Technology and Books

By Allison Brennan

 

I broke down and bought an iPad.

I had planned to wait until HP came out with their version of a multi-purpose device because I’d seen a demo a few months ago and thought it looked cool. I thought I’d be a smart shopper and weigh the pros and cons of each. (Dedicated e-readers were already off the table because I wasn’t looking for a device only to read e-books and newspapers.)

Except, I have everything Mac and I really wanted the iPad.

There were two primary reasons I bought the iPad. First, I don’t have to get the iPhone because the iPad does everything else act as a telephone. I’m happy with Verizon, I really didn’t want to switch to AT&T, and why spend the money on a new phone when I really only talk to and text my kids, husband, and mom? I wanted the iPad to have a fast and easy way to check email, research, and write.

Which leads to the second primary reason:  I no longer need to lug my laptop with me on trips. I have two trips this summer (Thrillerfest and RWA) and I always write while flying. Pages, Mac’s word processing software, has an app as well. It’s basic and easy to use and readily converts to word. (I don’t write with Pages on my iMac, because I know and love Word, but for my first draft I can write on anything.)

The best thing is that the iPad recognizes Bluetooth and syncs up with a wireless keyboard (or a keyboard dock, but I already have a wireless keyboard.) I don’t much like the idea of writing a book on a touch-keyboard—I type over 100 word a minute, and I can just imagine the errors! (I wear out keyboards in about a year—I’ve had my wireless keyboard for six months and already the letters are fading. I doubt the iPad was tested by someone who writes a million-plus words a year between books, revisions, blogs, emails . . . you get the picture.)

The other night, I tested the iPad by writing the prologue for my March book. While it’ll take me a bit to get used to (after writing how many books in Word?) it’s easy and functional. And if I can get out of the habit of editing as I go (which really slows me down) I can get my first down-and-dirty draft written faster so I can spend more time revising and editing. (I suppose this is what Alex would call my outline, right?)

I downloaded a couple games . . . crossword puzzles and Flight Control. Flight Control is hugely addicting . . . I don’t recommend that anyone buy it because you won’t be able to stop playing. The other night, when I was tired and ready for bed at two a.m., I sat down and played Flight Control for an hour . . . I haven’t had this much fun since I discovered Angry Birds for my iTouch.

And of course I downloaded iBooks. I bought DUEL by Richard Matheson, a collection of short stories, because I figured I have never read a book on an e-reader and should start with short reads. I started the first story, but . . .

It’s going to take me a long, long time to read books in anything but print. I couldn’t really get lost in the story. The outside world gets in . . . when I pick up a print book, I am lost in the book. I don’t see or hear what goes on around me, I’m totally immersed in the story, as if I were truly a fly on the wall of the book.

I’ve played with most dedicated e-readers, and the iPad is definitely easy on the eyes and simulates a book with font, page turning, and appearance. The font and the font size are adjustable, and browsing the bookstore is a pleasure (I did download a bunch of sample chapters—I can see me using this to read openings to decide which books to buy  . . . in print.)

I won’t say I’ll NEVER read a book in e-format, because one of the nicest things about it is instant story—a minute or two to download a book I’m dying to read? I don’t have to wait 48 hours for shipment, or drive to the bookstore . . . but honestly, I’m not that lazy and instant gratification isn’t as pleasurable as anticipating and savoring something desirable.

Of course, it would be more of a pleasure if my books (Random House) were available through iBooks. But it’s only a matter of time. (As an aside, I’ve been reading articles where Markus Dohle, Chairman of Random House, talks about making major decisions about many things, including digital publishing. I think a cautious approach is smart—too many people, I believe, are in a semi-panic mode when I don’t think there’s any reason to fully panic about digital publishing. It’s like people think if they don’t act now, they’ll be behind . . . they want to be on the forefront of something . . . but aren’t really able to define what the “something” is. Panic can cause rash and unreasoned decisions, so while I am disappointed that my books are not available through the iBooks store, they can be bought through different apps and companies, and I do appreciate the serious contemplation as to whether the agency model is, in fact, the best model for publishing today, as well as a reasoned approach to digital publishing that will benefit the industry—both publishers and authors.)

But the coolest thing about this week isn’t my iPad, but my app—Ballantine created an iPhone app for me! I’m absolutely thrilled with it, and am looking for ways to value-add to the content. Possibly original short stories (like the ghost story available on my web page) or reader letters . . . but right now there’s already a lot on the app. My books and excerpts are there, tweets (now I really have to get into twitter . . . I much prefer Facebook) and signing up for my newsletter. It’s all great . . . I just with I had more time to work on it. If you’d like the free app, you can download it on iTunes, or here.

Any ideas are welcome . . . would you download a free app for your favorite authors? Why or why not? The app is designed to give more information and excerpts, will let readers know when a new book is available or when there’s new content. What would you want to see on an author’s app? How often would you want it updated? Only when there’s a new release or between releases?

Ultimately, no matter how fancy technology gets, no matter what happens with e-books or print books or iPhone apps or added content . . . readers read for the story. They want to be entertained. Whether to laugh or cry, be scared or contemplative or educated or simply escape for a few hours, readers read books for the story. And the story—the writing—is what us authors should spend most of our time developing.

Because without the story, none of the bells and whistles matter.

BSP: CARNAL SIN, book two of my Seven Deadly Sins series, will be released on Tuesday! So . . . download my app and read a chapter, or read here.

I also have a book trailer for the series, only 42 seconds … it’s not up on YouTube yet, but here’s a link on my website. Enjoy!

(I’m out at a Father’s Day BBQ with family in the mountains. I don’t know yet whether I’ll have Internet reception, but I’ll be back tonight if I don’t!)

 

 

 

The Central Action of a story

by Alexandra Sokoloff

I haven’t written a craft post in a long time, it feels like.   Actually, I wonder if craft posts annoy a lot of the Murderati readers.   Sometimes you all seem much more interested in the angst posts.  I like that about this place; it’s better than therapy.   Notheless, I’m all out of angst for the moment and am reverting to craft.

As I’ve posted here before, I’m not one of those readers who feels any obligation to finish a book I’ve started.   In fact, I very often sit down to read with ten or twelve books in front of me, and read the first few chapters of each before I settle on the one to read.    Much like an agent or editor, I’m sure.    If I like the opening, or the plot description, I’ll give it a few chapters.   If not – discard.   On to the next.  

This is a great way to get through that pesky TBR pile, as you can imagine.

Now, this is a useful exercise for authors and aspiring authors, on a whole lot of levels.

First, it really does put you in the shoes, or chair, and mindset, of an editor or agent.  Do you really think an editor or agent, with their hundreds of TBRs a week, is giving anything their full attention (unless it’s an auction, and their job depends on making the right decision about a particular book)?  

Of course they’re not.   They’ll start giving a book their full attention for the very same reasons YOU would – because it’s their genre, it’s a subject or arena that they’re interested in personally, and it’s well-written enough to suck them into the story.   The first two reasons are completely subjective, nothing you can do about that.   The third is completely within your control.

But – it’s important for aspiring authors who are in the midst of the submission process to remember that a lot of book choice is purely, completely subjective.   And if you keep in mind that a lot, in fact most, editors and agents will discard your book simply because it doesn’t appeal to them personally, you can both detach yourself from the trauma of being rejected (which you will be, repeatedly) and understand why you almost always have to make SO many submissions to score an agent and a publishing deal.

This read-and-discard exercise is also good for published authors.   It reminds me that all over the world people are doing the same thing with MY books – I get a few seconds to win them, minutes if I’m lucky, and am just as likely to be discarded as not.   More likely, actually.   For me, it’s a big reminder that my most likely readers are going to be my REPEAT readers – the ones who will give me more than a few cursory seconds, who are actually looking for my books because they already know they like the genre I write in, the characters and story worlds I create, and the themes I explore.   That’s a good thing to remember in a marketing sense, too, I think: Serve your core audience first.

And of course a main reason to do this is to remind yourself what hooks you about a book.   Which is going to be different for different people.   But what hooks YOU is likely to be what hooks the agent and editor you end up with, and subsequently your readers. 

It can be style, it can be suspense, it can be sex, it can be action, it can be narrative voice, it can be a character’s voice… for some people it’s a first line (that would not be me, I couldn’t care less about the first line of a book, and in fact have been known to discard books on the basis of a too-cute or trying-too-hard first line.    I do care about the opening IMAGE.).

