Hitting the Wall

What stage in your writing process causes the most angst? Drafting, revising, plotting...?

Angst? Foot-dragging, clean refrigerator obsession, chocolate chip consumption? Stormy lectures to myself, depressing insights into my inadequacies, escapes into multi-episode Netflix choices?

I checked and angst apparently can mean anything from anxiety to anguish, which in my dictionary are very different animals. The anxiety end of the spectrum can show up at almost any point in the writing process after I’ve passed the euphoric moment when the entire new story is laid out in front of me like a sparkling vision that merely must be typed via automatic writing.  Anxiety creeps in when there’s one day in which the writing stops flowing easily, or I find the first of many reasons why the plot isn’t hanging together. Anguish is when I can’t climb over the wall in my brain and fix it. I’ve lost the vision, the will, and any shred of confidence I had. Time for a long walk.

Having admitted all of that, I will say that character is the least problematic for me. I like my characters and have no trouble getting inside their skins, even if I’m a little hard on them at times. Language and dialogue don’t stop me, although the first draft can be pretty dodgy, full of repeated words, my favorites at the moment being “just” and “began.” The hardest aspect of writing a good novel for me is untangling the ‘mess in the middle’ at revision time. Little errors and illogical moves that I promised myself at first draft that I’d fix later now have my protagonist – and me – tripping over ourselves in confusion and getting lost in a forest of details. Revisions generally go well until that point and will generally be okay after that. But around page 150, I am overcome with angst.

(Why this illustration? This gull has just discovered that the bag he worked so hard to open smelled like it had a hamburger in it. It only had waxed paper and grease. Hence, his angst.)

                                       

I think that my fellow Minds cope better than I, have strings of successful books and stories to show for it, win awards (Congratulations again, Art!), and also have barrels full of self-discipline. I need to stock up on stick-to-it-iveness, get over this Author Drama stuff, and get to work. It’s the best way to keep anxiety, anguish, angst – whatever you want to call it – out of the room. That and chocolate.

-Susan

A Clean Well Lighted Place

Where does the writing muse strike you? Anywhere or do you have a favorite place to write?

by Paul D. Marks

The muse can strike anywhere. Anything and everything can spark ideas, either ideas for new stories or ideas for scenes or bits for something I'm already working on. I can be walking the dogs or driving or at the beach. Watching a movie, having a conversation with someone. The muses are everywhere, you just have to be tuned into them.

One of the places that they strike often is in the shower. For some reason that frees up my mind. To that end, I keep a diver's slate in the shower to write down notes so I don't forget things by the time I get out.

But muses or not, what you really have to do is just sit down at your keyboard, start typing, stream of consciousness if nothing else, and let it bleed. Even if it's not initially useable it will help get the juices flowing and free up the mind. As Hemingway said, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
  
But getting ideas and thinking about new works or works in progress come anywhere and everywhere. There's a FB meme attributed to Eugene Ionesco that says "A writer never has a vacation. For a writer life consists of either writing or thinking about writing," and it's very true.

My favorite place to write these days is in my home office. Not very romantic, but it's got everything I need close at hand. Probably more than I need. I know some people say you shouldn't have a TV or phone in your office, but I do. But I can turn them off. And I have a nice view. Pictures on the wall that inspire me. Mostly album covers and movie lobby cards, some other things. And, of course, my picture of Dennis Hopper flipping the bird from Easy Rider. When I was younger I had a full-sized poster of that shot, now it's just a little 8x10. Oh how we change as we get older. 

I also have access to diet Cherry Pepsi and Waiwera water. And I used to like to scarf down Red Vines while I wrote, but that is, unfortunately, a thing of the past.

One of my assistants, in his usual place, where he can do his

best job editing my work.

When I was younger, I had dreams of sitting on the Left Bank, sipping Absinthe and writing. But, as I may have mentioned before, when I did try drinking and writing all I wanted to do was play. So no writing got done. And when I was a student I would wonder about people who could study or work in libraries. I always wanted to flirt and goof off. And every movement around me distracted me. Same for writing in parks and other such places. So none of that for me. No, the best place and, therefore, my favorite place to write is definitely my home office. Plus I have my assistants to help out.

