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.

 

Do You Read to Keep Up—or to Understand?

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’ve abandoned all hope of ever keeping on top of my TBR—and that’s a statement of engagement, not defeat. A book indicates I am still curious, still interested in learning about other ways of seeing and feeling. Fiction is not an escape.

Which brings me to demolishing my latest TBR pile: a steady diet of nonfiction for my historical noir thriller, Company Files 5: The Quiet Eagle. I surrendered the manuscript last week. My choice of verb, surrender, feels almost like defeat because my previous novel, Company Files 4: Eyes to Deceit, about the 1953 Iranian coup, was a bear to drum up blurbs and reviews.

Those who did pick it up didn’t always know what to make of it. The novel explored “realpolitik,” which is to say the language drives the action and violence happens offscreen. Bringing the mannerisms and mentality of Cold War architect Allen W. Dulles to life—writing sinister intelligence and seductive power—was the hardest work I’ve done.

And yet, “not interested in the subject” was a familiar refrain.

I’d committed to writing CF5 while the drafts of CF4 rested on my hard drive. If interest in Iran and Eyes was lukewarm, then I fear the response to a novel about the Suez Canal might be… polite.

In my Afterword to The Quiet Eagle, I listed the nonfiction titles I consulted and the unique angle I took with the Protocol of Sèvres for the plot. Every writer of historical fiction squeals when they find a lead into the story—mine was a particularly tasty one.

The more I researched, the more I realized: the United States today is behaving in ways eerily reminiscent of Great Britain in 1956. Not identical, of course—nothing ever is—but enough to make a historian twitch.

Some parallels leapt off the page:

·       Reserve currency inertia – Britain still acted as though the pound’s global dominance conferred authority. Today, the dollar occupies that same throne. Power lags behind perception, and sometimes the perception never gets the memo.

·       Imperial habit vs. geopolitical reality – Britain’s muscle memory for global influence was formidable. The U.S. shows similar reflexes, stepping into conflicts and projecting influence with the confidence of a power that’s been top of the hill for decades… whether the world agrees or not.

·       Alliance shocks and polite betrayals – Suez taught Britain that the United States might not back every unilateral adventure. Today, the U.S. finds itself navigating a world that doesn’t always bend to its will—surprise!

·       Intelligence as a comfort blanket – MI6 helped Britain maintain a fantasy of control, even when the facts said otherwise. In a similar way, modern intelligence and strategic planning sometimes prop up national self-perception as much as they inform action.

History doesn’t have to repeat to be instructive. Sometimes it’s enough to whisper, or in this case, to lean over your shoulder with a raised eyebrow.

So where does this leave my TBR? Somewhere between a battalion of unread paperbacks and a carefully curated stack of nonfiction that whispers secrets about past empires and present powers. I don’t worry about keeping up anymore. I read because I’m curious to understand the world in all its stubborn, contradictory glory.

Sometimes that means following a trail into the corridors of intelligence agencies I’ll never want to join, or tracing the habits of nations and people that think the rules don’t apply to them. Other times it means picking up a novel that simply reminds me humans are frustratingly human.

In the end, my reading—like my writing—is less about staying current than about staying attentive. About noticing the patterns, the echoes, the whispers. About keeping an eye on history, not because it repeats exactly, but because it’s rude enough to remind us of what we have not learned.

And if my TBR pile remains a permanent fixture on my desk… at least it’s an honest witness.

And if you’re curious to see the parallels in action—without reading an entire stack of 1950s intelligence memos—there’s a great explanation on YouTube: “The British Empire’s Final Mistake — America Is Repeating It by 2026” by the Wealth Historian. It’s worth a watch if you enjoy history whispering rather loudly.

 

Link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yybCiRQ_Rv4

 

 

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 like my reading the same way I like my music, without boundaries. So, give me historical fiction, or old school Agatha Christie and as long as I can open the page and fall into the story, genre is never a consideration when making my decision on what to read. Don’t tell anybody, but I can still get into a little romance, every now and again too, even if no one dies.

Like most people I know, my TBR list is a bit on the out-of-control side of things. Didn’t seem to matter at all the last time I was in my favorite book store and had to sneak out to my car to hide the three bags of books I bought, so my friends wouldn’t think I had lost it and spent my rent on more books. I didn’t, but I won’t promise I never will. Who could blame me. I guess you could say, the bookstore is my casino.

Most people have a (to be read) TBR list. Mine is more of a TBR pile.  I tend to read based on my mood. Currently, I’m feeling a bit murdery, so I’m in the mood for one of my old favorites, John Sanford, I miss Luke Davenport. It’s been a while since I’ve checked in. I’m sure he has a tale to tell. Then of course I must check in with Ms. Holly, Stephen King’s newest hero. And I’m always in the mood for whatever my writing friends are cooking up.

