Where Will It End?

Zoë Sharp

I’ve been sitting here for a couple of hours now, staring at a blank open document, wondering how to begin. My problem is not that I don’t know what to write (see Rob’s ‘Rati blog from yesterday) but more that I’m not sure how best to tackle the subject.

Anyone who’s seen the news over the past week will be aware of the events in my home county of Cumbria. For those who aren’t familiar with the details, last Wednesday morning a fifty-two-year-old cab driver called Derrick Bird walked out of his cottage, armed with a .22 rifle and a shotgun, climbed into his car and went on what’s best described as a rampage, shooting dead twelve people and injuring a further eleven before finally crashing his car and taking his own life.

It’s shocking, yes. Answers are being sought, but I fear that none will be found. People are asking what could have been done to prevent such a thing occurring, and it’s not very reassuring for anyone to think that events of this nature – awful though they are – are impossible to predict and prevent. There will always be the quiet man who suddenly snaps, without warning.

The day after the killings last week, I received an email out of the blue from BBC radio, asking me to write a short essay on Derrick Bird’s actions from a crime writer’s perspective, which I duly did. I mentioned the piece in the blog on my own website last week, and I understand the recording also went out on the World Service.

In it, I made that point that although it may be difficult for people personally touched by this tragedy to understand why anyone would want to read about fictional crimes in the name of entertainment, they do. Crime novels are a constant feature of the best-seller lists, and the category most-borrowed from UK libraries. They provide order and closure and answers where in reality none exists. A form of escapist comfort that there is a world people can retreat into where justice will prevail.

If you’re robbed or mugged in real life, for example, the reality of the situation is that the police are probably not going to catch the people who did it. Even if they do, the perps are most likely going to get off with community service, and you’re never going to see your belongings again. You’re going to become a victim twice over, because the fear of crime is often so much greater than the risk.

But we are a crime-writing community. We don’t just write about crime, but we talk about crime, think, eat, sleep and frequently dream about crime. That does not mean that any of us are going to go out and actually commit a crime. There are limits to how far even a method writer will go in search of authenticity in their work.

And we certainly do not expect any of our readers to be suddenly turned into monsters, just from reading something in a book. As writers of books that touch on sometimes horrific subjects, we offer vicarious thrills, like a rollercoaster ride. Readers know they’re going to be scared, but also that nothing bad will happen to them, and they can get off at the end.

But that hasn’t always been the case. In the early days of rollercoasters, fatal accidents frequently occurred. And, when they did, people flocked to try their luck, just as they flock now to the scene of such dreadful events, with an almost mawkish desire to be seen at the scene. One radio journalist I spoke to said he interviewed several teenage witnesses to Derrick Bird’s crimes whose testimony he could not use. “They sounded too excited,” he said sadly, shaking his head. “That won’t last, of course.”

And it has now emerged that the night before the massacre, Derrick Bird apparently watched a Steven Seagal movie, ‘On Deadly Ground’, and parallels are being drawn that this somehow inspired him to act. Yes, there have been studies done on the link between violent movies and computer games and violent crimes, but I feel the underlying tendencies must surely have been there already. I have to own up to a guilty pleasure – I happen to like several of Steven Seagal’s movies, but I’ve never had any desire to run amok on a battleship.

The day after the news broke, I received an email cancelling several library events I had in the area. They were due to be part of Cumbria Libraries’ ‘Midsummer Murders’ series. I can understand the reasoning perfectly, because now you look at it, the name does make you wince. But although one of the events was scheduled for the little library in Seascale, which is one of the directly affected towns, others were spread out across the far side of the county – the third largest in the UK, incidentally, at 2613 sq miles. Cancelling rather than postponing all crime-writing events throughout Cumbria seems a little harsh.

Fellow Cumbrian crime writer, award-nominated Diane Janes, was due to have her new book, THE PULL OF THE MOON, discussed on Lakeland Radio today, as it had been selected as the June choice of the Big Read Book Club. Two days ago, the book was pulled as the book of the month, citing the tragic events as cause, and particularly as the funeral of the first of the victims was this morning. Diane is understandably upset by this, as her book has nothing to do with guns, massacres, or even Cumbria, and Lakeland Radio covers the south rather than the west of the county.

Of course, nobody wants to cause unnecessary grief or trauma to the victims or their families. That goes without saying. And if relatives of the victims live in the catchment area of the radio station, it would be dreadful if they heard talk of crime as entertainment and were upset by it. But I worry how far this will go, from proper sensitivity into political correctness, and then on into censorship.

What are your thoughts on this, ‘Rati?

This week’s Word of the Week is meretricious, meaning of the nature of or relating to prostitution; characteristic or worthy of a prostitute; flashy or gaudy. From the Latin meretrix, a prostitute, from merere, to earn.

Oh, Crap

by Rob Gregory Browne

I can’t believe how quickly two weeks go by.  In my mind, I just posted a blog a couple days ago, yet here it is, my turn again and suddenly I have to come up with an interesting subject—hell, just a subject, period—and as usual, I’m bumbling about, looking for something to say.

Since I’m a writer, you’d think this wouldn’t be tough for me.  But it always is.

The truth is, I’m just not very interesting.  Ever since I quit the day job, I barely ever go out of the house.  In fact, I bitch and moan about it every time I have to.