But if I’m liking the way a book goes enough to keep going through a chapter or two, I’ll tell you the next thing that is absolutely crucial to keep me reading.

I need to know pretty quickly where the plot is going.  I want to know the author knows, and I want the author one way or another to tell me, so that I know there’s a direction to all this, and I can relax and let the author take me there.    If I don’t get that within the first few chapters, I get uneasy that the author has no idea where the story is going, and I toss the book.   It makes me crazy.

When I teach writing workshops, I find this is one of the hardest things for new writer to grasp.   In fact it is very, very often nearly impossible to get a new writer to describe the overall action of their story in a sentence or two.  Sometimes this is because there IS no driving action, which – in genre fiction, anyway –  is a huge problem.   But sometimes there’s a perfectly clear action of the storyline, the writer just hasn’t realized what it is.   Once they are able to identify it, a whole lot of extraneous scenes often can get cut, or brought into line with the action of the story, creating much more tension and suspense.

So this is why I use movies so much to teach these concepts – first because they’re a more common frame of reference; there are almost always so many more movies that everyone in a room has seen than books that they have read in common.   But also because movies are a stripped-down form of storytelling and it’s easier to remember and identify the main plot actions.

Last week I ended up watching 2012 (okay, so I’m a little behind).

Now, I’m sure in a theater this movie delivered on its primary objective, which was a rollercoaster ride as only Hollywood special effects can provide.   I was watching it primarly because I love apocalypse settings and John Cusack, not necessarily in that order.   But this is a movie I most likely would have walked out on in a theater, I’m definitely not recommending it, just found it a good illustration of some concepts I am always talking about.

I’m not going to be critical (except to say I was shocked and disturbed at some of the overt cruelty that went on in what was supposedly a family movie), because whether we like it or not, there is obviously a MASSIVE worldwide audience for movies that are primarily about delivering pure sensation. Story isn’t important, nor, apparently, is basic logic. As long as people keep buying enough tickets to these movies to make them profitable, it’s the business of Hollywood to keep churning them out.

But even in this rollercoaster ride of special effects and sensations, there was a clear central PLAN for an audience to hook into, a CENTRAL ACTION that drove the story. Without that plan, 2012 really would have been nothing but a chaos of special effects – as a lot of movies these days are.

PLAN and CENTRAL QUESTION (which I’ve talked about before, here and here) are integrally related, and I keep looking for ways to talk about it because this is such an important concept to get.

If you’ve seen this movie (and I know some of you have…), there is a point in the first act where a truly over-the-top Woody Harrelson as an Art Bell-like conspiracy pirate radio commentator rants to protagonist John Cusack about having a map that shows the location of “spaceships” that the government is stocking to abandon planet when the prophesied end of the world commences.

Although Cusack doesn’t believe it at the time, this is the PLANT (sort of camouflaged by the fact that Woody is a nutjob), that gives the audience the idea of what the PLAN OF ACTION will be: Cusack will have to go back for the map in the midst of all the cataclysm, then somehow get his family to these “spaceships” in order for all of them to survive the end of the world.

The PLAN is reiterated, in dialogue, when Cusack gets back to his family and tells his wife basically exactly what I just said above.

And lo and behold, that’s exactly what happens – it’s not only Cusack’s PLAN, but the central action of the story, that can be summed up as a CENTRAL QUESTION: Will Cusack be able to get his family to the spaceships before the world ends? Or put another way, the CENTRAL STORY ACTION: John Cusack must get his family to the spaceships before the world ends.

Note the ticking clock, there, as well. As if the end of the world weren’t enough, the movie also starts a literal “Twenty-nine minutes to the end of the world!” ticking computer clock at, yes, 29 minutes before the end of the movie.

(Remember, I’ve said ticking clocks are dangerous because of the huge cliché factor. We all need to study structure to know what NOT to do, as well. Did I talk about the clock in WHEN HARRY MET SALLY, yet? Great example of how to turn a cliche into a legitimate urgency.)

A reader/audience really needs to know what the overall PLAN is, even if they only get in a subconscious way. Otherwise they are left floundering, wondering where the hell all of this is going.

In 2012, even in the midst of all the buildings crumbling and crevasses opening and fires booming and planes crashing, we understand on some level what is going on:

– What does the protagonist want? (OUTER DESIRE) To save his family.

– How is he going to do it? (PLAN) By getting the map from the nutjob and getting his family to the secret spaceships (that aren’t really spaceships).

– What’s standing in his way? (FORCES OF OPPOSITION) About a billion natural disasters as the planet caves in, an evil politician who has put a billion dollar pricetag on tickets for the spaceship, a Russian Mafioso who keeps being in the same place at the same time as Cusack, and sometimes ends up helping, and sometimes ends up hurting. (Was I the only one queased out by the way all the Russian characters were killed off, leaving only the most obnoxious kids on the planet?)

Here’s another example, from a classic movie:

At the end of the first sequence of RAIDERS OF THE LOST ARK (which is arguably two sequences in itself, first the action sequence in the cave in South America, then the university sequence back in the US), Indy has just taught his archeology class when his mentor, Marcus, comes to meet him with a couple of government agents who have a job for him (CALL TO ADVENTURE). The agents explain that Hitler has become obsessed with collecting occult artifacts from all over the world, and is currently trying to find the legendary Lost Ark of the Covenant, which is rumored to make any army in possession of it invincible in battle.

So there’s the MACGUFFIN – the object that everyone wants, and the STAKES – if Hitler’s minions (THE ANTAGONISTS) get this Ark before Indy does, the Nazi army will be invincible.

And then Indy explains his PLAN to find the Ark – his old mentor, Abner Ravenwood, was an expert on the Ark and had an ancient Egyptian medallion on which was inscribed the instructions for using the medallion to find the hidden location of the Ark.

So when Indy packs his bags for Nepal, we understand the entire OVERALL ACTION of the story: Indy is going to find Abner (his mentor) to get the medallion, then use the medallion to find the Ark before Hitler’s minions can get it.

And even though there are lots of twists along the way, that’s really it: the basic action of the story.

The PLAN and CENTRAL QUESTION – or CENTRAL ACTION, if it helps to call it that instead, is almost always set up – and spelled out – by the end of the first act. Can it be later? Well, anything’s possible, but the sooner a reader or audience understands the overall thrust of the story action, the sooner they can relax and let the story take them where it’s going to go. So much of storytelling is about you, the author, reassuring your reader or audience that you know what you’re doing, so they can relax and let you drive.

So here’s a craft exercise, if you want to play along.   For practice take a favorite movie or book (or two or three) and identify the CENTRAL ACTION – describe it in a few sentences.   Then try it with your own story.  

For example, in my new book, BOOK OF SHADOWS, here’s the set up: the protagonist, Homicide detective Adam Garrett, is called on to investigate a murder of a college girl which looks like a Satanic killing.   Garrett and his partner make a quick arrest of a classmate of the girl’s, a troubled Goth musician.   But Garrett is not convinced of the boy’s guilt, and when a practicing witch from nearby Salem insists the boy is innocent and there have been other murders, he is compelled to investigate further.

So the CENTRAL ACTION of the story is Garrett using the witch and her specialized knowledge of magical practices to investigate the murder on his own, all the while knowing that she is using him for her own purposes and may well be involved in the killing.

If you’re working on a story now, at what point in your book does the reader have a clear idea of where the story is going?   If you can’t identify that, is it maybe a good idea to layer that in so the reader will have an idea where the story is going?

And for extra credit – give us some examples of movies or books that didn’t seem to have any central action or plan at all. Those negative examples are sometimes the best way to learn!

Or just tell us today – What hooks YOU about a book?   What will make you toss it across the room and go on to the next?

(And Happy Solstice on Monday, everyone… use the Force.)

– Alex

ESCAPE HATCH

By Stephen Jay Schwartz

I once worked with a producer who told me he loved hiring writers with day jobs because they wrote with mad determination in an effort to lose those jobs.  Basically, they worked their asses off.  And, by “hiring” writers, I mean of course that he wrote up contracts that said something to the effect of: “We’re working on this screenplay together and we intend to sell it to a studio when it’s done, at which point, you’ll see piles of money.”  I think I only wrote a couple screenplays in this fashion, before I learned what the word “exploited” means.

