection in a mystery story. Maybe they used a gun and it all seems cut and dry, but that gun had false fingerprints placed on it. Or was registered to someone else. Of course, you can always do an Agatha Christie and use a frozen bit of meat and then eat the evidence. 

I definitely like to find new and interesting ways to create the chaos and violence in my novels. I think readers appreciate it. Because you live long enough and you realize it IS true – everything is a weapon if you’re desperate enough.

Pick your Poison, by Catriona

There are a limited number of ways to kill someone. How do you keep from repeating them? Or do you not worry about that at all?

Well, I didn't worry about it. I will now. Seriously, it's not something I've ever considered, but for this blog I thought I'd review murder methods in the books I've written. I'm not goin to illustrate this post with book jackets, for obvious reasons. I went with cats.

Rachel doesn't really read crime fiction

Okay then, in joint fifth place with one entry each, there's:

• burned to death in a fire
• clumped over the head with a blunt instrument
• aspirated emesis (it's maybe murder, if you roll a drunk onto their back and leave them)
• shot 
• boiled 

She makes exceptions

In joint fourth place, turning up twice, there's:

• pushed from a height
• dismembered
• poisoned

In third place, having been used three times, quite surprisngly because it's slow and horrible, we have:

• starvation 

She hates mystery conventions

Runners up, with four outings in my oeuvre, are:

• stabbed
• drowned

What can I say? I like kitchen equipment and I come from a small island with a lot of sea. 

But I think I also like people not getting murdered, because a whopping eight times, making it the outright winner,  is:

• no murder at all!

Someone might have died but maybe no one got offed. Or maybe no one even died. Cool. Fine by me.  Although one of the books this happened in is the one my husband calls "the concept album", what a bookseller called "the one where nothin happened", of which a reviewer said "if nothing's going to happen, you should find that out sooner than p.160". (I still like it.) 

It's a miracle I ever write anything

Anyway, none of that is necessarily true because as I was writing out book titles and jotting down causes of death, another category emerged. There were eight instances of:

• can't remember

Maybe twelve people have drowned in my books (small island). Maybe there have been eleven gun deaths (not likely). Pretty sure there's ony been one boiling, but I wouldn't swear to it.

Cx

The Grammar of Violence

There are a limited number of ways to kill someone. How do you keep from repeating them? Or do you not worry about that at all?

I don’t worry about repeating methods of murder because I don’t write murder as spectacle. I keep violence offstage. Like a film under the Hays Code, the act itself is implied. What interests me is the chain of words, decisions, ambitions, and rationalizations that make the act inevitable.

That choice is ethical. Not because I’m squeamish. Not because I walk through life with moral blinkers. But because graphic violence is easy writing. Any competent writer can choreograph blood. Sentences. A paragraph. Done.

The harder task is showing how language engineers violence long before a trigger is pulled.

Crime is as old as civilization. The Bible is soaked in it. Classical literature invents cruelty. Look at how the Romans dealt with parricide. Shakespeare’s tragedies end with heaps of bodies; his comedies are a moratorium on the body count. The ancients understood something we prefer to forget: violence is personal, political, and divine.

For writers, exile has long been one of the cruelest penalties: the loss of language and community.

Ovid.

Dante Alighieri.

Victor Hugo.

Bertolt Brecht.

Oscar Wilde.

Stefan Zweig.

Isabel Allende.

Ahmed Naji.

Salman Rushdie.
 

Exile was more than physical removal; it attempted to silence thought, to sever creators from the very medium through which they wield influence. Words threaten authority; those who command them can unsettle the foundations of any empire.

We are fascinated by violence because we are capable of it. Traffic slows at the accident. We look, appalled and transfixed. We read crime fiction to seek justice, to see order restored. Some want the parsonage, the tidy puzzle, the assurance that daisies will grow again.

That’s comfort fiction. There’s nothing wrong with comfort. Novocain has its uses. But don’t confuse reality with Hallmark.

The truth is we are a violent species. History proves it. The Renaissance refined torture. Germany gave the world Bach, Beethoven, Brahms — and Hitler. Culture and barbarity share the same nervous system.

I have seen violence up close. Circumstances and context are irrelevant. It is not cinematic. It is not redemptive. It is chaotic, kinetic, and once witnessed, it alters you permanently. That is why I refuse to aestheticize it.

In my novel Eyes to Deceit, the architect of the 1953 Iranian coup d’etat, Allen W. Dulles, uses persuasion, propaganda, and realpolitik. He arranges the conditions under which others will kill. My protagonist, Walker, is complicit without ever pulling the trigger. That is the violence that interests me: the polished bureaucrat in a suit.

