SOMETIMES YOU CAN GO HOME AGAIN

By Brett Battles

(First off, today’s the first day of Left Coast Crime right here in my town of Los Angeles, California. If you’re attending, make sure you stay hi when you see me!)

Today I thought I’d share a story about living the writer’s life. Hope you enjoy it.

I grew up in a community of about 25,000. It’s actually two communities that basically operate as one. China Lake is a military base, and Ridgecrest is the town that surrounds it.

To get anywhere of comparable size you had to drive over an hour though empty desert. And if you wanted to go to the big city – in our case Los Angeles – it was at least 2 1/2 hours, and usually more if you hit traffic.

Did I say empty desert? I guess that really depends on how you look at it. There were times in my life I noticed all the mountain peaks and dry river washes and odd rock formations, and there times when I thought it was just one big, endless expanse of brown.

I moved away a good twenty-five years ago, and my parents moved less than five years after that. Which meant I no longer had family there, so return visits became fewer and farther between, until it became an every five of six years kind of thing.

But even with my infrequent visits, and even though I’ve been a big city guy for the last quarter century, Ridgecrest has always been with me because it’s my hometown.

Why am I bringing this up now? Two reasons: 1) my next book NO RETURN is set entirely in the Ridgecrest/China Lake area, and 2) [the thing most forefront in my mind at the moment] last week I returned there because I’d been Invited to talk to the local branch of the California Writers Club.

The invitation came early last December, and I immediately accepted. I can’t tell you how much I was looking forward to returning. I’ve been hoping to go back to speak at an event for a long time. So it was with more than just a little bit of excitement that I drove up last week.

I got in town about three hours before I was to meet with the group’s leaders for dinner prior to the meeting. I spent two of those hours just driving around and taking in the old and the new. It’s a small town, so that meant I made several circuits before I finally stopped at Starbucks and read a book for an hour. So much was the same, and so much was different. It was, as I think I posted on Facebook at the time, surreal.

Dinner was very nice. One of the leaders of the group was actually the mother of an old friend I’d gone to school with since at least junior high, if not before. I remember actually going to her house for a birthday sleepover party for her son. It was nice talking to all of them and hearing about life there, which really wasn’t that different from when I lived there.

As I drove from the restaurant to the place where the talk was to take place, I started to get nervous, which was odd. I don’t get nervous before speaking to crowds. Ten people, a hundred, a thousand, more…it doesn’t matter. (THANK YOU high school drama club!) But this time I did get nervous. See, there’d been a feature article the local paper about me speaking…think “hometown boy makes good.” I knew there might be a lot of people there I knew from my past, so I guess I was worried about screw up in front of them…and, I think, also a little concerned no one I knew would show up.

Turns out I didn’t have to worry about anything. There were old high school friends, parents of old high school friends (including the father of the girl I dated junior year at high school), and even friends of my parents. And as soon as I started greeting them before the talk began, I realized it didn’t matter if I screwed up or not, we were all just happy to see each other.

There ended up being between 40 and 50 people there. I was told it was one of the larger meetings the writers group has had…they even had to bring in a lot of extra chairs from elsewhere in the building.

It felt so good being there, and talking to my hometown friends. I even did something I’ve never done at a talk before. I read from one of my books…actually from the book that will be out next year, the one set in Ridgecrest.

And after the meeting, I was able to go out for a drink with a friend I’d probably first met in third grade. It was great catching up with him. He’s had an eventful life to say the least, but still has a smile on his face and a positive attitude about life.

The next morning, after being interview on the local FM station, I headed back home to Los Angeles, thinking how much I enjoyed the visit, and looking forward to the next time. And there will be a next time.

Alright, Murderati…many of you have probably moved away from the hometown you grew up in. Love to hear what it’s like for you when you return to your old stomping grounds.

Please excuse the lack of responses today from me as I’ll be at the conference trying (not to hard) to avoid the allure of the bar.