I was told there'd be a muse.

Yeah, I've heard of this "Muse". I've heard that she comes along like the sandman or the blue fairy and brings something with her that makes writing happen.

So I'm returning my writer's pack to the manufacturer because I've checked everywhere, turned it upside down and shaken it hard.  No Muse.

What I've got is a bum to put in the chair and ten fingers to put on the keyboard.  Okay, eight fingers - who types on a QWERTY keyboard with their thumbs? Actually, now I'm watching myself type - it's four.

Put it another way: The Muse strikes me in my office at 9am Monday to Friday for ten weeks until the first draft is done. Or if she doesn't - if houseguests or holidays turn up in her place, or some crummy bit of life gets badly in the way - then she strikes me seven days a week, morning, noon and night, in my office, kitchen, sitting up in bed, in coffeeshops, on planes, in convention hotels while my friends are down in the bar laughing and enjoying life . . . you get the picture.

Sometimes, though, just sometimes, I know what people are talking about. Sometimes, bum in chair and four fingers flying, I can feel the story unfurling in front of me like a bolt of silk. I see all the connections, all the strands to be woven together, all the little hooks and twists to be caught on. Characters tell me their secrets, settings reveal all their hidden corners and writing is a joy.

When that happens I write my guts out, making the most of it, and walk away - crawl away more like - thinking that I've cracked this book lark at last. The next day, I bounce back to my desk and . . . it's a day like today was. Who are these people? What's happening? Why are they in a florist's shop? How can this be my life?

So I wrote my 2000 words and it'll be better tomorrow. Because, even if it's like shovelling concrete while it sets, I'm nearer the end. Museless as ever.

Where Are You, Sharon Stone?

Where does the writing muse strike you?

Where, indeed. In fact, some days the questions really are “Where the hell is the muse? What does she look like? Have I done something to offend her?”

In my former professional life, I was used to writing because I had to, because someone was waiting for the result, that someone most frequently being the president of whatever university I was working for or with. No muse required, just my experience, ideas, and a degree of persuasive language. I was paid for this. Before those days, I was a reporter and that was easier still without a muse. The paper went to press on a certain day or hour. No fooling around.

My first book was written with no contract, no editor, no agent, only my excitement and the self-issued challenge: Write the damn book or stop talking about it. I was the muse. It worked. The second was under contract and I was thrilled to be looking at a series. The story’s genesis was close to my interests and passions, and the muse stayed with me even if some days were hard, when the words didn’t come smoothly. I finished the third in the series a while ago, also under contract, but after some disheartening glitches in distribution for the second, my internal cheerleader seemed to throw up her hands, and start taking too many vacation days. It was a slog to get through revisions. Is it something about the third book in general that’s harder? I’d love to know what my Criminal Minds colleagues think.

So where does the muse strike? When she deigns to drop in these days (I always picture her as Sharon Stone, Albert Brooks’ goddess, the charming one who liked little blue Tiffany’s boxes and take out food), it’s completely unpredictable. I might already be at the keyboard writing a scene, or I might be driving to San Francisco, or vacuum cleaning or gardening…she keeps me on my toes and I make sure I always have a way to jot down the idea she slips me before it drifts off. I’m trying out a new series idea, working on a stand-alone, and preparing the third Dani O’Rourke for publication later this year. It’s good, but there’s a lot less magic and calling forth mythic helpers these days.

I am looking forward to being inspired by other Criminal Minds authors who are still experiencing the excitement, the sprinkling of magic dust from their muses. Maybe I can wangle an introduction to their Sharon Stone for a few weeks!

-Susan

The Best of Times – The Worst of Times – The Same Time

What is your best experience at a mystery convention? Your worst?

By Paul D. Marks

Coming on as the cleanup hitter on Fridays has its challenges in that sometimes people who come before and answer the questions earlier in the week beat you to the punch.  As happened this week with the title of my blog and Clare's, which I'd already written before seeing hers.  All I can say is great minds think alike...

Hope this isn't too egotistical, but since you asked:

It was the best of times...