In my forthcoming Company Files novel The Quiet Eagle, set during the Suez Crisis, Dulles bullied Britain and France to bend the knee and wagged his finger at Israel. He used violence as geopolitical grammar. The next novel after Suez, The Hour of the Predator, offers the psychological portrait of a female assassin in Budapest; it examines violence as pathology.

Sophisticated violence persuades. It signs memos. It sends communiqués. It waits.

Americans rarely see or understand violence done in their name. It happens off-screen — until it doesn’t. Think of Minnesota. Then comes outrage, then impotence. We commemorate September 11 as trauma, yet Italy endured 15 years of daily, unrelenting domestic terrorism during the Years of Lead. The Holocaust is abstract until you walk the grounds of the Vernichtungslagers and feel the mechanization of annihilation.

There’s an Italian idiom: sulla pelle — to feel something on your own skin. Not to understand it intellectually, but to absorb it until it alters you. That is what I aim for.

So no, I don’t worry about repeating ways to kill someone. Methods are finite. What is infinite is the human capacity to justify them.

If my work has a mission, it is not to invent new forms of death. It is to expose the rhetoric that makes death permissible — the language that allows civilized people to nod while someone else does the killing. That is more unsettling than blood on the page.

And it lasts longer.

Hmmm…a thousand ways to die you say?

There are a limited number of ways to kill someone. How do you keep from repeating them? Or do you not worry about that at all?

Yes, yes there is, and I’m interested in them all. Maybe that’s why I love the old mysteries like Sherlock Holmes and Agatha Christie, as well as I like all the CSI series. Nothing piques my interest more than that moment in the book or show when we find out the victim was killed my some super rare interaction between the victim’s soap and perfume that mixed together to create a toxic fume that suffocated the poor dear to death. Makes me grin every time.

Naturally, I’m always thinking about the ways that everyday items can become deadly weapons with just a bit of tweaking at the fingertips of an adventurous writer, doesn’t everybody? I mean, seriously, who knew that eyedrops could be such a deadly weapon? Not I. And I’m still not convinced that if someone chose to off me using this method, my local coroner would sus it out, no matter how many times I’ve seen it on Dateline.

And what about allergies. Who can say with one hundred percent surety that you knew that the corn chowder you served to your soon-to-be ex with the life and death shellfish allergy, before he had a chance to take your name off of their life insurance policy, was flavored with a bit of lobster tail. Not guilty. Am I right?

I’m not a whodunnit kind of writer. In my books the death normally comes circumstantially. So, for my writing no real planning of the murder is necessary. I’m able to let the scene dictate the manner of death naturally. For example, if an argument happens in the kitchen that has to lead to death, it’s probably going to be a kitchen utensil like a knife, a fork, or even a cast iron skillet.  But, someday, I’ll write that book where I get to creatively kill. And when I do, I have a decent reservoir of ways to die. And if I ever run out, sadly, this world just keeps on supplying more.                         

Just Put it in the Jar by Faye Snowden

 

Do you take stock of your life only at the beginning of the year, or do you check in periodically throughout the months? Are resolutions part of that process?

Being responsible for the Friday blog is a real boon! I can riff off of previous posts from people smarter and more together than I am! A jazz band to feed my improv. I loved how James teaches us how to diffuse a bomb, and ends with a poem reminding us to focus on the things we can control. Dietrich finds New Year’s guidance in books that can have a profound impact on the way we see the world. I have to say, Viktor E. Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning changed my perception of what it means to be human in an inhumane world as well. Terry resolves to be open, and experimental, urging us to read her blog to the end so she can ask a question that I’m not only still pondering, but has me a little disturbed. There was a moment there I thought we had a connection! Black-eyed peas on New Year’s day, but, ah me, maybe it just ain’t so. And being somewhat of a goal addict myself, I thoroughly enjoyed Matthew Greene’s Confessions of a Goal Addict and his notes on gratitude. All of this makes my job a little easier.

Regarding this New Year’s resolution question, please know that I’m a Capricorn born on December 31^st, which has always made New Year’s Eve a sad affair for me. Everyone celebrates the world turning another year older instead of my birthday while I sit all day in my pajamas watching reruns of The Twilight Zone, and lamenting being one more year closer to death. I’m also a project manager by trade. No, not a recovering project manager. A PROJECT MANAGER. I delight in saying, “Fail to plan, and plan to fail.”