Perhaps I should be drinking this: (via i09.com) Scientists Have Discovered Booze That Won’t Give You A Hangover!

Separated By a Common Language

by J.D. Rhoades

As most of you know, I live in a Southern state. Since my area is a big resort destination, though, we have a lot of transplants from various places, particularly the Northeast and, for some reason, Ohio. (Will the last person out of Akron please turn off the lights?)

There are any number of funny stories illustrating the linguistic misunderstandings that occur between Americans and our British cousins (Hi Zoe!) I may have told the story here of the time I was working as a DJ in a hotel bar and played a song that’s popular in the Southeastern US extolling the joys of “shagging” (it’s a dance). This led to much consternation on the part of a nice British couple at a nearby table. The disconnect led George Bernard Shaw to famously observe that the British and the Americans are “two peoples separated by a common language.”

You don’t have to cross the ocean, however, to find locutions that puzzle, baffle, and confuse. We get plenty of that with folks from right here within our own national borders. Most often, I see it in court, which is the place where worlds collide. Lately I’ve been hearing so many examples in the day job that I figured I might was well use them in a Murderati post, for you fans of using regionalisms in your writing–and, frankly, because they amuse me.

“I want to say”: this is used by someone who’s really not sure of an answer, but who’s giving it their best guess. Such as:

Q: “How long did the two of you live together?”
A: “I want to say…two years?”

Clueless comeback: “Don’t tell me what you want to say, tell me the truth.”

A: “Huh?”

“Whenever”: this is used as a substitute for “when.” Example “Whenever I was in high school…”

Clueless comeback: “Wait, how many times did you go?”

A: “Huh?”

“Kindly”: Its use is fading a bit, but you still hear older people from out in the country use this one to mean “kind of.” I once heard an older lady, from the teeming metropolis of Black Ankle, North Carolina, admit on the stand that her son had, on occasion, been “kindly violent.” A social worker from (of course) Ohio, who’d been involved in the case, immediately got into a state of the highest dudgeon. When it was her turn on the witness stand she blasted the old woman: “That’s what’s wrong with this family! There’s no such thing as ‘kindly violent!” Embarassed silence. Finally the judge (who, as it happens, was born and raised in the same county as the old lady) leaned over and asked the social worker: “you’re not from around here, are you?”

“Talking“: This was common in the African American community a few years ago. It means, basically, having sex. I rermember talking to a client who had cross warrants with an older man for assault with a deadly weapon. He informed me that it was all a result of a misunderstanding involving the older fellow’s daughter: “Me and her been talking for while and I guess her daddy got mad.” So, I naturally thought the older fellow had overreacted to someone merely striking up a conversation with his litte girl, and I was all ready to paint him as the unreasonably violent agressor. Fortunately, an older colleague set me straight before I made a colossal ass of myself. More than usual, I mean.

So, wherever you’re from, tell me what regionalisms from your area tend to befuddle the average outsider. Or tell me about a localism that befuddled you.

What would Jane Rizzoli eat?

by Tess Gerritsen

I’m the daughter of a professional chef. My father’s family owned a popular seafood restaurant in San Diego called Tom Lai’s, and in that noisy, chaotic kitchen, my dad performed culinary miracles. Six days a week, he’d wake up before dawn to buy the fresh catch off the fishing boats. He’d spend the morning fileting the fish, then he’d cook for the lunch crowd, followed by cooking for the dinner crowd, followed by the cleanup. He’d get home around midnight, fall into bed — and be up the next morning to start all over again. That was his schedule, six days a week, fifty weeks a year.

Growing up in a chef’s family, I learned that the restaurant business is not for the faint of heart. It requires superhuman stamina and dedication and an abiding passion for food. While I don’t have my dad’s stamina, I did inherit his obsessive passion for food, and I have an eerie memory for meals I’ve eaten over the years. I don’t remember faces, I don’t remember names or dates, but I sure as heck remember the exquisite asparagus I ate at L’Arpege in Paris and the mahi filet at Burdine’s in Marathon and the fried lettuce (it sounds weird but it was delicious) at the long-gone Nanking Restaurant in San Diego.