“Rob, can you go to the store and get some sugar?”

“What???  Don’t we have some in the cabinet?  I mean, Christ, how much of that stuff do you put your coffee?”

“Rob, just go to the store.  You can walk up, get some exercise.”

“I exercised last week.”

“Yeah, I know, that’s why I’m suggesting it.  Your ass is massive.  So’s your gut.  Have you looked in the mirror lately?”

“I try to avoid that at all cost.”

“Yeah, well you’re avoiding life in the process.  You can’t spend your whole day sitting in that goddamned chair.”

“I don’t have a choice.  I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

“Excuses, excuses.”

This is me talking to myself, of course.  I do that sometimes.  Don’t we all?

Anyway, the bottom line is that quitting the day job and being without a lot of human contact has turned me inward.  Not that I was exactly outward in the first place, but you know what I mean.  And I am now officially a slug.

And I don’t mean one of those cute Santa Cruz banana slugs, either.

I think Mr. Battles may have the right idea.  He gets up in the morning, gets dressed, grabs his laptop, jumps in his car and drives across town to a cafe, where he can watch the world go by when he’s not busy writing.  Oh, and he also goes on hikes and breathes in that pristine Los Angeles air.

But I don’t think I could deal with all that.  I work in a room with the door closed and the shades drawn and a fan drowning out all outside noise.  I call it my “back to the womb” method of writing, where the darkness and the constant drone of that fan lull me into the creative state, allowing me to lose myself in my story.  And sometimes it even works.

Rather than crave more human contact, I seem to crave it less as time goes on.  I guess we adjust to our circumstances, no matter what they may be, and even become comforted by them.  The routine becomes our friend.

So it shouldn’t be all that surprising that two weeks has gone by in the proverbial blink of an eye.  And here I sit, searching for something worthwhile to say, and coming up blank.

My wife often suggests topics to write about.  For today’s blog, she said that maybe I could talk about how I replaced a faucet yesterday—the kind of task that would normally be beyond my reach—and quickly learned that you need the right tools, the right parts, and a willingness to make mistakes in order to succeed.  I could then compare that to writing and all of its stumbling blocks.  The moral, of course, being, as someone much wiser than me once said, that “many of the great achievements of the world were accomplished by tired and discouraged men who kept on working.”

Now that would have been a good topic.  Why didn’t I think of it?

Today’s Questions:

Are you a slug, or do you get out and exercise?  If you do, what kind of exercise do you like best?

And if you don’t, why the hell not?

At A Loss For Words

 

By Louise Ure

 

I have changed in many ways – some large, some small – since my husband died two and a half months ago. And not all of the changes have been bad.

I’ve lost almost forty pounds and grown stronger. I’ve taken on tasks that I previously thought I could never face and done them well. I even planted and grew a rose bush that looked more like a dowsing rod when I got it than a living plant.

I wound up replacing all my jackets, blazers, raincoats, vests and pocketed sweatshirts, not so much because of the weight loss as it was the mouse. Emboldened by the loss of the pup Cisco, my furry intruder screwed up his courage and scrambled his way into the pocket of each of my jackets where I kept the Charlie Bear dog treats for Cisco and his pals on the street. Then, fat and drowsy, he couldn’t climb out again, so he chewed through the bottom of each pocket in his escape. I tell you, I’m not putting cheese in the mouse trap anymore. I’m stuffing it with Charlie Bears.

But there have also been smaller, more insidious changes that I didn’t see coming and cannot explain.

I’ve suddenly become afraid of driving at night and have had to restructure my outings to venture forth only in daylight. One friend graciously humors me with 4:30 dinners at her house as if I were a Senior Citizen at an Early Bird buffet.

I can’t work crossword puzzles anymore. Remember my earlier facility with them? In ink. In three languages. In half the time of their “average solving.” It’s gone. I can’t even get the easy clues anymore.

And books hold less interest for me. I’m still reading, but taking no pleasure in either the world created there or the techniques the author used to bring that world to life. I hope that comes back.

And then there’s writing. Or, better stated, not writing.

I didn’t write at all during Bruce’s illness and decline; my mind only focused on him. But I also haven’t written during these ten weeks he’s been gone.

I am truly at a loss for words.

And part of me thinks that’s okay.

Unlike so many of my writer-brethren, I’ve never felt that writing defined me. I was successful and had accomplishments before I started writing and hope the same will someday be true again. Writing is one of the hardest jobs I’ve ever done and while I’m outrageously proud of the three books I’ve had published, I’d be perfectly happy if I never wrote another word again.

I’ve never felt “compelled” to write. Never felt that my day or my life would be incomplete without it.

I’m not here to announce my retirement from the writing community, at least not yet, but you’ll probably see more posts from me in the future that come from the point of view of a reader — an observer — rather than a writer. And what the hell, a reader’s slant might be a good addition here at Murderati.

In any case, it’s the best I can do. I have nothing to say.

 

Peace Out

They’re Ba-aaack

by Alafair Burke

You fellow crime junkies probably noticed two blast-from-the-past names in last week’s news, Joran Van der Sloot and John Mark Karr.  Turns out the men have more in common than the letter J, extra parts to their names, and oddly doughy skin. 