Before I became wiser with the years, I’d search Hallmark or Staples for the perfect planner to document my goals. Sometimes, I would even make those goals SMART. If you have ever been in corporate, you’d know that SMART stands for Specific, Measurable, Achievable, Relevant and Timebound. (If you want something that’ll really drive you crazy,  contact me for a how-to guide. Author Faye would not recommend. Project Manager Faye would say go for it, but be careful, and only use it for your day job. It can become dangerous in the wrong hands.) Later, just like most of the planet, I would backslide after two or three days. I’d keep losing the planner on-accident-on-purpose. And then I would torture myself with the ‘you-screwed-up-again’ ritual beating.

What I’ve learned over the years about this behavior, however, is that I was in love with the process of making New Year’s resolutions, but not exactly fond of doing the work to achieve all of those impossible goals. It was a way for me to feel in control. But even without the process, I still got things done! Stories and books got written, family time was had and bills got paid. I took on more projects at my day job, and usually exercised more by walking miles while listening to audio books.

Now, instead of New Year’s resolutions, I review my accomplishments for the year on New Year's day, and frankly, anytime I’m feeling blue. Doing so eliminates that annual negative performance appraisals that some of my fellow bloggers mentioned, and I can forgo the annual ritual beatings. (This is good because I’m already dealing with the death thing and need a break.)

My kid in MMA & the jar of calm

Years ago I bought a granite jar in a touristy Albuquerque shop during a trip for one of my son’s first MMA fights. I needed calming down because I couldn’t believe my second born was voluntarily going to enter a cage to get beat on and to also beat on someone else. This didn’t fit my pacifist disposition. The stone jar felt solid, cool to the touch. It steadied my nerves. But now I use it for my accomplishments. Throughout the year, I write my successes and even moments of joy on Post-it notes. I fold those Post-its into tiny squares, pop the lid off the jar, and drop them inside. On New Year's day and anytime I feel the need, I open that jar, unfold and read all of those little Post-It notes. Doing so helps me to remember while I am human and fallible, I can get things done sans the wasted time planning the impossible and the ritual self-torture.

 

How to Defuse a Bomb from James W. Ziskin

Do you take stock of your life only at the beginning of the year, or do you check in periodically throughout the months? Are resolutions part of that process?

How To Defuse A Bomb

Instructions

Page 1

1. Unscrew and remove the cover plate marked “Danger: High Explosives DO NOT REMOVE”

2. Find the blue wire connected to the negative terminal.

3. Cut the blue wire to disarm the bomb.

Page 2

4. But before you cut the blue wire, check to see if there is also a red wire.

5. If you find a red wire connected to the positive terminal, cut the red one.

6. Nota bene: Cutting the blue wire instead of the red wire will cause the bomb to detonate immediately.

7. Good luck!

That’s me. A smudge on the pavement after failing to read and follow the instructions carefully. And my New Year’s resolutions would certainly suffer the same fate were I to take them seriously. But, of course, I don’t. Yes, I publish my “I Hereby Resolve” poem each year in this space, but you don’t actually think I intend to follow through on any of those long-term goals, do you? I’m honest enough to admit I never look farther than my next step. Or the next sentence in a bomb-defusing manual.

One foot in front of the other, that’s my motto. Head down. That way I won’t step in dog poo. And that mirrors my writing strategy, at least of late. I’ve become a pantser—mostly. Sure, I know where I want to go, but I don’t necessarily have a clear route in mind. As E.L. Doctorow said, “Writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can see only as far as your headlights.”

I stumble through the year in a similar way. One day at a time, updating my goals and resolutions with each new dawn. Every day offers a fresh opportunity to improve myself and the world. So, yes, I take stock of my life often. That’s what explains the sobbing.

But since this week’s question deals with New Year’s resolutions, here is my poem, yet again, so that you may judge whether I’ve succeeded or simply kidded myself.

Thursday, January 8, 2026

I Hereby Resolve

Upon the first of Jan-u-ary each and every year

I choose a comfy cushioned chair on which to park my rear

Then taking pencil, pen, or plume I think with all my might

About my life, my hopes, my dreams, and then begin to write

I make a note of all my flaws, my missteps, and my sins

And number them from one to ten and sort them into bins:

A catalogue of wishes, goals, and changes to achieve,

To lose some weight, to write more books, and royalties receive!