In fact, not only do I remember what I ate, I often remember what other people ate.

A few weeks ago, while I was visiting New York City, I had dinner with friends, another married couple. We got to talking about the year we’d all had dinner together in Paris. It was 2003, and we ate at a lovely little restaurant called Flora’s. I looked at my friend’s husband. “And you ordered the turbot,” I said.

He looked a little startled. “Wow,” he said. “You remember that?”

Yes, peculiarly enough, I do — even seven years after the fact. I’m the idiot savant of past meals. I’ll play the same game with my husband, too. “Remember nine years ago, when we had dinner at such-and-such restaurant, and you ordered those lovely snails?” I’ll ask him.

“You remember I ordered snails?” he’ll respond. “I don’t even remember the restaurant!”

As someone who thinks way too much about food in real life, it’s not surprising that I think a lot about fictional food, too. I often find myself asking: “What would Jane eat?” or “What would Maura eat?” It’s not as trivial a question as you’d think, because what a character eats reveals a lot about them. It can tell you their family history, their ethnic background, whether they grew up in a city or a small town, whether they’re choosy or undiscriminating, whether they’re neurotic or obsessive or bursting with joie de vivre. It might even tell you something about their political persuasion.

Your characters’ dining habits also reflect their skills in the kitchen, and whether or not they value those skills. Which again tells you something about who they are as people.

Jane Rizzoli, one of the two co-stars in my thriller series, is a Boston homicide detective. She grew up in a blue-collar family with a homemaker mother, so she’s been exposed to the role model of a woman who cooks, and cooks well.

But don’t expect to read too many scenes with Jane cooking dinner. She certainly knows how to, because she grew up in an Italian-American kitchen. But Jane has struggled all her life to be accepted as “one of the guys.” She’s tried to project toughness and professionalism, and cooking symbolizes a traditionally female role that she’s been trying to escape from. She has a love/hate relationship with the kitchen, and only when she’s with her mother do we see Jane’s inner Italian chef emerge as she cooks gnocchi and veal sauce and roast lamb and cannoli. (Naturally, I had to test out those recipes myself first.)

Jane’s diet isn’t limited to home-cooked Italian food. In the eight books she’s appeared in, Jane has eaten fried fish and lobster rolls, barbecue and french fries. She’s very much an all-American, middle-class gal who’d choose beer over wine, hot dogs over sushi, and would probably not go hunting for exotic French cheeses at her local grocery store.

Then there’s Dr. Maura Isles, Jane’s co-star in the series. Maura grew up in San Francisco, trained as a physician, and she has a great deal more disposable income. She also has far more exotic tastes. In BODY DOUBLE, she cooks herself a spicy Thai dinner with fresh basil. When her lover comes to visit, she cooks him osso bucco and opens a bottle of Amarone wine. But when she’s exhausted and depressed and too tired to cook, you’ll find her hunched over a grilled cheese sandwich, washed down with a gin and tonic.

Yes, not only does food help define who your character is, it also helps define mood. A dinner of scrambled eggs says: “in a hurry.” A dinner of home-made risotto says: “willing to fuss long and lovingly over the stove.” And a dinner of Oreo cookies — well, that’s just plain pitiful.

I realize that I’m guilty of stereotyping here. Although we hear sneers about “latte liberals” and the snooty “white wine and Brie cheese set”, taste in food can cross class and cultural and regional lines. But as writers, we have to consider whether a character’s particular choice of foods seems a bit … unexpected. And if it is, we need to explain it. A neurosurgeon who loves Cheese whiz? Um, needs explanation. A Bostonian who eats grits? Again, needs explanation. But a San Francisco artist who dines on sushi one night, tacos the next, and Thai food on the weekends?