My current read is Heather Levy’s, Hurt for Me, it’s a juicy one.  I’m enjoying quite a bit. I’m also excited by new releases coming soon from Yasmin Angoe, Faye Snowden and Jess Loury. The world is filled with more books than I’ll ever have time to read, as is my bookshelves. That’s the thing that keeps me up and reading late into the night, the fear of never being able to finish all the books on my list. But I’ll die happy trying.

 

Your stories deserve to live long, and prosper by Faye Snowden

I was thrilled when Angela Crook asked me to join 7 Criminal Minds. So, a big thank you to her, and a shoutout to the group for the warm welcome. Though I’m new here, you’ll learn that I’m definitely not a wallflower. And I was glad to hear that twisting the rules like taffy is perfectly acceptable. I may do so occasionally, but I will be careful not to break anything. Promise.

This month’s question about promotion is a good one. Some writers would say it’s the least noble thing about writing. Others go even further. They say that promotion has nothing to do with writing. (I imagine them saying this while sipping a cocktail containing absinthe, and sucking on a cigarillo.) I disagree with both of these ideas about promotion.

Hang in there with me for a moment.

As James said in the post before mine, we write because we are storytellers. I myself come from a long line of writers. My daddy wrote poetry. According to my mama, he paid for his chapbooks with money meant for the light bill, and read his rhythm and rhyme vignettes all over Compton. My grandmother wrote articles for her local paper, and my great aunt, Ruby Goodwin, authored a book called “It’s Good to be Black” in 1953. I hear her son wrote for Hollywood, including Bonanza, The Big Valley and All in the Family. So, I write because it’s in my blood. I also enjoy the challenge of transforming the blank page or a stream of consciousness into a story that will ultimately reach readers. Without readers, stories exist only in conversation with the writer. And we all know talking to yourself is a sign of madness. But in the hands of readers, a story grows, permutes, and takes on a life of its own. 

Ruby Goodwin & Bonanza Ep. Joshua Watson

That’s why promotion is vital to the craft.

I’ve made bookmarks, business cards, and stickers with my upcoming titles. I’ve done the bookstore rounds and talked to empty seats. I’ve appeared on more podcasts than I can count while thinking I’ll scream if I hear again the same question I’ve already answered a hundred times. (I never did, by the way. Scream, I mean.) I’ve put together enough goodie bags to make kids attending a birthday party apoplectic with jealousy.

But the best money I’ve spent on promotion? That was hiring a publicist for my last book, A Killing Rain (Flame Tree, 2022), and my upcoming book, A Killing Breath (Flame Tree, coming March 31^st). I made this investment because it ain’t no joke writing novels with a full-time day job, and six grandkids who don’t give two craps about promotions if Ma’dear can’t help make chocolate chip cookies. While the things I had been doing helped my stories get noticed, having a publicist significantly increased momentum. Rain was longlisted for the CWA Gold Dagger, and won gold in the Foreword Indies award. Publishers Weekly has already given a nice review to upcoming Breath. Would those things have happened without a publicist? Perhaps. But I was much too busy to take a chance and find out.

If you decide to go the publicist’s route, here is a bit of advice.

·       Lower your expectations: Working with a publicist is a bit like gambling. I know, I know, I said they helped me. But what you are buying from a publicist isn’t a guarantee that your story will get buzz or sales; it’s access to their media contacts and expertise. Your book might blow up (in a good way). What’s most likely to happen, however, is that you as a storyteller might start to get noticed, especially if your book resonates with readers.

·       Do your research: First, talk to at least three publicists and insist on references. Pretend that you’re hiring someone to remodel your kitchen. Don’t be desperate. Be prepared to walk away.

Second, and this is really important, know what it costs. You can hire a publicist for a few thousand dollars or twenty-five thousand dollars and up depending on what they provide and their track record.

Third, publicists, to protect themselves from your high expectations, may present you a contract with many loopholes. Do yourself a favor and have it looked over by a lawyer, even if the only lawyer you know is your cousin, Vinny. At a minimum, make them commit to who they are reaching out to, bi-weekly or monthly reports in a format that includes deadlines and responses, as well as regular meetings. Have a reasonable (for you) exit clause in case things don’t go well. Also, lawyer.

·       Don’t break the bank: Remember when I said having a publicist doesn't guarantee success? Only spend money that you can do without. I know, that’s tough. But please don’t charge up your credit cards, or get yourself into debt. If a publicist asks you to do this, run. Save going into debt for rainy days and emergencies. All that means is that you’ll have to find a way to integrate promotion into your life like I did at the beginning. Joining writing groups, building a network through conferences and group author appearances still work. 

Finally, study the craft, write often, and tell the best stories that you can. Always promote so that your story can live the good, full life it deserves.