But not all thoughts are for myself, I also have a heart

So I resolve to do some good, pitch in, and play my part,

To be a better person and to help human-i-tee,

Or maybe just be satisfied to keep my san-i-tee

For all in all you must admit that things are not so good

At home, abroad, in Baltimore, and in your neighborhood

With guns and hate and politics and fears we cannot quell

It often seems we’re on a highway heading straight to hell 

But then I reason as I sit here in my pensive pose

Some things I can control and fix, so why not start with those?

My wrath, my sloth, and moods most foul are faults I could improve

Why not correct them right away? Cast out, erase, remove?

While in the past I must admit that my resolve was frail

This time my pledge is resolute; I don’t intend to fail

I vow to change, to grow, to thrive, and forge myself anew

And through hard work and sweat and blood I’ll make my dreams come true

But just in case my will is weak and my plans gang ag-ley

I’ll save this verse for twelve months more until next New Year’s Day

Then with high hopes and best intents I’ll shout for all to hear

The very same prom-is-es that I made and broke this year

710

Seroegheroij

Between the Pages

Do you take stock of your life only at the beginning of the year, or do you check in periodically throughout the months? Are resolutions part of that process?

by Dietrich

I skip the New Year’s resolutions that just turn into grand proclamations that fizzle out by February. Instead of drifting into a new year without a rudder, I turn to little bits of guidance hidden in books—not trendy self-help manifestos, but the timeless works that offer insight for navigating life’s messy turns.

The first that stands out is Viktor E. Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning. Drawn from his experiences in Nazi concentration camps, Frankl distills a profound truth: even when everything is stripped away, we still retain the freedom to choose our attitude. That single idea gives me more direction than any resolution ever could. It’s a constant reminder to focus on what I can control and let go of what I can’t.

I recently added Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations to the shelf. The Roman emperor’s private reflections emphasize that we have power over our minds, not over external events. In a world that often feels fractured and chaotic, that simple truth cuts through the noise more effectively than any January vow.

Another book that’s stayed with me is Black Elk Speaks, the life story of an Oglala Lakota holy man, visionary, and healer. Through his words (recorded by John G. Neihardt), Black Elk speaks of true peace, balance, and living in harmony with the natural world and one’s community.

I also find unexpected uplift in characters from popular fiction. Atticus Finch in Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird embodies quiet integrity, and he stands firm for what’s right, even when it’s unpopular. He’s a steady reminder to maintain composure under pressure.

Sherlock Holmes, from Arthur Conan Doyle’s stories, offers timeless lessons in observation and logic. “You see, but you do not observe.” That line never fails to nudge me toward paying deeper attention.

Gandalf in J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings blends wisdom with decisive action—he knows when to exercise restraint and when to wield that big stick.

And though I don’t usually quote Yoda, there’s real wisdom in his words: “Do or do not. There is no try.” It cuts straight to the heart of commitment, urging one to avoid half-measures and to follow through.

When I take stock, I simply pull one of these books off the shelf and open it at random. Whatever falls from those pages tends to outlast any fleeting resolution. A dash of Atticus’ steadfastness, a touch of Gandalf’s patience, a reminder from Frankl to choose my attitude—drawing from a deep well of accumulated insight.

Skipping resolutions doesn’t mean skipping growth. Rather than waiting for the calendar to flip, I like to open one of those special books any time of year and let the good stuff sink in.

RESOLVED-- Be More Open

 

Terry here, with our question for the week: Do you take stock of your life only at the beginning of the year, or do you do it periodically throughout the year? Are resolutions part of that process? 

 NOTE: Please read carefully. At the end, I have a question for you. 

What is it about January that makes us suddenly reflective? The flip of a calendar page, a brand-new planner, twelve empty months stretching ahead like untouched snow — and there we are, taking stock of our lives as if we’ve scheduled an annual performance review with ourselves. 

Do you do that? Conduct a formal audit of your own existence once a year? 

I used to. It felt responsible. January 1 — or maybe January 2, once the football games and black-eyed peas were out of the way — I’d sit down with a notebook and ask the big questions. What did I accomplish? What didn’t I? Where did I drift? Where did I grow? It felt responsible to measure my life in tidy twelve-month increments. 

And of course, resolutions were part of the ritual. Exercise more. Write more. Eat better. Call people back. Waste less time. The usual list that somehow manages to be both ambitious and vague. I’d draft them carefully, almost ceremoniously, as though this were less about self-improvement and more about launching a strategic initiative. Some years I kept them. 

Some years I didn’t. Most years they faded quietly by March, overtaken by the simple business of living. 

What I’ve come to wonder is this: why do we assume that January is the only legitimate time to evaluate our lives? 