No explanation required.

What to do . . .

by Guest Blogger

(David Corbett is someone I’ve known and respected for years. A couple of weeks ago, he was so moved by some of the posts here, that he asked if he could contribute a message close to his heart. I am certain everyone here at the ‘Rati can benefit from David’s personal experience and wisdom.
Pari)

If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call.

This is the sentence most people who are grieving from a devastating personal loss, or suffering through a crisis, hear over and over and over and over. It is almost always well-intended. Unfortunately, it also reveals a fundamental misunderstanding of what the person is going through.

In this country, where individual initiative, responsibility, stoic resilience and good-natured optimism are so prized, one seldom feels as unattractive, unworthy, uninteresting and burdensome as when withstanding some personal crisis or struggling through a terrible loss.

The sorrow is so disorienting, the rage so unpredictable, the numbness so leaden—while the rest of the world quite rightly goes on about its daily business—that one comes to think that the best thing to do is hide away. You feel like a raw and suppurating wound. You can’t imagine anyone wanting to waste time with you and you don’t blame them. You’re sick of yourself.

So if someone tells you that, if you need anything, just call, they’re missing the point on two scores. One, you have no clue what you need, except for this part of your life to end. And you wouldn’t dream of asking anyone for anything—the imposition feels obscene. Why stain anyone else’s life with your pathetic relentless misery?

As a friend, you need to instead do something. Stop by with food, for example. Nothing was more valuable to me after my wife died than a neighbor’s bringing frozen dinners she’d prepared that I could microwave if I finally did recover my appetite. Everything tastes like sand, cooking feels too intimate, too laden with memories of shared meals—and so having someone else bring food is a surprising grace note.

As odd as it may seem, providing help with chores is also incredibly helpful. My friends came by and helped me one weekend in the garden. I can’t tell you how much that meant to me.

And of course just stopping by. Or calling. Or sending a card.

The problem is, we feel as though we’re imposing, violating the chapel of our friend’s sorrow. Well, yeah, you may be doing just that. But the tendency of someone going through a terrible ordeal is toward isolation, and that’s just unhealthy. You have to be willing to risk being a bother, a nuisance, a nag, and accept criticism or irritability if that’s the case. Apologize, discreetly withdraw. Your love for the person and hers or his for you will survive such things. You’re going to make mistakes, you’re going to show up at the wrong time, you’re going to stay too long, you’re going to say the wrong thing and offer the wrong help and blunder in who knows how many other ways. Get over yourself. Give up on perfection. Grief is the realm where perfection vanishes forever. You’re not going to be a perfect friend. You’re just going to give as much as you can and try to sense when enough is enough, it’s time to go. And there is no smart little guidebook for that. You will simply have to pay attention, open your heart, trust your instincts. And be willing to mess up.

Don’t leave it up to the person going through the ordeal to decide for you what the right thing to do is. That’s abdicating your responsibility as a friend. It’s putting your fear of doing or saying the wrong thing ahead of genuinely caring. Be willing to enter with him or her into this new world, where nothing is right, all the cues are mistaken, and simply putting one foot in front of the other borders on the miraculous. If you can do that, share the devastation and give up on being the perfect pal, be willing to accept some hard feelings if you cross the line (understanding that you cannot be spared anger, you cannot be spared the feeling of not having enough to give, not in this situation), you’ll offer a gift of genuine friendship and concern. You will have shown yourself willing to understand what it means to enter a world where nothing is right, at least not yet. That’s courage. That’s love.

David Corbett has published four critically acclaimed novels: The Devil’s Redhead, Done for a Dime, Blood of Paradise, and Do They Know I’m Running? His short fiction has appeared in numerous anthologies, including Best American Mystery Stories 2009. Visit him at www.davidcorbett.com

(Pari here: I’ll be around today — as will David from time to time — so please, let us know what you think. I know that so much of what he writes here is absolutely true. Grief is incredibly nonlinear. The friends I remember most from those times in my life were often people at whom I raged the loudest. But they stuck by me and it made all the difference in the world. David’s message today gives each one of us a small roadmap to help those we love.)