Well, I have to say my best experience at a mystery convention was at Bouchercon last September (2013) in Albany, New York. Every year the Private Eye Writers of America Shamus Awards banquet is held in the same location as Bouchercon. And since I was nominated for a Shamus, my wife, Amy, and I decided to go to the convention.

Now Albany is about the last place I ever thought I would want to go. But being troopers, we made reservations for the convention, hotel and plane and were soon on our way.



Albany architecture

We were in Albany about 2-3 days before the Shamus banquet, and besides attending Bouchercon and being on a panel (which was fun), meeting new people and hooking up with old friends, we took some time to explore Albany. And even before I knew if I'd won or lost the award, I told Amy how much I liked Albany. It was a typical, quaint-ish New England town, despite the fact that it's the state capital of New York.

We had dinner at Jack’s Oyster House, where the likes of both presidents Roosevelt ate, along with Hillary Clinton, JFK, jr. many governors of NY and gangster Legs Diamond, though not all at the same time, of course. Also William Kennedy, the renowned novelist from Albany.

And, Albany is always the place the folks on Law & Order dread going when they have to appear before the state supreme court.



New York State Capital

The people of Albany were friendly and since the convention was in September the weather was very pleasant. Not sure I'd want to be there during the humidity of summer or the snows of hardcore winter.

The fact that I did win the award was the icing on the cake and made me like Albany even more. So it was the best of times.





It was the worst of times....

My worst convention experience: The Shamus Banquet in Albany, NY.

Why? In the weeks leading up to the trip, on the plane, in the hotel, in the couple days before the banquet, I was as cool as cool can be. Not nervous, not uptight. Didn't know if I'd win or lose the award. But either way, I was fine.

So we go to the Shamus banquet on Friday night, and we're sitting at our table, talking with Alison Gaylin, another nominee (and winner) in a different category, her husband and the other people at the table. And everything is ducky. I'm still cool as the proverbial cucumber.

The awards begin. My category comes up.......my name is announced. I get up from our table, in the back of the room, and walk to the front and up onto the stage. By the time it comes for me to give my little acceptance speech I'm a wreck – in just that short walk, the nerves finally kicked in. I had a little speech all worked out, even written, and I blew everything, mumbling and stumbling over my words.

Felt like a fool. I'm pretty good at speaking, don't get nervous, have things to say, but this was so out of the ordinary, I just wiped out.

Afterwards I was talking to Hank Phillippi Ryan, though I'm not sure she would remember. I said I felt like a fool and she said the best thing anyone could say: "All they'll remember is that you won."

Sounds good to me. The worst of times...but still the best.

With my Shamus Award ( and the old White Heat cover)

 

Best and Worst

I've been lucky. Four Bouchercons, three Left Coast Crimes and two Malices and I've escaped fire, flood and food poisoning so far.

In fact, it's much easier to think of potential best times than worst ones. San Francisco Bouchercon, where I checked in so late that the standard rooms were full and I got kicked upstairs to a suite with a balcony and a view of the bay?  Taking a trolleybus back to the hotel from the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame at Cleveland Bouchercon? The room party, post-Agatha banquet at Malice - thinking the last time I laughed this helplessly I got sent out of the classroom to consider my options . . .

But one memory has bubbled up from where it lives deep inside me, causing me to shiver sometimes still.

Only the thing is that this bad time was also a pretty great one. (He knew what he was talking about, that Dickens.)

The scene is Cleveland, the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, October 2012. DANDY GILVER AND THE PROPER TREATMENT OF BLOODSTAINS got nominated for a Macavity award by Mystery Readers Journal. Yay! But I glanced at the shortlist and decided I didn't need to worry about an acceptance speech. Boo! But then I won. Yay/Boo!

On the one hand, I was chuffed to bits. I'd never won an award before and up on the stage, there were John Connelly and Janet Rudolph, and all my friends were cheering and I was in the same building as Jimi Hendrix's guitars, for crying out loud.

On the other hand, I took the mic, looked out across a sea of faces and swiftly rethought my "don't need to prepare a speech" thing. I froze like a surprise ice-age. I didn't thank anyone. Not my editor, agent, kind reviewers, friends who were still cheering. Wait - I did thank Janet Rudolph. But I thanked her for having such pretty hair.