Life doesn’t actually operate on a calendar-year schedule. Insights show up in April. Regret taps you on the shoulder in September. Gratitude sneaks in on a random Tuesday in June when nothing extraordinary has happened except that you suddenly notice you’re content. There’s no confetti. No countdown. Just a quiet realization that something has shifted. 

Some of my most honest moments of self-assessment haven’t come at the beginning of a year at all. They’ve arrived in the middle — usually uninvited. A project stalls. A plan unravels. An opportunity appears that I hadn’t considered. Something forces a pause. And in that pause comes the question: Is this still working? Is this still what I want? 

That kind of stock-taking feels different. Less ceremonial. More urgent. More real. 

It doesn’t involve a new planner or a neatly ruled page. It’s more like recalibration than resolution. A small course correction. Sometimes a bigger turn. Often just a quiet adjustment in attitude. 

I’ve also noticed that the January model carries a subtle pressure. There’s something about declaring a resolution that feels bold — and faintly theatrical. “This year I will…” It sounds decisive. Strong. Determined. But it can also set up a kind of pass-fail system. By February, if the gym visits are irregular or the word count is low, the narrative shifts to disappointment. 

And disappointment is not exactly motivating. 

Periodic reflection throughout the year feels gentler. It’s less about reinvention and more about awareness. A quarterly check-in, perhaps. Or even a monthly one. Not to judge, but to notice. What’s energizing me? What’s draining me? What have I quietly outgrown? What have I been avoiding? 

Those questions don’t require fireworks or champagne. They can be asked on an ordinary Wednesday afternoon. 

There’s also something to be said for the accumulation of small adjustments. We often imagine growth as dramatic — a bold new direction, a sweeping change. But more often it’s incremental. A habit tweaked here. A boundary set there. A decision to say yes — or no — when it matters. 

In that sense, life feels less like an annual report and more like an ongoing conversation. 

That doesn’t mean I’ve abandoned New Year’s reflections entirely. I still appreciate the symbolism of a fresh start. There’s something psychologically satisfying about a clean page. It invites hope. It suggests possibility. I suspect that’s why we cling to resolutions. They’re declarations of optimism. Statements of belief that we can, in fact, do better. 

But I’ve softened my approach. 

Instead of rigid resolutions, I lean toward intentions. Instead of sweeping promises, I try for directional nudges. Less “I will completely transform this aspect of my life,” and more “I’d like to move in this direction.” The difference may seem subtle, but it changes the tone. It allows room for humanity. 

Because if there’s one thing the past few years have demonstrated, it’s that life resists our neat timelines. Circumstances shift. Priorities change. Energy ebbs and flows. What felt urgent in January may feel irrelevant by July — and that’s not failure. That’s evolution. 

So do I take stock only at the beginning of the year? Not anymore. I try — not always successfully — to do it periodically. When something feels off. When something feels especially right. When I sense drift. When I sense growth. 

Resolutions? Sometimes. But they’re quieter now. Less proclamation, more intention. Less public vow, more private awareness. 

Maybe the point isn’t to reinvent ourselves every January. Maybe it’s simply to stay awake to our own lives. To notice when we’re aligned and when we’re not. To allow for course corrections without waiting for permission from the calendar. 

After all, change doesn’t wait for January. 

And neither should we. 

QUESTION: Do you think this post sounded like me? What if I told you it was written by ChatGPT? It was. Last Friday I had a chat with friends about AI and thought it would be interesting to ask ChatGPT to write this week’s blog. I fed it five random blogs from last year and then told it to write an 800 word blog post. I hope you don’t think it’s cheating. It was only intended as an interesting exercise. I was surprised at how well-written and well-thought-out the post was. But…does it sound like me? Not entirely. I do tend to write in little chunks for the blog, but these were real "sound bites." Also, it seemed a little repetitious--the same ideas reworded.

What do you think?

Confessions of a Goal Addict - by Matthew Greene

Do you take stock of your life only at the beginning of the year, or do you do it periodically throughout the year? Are resolutions part of that process?

Shortly after I moved to New York City, some college friends and I established a tradition called "New Month's Eve." It was exactly what it sounded like—on the last day of every month, we took over the back room of Renaissance Diner on Ninth Avenue and chowed down on disco fries until our raucous midnight countdown. On its face, it was an opportunity for a bunch of broke young artists to bring a little low-cost celebration into their lives. But beyond that, it was a chance for us to make monthly resolutions and report back on our progress over cheap carbohydrates. 