TAXES, ZOMBIES AND DUST BUNNIES, OH MY!

(Please give a warm welcome to friend of Murderati Robin Burcell, who is standing in for Toni today.)

In how a writer of international thrillers about covert government agencies and conspiracy theories discovers a dark secret… about herself.

It’s the beginning of March and I have already failed at my New Year’s resolution.

For this reason, I am coming out of the closet, and I am willing to admit my grave secret to the world: I am a horizontal filer. Before you pull out your can of Lysol, rest assured that it isn’t highly contagious—unless you get bitten. Horizontal filers, if you don’t know, are people who usually place important things in the open, because if they file it vertically (as in a real file) they fear they will forget about it. Horizontal filers tend to fall into the out-of-sight, out-of-mind type. And, as you are wondering if it can get any worse (it can), they are probably procrastinators. Which is why they have the IRS. The IRS, as you know, is that not-so-covert government agency that forces horizontal filers like me not only into putting little pieces of paper into a vertical file, but also into sorting them out into organized groups.

This is completely unnatural. If you haven’t guessed this by now, horizontal filers have messy desks. And probably messy countertops. And they hate tax time, which is coming up very quickly.

I’ll wager that horizontal filers who are also writers probably have the same #1 New Year’s resolution. Most of you are thinking that would be to clean the desk, but you would be wrong. It is to find that receipt from your last purchase at Walmart before the 90 days expires and they force you to accept a discounted return price on a Walmart gift card, which, thankfully, has no expiration date, even if you are only getting ten cents to the dollar.

Every year I resolve to turn that clean-the-desk resolution into a routine. And ever year I fail. I clean off my desk, and it stays that way for maybe a day or two at the most. My thinking is that if my desk is clean, I can write books much faster, because it will free my imagination. I suspect, however, that this is an elaborate government conspiracy to get me to clean off my desk before tax time, so that I can find my checkbook to write the IRS a check.

What keeps me from maintaining a clean desk is the piles of papers, magazines I intend to read, business cards from conferences, and everything else that doesn’t get handled that month (like any bill that doesn’t have a late payment penalty). All of these things get shoved in a pile, with the thought that if I didn’t need it this month or next, it can be moved to the side of the desk instead of right in front of the computer in the priority pile. And that is how I discovered the dual purpose of drawers. You can pull them out and use them to pile even more papers on top, like an extended desk shelf.

If the stacks of paper get really bad, I might grab a file box, and shove everything in that, fully intending to go through it before it gathers dust beneath the desk. It may even be how I discovered the plot to my last book, THE BONE CHAMBER, because when I do get around to attempting to clean, it’s a lot like archeology. Layers of things that you can decipher by month and year. Old photos, bank statements, catalogs, conference programs, etc., etc. And sometimes, like in my book, I discover treasures that may actually be dangerous to all of mankind. Unlike my book, anything found on my desk is not several hundred or even two thousand years old. I’m not even that old. Even without Adobe Photoshop.

Every so often, I whittle that mountain of papers down to a short stack maybe an inch thick (which, considering this year started off as two file boxes of stuff, is pretty darn good). It’s that little bitty pile left over that keeps me from succeeding, which makes me wonder if there is the precursor to the zombie virus on my desk, because that pile of papers has a life of its own. I can separate it, move it, bury it in a box and it always comes back. I have not yet tried to fire bullet rounds through it, because there is a law about this in city limits, because the city council has not yet recognized the dangerousness of such a virus. And yet each time, I find myself putting aside the very same pile of leftover stuff as the time before: In it are two Christmas cards circa 2002/03, one to an editor who left the business several years back, and one to my agent. The cards never made it to the mail, and I figured I’d send them the next year. (I haven’t sent out cards since the twins were born in 1995, so the fact I actually partially addressed two envelopes is pretty amazing.) With them are a stack of cards or letters I’ve received, dating as far back as 2000, from people I had always planned to write back to—and clearly never did—perhaps with the idea that I’d let them know about my latest book.