Now I find more creative ways to ditch the day job.  And by that I mean I’d never be so irresponsible as to leave my job before the big money arrives.  And so the “ditching” becomes wish-fulfillment in the form of fiction. 

While I was on my ten-minute walk around the building where I work, a city bus pulled up beside me and opened its doors and the driver sat there, waiting, and my mind took the following journey…

                                               Afternoon Walk

                                        By Stephen Jay Schwartz

            He stepped out of the office for a quick walk around the building.  He didn’t know why he had taken his sports coat and briefcase.  Just a force of habit, he guessed.  He’d gone about twenty yards when the city bus pulled up beside him and opened its doors.  He looked at the driver who stared back at him.  He could hear the footsteps of two men, a half-block away, running to catch up.  They darted in front of him and up the steps to take their seats.

            The door remained open, the driver giving him a look.

            Terrance stepped onto the bus, fishing two dollars from his pocket.  He didn’t wait for the change.  He took a seat near the front as the doors came together with a hiss.

            He placed his briefcase on the empty seat beside him, loosened his tie.  He stared blankly at the city rolling past his window.

            His phone rang.

            She said, “Honey, I’m going to need you to pick Stewart up from the Brosnans at six-thirty, I’ll be with Wendy at her sister’s shower.  You got that?  Six-thirty.”

            “Yeah.”

            “And you can stop off at Sprouts on the way home, I need Echinacea with Goldenseal, and some rice milk, you know the brand.”

            “Okay.  I don’t think I’m going to be home.”  He pulled the tie completely off his neck and rolled it into a ball.  He stuffed the ball into his briefcase.

            “Why don’t you gas up the Beamer, too.  I’ll take it tomorrow.  You can have the Lexus.  What did you say about tonight?”

            “I don’t think I’ll be home tonight.”

            There was a pause on her end.  He almost forgot he had the phone to his ear.  He stared for a moment at a bag of groceries held in the hands of a very dark woman, a small woman, Terrance thought she might have been Guatemalan.  She stared at him, but through him as well.  Her body seemed to fit the hard plastic seat.  He wondered if she had been sitting there all day.

            “Honey, why don’t you think you’ll be home tonight?”

            “I’ve stepped onto a bus.”

            “What do you mean, aren’t you at the office?”

            “I left the office.”

            “What’s wrong with the car?  Why are you on a bus?”

            “I was taking a walk around the building and it came.  I haven’t been on a bus for as long as I can remember.”

            “Of course, Terry.  This is L.A.  And you have a car.  Listen, I gotta get going, enjoy your bus ride.  Get off at the next stop, I’m sure there’ll be a bus going back the other direction.”

            He looked around and didn’t recognize the neighborhood.  The bus stopped and people got on, and they weren’t the kind of people Terrance knew.  They looked him hard in the face as they passed.

            “I don’t think I can get off here.  I’ll have to take the bus to the end of the line.”

            “What?  Where are you?”

            “I think…Watts.”

            “Watts?  Jesus, Terry.  Well, wait until you get to a safe place and take a taxi back to the office.”

            Terrance leaned forward in his seat and addressed the bus driver.

            “Excuse me.  Where does this bus go?  Where’s the end of the line?”

            “Norwalk,” the bus driver said.

            “It’s Norwalk, honey.  I have to go to Norwalk.”

            “Terry, Norwalk is like two hours away.  Just get out of Watts and find the next safe place to get a cab.”

            “I think I’ll be going to Norwalk, Rachel.”

            “It’s three o’clock, by the time you get to Norwalk it’ll be five.  You’ll never make it back to the office in time, they’ll lock your car in the parking lot.”

            “I don’t think I’m going back to the office, no, I know I’m not going back to the office.”

            “Not tonight you won’t.  Jesus, I’ll have to use the Lexus tomorrow and you’ll have to borrow Tom’s Jetta for the day, if he’ll let you.  You’re not going to be home until after seven, Terry.  This really screws up my evening.”

            “I don’t think I’ll be home tonight.”

            Terrance leaned forward in his seat again, addressed the driver.  “Where do the buses go from Norwalk?”

            “Ain’t no buses from Norwalk.  Done for the night.”

            “Terry?” she said, her voice sounding small on the I-Phone. 

            “How do you go east from Norwalk?” he asked.

            “I don’t know, brother.  There’s a train station a mile from the bus depot.”

            Terrance considered it.  “Is it walk-able?”

            The driver shook his head in disbelief.  “Yeah, if you can walk a mile.”

            He didn’t know the call had disconnected.  He forgot all about his wife until his phone rang again.  “Hello?”

            “Terrance, what the fuck are you talking about?”

            “Sorry?”

            “You walked away from the office and stepped on a fucking city bus and you think you’re spending the night in Norwalk?”

            “No.  I’m not sure where I’m spending the night.”

            “I don’t have time for this.  Don’t call me again until you’ve got your head straight.”

            “I didn’t call you,” he said, but she had already hung up.

            He walked the mile in Norwalk and it felt refreshing to actually walk instead of pretending to walk on the treadmill at the gym.  The concrete sidewalks were broken in places, making his dress shoes dirty and scratched.  There wasn’t much to see except asphalt and old warehouse buildings, but the Jacaranda trees were in bloom and the world around him was covered in delicate lavender flowers that fell like snowflakes as he passed. 

            His phone rang when he sat down at the train station.  “Hello?”

            “I hope you’re back at the office.”

            “I’m at the train station in Norwalk.”

            “Good.  You can take a train back to downtown L.A.  I’ll check the Internet and get you the next one going out.”

            “I bought a ticket to Jackson, Mississippi.  It leaves in ten minutes.”

            “Terry?”

            Terrance rode the train for five days.  When he grew hungry he bought food from a snack cart.  He slept in his seat and in the clothes he wore.  He’d never been shaken so much in his life and for the first two days he had to resist the urge to throw up in his lap.

            When he stepped off the train he was aware immediately of the way the light filtered through the sycamore trees, the way the little oval leaves made shadows dance across his face and the ground and every surface he saw.  He was aware that the air passed easily through his lungs and it had a scent he’d never known.  He left the train, forgetting his briefcase, and tie, and phone.

 

This, of course, is fiction.  I do not fantasize about leaving my wife and children.  But I can imagine someone else who might.  How do the other authors here deal with everyday frustrations?  How do these issues show up in your writing?

 

On The Road Again (not as Brett Battles)

Zoë Sharp

The more observant among you will have noticed, of course, that I am not Brett Battles. I realise that this may come as a huge disappointment to some of you. (After all, he’s a one-of-a-kind type of guy.)

And, being such, Brett has very kindly allowed me to trade places with him for this week’s ‘Rati blog. I leave for a mini-tour of the States on Monday morning, and will be all over the place for the next 11 days. Although posting a blog here wouldn’t be too difficult, getting to comments might prove more tricky. So, I’ll leave you in Brett’s more-than-capable hands while I’m away.

 

And this pic has nothing to do with Brett, just in case you were wondering. It’s just a lovely one of one of the more unusual fixtures in the Murder on The Beach bookstore in Delray Beach, which I took last time I was there.

Andy and I have always enjoyed travelling. Good job, too, because one way or another we do a lot of it. Packing and repacking for work trips is a common thing, to the point where we usually only start throwing stuff into bags the night before we go.

We see a lot of cool sights – mainly from aeroplanes, with a wing in the foreground. Like this shot of Mount Rainier, for instance.

We’ve packed for some weird trips, including one taken in March a few years ago that incorporated both the snowy heights of New Hampshire and the heat of Daytona Beach. It’s the only time I’ve ever taken a (fake) fur hat to Florida.

Travelling has definitely got harder these days, and one of the most important things we’ve had to do because we’re flying from the UK, is fill in our Electronic System for Travel Authorisation (ESTA), as well as the usual Customs and Immigration forms. The difference with the ESTA is that we have to do it on-line, well in advance of when we travel, just to make sure we’re going to be allowed in. I have no idea what would happen if we turned up at Arrivals in Houston without having completed it, but I foresee a long wait at the airport and then a somewhat miserable flight home.

This trip started out as a quick visit to Houston to see Busted Flush Press, who are bringing out all the early Charlie Fox books which have never been published in the States before. The very first of these, KILLER INSTINCT, is already out, and the others are planned at short intervals thereafter.