A part of me misses those days, as I look back through the soft-focus filter of nostalgia. I was young and idealistic and borderline obsessed with self-improvement. This month, I'd proclaim, I was going to finish that project, submit to that opportunity, meet with that person. But there's a dark side to that kind of constant focus on the future. Young Matthew, with all his goals and resolutions, was incapable of appreciating his present moment. 

Fast forward a few years—I'm still struggling to strike that balance. The balance between ambition and ambivalence. The balance between stillness and struggle. The balance between enjoying what I have and striving for more. 

I know I'm not alone in this. This struggle seems especially pronounced for creative types, since we're so often expected to find motivation from within. I've felt at times that I need to be my own demanding boss, my own dissatisfied supervisor frowning at my progress or lack thereof. If I'm really serious about this path I've chosen, I often tell myself, I need to work harder. Buckle down. Chase the success I crave.

But there's more to life than "success," whatever that word means. It took some distance from those halcyon days at the Renaissance Diner to truly internalize that truth—along with a lot of therapy, a spiritual reawakening, and a lengthy coming out process...but that's another post. 

So, do I take stock of my life throughout the year? Yes. Constantly. More than I should, perhaps. But as the years go on, I've tried to expand what kinds of resolutions I consider worthwhile. What does that entail right now, a month and a half into this new year, you may ask? Here's a smattering of what I'm working on—personally, professionally, and in between:

• Use gratitude to pull myself back into my present moment when my mind starts to wander to dark places.
• Take better care of my body and stop treating it simply as a vehicle to carry my brain from one room to the next.
• Become 10% more of a morning person and reclaim those first couple hours of the day.
• Find ways to feel more autonomy over my creative work, rather than feeling like a pawn in someone else's game.
• (Stolen from my previous post): Pay more attention to and spend more time on the work that feeds my soul.

I wish I could go back to one of those New Month's Eve celebrations and tell my younger self that he was okay, that he didn't need to obsess over career milestones in order to feel worthy. I wish I could tell him and his friends how much joy lies ahead, planned and unplanned. And I wish I could go back and taste those disco fries again. 

Don't get me wrong, I'm all for taking stock of life. I'm all for dreaming big and working hard. But I'm grateful (there's that word again!) to have learned to look beyond the "brag-worthy" accomplishments. Life is rich and complicated...and I resolve to remember that.

Tell Me Your Secrets by Poppy Gee

My TBR pile 
(Just kidding. I took the picture in Arcadian Books and Prints, in the French Quarter of New Orleans.) 

Do you try to stay current in your reading, to keep abreast of the market, or do you read from your TBR pile at random? Do you read classic mysteries?

My reading habits reflect my mood and frame of mind. Often, I seek out books that might inspire or influence my own creative writing project. Other times I want the opportunity to study the expert plot work, complex techniques or psychological craftmanship of a crime fiction maestro. Sometimes, I crave escapism, or to be entertained.

Lately, I haven’t read much crime fiction. 

I’ve been reading a lot of work by Palestinian, Lebanese, Syrian and Israeli writers. I’m trying to make sense of a world in which my government is a significant player in a weapons supply chain that is aiding a live streamed genocide in Palestine. How did we get to this point? I always thought bad things happened in the world because no one knew until it was too late. I’m sure I was naïve, maybe ignorant. Right now, I’m interested in the stories of writers, fiction and non-fiction, who offer a significant perspective of the seismic global political events we’re witnessing.

A beautiful anthology I just finished reading is called Don’t Ask The Trees For Their Names. It’s a collection of stories by nine Arab-Australian women who were displaced, or fled, from Palestine, Lebanese, Syria and Sudan. I planned to write a quick one-page review of the collection, but their stories gripped me so intensely I wrote thousands of words. I couldn’t stop myself. Writing a thoughtful response to each story took me a month - I spent about an hour or so each day working on it. These are shining, intricate stories about love and longing, family and memories, told through the unique lens of writers who have lived through the reality of war, occupation, resistance, displacement, exile and devastating loss.

Partly, I wanted to honour the effort that went into the exquisite, tender writing. But also, I wanted to share and elevate the writers' work, a small act of resistance in a world that wants to dehumanise Arab people. What does it feel like to be an Australian citizen and watch your government provide support for the ethnic cleansing of your family? How do you breathe, live, love, work, care for your children, let alone write? The answer emerges in a myriad of ways in Don’t Ask The Trees For Their Names.

I say I haven’t read much crime fiction this summer – and yet, these stories are shaped by, or stem from, a range of horrifying crimes against humanity. I can see how my writing and my reading are connected. I wrote such an extensive review of the anthology, in part to process my emotion and reaction to their powerful stories. 