I slunk off-stage to be greeted with supportive denials all-round. "You were fine; it was sweet; the acoustics are terrible anyway - no one could hear you." I swallowed it and got on with the party.

Only, the next morning, there was another best and worst moment. I met Mary Higgins Clark at breakfast time. And she said congratulations! Then she lowered her voice and went on "Boy, you *were* surprised, weren't you?" and twinkled in a very kindly, but still telling me straight that I'd made a chump of myself, sort of way.

So, in conclusion: here is my most serious piece of writing advice to anyone who hasn't been nominated for an award yet. When you are - even if the other people on the shortlist are Jane Austen, Albert Einstein and God - write some names on your hand.

You'll feel silly if people see you scrubbing them off in the toilets after you don't win, but it could be worse (and better) too.

Happy Times

Best and worst experiences at conventions? That’s easy, too easy, really. For this assignment, I’ve chosen two “conventions” (authors + fans + others in the publishing industry).

The bad news first: Last year, I had a new book out with a new publisher. I splurged for Malice Domestic in Washington, D.C. for the first time, thinking it was a perfect launching event. Oh, was I wrong. In spite of registering early and getting my photo and bio in early, I was left out of the printed program. And the booksellers couldn’t get my book even though it was the very week THE KING’S JAR launched. I was on a couple of panels, but otherwise had no obvious connection to the convention. I had depressing fantasies of people at the bar whispering, “Who is that woman and how did she get in?” So there I was, feeling like a total fraud, invisible in the large crowd of authors, apologizing, explaining, trying to be a good sport and not to whine…Disaster all around! Should I have brought books? Maybe, but my publisher had promised to make them available. Carting books across country isn’t easy. I had thought I was blessedly free of that.

Having gotten that bad memory out of the way, the best was this year’s Left Coast Crime. The committee that worked for two years on it made it a sparkling success; the attendees were happy and engaged; the bookseller had both of my books. Best of all, I couldn’t go 10 feet without bumping into someone I knew, someone who wanted to say hello, or suggest we share a coffee break, or inquire about my book while telling me their latest success. I heard this from scores of friends: It felt like the best reunion of pals you could wish for. My agent was there with plans for my next book, and the Amazon team (my first book is now with them because the initial publisher sold its entire back list to Amazon) took their authors out for a wonderful, laugh-filled dinner. The perfect weather in Monterey just underscored the positive mood.  If that wasn’t enough, a Criminal Minds pal, Catriona McPherson, won an award for her latest Dandy Gilver book and a half dozen of the other finalists in different categories were Sisters in Crime and/or Mystery Writers of America chapter members and friends.

Good memories trump bad ones, and this convention set me up for a spring and summer of refreshed writing.

-Susan

Ask, Please!

Hey there criminal blog readers,

It's time for us to generate the next round of questions for our virtual panel, and this time, we'd like to take our cue from the audience to address questions you'd like to hear answers to.

Are you a reader who wants to know more about our characters? An aspiring author who wants to learn about process? A published author interested in the opinions of colleagues?

Be wild and crazy. Make it easy or tough on us - your choice. But tell us:

What would you like our panelists to answer in the weeks to come?

Leave your devilish questions here for our weekly panel to tackle, then come back to add your own answers, comment, or throw virtual tomatoes at us for our responses over the next few months!

A MASH-UP MADE IN HELL

Who would be your dream mash-up? (For instance, Sherlock Holmes thrown together with Stephanie Plum.)

By Paul D. Marks

(I think I understood this week's question a little differently. I thought mashing it up was teaming two detectives together, rather than merging them into one. So, on that basis, here goes.)

In this corner we have Kathy Mallory, Carol O'Connell's tough as her long, red fingernails, NYC police detective. And in this corner, we have Mickey Spillane's violent and brutal PI Mike Hammer. What a team.

If you're a bad guy you better watch out if these two are coming at you.

Hammer has frequently been labeled a psychopath and Mallory has been called a sociopath...by her own author, Ms. O'Connell. These two would be the solve it or kill 'em Dream Team. And any bad guy's worst nightmare as they tag-teamed them into submission.