If you’ll forgive a quick itinerary:

I’ll also be calling in to sign stock at Partners & Crime in NYC, as well as flying south to New Orleans to meet up with fellow ‘Rati, Toni McGee Causey, and spend a couple of days mooching round that fascinating city. She’s also promised that she and Carl will take us out to shoot some cool stuff.

(When someone sends me an email that says, ‘Come stay,’ and then goes on immediately afterwards to list a selection of the firearms they have available, I know we’re going to get along brilliantly…)

I’m thrilled to little pieces about doing a signing with Lee in NYC, as he’s done a wonderful foreword for the Busted Flush edition of KILLER INSTINCT, for which I am HUGELY grateful. He also generously did an intro for me when I last signed in NYC, for the publication of SECOND SHOT, and here we are at Partners & Crime back then. (Damn, I’m probably going to wear the same jacket again this time – it’s my favourite.)

Besides the ESTA, the other thing we’ve had to do before we go is go out and buy shampoo, toothpaste, etc, in teeny-weeny containers. Our existing (UK) travel toothpaste is too big to pass current regulations, as is our shampoo, conditioner, mouthwash, etc.

We’re intending to do all the internal legs of this trip entirely with carryon bags, which speeds up getting through airports and saves stuff getting lost or mis-routed. There are one or two drawbacks to this, however, of which the whole size-of-liquid-containers is one of them.

The other is that I will be unable to take my beloved Swiss Army knife with me. It’s not just that I happen to find it extremely useful to carry a knife at all times, but also that it has scissors, tweezers, a nail file, and tiny screwdriver that’s just right for repairing glasses. Still, it has to stay at home. <sigh>

Another must for this trip will be our Avon Skin So Soft. Not because we particularly want delicate, fragrant skin, but because it’s the most effective insect repellent we’ve ever tried – and particularly that it doesn’t say in small print somewhere on the container “avoid contact with exposed skin at all costs” I guess we’ll be decanting that into a smaller bottle for this trip…

Ear defenders are another travel essential for us, as they really cut down the drone on planes, and help make the dreadful sound systems bearable if you do want to watch the in-flight movie, by cutting out some of the more raucous higher frequencies.

As with previous trips, I’ll be typing out a detailed itinerary, with all the names, phone numbers, email contacts, times and addresses. I’ll also make a careful note of time zone changes, as I nearly got caught out last time around by unexpectedly losing an additional hour driving across Indiana, which meant I turned up for an event at Jim Huang’s The Mystery Company in Carmel with about three minutes to spare, instead of comfortably early!

Then I’ll be printing out two copies, which will be kept in different bags, just in case!

I like the irony of this pic, by the way, which shows a rainbow dropping down neatly onto the Golden Arches…

As soon as we land in the States, we’ll be stopping off at the nearest shopping mall to buy a  Pay-As-You-Go cellphone. Calling to or from a UK cellphone in the States is wildly expensive, so we’ve found previously that it’s much easier to just get a cheapie PAYG and dump it when we’re done. I’ll still be taking my phone, though, because it’s got navigation built in, and that saves lugging road maps for half a dozen different states with us.

 

On the luggage front, packing clever is our aim. We always take those roll-up vacuum bags, so we can squash all our laundry into them as we go, which not only keeps it separate from the clean stuff, but takes up much less room.

We usually stop off and do laundry halfway through a trip anyway, which means we can take much less clothing, but also means we have to take colourfast stuff that can quite happily be thrown into a washing machine all together. I seem to remember Andy once left a bottle of sun cream in his pocket before one trip to the laundrette, but fortunately the top stayed firmly attached, and it came out sparkling.

Oh, and pens. I’ll be taking LOTS of pens.

 

That’s about it, but if you have any travel tips for me, I’d LOVE to hear them. (In fact, I probably NEED to hear them.) And, of course, if you can make it to any of the events, please come along and say hi.

This week’s Word of the Week is gad, which not only is a minced form of God, as in gadzooks, but also means a miner’s wedge or chisel, a metal spike or pointed bar, a spear, an engraver’s stylus, a goad (which is a dialect word for the bar across a Scottish condemned cell, on which the iron ring ran to fasten the shackles, and also to wander about, often restlessly, idly, or in the pursuit of pleasure, to straggle or to rush here and there in a wayward uncontrolled manner. So, that last bit probably sums up nicely what we’ll be doing.

Turn the Page

by J.D. Rhoades

 Warning: the following post has little or nothing to do with books or mystery writing. It happens. 

 This past Saturday, I sat on a metal bench in the blazing sun on a bright blue North Carolina morning. It was only 8 AM, but the wife and I and about a thousand other people were sitting shoulder to shoulder, fanning ourselves with flimsy programs that were far too small, and far too damp from sweat and humidity, to keep anyone cool. But there was no way we were going to miss this. Our son was graduating from High School. 

Over the past few days, I’ve been absorbed by memories. In my mind’s eye, they’re  like mirror fragments cascading to the floor, magically arranging themselves into a mosaic of the last eighteen years:  My first sight of him, at his delivery (“My God,” I thought, “he looks like Winston Churchill!”) The sweetness he exhibited towards his little sister when she was born, and the epic battles later (“Mom, I think Nina needs to go to the Emergency Room.”) Bringing home the new puppy (R.I.P. Clifford, we still miss you). The time when we were watching TV and some politician’s ad came on, and his little voice piped up from the big easy chair across the room: “Who is THIS idiot?” Cub Scout camping trips. Beach weeks. Christmas mornings that used to begin at the crack of dawn (or before) and now begin when we  roust him and his sister out of bed.   Apples to Apples. Trivial Pursuit. Clue (Junior Edition). Life. Legos, Beanie Babies, Nerf, GameBoy, and multi-sided dice.   Mechwarrior, Barney, Pokemon, Yu-Gi-Oh! Spongebob, the Simpsons, Sabrina the Teenage Witch, Family Guy, Futurama, the Wire, Samurai Champloo, Samurai Jack, Ninja Warrior, Cops, AFV, Firefly and Buffy. Where the Wild Things Are, Harry Potter, the Dark Elf Trilogy, and The Song of Ice and Fire. Disney, Godzilla, Toy Story, Shrek, Star Wars, Pirates, Tarantino and Kurosawa flicks.  Engrish, webcomics,  DeviantArt, and Japanese TV on YouTube. Baseball, then soccer (including a brief flirtation with being an Arsenal fan), then PS2, Wii, PC games, D & D and a bunch of role playing games I never heard of. The same group of friends (who I affectionately refer to as “your dumb little buddies”) who he’s hung out with since Kindergarten and who now are scattering in all directions.

It seemed to take forever for him to grow up, but now I look back and think “how did it all happen so fast?” Seemingly overnight,  the baby who couldn’t sit up on his own is a brilliant, big-hearted, funny, sarcastic, kind, goofy,  passionate, cynical, opinionated, fiercely talented young man who’s a little like me, a lot like his mom, and a lot like…well, like someone entirely himself. He’s an artist whose work periodically makes me sit up and go “whoa,” and a writer who may, and I say this in all sincerity, kick my ass someday. 

In a couple of months, he’ll be moving out, gone off to a  college of his own choosing. It was a choice which surprised me at first , but which makes perfect sense for him. And that’s a thing that makes me both incredibly proud and a little sad: he’s making his own decisions, and they’re good ones.   Maybe not always what I would have done, but reasonable for him.

In the months and years ahead, he’ll make plenty more decisions: some good, some bad, some probably even incredibly boneheaded. But they’ll be his, not mine, and he’ll own the consequences, both good and bad. All we can do is hope we’ve given him the tools to make the right choices.

I think about 16 year old Abby Sunderland, who was attempting to be the youngest person to sail around the world, and think, as many did after she was rescued from her damaged sailboat, “WTF were her parents thinking?” After all,  I thought, I still get the willies when The Boy takes the car to a friend’s house. Then I realized: I can’t do what I’ve done for years. At various times in the last eighteen years, I’ve been, with tongue in cheek, referring to my son as The Boy. But he’s not The Boy. He can now take it into his head  to do something crazy–sail around the world, hike off to Tibet, marry a Duke fan–and there’s not going to be much I can do except offer what advice I can and try not to say “I told you so” if things go sideways.  At least try not to say it too  much. 

A page is turning. Big changes are coming in all our lives. The Girl is ecstatic at finally getting a bathroom to herself, but I know she’ll miss her hanging-out buddy, her foil, her debate opponent, her (occasionally unasked for) advisor.  I’ll probably be moving my writing stuff into his room, but I know the house is going to seem bizarrely quiet without that booming voice that you can hear clear across the house as he mocks something particularly stupid on TV.  