I’m currently reading The Beguiled by Thomas Cullinan, as I’m working on something similar. Before that I started reading a new release suspense novel by a bestselling Aussie author which I quit halfway because it was boring. And before that I read a beautiful, moving historical fiction novel by Australian Wiradyuri author Anita Heiss, called Bila Yarrudhanggalangdhuray, which translates as River of Dreams.

  

In the next week, as preparation for an upcoming interview, I’m about to re-read Konrad Muller’s My Heart At Evening. Isn’t that a dreamy title? It’s a haunting historical crime novel set in Tasmania in 1832 that examines the mysterious suicide of Henry Hellyer, architect and surveyor of the Van Diemen’s Company. Following that, I’ll read Every Wild Soul by Katherine Johnson. I’m interviewing her for her book launch at Riverbend Books soon. 

I try to read widely in the crime fiction genre, and I try to support writer friends by supporting their work. I don’t usually seek out any of the top bestsellers. I often find those stories a bit boring and undercooked, often rinse-and-repeat from a tried and tested formula. I like novels that are original, intriguing, written from the heart with something important to say. Stories that feel fresh and urgent, and that whisper a secret that I desperately want to know. Stories that arouse empathy and deeper understanding. 

It’s not possible to keep completely abreast of the market as a reader - there are too many books published to do this. However, it’s important for professional writers to have a well-rounded understanding of the market, to have an opinion on who is doing-what-well, and what subgenres are particularly captivating readers. I find books by reading reviews, both by professional critics and by authors I like. If a writer friend recommends a book, I’ll usually seek it out. And a wonderful way to find a good book is to ask a bookseller what they’re reading. They always have surprises to add to the TBR pile.

 

Shoes and ships and sealing wax, by Catriona

Do you try to stay current in your reading, to keep abreast of the market, or do you read from your TBR pile at random? Do you read classic mysteries?

This question's caught me at a funny time. There's my usual answer and then there's my this month answer. 

My usual answer is that I read exactly what I want to with no consideration except enjoyment: I don't read aspirationally anymore; I'm well-past trying to impress anyone; and the notion of guilt about pleasure is mystifying. So, it's sheer literary hedonism. Three middle-grade capers about a racehorse? Loved 'em.  Henry IV Part One? Devoured it. A social history of the British High Street? Yes, please.

But when Rob Osler - whose second Harriet Morrow mystery I will be acquiring later this month - came up with the 5:1 plan, I was in. Basically, his suggestion is that every fifth book you read should be by an author from an under-represented or historically disadavantaged group. Thing is, I checked my TBR shelf (alphabetical, which is how I read through them too) and disovered that there was no run of five or more books by straight whites, so I was already doing it. I'm a bit light on men sometimes, but there's usually one every five or not far off it. Anyway, recent reports on the plight of straight white men in publishing have been . . . bollocks. They're not under-represented; it's just that loss of privilege feels a lot like injustice until it's given a moment's reflection.

As to trying to stay current, hahahahaha. My #FridayReads recommendations are full of me overflowing with astonished admiration about a book everyone read last year. Or the year before. But I'm doing a service to my fellow lazy readers, right? 

I broke the news of this 2021 gem . . . in 2025

And what is this "market" of which you speak? I write 1920-40s detective stories, comedies and domestic noir, all under the same name. As my editor herself said, "the brand's a mess". So, given that I can't even write as if there's such a thing as a market, it was never very lilely that I'd read that way.

I do read - re-read mostly - classic mysteries, mind you. Sometimes only A Surfeit of Lampreys or 4.50 From Paddington will do. I don't read many new-to-me classics for the first time, though. I've tried but I've usually come to the conclusion that there's a good reason they're forgotten. One exception was discovering Anna Katherine Green. I read That Affair Next Door expecting a curio, but it was terrific!

So, that's the usual way of it. But, for the last month, in the run-up to Left Coast Crime where I'm moderating a panel and interviewing the toastmaster, I've read as follows:

• Claire Booth - Throwing Shadows (a sheriff in the Ozarks)
• Leslie Karst - Death Al Fresco (Sally Solari culinary cosy)
• Audrey Lee - The Mechanics of Memory (Edgar-nominated fever dream set in a psych ward)
• Leslie Karst - Justice is Served (re-read of a memoir / cookbook)
• Gigi Pandian - The Library Game (locked room puzzle)
• Leslie Karst - Molten Death (the Hawaii tourist board might want a word)
• Susan Shea - Death and the Missing Dog (doing up a chateau in Burgundy, plus a corpse)
• Leslie Karst - Waters of Destruction (the Hawaii tourist board slightly mollified)

One way to look at that is that is would be a very strange month's reading if it was a free choice, right? But the other way to look at it is . . . I got to call all of that working! 