Not only would Mallory and Hammer hammer on the bad guys, they would probably hammer on each other. And given each one's characteristics, I'm not sure who would come out on top.

Mike Hammer and Kathy Mallory – old school, brutal misanthrope vs. cold analytical not-give-a-damn-and-want-to-do-things-her-way-or-the-highway NYPD detective. Hammer is reminiscent of Dirty Harry (or vice versa as Hammer came first). Of course, now that I think about it so is Mallory. Mallory is sort of like a cat going after a mouse. She is beautiful to look at but cold and ruthless, without any remorse. Efficient and cool in pursuing her prey. She's relentless, a computer expert, who digs in deep and finds things no one else finds, sees things no one else sees, robotic in her efficiency. Somewhat emotionless, though one gets the idea that there are emotions she won't always admit to going on under the surface.

And Hammer makes Philip Marlowe, Sam Spade and most other classic detectives look like kids playing cops and robbers in a playpen. For Hammer, the law is just an obstacle standing in the way of justice – or at least justice as he sees it – and one that can be gotten around by pretty much any means necessary. The end justifies the means. He has his own code and he will enforce that code, since the actual statutes and codes often let the badguys off. He doesn't give a damn about little things like laws, Miranda Warnings and other niceties. All in all you might say – and this is being kind and gentle – that Hammer is a thuggish, sexist, sadist, misanthrope. But probably a fun guy to have a beer with...

If Raymond Chandler thought of Marlowe and other detectives as modern knights errant, Spillane's Hammer is the tarnished knight, maybe the Black Knight, but he's no Darth Vader. He hasn't gone over to the dark side – he just uses dark side methods to help those who can't help themselves or who society is slow to help, if at all, find some semblance of justice.

Some readers have asked for a kinder, gentler Mallory. And the badguys would certainly like that. But O'Connell states in a Publishers Weekly interview: "PW: "Mallory’s drive remains as intense as ever, and she’s still lacking in warmth." Carol O'Connell: "Sometimes readers ask for a kinder, gentler Mallory. I explain that if I do that, I’ve got no book. These are character-driven novels, and I like the way the lady drives. In that respect, she has a vehicular-homicide way about her: always a challenge to go through a red light before it can turn green. I suppose I could try to warm up her image by giving her a dog, but the dog would be frightened all the time."

And if the question of a kinder, gentler Hammer was ever posed to Mickey Spillane I'm sure he would have thrown his drink in the questioner's face and laughed him out of the bar.

Some men, the good, the bad or the ugly, would be intimidated by Mallory. I don't think Hammer would. On the other hand, I don't think she would be intimidated by him. Wonder if they'd even find a little romance, if Hammer could tear himself away from Velda and Mallory could act human for a change.

The question I'm left with is would Mallory and Hammer beat the bad guy to a pulp or each other? Now that's a mash-up.

~.~.~

 

And I'd like to congratulate Catriona for winning The Bruce Alexander Memorial Historical Mystery Award for Best historical mystery novel at Left Coast Crime last weekend for "Dandy Gilver and a Bothersome Number of Corpses." She gave a terrific and very moving and touching acceptance speech.

~.~.~

Had a great time at Left Coast Crime last weekend. The conference was fun and interesting. Met lots of new people and reconnected with old acquaintances. And Monterey and the drive up and back is nothing short of stunning.

A mash made in heaven

Jane Tennison squinted past the smoke from her seventh cigarette since the start of the shift and took a long look at what stood before her: the golf tan almost orange against the pale pink polo shirt, the white loafers peeking out below khaki chinos, the manicured hand held out in greeting.

"Who the hell are you?" she said.

"Windsor Horne Lockwood III," said the stranger. "They call me Win. Who are you, cutie?"

                                                         (in my head, WHLIII = DHP)

Tennison blew two plumes out of her nostrils and ground the stub out in a brimming ashtray.

"They don't call me 'cutie'," she said. "Not twice anyway."

"Ma'am?" said Win.

Tennison narrowed her eyes.