What’s a horizontal filer like me to do? I keep that little pile of things clipped to a clipboard, put it aside—never to be revisited until the next time I attempt to clean the desk. Problem is that the pile on the clipboard grows, propagates, breeds like dust bunnies atop and beneath the desk, and I have to get another box, sometimes even a shopping bag to catch the spillover. Now before you get any bright ideas, I have already tried putting money on the pile to see if it would grow. It does not. The IRS has infused money with the anti-zombie virus—a good thing to know should the zombies attack. Most recently as I worked my way through the papers, all the way down to the annual stack from the clipboard, I ruthlessly tossed those cards and letters. Just threw them all away. They went into the recycle bin with the catalogs and the junk. It wasn’t easy, but I did it. And if my friends and relatives haven’t figured out that I have a new book out by now without me sending notice, they never will.

We’ll see if that keeps my desk clean, or if it’s just wishful thinking on my part. How about you? Horizontal filer? And if so, what is the secret to keeping your desk clean?

Robin Burcell, an FBI-trained forensic artist, has worked as a police officer, detective and hostage negotiator. The Bone Chamber is her latest international thriller about an FBI forensic artist. Visit her website at: www.robinburcell.com/

The Lost Library of My Dreams

By Cornelia Read

I was randomly Googling my Great-Grandfather William A. Read a couple of weeks ago. I don’t know a huge amount about him, since Dad is a little nuts and doesn’t like to talk about his family all that much.

Here is what I do know (mostly from a book about the investment bank he founded The Life and Times of Dillon Read, by Andrew Sobel):

He graduated from Brooklyn Polytechnic at the age of nineteen, and went to work for a bond house called Vermilye & Company. He could apparently write with both hands at the same time, composing a letter with one while solving equations with the other. He formed his own bank, William A. Read & Company, which later became Dillon, Read. He was walleyed, and always wore violets in his lapel. He invented the bond issue which underwrote the construction of the first subway system in New York City. Four of his sons, including my grandfather, his namesake, were naval aviators in World War I. By that time, however, he was no longer around, having died in 1916 of the flu. He was fifty-two years old.

An older cousin once told me that her father (my grandfather’s brother Bayard) had sold his shares in Dillon Read before the 1929 stock market crash. He got $29 million for them. My grandfather waited until after the crash and “only” got $6 million for his. I’ve often wondered what it must have been like to have six million bucks, cash, at the outset of the Depression. It’s kind of astonishing to think about the lengths my grandfather must have gone to to squander all of that by the time he died in 1976. I figure he must have stayed up late at night, pondering ludicrous investments.

But when I Googled his father the other day, I found something else that was exceedingly bizarre–something I’d never heard about. On a rare book site, a copy of the hardbound 1936 auction catalog of “The Splendid Library and Collection of Historical and Literary Autographs of the Late Mr. and Mrs. William A. Read.” It was offered for twenty-five dollars, and extremely oddly, this volume was for sale at a rare bookstore a block from my apartment in Exeter.

The stuff parted with at this auction included a letter from Elizabeth Barrett Browning to Poe (“her reply to him for his dedication of The Raven and Other Poems to her”),

from John Keats to his love, Fanny Brawne,

the first four folio editions of Shakespeare (published in 1623),

stuff from George Washington, Thackeray, Twain, Dante, Milton, Oliver Goldsmith, Harriet Beecher Stowe, and apparently a large collection of primary documents used in the witchcraft trials in Massachusetts, first edition of Spenser’s Faerie Queen, “the finest copy of Grimm’s ‘Popular German Stories,'”

“M.T. Cicero’s CATO MAJOR, or his DISCOURSE of Old-Age” printed by Benjamin Franklin,

among lots of other groovy crap–the catalog is 287 pages long. And all of it sold “By Order of the Heirs.”