I know I’ve made mistakes as a parent, and I know there are probably a thousand ways in which I’ve failed him, but I think despite it all, he’s turned into someone of whom we’re intensely proud.

Here’s to you, Nick. No matter how fast or how far away you sail, I hope sometimes you turn your face towards home and think of the people who love you. And remember you always have a safe harbor here. 

For girls only

Well okay, the boys can read this one too.  But I wanted to give them fair warning that they might want to click elsewhere right now.  I can picture my pal Dusty Rhoades suddenly shoving his fingers in his ears and chanting “La La La, I don’t wanna listen to this” when he finds out that this post is About Women’s Fashion, and has only a tenuous connection to books.  But there is a connection.  Sort of.  

Those who know me know that I am, um, fashion challenged.   As I type this, I’m in bare feet and wearing blue jeans, a cotton L.L. Bean shirt, and cotton underwear bought at Walmart.  That’s my summertime outfit.  In winter, I add a flannel shirt and socks, but otherwise it’s the Same Old Thing, seven days a week.  I’m a stickler for comfort, plus I’m that dire combination of being both a Yankee and of Chinese descent. When it comes to thrift, no Scot could hold a candle to that.  

But there comes a time in one’s life when one realizes one must evolve.  And that moment came when I learned that TNT is sending me on the road to promote the new TV show “Rizzoli & Isles.”  They are flying me out to Hollywood at the end of June to do what’s called a “junket,” where the cast and I will be available for interviews.  That’s followed by public screenings of the pilot episode in Boston, Philadelphia, Chicago, Atlanta, and — egad — Times Square, NYC, where I will appear alongside Angie Harmon.

That’s when I decided to trawl through my closet to see what I might wear to these screenings.  I discovered several things.  First, that I still had half my high school wardrobe in there.  I’m happy to report that most of it still fits, but still…  

Not a single outfit I owned was Angie Worthy.  I imagined myself onstage with the svelte and stylish Ms. Harmon as the audience titters: “Who’s that lumberjack in the flannel shirt standing next to her?”  

Clearly I needed to go shopping, but I am probably the only woman in the world who can walk into Saks Fifth Avenue in NYC, spend six exhausting hours combing the racks, and find absolutely nothing that looks good on me.  So, on the advice of friends, editor, and agent, all of whom heard the desperation in my voice, I did something I’d never dreamed of doing.

I made an appointment with a personal shopper.

A week before my planned trip to NYC for Book Expo, I spoke on the phone with a nice young woman named Danielle, a personal shopper at Bergdorf Goodman.  She wanted to know my height, weight, measurements, age, coloring, and budget.  Then she asked: “Which designers do you normally like to wear?”

“Does, um, L.L. Bean count?” I asked.

There was a silence. “What sort of occasion are you shopping for?” she asked.

“I need to look good!” I blurted.  “I’m going to be onstage with Angie Harmon!”

“Oh dear,” she said.  Probably thinking: Honey, you are so f***ed.  But she cheerfully suggested a few designers and told me she’d have a nice selection picked out when I arrived.

A week later, I arrived at the Personal Shopping department of Bergdorf Goodman and was escorted to a giant private dressing room where Danielle and her assistant had about two dozen outfits waiting for me to try on. Since I don’t trust my own fashion sense, I wheedled my agent and editor into coming on the expedition with me, not realizing that we would all be in the same dressing room together.  Where everyone would watch me strip down to my Walmart underwear.  

Danielle zipped me into the first dress.  From the moment I stepped into it, I thought: Oh my god, I love this one!  And it fit like a glove.  Ditto with the second dress.  And the fourth.  Without ever having laid eyes on me, Daneille had managed to choose just the right outfits, and to take all the pain out of the experience.

Within two hours, I bought four dresses, a sweater, and three pairs of shoes.  Then a seamstress magically materialized and pinned a few nips and tucks where they were needed.  Then it was all whisked away to be altered and shipped to my home.  

I even came in under budget.  

What did I learn from the experience?

I learned that inside the most diehard L.L. Bean girl lurks a wannabe fashionista.  I learned that even I can wear big-girl high heels.  And I learned that, when the occasion calls for it, yes, I can rise to meet any challenge.

 Even when it means stripping for my editor. 

 

 

 

TMI*

by Pari

You put your feet up after a long day and zap on the television to enjoy your favorite program. Then those commercials come on.

You know the ones I’m talking about: The mother hugging her child, the man with a skip in his step, the gray-haired woman doing the cha-cha. But wait! That drug will prevent depression or drive you to suicide. This one will transform your sex life or cause 24-hour erections. And ladies, your bones will get stronger or you’ll go into renal failure.  

I’m fascinated with the skillful juxtaposition of cheerful visuals with droning voiceovers, mile-a-second disclaimers that are every corporate legal department’s wet dream. I’m in awe of how abundant and terrifying details wash over us so effectively we hardly hear or digest their meaning.

While this is undeniably intentional in the marketing world, there are unintentional parallels in our own literary craft.

No we’re not all striving for cognitive dissonance. Yes we do overwhelm our stories with irrelevant information. The result? We force our readers to ask unrelated questions, to get distracted, to lose track emotionally or to fall out of our stories completely.

Be honest, is the entire history of a grandfather clock – from the sprouting acorn through the clockmaker’s apprenticeship — really driving the story forward? Or is it merely showing off your knowledge? Hmmm?

Sure, there are writers who include chapters of details that read like fresh lemonade – cool and refreshing. Far more writers drown their salads with gloppy dressings, float their matzoh balls on seas of schmaltz, cover their steaks with gallons of Hollandaise . . .

What’s a poor wordsmith to do?

Here are a few techniques that might help counter TMI:

  1. Cultivate the mindset of a reader:  Look for the yawn trigger. Find the places in stories you read where you skip or skim. Study these sections. Chances are the writer got carried away with unnecessary information. Got it? Now search for the same flaws in your own work.
  2. Read your work aloud #1:  If you run out of breath, something is probably wrong. I’m not joking. Well, unless you aspire to be Proust.
  3. Read your work aloud #2:  If you find yourself wanting to skip over sections you’ve written, get rid of them!
  4. Play the cutting game:  See how much detail you can cut from your descriptions/explanations and maintain the essence of your message. This game is good for two reasons: it cleans up your prose and shows you that no matter what you write, it can be deleted without killing you.
  5. Find sections that contradict everything I’ve just written:  Study them. Find out why they work and tell me in the comments.

Writers: Do you struggle with TMI? How do you deal with it?

Everyone: Do you have examples of TMI in favorite or crummy books/short stories? How about apparent TMI passages that actually do work?

* TMI: Too much information

talking with friends… this week, Bill Cameron

by Toni McGee Causey

One of the things you realize right off the bat when you first meet Bill Cameron is that he’s not only very funny, but he’s one of the good souls. He’s also extraordinarily talented and one of those from whom praise means everything, because he has such high standards, especially for himself.

(I adore Bill. Just in case that wasn’t obvious enough.)

When I realized his newest book, DAY ONE, out right now (ignore Amazon’s due date, if it’s still incorrect), I wanted to take the opportunity to introduce him to those of you who might not have met him (and have a chance for old friends to share the day). Here’s my recent interview with Bill:

 

Toni McGee Causey (TMC): Is Portland as full of coffee shops as Seattle is purported to be? 

Bill Cameron (BC): Seattle is a perfectly nice coffee town, I’m sure. But Portland has Seattle whipped on the coffee front. Boo-yah! (But, Seattle, you know I love you!)

 

TMC: Are there any indelible lessons you’ve learned now that you are a published author?

BC: Whatever you think you know, you don’t. Whatever you think you’ve learned, it’s already obsolete. Last month is old and last year is ancient. But the future is at least two years away.

 

TMC: How can readers find out more about you, your books, and your future endeavors?

BC: I am a hesitant blogger, though I did recently join the Criminal Minds group blog (7criminalminds.blogspot.com)  where I will pop up twice a month or so. Still, I find Twitter far more to my liking most of the time. It’s casual, friendly, and very low pressure. So if reading the 140-character natterings of a nattering natter monkey is your thing, follow me at twitter.com/bcmystery.

 

TMC: How have things changed for you between your first book and now?