"Not ... sir?" he asked. "Surely."

she shook her head very slowly, just once to one side and once to the other.

"Kitten?" said Win. "Cupcake? Sweetcheeks?"

Her lips twitched before she answered.

"Guv," she said. "Call me Guv to my face. Whatever you want behind my back. And for God's sake change your clothes before someone sees you."

"What's wrong with my clothes?" said Win, trying not to let an eyebrow lift as he surveyed her ill-fitting grey skirt, her sweat-ringed blouse and the scuffed shoes she had kicked off. Her toenails, with their chipped polish, had made holes in her tights.

"This is a nick," said Tennison. "Not a bloody country club. Now shut your mouth before your whitened teeth blind us all. We've got work to do."

In Harlan Coben's Myron Bolitar series, we're told that Win - the sociopathic philandering sidekick - sometimes helps out international law enforcement. I love to think of him arriving at Southampton Row Police Station in London and joining forces with Det. Supt. Tennison to crack a case. He's indefensibly awful but charming with it and I imagine that as soon as he clapped his cold eyes on Jane, he'd set out to seduce her. He'd fail; she'd eat him for breakfast with extra ketchup but he'd never forget her.

On Mash-Ups, Zombies, and Unlikeable Protagonists

It's a treat to help launch a debut author and I'm happy to introduce Lisa Alber as a guest. Lisa describes herself as "ever distractible, staring out windows, dog walking, fooling around online, or drinking red wine with my friends." She's interested, in no special order, in Ireland, books, animals, photography, and blogging (whew) and she's hard at work on the second novel in the County Clare mystery series.

Thank you for letting me take over your spot today, Susan! I’m an excitable debut author, but I’ll attempt to keep it sane … except that when I found out this week’s topic was mash-ups, my brain began sizzling like hot oil on a fry pan.

Which is to say, I love a good mash-up. I’m thinking movie mash-ups at the moment, and if a movie’s got zombies in it, all the better. Zombie romance in “Warm Bodies,” zombie 1950s domestic drama in “Fido,” zombies and Elvis Presley in “Bubba Ho-tep.” And let’s not forget zombie comedies a la “Shaun of the Dead” and “Zombieland.”

(If you have a thing for Elvis and Bruce Campbell like I do, you gotta see “Bubba Ho-tep.”  Bruce does a perfect Elvis—heeelarious.)

Being a book geek, I can’t help but ponder what a mystery + zombie mash-up would look like. A zombie detective, perhaps, who’s hard-pressed not to gorge on his suspects? Someone’s going to come up with a zombie mystery series, you just know it. And we’ll shake our heads as that author rakes in millions.

Recently, I was asked to mash-up familiar characters to describe the protagonist in Kilmoon, my debut novel. I had a helluva time coming up with an answer because Merrit, so I’ve learned, isn’t what you’d call an instantly likeable character (for some readers at least).

Unlikeable protagonist?!?!? Nooo, tell me it isn’t so!

Here’s what riles me—and I hope you don’t mind me pulling out my soapbox: If Merrit were named Mark, the likeability question wouldn’t be an issue. Apparently, we women are supposed to care about being liked and thus to act in likeable ways. Phooey!

I find Merrit endearing in all her flaws and morally dubious complexities. She’s got baggage, and heading off to Ireland to meet her long-lost father is, she hopes, a fresh start. (All I can say is, Hah!)

I’m not into the black-and-white thing. Life occurs within the, dare I say it, shades of gray. We all experience moments of weakness and high stress that can cause us to act out in questionable ways. Why should female characters be deemed “unlikeable” because they inhabit luscious gray worlds?

So, in honor of “difficult” female protagonists, I’d love to see a mash-up between Helen Mirren’s Jane Tennison and The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo’s Elisabeth Salander. You know this Jane Salander/Elisabeth Tennison would kick some zombie ass.

A little about Kilmoon: Californian Merrit Chase travels to Ireland to meet her long-lost father, the famous Matchmaker of Lisfenora. Little does she know that he’s a man with a dark past, and murder is about to make an unexpected appearance. Family secrets, betrayal, and vengeance from
beyond the grave … Merrit’s in for a wild ride!