Turns out they might both be as dangerous as we crime junkies first suspected.

Joran Van der Sloot, you’ll recall, was one of the initial suspects in the disappearance and presumed murder of Natalee Holloway, an American high school student who went missing after leaving an Aruba hangout with Van der Sloot and his pals.  Although the men insisted they dropped Natalee off at her hotel, they were arrested multiple times as part of the investigation.  And although they were never charged, a Dutch journalist captured Van der Sloot on film in 2008 claiming that he had Natalee’s body dumped at sea after she collapsed on the beach.  That evidence was deemed insufficient to justify another detention.  Still later, the same journalist unearthed footage of Van der Sloot, then still only 21 years old, boasting of his involvement in sex trafficking.  The family’s lawyer wrote it off as fanciful talk.  Van der Sloot also told Greta van Susteren, only to recant his statement later, that he sold Natalee into slavery.

John Mark Karr’s previous appearance in the headlines was shorter lived than Joran’s, but no less freaky.  He shocked the world four years ago when he falsely confessed to the murder of JonBenet Ramsey.  The only thing the public could understand less than a child’s murder was a voluntary confession to one that the person didn’t actually commit. And the public learned more about Karr than the fact of his confession: his seeming obsession with access to grade schools and day cares, his two prior marriages to thirteen and sixteen year old girls, a prior arrest for child pornography, and his time spent in Thailand, with ready access to young girls in the sex trade.  But then the police debunked Karr’s confession and he, like Van der Sloot, faded from public — and apparently police — view.

Some will question why we ever obsessed over these cases in the first place.  The questioners raise a valid point.  The sad truth is that JonBenet and Natalee are only two among a sea of murder victims whose cases have never been solved.  The fact that they were both blonde, female, and attractive from white, upper-middle-class families is no doubt part (or all) of the answer.

 

 

But a separate question is why, once we decided to care about these cases, we ever stopped obsessing over Joran Van der Sloot and John Mark Karr.

Back at the D.A.’s Office, I’d hear cops say they just knew someone was up to no good.  With certain suspects, we’d joke (sorry, folks) that if the defendant didn’t do what we charged him with, he was certainly guilty of something.  The assumption was that our super-honed spidey senses could determine when someone was a dangerous recidivist. 

Of course, the empirical research suggests otherwise.  Turns out human beings, even experts, are horribly inaccurate at predicting future dangerousness.  Regardless, we continue to allow testimony about such predictions in court, allowing it to affect, for example, continued detention of sexual predators after they have served their sentences, parole determinations, and the life and death decisions of jurors in capital cases.

Part of the reason we probably continue to allow such evidence into court is because, despite the empirical data, we just cannot set aside our intuitive instinct that sometimes you just know.  And guys like John Mark Karr and Joran Van der Sloot reinforce those intuitions.

Van der Sloot was arrested last week on suspicion of murdering another young woman in Peru, exactly five years to the day that Natalee Holloway was last seen in his presence. Karr finds himself at the center of an investigation into bizarre allegations that he was attempting to start a “sex cult” of young girls resembling JonBenet.  The cult was to be called The Invincibles. 

The allegations, by the way, come from Karr’s former sixteen-year-old fiance, whom he met while serving as a teacher’s aide in her fourth grade class.  The former fiance also claims that Karr has been living as a woman under the name Alexis Reich to obtain greater access to young girls.  (Note to self: Has someone already used the gender-transition-but-only-to-be-a-mommy-to-little-girls twist for a book?  Because that’s some deliciously wicked stuff if contained to the fictional world.)

Facebook Profile of Alexis Reich (previously John Mark Karr) New York Magazine recently observed, with the requisite snark, that the “resurgence of these two scary clowns makes us feel like it’s 2006 all over again.”  The same article also asked more provocatively whether our initial obsession with the men is what made them reoffend, as if we created “the same kind of invincible-feeling, serial attention-seekers that we do with reality stars who continue to appear on show after show and perform stunt after stunt. Were you the best character in your last murder investigation? People are going to love you in this new one! But you’re really going to have to step up your game this time around.”

The notion that serial predators act out for further attention isn’t lost on me.  See, e.g., the Wichita police department’s reason for not immediately reporting the existence of the attention-starved BTK.  But given that neither Van der Sloot nor Karr seemed eager to have their latest deeds known, the magazine’s concerns seem misplaced.

Instead, I’m left wondering how many other nutjobs are wandering around as law enforcement waits for the inevitable phone call.  I just had the pleasure of reading Michael Connelly’s forthcoming book, The Reversal.  I don’t think I’ll spoil too much by saying that the book involves a suspected murderer who is released pending re-trial after his conviction is reversed.  The LAPD assigns an entire team to watch the defendant, knowing he’ll eventually cross a line that will get his release revoked.

But a suspect under a court’s jurisdiction can have limited rights, and a trial has a natural end date.  In most cases, law enforcement can’t track the folks who set their spider senses atingle, either because of concerns about harassment complaints, a lack of resources, or both.  They eventually let the suspect go, despite the bad feeling in their stomachs, and move on to the next case.  Until five years later, when he kills a woman in Peru.  Or four years later, when one of his young girlfriends realizes he’s a monster and runs to the police for protection.  Or never, because the spidey senses were wrong, or because the suspect never reoffended, or because he never got caught.