BC: I panic less. I understand better how little control I have over my success or failure. What I can best control are the words on the page. Everything else is a combination of luck and the support of others.

 

TMC: What is your favorite word and why?

BC: It used to be defenestrate: to throw something or someone out the window. And defenestrate remains high on my list. I’m just delighted by the fact that a word exists specifically for throwing things out the window. Such a useful word. Who hasn’t desperately needed to defenestrate someone or something at some point in their lives? All of us, I’m sure!

 

TMC: One of the things you do so well is bring to life unusual characters, or characters who have an odd outlook to life. I think of your characters with the same awe I have for Confederacy of Dunces–you find the details so many writers overlook that gives the character the neat-but-twisted point of view. What’s the most unusual character you think you’ve written? And why are you attracted to them? (What influences these choices?)

BC: First, wow. Being favorably compared to Confederacy of Dunces is, just, wow.

 

The thing is, I don’t set out to write unusual characters. I think I see everyone as being a unique mix of otherwise familiar characteristics. The soup may be different, but the ingredients aren’t. What I try to focus on is what’s important or formative to each character. With Skin  , it started with imagining the impact of his distinctive birthmark on his experience of the world around him. I’ve spent a lot of time off the page imagining his life, how he grew, how he responded to challenges. Imagining his strengths and his weaknesses. I think if you go through a process like that with your characters, you give yourself a chance to grow them into unique figures who can then come to life on the page.

 

In Day One, one of the characters is a teenaged boy named Eager Gillespie. He came about first as a name. I liked the sound of it, but I didn’t know anything about him. So I started imagining the life of someone named Eager. Is it his given name, or a nickname. In time, I decided it was a nickname, and well-earned. I started to think of him as an eager puppy, eager to please, eager to do what he wants. He developed into a likable ne’er-do-well, which was fine, but what else? Ah, he has two younger sisters. His mother is a bit of a screw-off, less attentive than she should be, absent a lot. So Eager has to look out for his sisters, has to be more grown-up than his age. And there comes the conflict: a boy forced to behave like a man against his own nature. He’s only partly successful, though when he is successful, it shows a deeper reservoir of strength than he realizes he has.

 

That’s my character process in a nutshell. My goal is not specifically unusual characters, but compelling characters. I hope what I’m doing is showing the way ordinary traits shape people into distinctive individuals. And, then, of course, I make their lives as miserable as possible.

TMC: How did you begin as a writer? What prompted you to first think, “I can do that?” and how did you get from there, to here? (Classes? Winging it? Mentors? Sheer dogged determination?)

BC: When I was in high school, I was convinced I was mere minutes from the first of many Johnny Carson interviews. Yeah, I had this thing. Sadly, it was another twenty-five-plus years before my first book came out, and for reasons which still mystify me, The Tonight Show has yet to call. Alas. (Oh, and by the way, Team Coco!)

 

I took creating writing classes in high school and college. It was tough when I was in college, what with suffering from the “why hasn’t the world discovered me yet?” disease. I know I gave my instructor’s fits at times, what with my insufferable arrogance. Fortunately, decades of being ignored eventually got the message through to my pea-sized brain: all my teachers were trying to tell me something important.

 

Ultimately, it boiled down to a lot of practice, a lot of trying things out, and even more classes. Lost Dog got its start in a mystery writing class I took at Portland State back in the 90s. By then, I’d become someone interested in learning, and that was the point when my work began started to become something other people might actually want to read. Nowadays, I see myself as always having more to learn. My hope is each thing I write will be better than the last, but the only way that will happen is if I listen to other and learn what they have to teach me.

 


TMC: What stories (or authors) inspire you and make you want to hurry back to the computer to write?

 

BC: Is it cheating if I say all of them?

 

Okay, maybe not ALL of them, but any time I read good writing, I want to write. And there is a lot of great stuff to be read — I’m never short of inspiration. That said, if you’d like me to name names, there are a few stand-outs for me right now. Just looking across the room at my stack of recently finished books, I see a few names which have inspired of late. Timothy Hallinan, Ken Bruen, Courtney Summers. Ken’s books are so lovely and lyrical and heart-wrenching. Tim does such a wonderful job of evoking Thailand, and his characters are fascinating — I get lost in his books and don’t want to be found. Courtney is a young adult author whose first two books  are so brilliant powerful I actually get twitchy wishing for the next one.

 

But  there are so many more. I grew up on Lawrence Block and Rex Stout, found inspiration as I was getting serious about mystery in Sara Paretsky and John Straley. Then there’s John Dunning, Laura Lippman, and more recently, Kelli Stanley. I feel like I just want to start listing names, but this would be a mile long before I finished.

 

TMC: What’s a typical writing session like for you? Laptop in a favorite coffee house? Or quietly ensconced in an office somewhere? Do you need complete quiet? Noise? What are your other must-haves? What stops you cold? What gets you going again? What part of the writing process is your favorite?
 
BC: I’m solidly in the laptop at the coffee house camp. I like activity going on around me. I like to people watch. And I love to shamelessly eavesdrop. Note to the world: if you don’t want your so-called private lives to end up as story fodder, don’t overshare them noisily at the coffee shop next to the guy with the laptop and the cocked ear.

 

Now, once I get into a rhythm, I will probably put the headphones on. I like to listen to music while I write, usually playlists created to evoke various moods. I also find myself creating soundtracks for stories as I write them. For Chasing Smoke and Day One, I even posted the soundtracks on my web site. Music to listen to while reading!

 

What I can’t do is write in dead silence. Oh, lord. I go mad when I’m in a quiet house. A few times a year I get the chance to stay at a friend’s cabin in the woods, and while I appreciate the solitude (in small doses), I need to play music. Otherwise, I find myself first pacing, then rushing out into the woods, there to crash through the trees and, probably, eaten by wolves. So definitely music, or human activity — something.

 

As my favorite part of the process, that’s tough. It’s that time when I’m in the groove, when the words are flowing and I feel like I really have a handle on the scene I’m writing. That can happen during the first draft or during revisions. I’m not a “don’t like writing, love having written” type of writer. The process itself is genuinely satisfying. Still, it’s not always (or often) easy. But all I can do is power through the rough patches. I’m a firm believer in giving yourself permission to suck. Get it down, then fix it in revision if you have to.

 

TMC: If you could have a conversation with any five people (assume here that them being dead isn’t a hindrance)–all of them grouped together at a table–who would they be and what would you want to ask them?

BC: This is one of those questions I always have a hard time with. Whenever I get a chance in real life to ask questions of someone who I admire or am intrigued by, I always get fumble-tongued and end up blathering. And so I think my approach to the magic dinner party time machine would be to throw people together and see what they had to say to each other. Just let shit happen!

 

Here are my five: 
Claire Clairmont, one time lover of Lord Byron and participant in the famous gathering when Mary Shelley conceived of Frankenstein. Byron, and Mary and Percy Shelley are often who you’d think of first among that group, but Claire may be the one whose life was most interesting in the aftermath.

 

H.G. Wells. He and Claire can discuss free love and Empire, at least until the others get into the mix.

 

Gloria Steinem. I’m sure she’ll have a lot to say to Wells and Clairmont. Also to:

 

Albert Einstein. Yes, because of relativity and general brilliance, but also because his own personal life was something of a hash. Let’s face it, if it was warm-blooded and female, Al would make a run at it.

 

Phyllis Schafely, because I would take such joy in watching the other four make mincemeat of her, all the while absorbing a conversation which will surely be wide-ranging, at times heated, but supremely fascinating.

 

As for questions? I wouldn’t need to ask any questions. Have at it, people!

 


TMC: What five words would you use to describe yourself? Can be a phrase, a sentence, or individual words.

 

Can I cheat and offer a reprise of my 6-Word Memoir which Jen Forbus recently featured at her blog? I can even edit it down to five words! “I’m in a mood now.” Maybe it was a little better in the original six: “Oh I’m in a mood now.” Kinda captures my mercurial nature pretty well!

 

TMC: Of course you can! In fact, I probably swiped the idea from Jen without even thinking about it (hangs head in shame) and want to say what a terrific site she has and everyone should go visit her regularly — she has great guests and terrific blogs!