Some days my family annoys me far more than others.

The foreword of this catalog describes these books as “not the modern sort of library limited to the collecting of one or two special classes of books. It is a more generous kind of collection, rich in many fields and showing a wide range of interests. It is the result of the collaboration of two elaborately balanced minds in search of a library equipped to fit all moods. Not every volume is a rarity, yet every volume was chosen carefully to satisfy a particular need and the whole is so compacted with treasures and delights that it must necessarily attract many collectors by its variety and excellence.”

I bought this catalog for myself yesterday, an early birthday present since I’ll be turning 47 on Monday.

And as I’m now leafing through it, I wonder what the library itself looked like, when all these books still lived together on its shelves. I wonder that these two people I never knew, my great-grandfather William Augustus and his wife, Caroline, would make of me.

Here is a crappy photograph I took last summer with my iPhone of a portrait of her with their daughter Carol (who died in a car crash in France in the Twenties):

I wish I knew what that book lying open across her lap is.

I wonder if my great-grandparents were the people I get my love of books from, as not a whole lot of people who came generationally between us seem to have quite this deep a lust for the printed word.

I love that the foreword of the catalog refers to them both as the minds responsible for putting together this library. I wish I could have known them.

Most of all, I’m glad that the catalog of their library ended up in the magnificently dusty basement store I visited yesterday, just across the String Bridge from my new digs. How odd is that?

But it makes me miss my own collection of books,38 cartons now in storage in California until I can afford to rent a U-Haul truck to drive them across the country. I feel so rootless without them…

‘Ratis, what’s a book you’ve lost that you wish you still had?

The Kindness of Strangers

John Scalzi, science fiction novelist and blogger extraordinaire, had a piece a couple of weeks ago about how his manuscript creates jobs. It’s a wonderful article, one I highly recommend you read, if only for the behind-the-scenes glimpse into how a book goes from writer’s brain to reader’s brain. Scalzi sums up the publishing landscape well by pointing out what’s obvious to us writers, but perhaps not so obvious to readers – putting out books is a team effort.

As I write this, my new book has been on the shelves for a little more than a week. It’s official release day wasn’t until March 1, but it was in bookstores for a while before that (copies were leaking out all over the country.) I’ve spent the last week doing radio, television and print interviews, and signings. Five signings, to be exact. By the end of the day Friday, that number will be seven. In two weeks, the tour will be over and I’ll have done thirteen readings/signings and attended two conferences, and will be on my way to Oak Ridge, Tennessee to teach a couple of workshops for the Tennessee Mountain Writers. Today, I’m in Knoxville, TN and Forest City, North Carolina, doing my thing.

Tiring, yes. Nothing compared to the unreal touring schedules of the big dogs, but enough to wear me out. But it’s exhilarating too, because there’s one thing every single signing has in common – the kindness of strangers.

With Scalzi’s formula in mind, I couldn’t help but think about how many people, most relative strangers, have contributed to the success of this book. Store managers, CRMs, publicists I’ve never met but on the phone, reporters, the folks who work at the Harlequin distribution center in Buffalo, New York, Librarians, fans, bloggers, Twitterers, Facebookers, and of course, the non-strangers – friends, family and spouses – I can’t begin to cover them all. Add in Scalzi’s list, editors and assistants and interns and marketing and publicity and sales and management and buyers and accounts…. It’s kind of mind boggling, really, when you think about the months you spent in utter isolation creating your magnum opus, and how far-reaching the work ultimately is.

Even if one reader buys the book, just one, the cycle has worked.

And if you can imagine that cycle recreating itself for the 170,000 odd books that are released each YEAR…

Yeah. And they say the book is dead.