I know we like to close our posts with a question, but I find myself with too many questions and not enough answers.  Should someone have been watching these two?  But then what about all the false-positives — cases where we might be tempted to track (harass?), but where the suspect is innocent?  And, as we think about the lessons of these kinds of cases for our writing, why is it that the genre is so obsessed with the cold case – new case structure, where old stories and new offenses bleed together?  I know I’ve used the set-up a couple of times myself in what I thought were succcessful outings (see Angel’s Tip and Judgment Calls).  What are some of your favorite novels that have used the “they’re baa-aaack” structure?

If you enjoyed this post, please follow me on Facebook, Twitter, or my newsletter.

Reading: Finished Michael Connelly’s The Reversal; back onto Lee Child’s 61 Hours (I’m a happy reader!)

Watching: Get Him to the Greek; The Good Wife

Listening to: Psychedelic Furs

Stand By Me

By Allison Brennan

 

So . . . I was originally going to write about the difference between FRUSTRATION and DISCOURAGEMENT in pursuing publication, but then a news story caught my eye, and I was going to write about THAT but when I logged onto the Murderati Members Only site, I discovered that one of my more knowledgeable fellow bloggers has a brilliant post on the very subject I was going to discuss . . . 

So I went back to my FRUSTRATION v. DISCOURAGEMENT idea. Only, I don’t want to talk about being frustrated in this business, or discouraged. Because tonight I’m elated.

No, I haven’t hit any lists recently, nor have I heard any good news. In fact, as far as careers go, mine is in limbo. I’ve had some major upheavals recently, and honestly, probably shed more tears over writing and the business of writing in the last four months than in the four years I’ve been published. 

But I am elated. I’m calm because there’s one thing I have now that I never had at the beginning of my writing career:

Friends.

Okay, don’t feel too sorry for me. I had friends of course, and a very few who I consider close personal friends, like Trisha who I dedicated SPEAK NO EVIL to. (My first book I dedicated to my mom; my second to my husband; my third to a fallen sheriff’s deputy from my adopted hometown. So Trisha is a dear friend who got my fourth dedication!)

But in THIS business–publishing–“friends” means something completely different.

We have MySpace friends. And Facebook friends. People follow us on Twitter and subscribe to the RSS feeds on our blogs. They are FRIENDS–in the broad sense of the word. They either like our books, or want to learn about publishing, or met us at a conference and liked our humor (that would be Toni, not me!), or think that by friending us they are networking because my friends are your friends, in a mi casa et su casa kind of way (and no, I don’t speak Spanish–I took three years of Latin in high school–so if I got that wrong, don’t shoot me.)

But true friends are those you can vent to. Those you can commiserate with. Those who will stand by you No. Matter. What.

In publishing, especially when you’re in the same relative field of fiction, your friends can also be your competition. But true friends don’t consider that a reader may have to chose between their book and yours on pay day. A true friend will always give you the best advice they can because they love you and want you to succeed–because your success has nothing to do with their success.

In 2008, I attended the RWA conference in San Francisco. I regularly attend both Thriller Writers and Romance Writers because (surprise) I write romantic thrillers that I think appeal to both sides of the line. I went to the RWA conference coming off a great Thrillerfest, but at the same time I was stressed because of personal family issues and I was president of PASIC, the Published Author chapter of RWA, and had a major event to host. Evidentially I offended someone because I didn’t recognize them or I didn’t pay proper homage or I said something wrong. I don’t know, because I only heard about this third hand. It hit me then for the first time that maybe–just maybe–I needed to change. That when I left my hotel room, I needed to be “on” and “alert” at all times. 

I didn’t leave my hotel room much that conference. 

But one person was there for me, and understood what I said even when I didn’t make any sense. (Ah-ha! you’re all thinking, it must be Toni. You’re right!)

I have had some major ups and downs in my career, and Toni has stood by me from the very beginning. I have a few other friends who have always stood by me as well, and they know who they are. But when the world comes crashing down, or when I have terrific news, Toni is the first person I want to talk to.

I only met Toni after I sold, but before my book came out. We met online though Backspace, a group for writers (which I have sorely neglected of late.) We were both attending the first ThrillerFest in 2006 (Right after my first B2B2B trilogy came out.) Toni confessed that she was nervous and an introvert (she doesn’t act it, but she is! Trust me!) and wanted to know if I’d have a meal or two with her. We ate virtually every meal together, talked until the wee hours of the night, and I was so blessed that she actually liked me. (Toni is smart, funny, and a far better writer than I can ever hope to be.)

As my career progressed, I realized that sharing information or fears or worries or highs or lows wouldn’t be taken the same way by the same people. For example, if I am at all critical of something in my career, I have a half dozen people telling me they wish they had my problems. I want to shake them and say, really? You want them? You want to stay up until three in the morning for two weeks, knowing you have to get up at seven to get the kids to school because you have a tight deadline? But the grass is always greener, and some people think that the life of a bestselling author is all glamour and bon-bons and working 10-to-2.

Except the people who know better. 