Okay, now, tell me a little bit about Day One:  

Born and raised in southern Oregon farm country, Ellie Spaneker flees her home and abusive husband, her trail dogged by a brutal ex-cop in the hire of her vengeful father-in-law. In Portland, retired homicide detective Skin Kadash fills his idle days drinking coffee and searching for Eager Gillespie, a teen runaway of special interest as the only witness in a troublesome and long unsolved murder. Eager, meanwhile, is on his own, grifting and working the angles in the homeless underground, oblivious to the unfolding events which will force him to face the consequences of a crime, and a longing, which has haunted him for years.

These disparate trails converge at a bloody standoff, the harrowing end of a string of violence which stretches from the high desert to the streets of Portland.

And here are a few wonderful things being said about the book:

  • MBTB: “Cameron has invented a novel filled with complex plotting and writing that is both tough and lyrical.”
  • Library Journal: “Readers will get caught up in this thriller’s various plot threads, which will lead them to a sad yet satisfying conclusion.”
  • Booklist, “Unrelievedly bleak and gritty yet thoroughly compelling.”
  • Chelsea Cain: “DAY ONE combines philosophical first person wit with a spider web of a plot. It is an utterly engrossing page-turner, but you’ll force yourself to slow down, just so you don’t miss any of Bill Cameron’s crackerjack writing. A reluctant hero, a damsel in distress, a kid with a secret, plenty of Oregon references, and oh, lots and lots of murder. What more could anyone want?”

 

So, now for you readers — don’t forget our own Alexander Sokoloff’s new book, BOOK OF SHADOWS went on sale this week. And Bill’s book is out right now, too (ignore Amazon’s date)–two great new works to keep you busy. 

Meanwhile, tell me your favorite unusual character–doesn’t have to be a main character–but what weird, off-beat, or just unusual character do you still remember long after having put down the book. One lucky commenter will receive a $25 book gift certificate to any of our indie bookstore friends or Amazon or B&N, Borders or Books A Million. (Certificate will be emailed.) Post through Friday at midnight central US time; winner announced next Sunday.

 

In Which I Completely Forget Which Saturday It Is (and then get all weepy and shit.)

By Cornelia Read

(“Pearl of Great Price,” decoupage, Frederick H. Read 2005)

 

So I am a big dodo, today. I totally thought it was Alex’s Saturday to post, which it SO is not.

Today I have to get my daughter ready to fly to India tomorrow–which means finding someplace to buy a mosquito net and water purification tablets and apparently a new pair of sandals since hers just broke, which is interesting since “broke” is what currently describes the amount in my checking account (my mom is paying for India for Grace and her cousin Sasha, which is astonishingly great of her.)

Also just got a letter in the mail this morning which seems to indicate that Grace’s school neglected to give her financial aid for senior year, and would now like me to come up with $30,820–$15,435 of it by July 1. I am wondering if walking into the fin aid office Monday morning and saying, “you know, I filled out all the online paperwork back in April and got it in on time and everything, and if there’s something more recent I neglected to do, I apologize but my father just shot himself and the whole family kind of went off the rails and everyone required a lot of long-distance phone call handholding for upwards of eight hours a day for the first couple of weeks after that, because it’s not like a suicide makes a crazy family suddenly SANER, you know? And could you possibly help me out here because at the moment I have $250 in my fucking checking account…”

And Dad checking out when he did also means I blew my June 1 deadline for book four, which means said book will probably not be published next year, and I kind of am having trouble getting my head back into the work, go figure.

On the bright side, my writing group back in California just read what I have of that manuscript, to date, and I made everyone cry twice, in just the parts that are supposed to do that, and they think the rest of it is funny and poignant and they like my arson investigator chick, so that is a huge relief (unless they’re just saying that to make me feel better because everything else in my orbit sucks so hard right about now, which is always a possibility but I think I’ll just go with hypothesis A, here, for the moment anyway.)

The memorial service in California was fabulous, though. It was so beautiful, and we all worked really hard to make it look good, and a friend of my dad and stepmom offered up his house for the day. My writing group and my publisher sent gorgeous flowers, God Bless Them Every One. A hundred fifty people came, twenty people got up and spoke. Everyone brought his favorite foods. One woman flew in from Australia to be there, two people came from Hawaii, lots from the East Coast. May pals Sophie Littlefield and Julie Goodson-Lawes and Muffy Srinivasan drove down from the Bay Area, which was such a hugely blessed occurrence that I can barely believe I know such fabulous women.

I have been thinking a lot lately about whether it would be harder to lose a parent who was wonderful and beloved and a pillar in your life, or tougher to have the kind of fraught relationship Dad and I had–missing the good parts, wishing there had been more of them, knowing that now that can never be fully resolved. I guess both options suck profoundly, only in different ways.

I miss the man I knew back in 1967,

(showing off for Dad in front of his new Porsche–Belgian shoes and all, Jericho, NY, 1967)

when I was four and he was my favorite person in the entire world–before the drugs and the Primal Therapy and the pain of life in general killed that guy off, so that I only got glimpses of his ghost for the following four decades.

(“Upper Orchard,” Centre Island, New York. September 17th, 1988)

 

He stopped speaking to me for twelve years, starting when my daughter Lila’s autism was diagnosed. That was a deeply shitty month–a week later I found out that my husband had been sleeping with a woman he’d worked with in Colorado for a year and a half. October of ’97 SUCKED, let me tell you.

 

 

 

 

Dad only got back in touch when my first novel was published. He came to a signing I did with Lee Child in Thousand Oaks, after having sent my mother (to whom he hadn’t spoken in decades) a note saying “we plan to see the author at her T.O. appearance.” He wrote that on a sheet from a small notepad, embossed with “Proud Supporter of the California Rifle and Pistol Association” across the top.

 

The weekend before that I was in Scottsdale with Lee, at Poisoned Pen for our first signing together. We were smoking outside the building, leaning up against the wall in the heat, and I said, “look, my dad is planning to come see us next weekend, and I haven’t seen him in twelve years. He thinks the KGB reads his mail and that ninjas want to barbecue and eat his feet and steal his collages. Plus which I still have his Marine Corps sharpshooters medal, and he’s now a postal worker, and he wrote my mom this weird note on gun-nut stationery… so if you want me to rent us both some Kevlar vests or totally pull out of the event, I’m totally okay with that. Because he’s pretty insane and it’s all freaking me out a little, here.”

Lee took a drag of his Camel and said, “well, if you’re really nervous, I think we have two choices. Either I can hire security, or I can just take him out into the parking lot and slap him around a little.”

And I thought to myself, “Lee CHILD wants to beat up my dad for me… that’s the coolest thing EVER!” Which in and of itself is pretty fucking weird, right? In an awesome Reacher kind of a way, of course.

And Dad thankfully didn’t shoot us, he just ate most of the plate of brownies the bookstore had put out, and got in the back of the line to have his copy of Field of Darkness signed, behind the 150 people there to see Lee, and he was actually kind of sweet about it all, and I didn’t even cry until I got back into the media escort’s car, which took a lot of fortitude.

After that he was back in my life, in the best way he could manage to be–not without mentions of ninjas and Primal tantrums and stuff, but still, my dad was back, and he got to know my daughter Grace, and told me how sorry he was about Lila, and I grew to love my half-sister, and get close again with my stepmom. They even invited us to spend three weeks with them at Camp in the Adirondacks last summer.

 

And Peter Riegert came up to visit and see if it would work as a location for the film of Field he’d like to do, and stayed for three days.

On the last day, Dad rowed Riegert and me around the lake in an old guideboat for a couple of hours, telling us stories about what it was like there when he was a kid, and being totally charming.

Peter said later, “I know you have kind of a tough relationship with your dad, and you have to deal with Angry Dad and Crazy Dad, but he was totally charming today to me, and I greatly appreciate that.”

(See: “Read Camp,” pp. 189-195)

And I told him it was really nice having a friend who was famous enough to make my dad get his head out of his ass for an entire afternoon, and not even mention a single ninja, but it also made me really happy. When Peter called up a couple of weeks ago to tell me how sorry he was to read my email about what had just happened with Dad, I told him that that afternoon is one of the best times I ever had with my father, and thanked him for making that possible.