When I'm finished Waters of Destruction, I'm going back to the TBR, via a Jodi Picoult I found in a wee free library by a footpath last weekend. Then it's Bob the Drag Queen's experimental novel about Harriet Tubman, although Joy Fielding's got a new one out . . . and on we go.

Cx

Staying current by Eric Beetner

 Do you try to stay current in your reading, to keep abreast of the market, or do you read from your TBR pile at random? Do you read classic mysteries?

I do try to stay current. Keeping up to date is another thing, though. I have titles in my TBR pile from 3 years ago I haven’t gotten to yet because of a million different reasons, so "current" is a fluid term for me mostly meaning in the current decade.

One way I keep current in recent years is that I’ve been given the opportunity to judge for some major awards. I get sent current books from the major publishers and have been reading over 150 books a year (or at least starting them). It’s getting a little sad because I find myself so at odds with what the mass market is publishing these days that it makes me question everything, especially what I’m writing. 

When I read books with a ton of hype, with huge marketing pushes and $30 cover prices and I feel nothing toward them, it makes me wonder how I got so out of step.

I try not to think solely in terms of “Wait, THIS got published and I can’t sell anything to a major?” and instead just examine what makes those books so popular, because the basic facts are that if a certain type of book didn’t sell well, then they wouldn’t be published. So to know what readers are responding to, I feel it is in any writer’s best interest to know what is selling.

Not that it means you should write toward what you think will sell. Not at all. I certainly haven’t cracked the code on that yet. I’ve written books that I think are very mainstream and not at all unlike stuff that is being published in hardback these days only to be reminded that I am, in fact, very wrong (again). 

Much of what lands on my TBR pile that I seek out and buy for myself is a mix of books from writers I know and trust will deliver, and recommendations from people I trust. Whether it is bloggers, other authors, friends, if I know we have similar taste, then I’ll trust you to hook me up with a great read. Most years it is hard to even keep up with books from writers I know I like, but I do always try to fit in new voices to expand my reading and discover some hidden gems.

My go-to whenever I get in a reading rut is to hit the ol reset button with a vintage crime novel. I read extensively from the 40s, 50s and 60s. Of course, though I am loathe to admit it, even the 80s are vintage these days. I have a huge shelf of vintage paperbacks I know almost nothing about other than I liked the title and the cover was striking. It’s fun to randomly grab one off the shelf and dive in cold.

Most of what I like about a solid vintage paperback is the economy. These were tight stories told in half the length of most modern novels. They start in action and rarely let up. And they are plot heavy. Very little musing, backstory, info dumps, side stories or overlong descriptions. They get to the story and they keep it moving.

Novel such as this were maligned even in their day as “lesser than” fiction. Quick and easy to write, though I disagree with the easy part vehemently. Efficient storytelling is a lost art and one I think needs to be emphasized by far more writers these days.

So many of the contemporary novels I read take 50, 60, 70 pages of set-up before they reach the actual story. Here’s a hint: if the thing on the back jacket, y’know the plot, the thing that will make someone want to pick up your book in an airport, doesn’t happen until 15 or 20 thousand words in, then everything in that long intro is unnecessary. 

And there was far more crime in the crime novels back then. Yes, there were a thousand knock-off Sam Spades and low rent Phillip Marlowes. Yes, there was formula and repetition and imitation. But straight, no chaser, crime novels were plentiful in a way they simply aren’t today. Writers like Lionel White, Harry Whittington, Gil Brewer, Dan J Marlowe, Charles Williams were churning out original stories about crimes and criminals that are unpredictable, exciting and flat-out entertaining. To me, anyway. That becomes a matter of taste. If you love the new trends in "domestic suspense" then you won't find a lot to love from mid-century American fiction. But when I get burned out on current crime novels, which often go extremely light on the crime, turning to a vintage read is just the thing to get me excited again about the genre.

Non-fiction is always a good reset, too. I love reading about music and film and not having to concern myself over plot or whether a story is derivative or not. 

So if you want to write, you need to read and read the work of your contemporaries. Not exclusively, but you should know what publishers are buying. Because that will be what people are reading and if you want them to read you, then you need to write something they want. Its all a vicious cycle and none of that takes into account the luck involved, but you have to start somewhere.