There’s an urban legend that may be true, may be false, but I’m inclined to think it’s true. Apparently, someone cornered Nora Roberts in the elevator at one RWA and said, “OMG, I want to be you.” And allegedly, Ms. Roberts said, “Really? You want to be me?” And then laid into her. 

I read JT’s facebook status yesterday. On Saturday, she was working on her next book. I was working on revisions. My friend Christy Reece posted early in the morning that she was editing all day. 

I’m not sharing all this to get sympathy. I’m sharing today because I want you all to look around you. Who is the one person you can count on No. Matter. What? Who will stand by you if you rob a liquor store, murder your boss, or  . . . oh, wait. Sorry. Scratch that.

Who will stand by you while you vent? Complain? Even if you’re wrong, they’ll listen and give you loving correction, because they love you and want you to succeed. No matter what.

Thank you Toni, I would never have gotten through these last few months without you standing by me!

 

That’s Witch With a “W”.

 by Alexandra Sokoloff

It’s amazing how many ‘Rati have new books out this month.   Oh, right, I guess that’s what we do.

But yes, me too! –  my fourth supernatural thriller from St. Martin’s is out on Tuesday, Book of Shadows, my first novel without “The” in the title, and my favorite book so far. 

 

It’s about a very male, very rational (he thinks)  Boston homicide detective who reluctantly must team up with a very female, very irrational, mysterious (and of course, beautiful) witch from Salem, to solve what he thinks is a Satanic killing – which she insists involves a real demon.

As a lot of you know, my favorite thing as a writer is to walk that “Is it or isn’t it?” line between reality and the supernatural, and I think this may be my finest line yet.   Because this is actually a police procedural, but the question is, “Whatdunit?”  (Thanks, Dusty…)

And I can already tell I’m going to get in trouble with this post, but what the hell.   So to speak.

I have been fascinated with witches and the modern practice of witchcraft for as long as I can remember.   I mean, please, didn’t we all grow up with The Wizard of Oz, not to mention Halloween?  And in a way my book is precisely about that existential question posed by Glinda the Good, in her very first line of the movie:   “Are you a good witch, or a bad witch?”

And I don’t mean that just literally, but metaphorically.   Because the whole history of witchcraft seems to me to boil down to the question of whether women are good or bad.   For centuries, during the times of the old earth religions, witches were seen as good: healers, midwives, mystics, helpers, the folk equivalent of doctors.    In the Middle Ages (and I’m sure throughout history, but particularly starting in the Middle Ages), the organized, patriarchal church (and male doctors) tried to stamp out this manifestation of feminine power with the systematic torture and genocide of women in the form of the Inquisition.    Witches were evil, women were evil.

In the 1960’s, when societies were expanding the borders of ordinary consciousness, there was a newfound fascination with the earth religions and an upsurge in the practice of goddess worship, including witchcraft.     I’m sure all of us who grew up in California have known a practicing witch or two in our lives – anyone who’s ever been to the Renaissance Faire as many times as I have probably knows whole covens.

But get outside of California and OH, it’s a different story.   It’s always been hard for me to comprehend he defensiveness that arises in response to the suggestion that God might actually be female, too.   (Um, doesn’t even Genesis (that’s the Bible Genesis, rock stars…) say “God created man in his own image, male and female he created them”… ?)

I mean, I love you guys, you know I do – but you’re only HALF the human equation.

Try referring to God as “She” in, oh, the Bible Belt, for example, though.   Which yes, I do frequently, and I feel that collective internal gasp of horror around me   (And then women, girls, come up to me in private to say, ‘Thank you”).  

Women are just not supposed to have that kind of power.

So in Book of Shadows, I wanted to dive right in and explore some of those things that make some men – and a lot of women – uncomfortable with feminine power, and feminine energy,  and feminine sexuality, and feminine deity – the whole yin of things.    It’s noir, but it’s supernatural noir.    I wanted to take two people who were as different as I could make them on the surface:  male vs. female, rational vs. intuitive, doing vs. being, real world vs.  the unconscious, psychic world – even their cities are opposites:   Boston vs. Salem – and force them to work together and learn that they’re a lot more similar than they seem on the surface.

Actually I think my cop protagonist, while he doesn’t exactly trust this witch, probably with good reason, takes all of the above feminine stuff pretty much in stride, admirably so.   What he’s not so comfortable with is the idea that there might really be something supernatural going on in this troubling case.

One theme I come back to over and over again in my writing is the idea that messing around with the occult, or other dark forces (which you could say about drug abuse, or certain kinds of sex, or abuses of power)  can open doors that let undesirable elements through that aren’t so easy to get rid of.   And that young people are particularly prone to supernatural experimentation – and attack by supernatural predators as well as human ones. That’s definitely something that goes on in the book.   And some of my earliest exposure to that idea was my sixth grade study of the Salem Witch Trials.   (That’s right, isn’t it – we all got the Salem Witch Trials about sixth grade?)

The ambiguity of that situation has always drawn me.    Were the girls who accused the “witches” pawns of land-grabbing villagers?   Bored and frustrated pre-teens seizing the only power they’d ever have by acting out?   High on ergot?   Freaked out – maybe a little possessed – by their experimentation with voodoo under the tutelage of Tituba?     Wouldn’t you just kill to know?