I told the story of Dad showing up unexpectedly at “Father’s Weekend” at my boarding school when I was seventeen (he showed up with nothing but a sleeping bag, not having told me beforehand that he was planning to attend, and asked me to find him a place to sleep. Unfortunately he ended up bunking at the headmaster’s cottage, through a series of odd coincidencs, and I’m pretty sure Dad was the first person EVER to do marathon bonghits in my headmaster’s guest bathroom…) at Murder By The Book in Houston when I was on tour earlier this year. It’s kind of a long story, but it’s pretty funny. And it ends with the headmaster of my school coming up to me and saying, “I’ve been doing these weekends for twenty years now, and your father is the ONLY interesting man I’ve ever met at a single one of them…” which was especially nice since I figured he was going to tell me I was expelled because my dad had done marathon bonghits in his bathroom all weekend. Anyway, I made everyone in the store laugh a lot, which was awesome.

I told that story again at the memorial gathering. And people got to laugh again, which was good, and it made everyone cry, too.

Crap. Now I’m crying again, too. It’s been a couple of days since I’ve done that, and I’ve got a lot to get taken care of today… I will leave you with the following, the obit my Aunt Jean wrote for the NY Times:

 

(Dad with Grandmama Read and his eldest niece Edith, Camp, 1945?)

 

READ–Frederick Harvey. Frederick Harvey Read the eighth son of the late Vice-Admiral USNR and Mrs. William A. Read, of Purchase, NY died suddenly, May 13, 2010 in Malibu, CA. Fred attended Buckley School in New York City, St. Paul’s School in Concord, NH, graduated from Lawrenceville School and attended the University of Colorado. He then joined the Marine Corps where he was the outstanding marine in his division at Camp Pendleton and learned how to sky dive with Jacques Istel at Hemet, CA. After his military service he married Deborah Smith of Centre Island and had two daughters, Cornelia L. F. Read, the author, and Freya Read Read, a designer for The Pottery Barn, who survive him. He then became a Junior Partner at the Wall Street firm of Hayden Stone. In his early years, he was a member of The Brook Club in New York. He also sailed at The Seawanaka Corinthian Yacht Club. That marriage ended in divorce and after a brief stint in Nassau, Bahamas and Chandolin, Switzerland, Fred moved to Malibu to be near his children. During his years in Malibu, he was a short order cook at The Neptune’s Net, a taxi driver and a master Volkswagen mechanic. A fine hockey player, he played with Charles Schulz’s pick-up team. He married Bonna Newman and had their daughter, Elena Jean Read, both surviving. A loving father, he is also survived by four grandchildren, Lila and Grace Eggert and Indy and Sasha Read, his eldest brother, William A. Read, Jr. of Palm Beach, FL, his other brothers, Peter B. Read of Jaffrey, NH, Donald B. Read of Old Lyme, CT, his sister, Jean Read Knox of Williamsville, NY, and numerous nieces and nephews. He was predeceased by four other brothers, Curtis S. Read, David W. Read, Roderick F. Read, and Alexander D. Read. Fred was a wonderful trout and salmon fly fisherman, a lover of nature and beautiful green places, and a very talented artist. His work showed in 2009 in Toronto, Ontario, and at Diesel Bookstore in Malibu, CA. He was also noted for his scrimshaw which is in many private collections. Until recently, Fred was a 17 year employee of the United States Post Office in Malibu, CA. Fred will be missed by all who knew and loved him and his many friends. A memorial service will be held at the convenience of the family.

 

 

Dad’s collages are online at http://www.artforcetwo.com/home

(“Big Indian,” decoupage, Frederick H. Read 2003)

Paradox of Choice

 JT Ellison

I have a dilemma.

Thankfully, it is neither life threatening, nor particularly important. It’s really rather silly, truth be told. But it is a dilemma nonetheless, one that’s bothering me tremendously.

I have bought a ridiculous number of books over the past couple of years. Books of all shapes and sizes. Books that cover the spectrum of topics: crime fiction to theology, historical fiction to fantasy, productivity to ancient Roman wars. I’ve bought so many that my buying to reading ratio is in excess of about 20:1. And that’s being generous to the 1.

I have accumulated quite a beautiful library. It spills into four rooms. And that TBR pile, the one that I used to have panic attacks if it dropped below ten books, now numbers in the hundreds. So many that we were forced to buy three large floor-to-ceiling bookcases to hold them all. We jokingly call it the Ellison Family Lending Library. The term is more than applicable.

With so many books to choose from, I’ve suddenly lost the ability to make a choice. It’s like walking into a bookstore on any given Tuesday and being overwhelmed with the sheer numbers of books on the shelves. So many times, I end up buying something on coop or a wall because it’s face out. It’s easier. I take chances on new to me authors all the time, but it gets too distracting to wander the stacks (and disconcerting, now that I know so many of the people I read. Every time a familiar name comes up, up pops the last conversation we had, or the realization that it’s been too long since we’ve been in touch, or…)

You get the idea.

I’ve lost the love of browsing.

When I started writing, there was something like 170,000 books published per year. Now that number has doubled, what with digital and self-published books on top of the slew of traditionally published novels. (And they say reading is dead. I beg to differ.)

New books that I want to read are thrown at me daily. Blogs, magazines, Facebook, Twitter – I’m constantly finding material I must have. It’s gotten to the point that I find myself loading the bookshelves (which are now overflowing, the non-fiction double stacked and the fiction forced into face-out coop) and promising myself I WILL NOT BUY ANY MORE UNTIL I FINISH ALL THE BOOKS ON THE SHELVES.

So we’ve established I have a book fetish. Okay then. Here’s where you come in.

It’s gotten so bad that I don’t know where to start. With names I know and trust? Alphabetically, starting with the As and working my way through? Or should I start at the end and work backwards? Next in series? New to me? Fiction? Non-fiction?

(Ahhhhhhhhh – screw it. I’ll just reread Harry Potter.)

Told you this was a ridiculous problem.

I told Randy of my predicament, and he said “Paradox of Choice.”

“Huh?” I asked.

“There’s a marketing concept called the Paradox of Choice.”

Then he went on, using small words so I could follow. Sometimes, his marketing stuff, especially the complications of statistical sampling, are well beyond my tender abilities. But this, this I understood immediately.

At it’s most basic, here’s the definition of the paradox if choice: if consumers have too many choices, they’ll either get confused and pass on making a decision, or will revert to brands that they recognize. Say you’re going to the bookstore, and you’re assailed (as I often am) with a plethora of choices. Too many choices. You see a James Patterson novel, and seize on it. You recognize the name—you’ve read his books before, you were satisfied, so you buy that. No searching, no discovery. Just a mindless choice. An easy choice. Because who has the time to put into making a decision anymore?

This is me. This is my dilemma. I have too many options, so I’m just not bothering and returning to the books I know will transport me, instead of taking a chance on something new.

Turns out there’s a lot more to this. A guy named Barry Schwartz wrote a whole book entitled PARADOX OF CHOICE: Why More Is Less. Here’s a great quote from the book that sums it all up pretty well:

 

Autonomy and Freedom of choice are critical to our well-being, and choice is critical to freedom and autonomy. Nonetheless, though modern Americans have more choice than any group of people ever has before, and thus, presumably, more freedom and autonomy, we don’t seem to be benefiting from it psychologically.

 

Choice.

When I look at that quote, my life comes into sharp focus. Over the past year, I’ve been minimizing. Getting rid of the excess. Unitasking as much as possible. Trying to enjoy life, a moment at a time, rather than rushing forward into my future. We’ve given away half of our household.

We’ve cut our expenses, too. We only buy things that we need, and when we do buy something, it must replace an older version of itself. New shoes? Sure, but I have to get rid of at least two pairs first. iPad? As cool as it would be to have (and trust me, I LUST after it) I got a Nook instead. Cheaper, does what I need it to do, and gives me great pleasure, and no possibility of eye strain! iPhone 4.0? Absolute necessity – when my iPhone 3G dies or the Verizon rumors come true.

(Note on that last, I’m trying, very hard. I may cave, we’ll see. But why buy a new phone when mine is working fine??? )

We have been actively practicing the less is more mentality, so I find it ironic that I’m suffering from more is less with my reading material.

I long for the days when my reading order was determined by when the book was due back to the library. It was so simple. Or the days when I would not leave a book unfinished. I must have eight books lying around that I’ve started and lost interest in, or ran out of time, or simply couldn’t get into and put back on the shelf for another day. And that’s just in the living room.

So I ask you, if you had hundreds to choose from, and you were becoming paralyzed by your ability to actually commit and finish a book, where would you begin? Any and all coping mechanisms are welcome.

Wine of the Week: Heredad Ugarte Crianza 2005 Inexpensive and lovely.