I tried to capture some of that ambiguity in my accused killer, a troubled musician in a Goth band who has taken a little too much of an interest in that very bad real-life magician, Aleister Crowley. 

The research for this one was a real treat, too.   Of course I had a whole backlog of witch stories to draw on, from people I met working at the metaphysical bookstore The Bodhi Tree, in L.A. (and that’s also where I met a lot of grunge teens who were rabid about Crowley),  to attending ceremonies with Craft friends, including witnessing what for me was the real magic of “Calling the Corners”.    I’ve had a love affair with Boston since I set The Price, there – it’s not just layered with American history and an amazing art history as well, but there’s just something deliciously eerie to me about the whole place.   I got to go to Salem on Halloween (think Bourbon Street at Mardi Gras but with more witches, pirates, and Puritans).   And I was incredibly lucky to find a criminalist in the Boston Police Department who gave me an extensive tour of Schroeder Plaza, the department and the crime lab, and answered all kinds of technical questions for me.   It was one of those projects where even though circumstances around me were very complicated at the time, everything I needed for the book fell into my lap – I love it when that happens. 

Almost like… hmm, magic.

You can read the first couple of chapters on my website, (look for the link under “Excerpt”)  and I’ll gladly give away a copy to a randomly drawn commenter today.   (Will post winner here tomorrow).

And my questions for the day are –  What’s your take on witches?   Know any?   Are you familiar with the way witchcraft is actually practiced, or is that whole world completely mysterious to you?   Or do you do the odd spell or two yourself?

– Alex

 

 

XLVI

By Stephen Jay Schwartz

Next week I’ll be looking down the barrel of my forty-sixth birthday. 

And I honestly don’t know how I feel about that.  When I turned forty a wise cop told me that Life Begins at Forty.

He was right.  Everything in my life changed around that time.  My marriage which was in the early stages of collapse came to the intersection of Right and Wrong and my wife and I both chose to take a Right.  It was an unpaved road with bumps and potholes and sinkholes and it’s gotten so much smoother since.  We’ve poured a lot of concrete.

Early forties is when I decided to write my first novel.  And in 2009, at 45, the novel was published and the New Life began.

The thought that comes now is…how many good years do I have?  I should have written that book when I was in my twenties, dammit! 

And then it occurs to me that I couldn’t have written that book in my twenties.  I wasn’t fully formed.  I wrote my first screenplay in my twenties and look where it is now.  I mean, really, you have to look, hard, in some forgotten storage unit.

So at 45 I’m ready.  And those next fifteen, twenty, thirty or forty years are going to have to do.  But how much can I really do from 45 to 80?

Let’s talk about one of my favorite characters.  You’ve seen his face before.  If I open my wallet I’ll see him on a five-dollar bill.  I can’t remember if I’ve ever seen his face on a higher denomination bill.

Benjamin Franklin.  Died when he was 84.  Lifted weights right up until the end.  When he was 81 he was the oldest delegate working on the U.S. Constitution.

He didn’t really do anything we remember him for before the age of 42.  Sure, he ran that printing press.  Had his own paper, the Pennsylvania Gazette.  Printed Poor Richard’s Almanac.  All great things, of course.

In 1748, when he was 42, he placed the printing business in the hands of his partner and turned to other interests.  There was so much more he wanted to do with his life.

And then he did them.  He wanted to figure out the nature of lightening.  He was a curious fellow.  So he put his mind to it and, well, you know the kite-and-key story.  He captured lightening in a jar, then created the first electric battery.  Then he came up with the lightening rod, which saved many houses and many lives.  

He was interested in the currents of the ocean and he studied them, and discovered and named the Gulf Stream.  He created the Franklin Stove, a device which directed heat from a fireplace into a room.  He invented a better street lamp, one that would burn all night.

I’m sure many of you appreciate the fact that he invented bifocal glasses.

He invented the glass harmonica.  He invented an artificial arm.  He founded the Library Company of Philadelphia.  He founded the Union Fire Company, which was the first volunteer fire department in the U.S.  He became Philadelphia’s postmaster and then was named acting postmaster for America.  He founded the Philadelphia Academy and the Pennsylvania Hospital. 

In 1751 he ran for an Assembly seat and won.  He was 45 years old.  He raised troops and served as a general in the French and Indian War.  He served in the Continental Congress to win the war against England.  He was working 12-hour days in Congress at the age of 69.

He helped write the Declaration of Independence.  He became governor of Pennsylvania.  At the age of 70 he began counting his age backwards every year, so that by the time he was 82 he was telling people he was 58. 

He tried to end slavery and served as president of an anti-slavery society.  He was trying to pass a bill to end slavery when he died. 

Okay, then.  My second book will be published when I’m 46.  Hopefully I’ll write a book a year, so by the time I’m 80 I’ll have…oh, you do the math.  And I still want to have a film directing career.  If I direct my first feature when I’m 49 then I can pump out a few films before I die.  Ten sounds like a good number.  Damn, I also want to get up to speed on the saxophone again, and I want to learn to play guitar and maybe electric bass.  I want to learn at least three languages – French, Italian and Spanish.  I’ve had an interest in sword-fighting for years, so that goes on the list.  And, as long as I’m writing and directing films, I might as well do some acting.  I kind-of like that whole Bono scene, you know, being a world diplomat, saving the planet, stopping wars, feeding the hungry.  Really, that’s always been on my list.  As long as we’re talking about Bono, I wouldn’t mind learning how to sing.  I still think I’ve got a shot at being a rock star. 

What, you don’t think I can do it all?  Do I need to go over Ben Franklin’s list again?  At least I’m not trying to invent anything.  That’ll free up some time.

So, what do you guys want to do with the rest of your years?

 

SHADOW OF BETRAYAL

By Brett Battles

I share my very good friend Rob’s reluctance toward self-promotion. But, unlike him, I do not have a wonderful wife reminding me that I should do it anyway. So I hope he doesn’t mind (and you all don’t either) but I’m going to borrow the spirit of his wife and do a little (brief) BSP today. 

On the same day Rob’s new book DOWN AMONG THE DEAD MEN came out last week, the mass paperback edition of my last book, SHADOW OF BETRAYAL, also arrived here in the states. Here’s a little teaser:

The meeting place was carefully chosen: an abandoned church in rural Ireland just after dark. For Jonathan Quinn—a freelance operative and professional “cleaner”—the job was only to observe. If his cleanup skills were needed, it would mean things had gone horribly wrong. But an assassin hidden in a tree assured just that. And suddenly Quinn had four dead bodies to dispose of and one astounding clue—to a mystery that is about to spin wildly out of control.

There are a couple of things I incorporated into SHADOW OF BETRAYAL that are personal to me. One would be most of the California locations. For the most part I tried to use places I frequent now or did in the past, and places that have special meaning for me. Also, there is a special child that is a central character in this book, a little girl named Iris who happens to have Down Syndrome. Down Syndrome, as some of you know, is a big part of my life as my son (who is just a week away from graduating Junior High) was born with it. These are some of the most wonderful, loving children in the world, and I hope I’ve been able to show that affectively with Iris.

So if you get a chance please visit your local independent bookstore or wherever you prefer to shop and pick up a copy. My pretend wife wants me to tell you that you’ll definitely enjoy it!


One last thing for any UK fans out there. In the UK, SHADOW OF BETRAYAL is called THE UNWANTED. The paperback edition for THE UNWANTED will be out October 14th, but a little treat here as I’ve just received the new paperback cover!

Thanks for indulging me, folks. Little to no more BSP from me until Apirl!

 

 

 

Okay, all…I’m going to give away two copies of SHADOW OF BETRAYAL, so in the comments let me know one of your favorite places. I’ll then put everyone’s names in a digital hat and pull out two lucky winners! (I’ll post the names of the winner in the comments, too, late Thursday night. So check back. I’ll need to get your address from you!)

 

Ready. Set. Go!

Let Me Take You To The Movies, Let Me Take You To the Show…

by J.D. Rhoades

It’s summer, and summer means big movies. A lot of us here at Murderati are big movie fans.Some have actually worked in show business. And some of us, to put it mildly, have really been through some bad stuff lately. I don’t know about you, but one of the things I can always count on to take my mind off the bad stuff for a little while is to zone out with a good movie. Or even a bad one.

 Here, therefore, is one ‘Rati’s far from comprehensive list of what looks good, what looks bad, and what looks mockably ugly at the movie house this summer. 

SEX AND THE CITY 2: I rather liked the HBO series when I first saw it, but by the time it stumbled to a close, I was getting weary of the characters, so I didn’t see the first movie. Nor do I plan to see the second. So why bring it up? Mostly because it gives me the chance to link to this  review, which I regard as the Best. Review. Ever. 

IRON MAN 2:  If you liked the first one, you’ll like this one. I did. Unfortunately, still no Black Sabbath on the soundtrack, but they make do with AC/DC. Robert Downey Jr. is funny, the battle suits are still way cool, Scarlett Johanssen kicks serious ass, and Gwyneth Paltrow really looks like she could use a decent meal. 
 

 

See what I mean? 
 
 WINTER’S BONE: Oh boy oh boy oh boy. I cannot wait for this movie. I don’t know anything about the director or any of the near-unknowns starring in it, but  Daniel Woodrell’s book was as dark and brutal a slice of redneck noir as you’ll find anywhere. I definitely wouldn’t recommend it as a light and frothy date movie. Still. 
 
 
THE KILLER INSIDE ME: Casey Affleck stars  as Jim Thompson’s sociopathic  sheriff Lou Ford. I didn’t think Affleck could pull off Patrick Kenzie in GONE BABY GONE, but damned if he didn’t do it, and I do love me some Jim Thompson. And it’s got Jessica Alba, apparently getting nekkid. So this one’s on my list. 
 
 
PREDATORS: Why? Why does this this movie exist? What was wrong with the original (the only movie to star two future state governors) that someone felt it needed to be remade? Is there any way Adrian Brody can pull off deathless lines like “If eet bleeds, ve can kill eet” and “GET TO DA CHOPPAAAH!” with the same panache as the Governator? We think not. 
 
GET HIM TO THE GREEK: Looks an awful lot like a rip-off of the 1982 film MY FAVORITE YEAR, another movie about a hapless underling trying to keep a wacked out, substance-abusing  star together long enough to make the big show. Russell Brand plays the Peter O’Toole role in the update, and while Brand’s no O’Toole, he’s still pretty damn funny, as is Jonah Hill. A definite maybe. 

JONAH HEX: Loved the comic. Love Josh Brolin. Love John Malkovich as a villain.  Hate Megan Fox’s “ain’t ah just the sexiest thang” drawl in the previews. Giving this one a miss. 

THE A-TEAM: Looks dumb. Probably is dumb. But that’s the point. Waiting for the reviews on this one.  If I hear that it can pull off dumb with style, then I’ll check it out. Actually, I’ll probably just wait for the DVD. 

THE EXPENDABLES: Sylvester Stallone directs a who’s who of action movie stars: Himself,  Jason Statham, Jet Li, Bruce Willis, Mickey Rourke, Dolph Lundgren, “Stone Cold” Steve Austin, and–do my eyes deceive  me?-Arnold Schwarzenegger his own bad self, in a shoot ’em up, blow-em-up,  action movie about mercenaries trying to pull off a coup in a mythical South American country.  How could this possibly go wrong? Well, plenty of ways actually.  It could be a mess. It could also be the most brain-meltingly awesome movie ever. I have got to be there to find out. 
 
 

THE TWILIGHT SAGA: ECLIPSE: No. Just no. And here’s why (clip NSFW): 
 

So  how about you guys? What’s on your must-see and must-miss lists this summer? 

On booksignings and BEA

I had the pleasure of attending BEA in NYC last week, joining the whirlwind round of publishing parties, panel discussions, and of course the author signings.  Although everyone I spoke to said the convention was quieter than usual this year, things certainly seemed to be bustling as I got out of my taxi at the entrance to the Jacob Javits Center.

The first thing I saw was a humongous two-sided billboard for Karin Slaughter’s upcoming book.  It was stunningly gorgeous and absolutely unmissable by anyone entering the building. 

Once inside the building, it took only a glance to see which books are getting big money thrown at them.  And judging by all the posters, the big title this year seems to be Justin Cronin’s hefty post-apocalyptic novel, THE PASSAGE.  Just in case convention goers missed seeing the posters, the title was plastered across all the plastic badge carriers you had to wear around your neck, turning every participant into a walking mini billboard for THE PASSAGE.  I guarantee, there isn’t a single convention goer who didn’t walk out with that title branded in their brains.

Other big names were, of course, getting big promotional splashes.  John Grisham.  Jon Stewart.  Marlo Thomas.  Barbra Streisand.  Unfortunately, I didn’t get to see any of their presentations because those were hot-ticket events.  The one speech I really wish I could have witnessed was the one by Sarah Ferguson, in what had to be an excruciatingly uncomfortable presentation by a celebrity doused in the fresh reek of disgrace.  One editor told me, “Thank god I didn’t buy her book!  What a nightmare it must be, trying to promote it at this moment in time!”

I had quite a bit of free time to wander the convention floor, and stopped in at the Mystery Writers of America booth, where I got a sweet hug from Margery Flax.  The most eye-popping booth was sponsored by Saudi Arabia, a gorgeous mini-Sultan’s palace with artfully displayed books.  Workman Publishing also got my vote for a fun display that made you want to sit right down on the floor and play with the merchandise.  In what looks like a peek into the future, there were quite a few booths offering services to authors eager to self-publish their e-books.  And plenty of booths were devoted to graphic novels. 

What astonishes me every time I visit these book shows is the vast range of what’s being published, from books about fly-tying for fisherman to books about — well, everything.  If there’s a subject that wasn’t covered by some book, somewhere in that convention, I can’t think of it.  As usual, I found myself drawn to the quieter corners of the trade floor.  Instead of fighting the crowds at the Hachette and Harper Collins booths, I wandered past booths where authors sat with displays of their self-published novels.  It was sobering to see how few convention goers seemed to take any interest in stopping by those booths, or even making eye contact with the authors.  The  self-published books offered a few interesting possibilities.  I lingered over a promising YA advice book about what it takes to become a doctor, and a few woo-woo books about the occult snagged my attention, but there was a wide range in how those self-published books were packaged.  Some looked absolutely professional; others were downright pitiful.  

On my last day, I took my place at the authors’ signing booths, where we gave away 100 copies of ICE COLD.  These signings can be excruciating for a new author who sits and stares at empty space while a line snakes around the corner for the hotshot author sitting next to him.  This time, I was happy to see a line waiting for me.  But that certainly wasn’t the case in times past.  One bookseller who came up to get her book signed reminded me of the first time she’d met me at a book fair years ago.  “You didn’t have anyone waiting in your line back then.  I felt so sorry for you, sitting there all alone.”

And that’s how it usually igoes for every new author.  The days when you just have to grin and bear it as you sit with your stacks of unwanted galleys, waiting for someone — anyone — to take pity on you and ask for your book.  (Did I mention these are free books?  Oh, the humiliation, when no one wants your book even when it’s free!)

If you’re a new author, it helps to remember that John Grisham went through the same humiliating ritual when he was starting out.  So did we all.  There’s nothing like being a writer to experience the sting of rejection.

Want to know just how humiliating a book signing can be? Watch this video.  It’s a riot.