I had all this floating in my mind because the kindness that’s been extended to me over the course of the past week has been overwhelming. I’ve received gifts from fans – Brenda from Tennessee brought me a stunningly beautiful Vera Bradley tote, replete with glasses case, travel tools and oodles of pens and paper. She said it was an early birthday present. It was much too generous, and I’m going to treasure it always.

And then there was Beth, in Lebanon, who came in all out of breath and so happy she hadn’t missed me because she’d been very busy helping birth a foal from one of their prized Tennessee Walking Horses, a champagne filly they named Yorks J.T. Ellison. Yes, I have a horse named after me. My jaw was literally on the floor. But there was more – they also have Yorks Taylor Jackson, and are planning Judas Kiss and The Pretender. Tickled me to pieces.

Then there was Shirley Holley and Mayor David Pennington in Manchester, who rallied up the folks who helped me with the research for the book and hosted me at the Manchester Library for a signing.

Overwhelming kindness.

I’d already planned to write this post, was composing it in my head when I was running errands Wednesday. The usual haunts – Staples (to make copies of my copyedit that thankfully landed on my desk when I had three off days to address it!) Walgreens for more miniatures for travel, the post office, the laundry. After Staples, I pulled up to Walgreens and there was a small, wizened old woman out front, begging. Now, homeless folks begging aren’t something we normally get out in the burbs. I was shocked. And as per usual, I had no cash on me. I said sorry and went into the store. Bought my things, walked out. She hit me up on the way out too; I apologized again and got in my car. Sat there for a full minute trying to figure out what to do. I finally shrugged it off, I had no cash, and what was I going to do, go to the ATM? I went to the post office to mail my copyedits, and realized I’d left my credit card at Staples in the copy machine. As I went back, I couldn’t get this woman out of my head.

Sure enough, someone (a kind stranger again) had turned the card in. I went back to the post office and decided I wasn’t going to be a hypocrite. What kind of person would I be, talking about the kindness of strangers on my blog, if I didn’t walk that walk myself when faced with someone in need?

I spent five minutes agonizing over whether to get her coffee or hot chocolate, knowing that it was cold, she was old, she needed energy and ingesting sugar is a good way to do that. But would she want her coffee with cream? With sugar? Should I keep them separate and let her doctor them herself? Should I dump them in and take my chances? What if she was lactose intolerant? In the end, I went with the hot chocolate. With whip cream. I know, it’s not much, but outside of taking her home with me, it was my best-case solution. It was snowy and cold and I figured she’d appreciate something hot.

By the time I got back to Walgreens, she was gone.

But as I drove away, I spotted her in the parking lot of the Pizza Hut. She turned when she heard the car and my heart felt full to bursting. I pulled beside her, put down my window, and handed her the cup.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“Hot chocolate,” I replied, beatific smile in place.

She shook her head. “I don’t drink milk or chocolate products,” she said, and turned away.

The cliché came to me immediately, – hey, beggars can’t be choosers. But that’s her right. She could have been lactose intolerant, or diabetic. Or, she just wanted money. I, on the other hand, wanted to make myself feel good. I felt guilty that I was warm in my car, with money in my bank account and a roof over my head. I guess she taught ME, huh?

When I used to work in downtown D.C., we kept Burger King coupons in our pockets for the homeless. They’d accost me as I walked down the street, and I’d hand them the coupon – they could redeem it for a free burger. A good deal, I thought. I quickly learned they didn’t want the food, they wanted money for alcohol and drugs. Sad, that. I’m hoping that my little old woman wasn’t out for a quick high, but that’s probably the case.

Like Rob, I’m tired and overworked and a bit rambly, so I’ll end it here.

This is an ode to those who make an effort, whether we realize it or not. Thanks to everyone who’s made my tour thus far so damn much fun, and for those who quietly help those less fortunate, in word and deed.

Any good stories about times you’ve tried to help people who don’t want help???

(Forgive me for being sketchy today, I’m in a car, and I get naseaus trying to type on my iPhone whilst in motion. But I’ll have several down moments, and I’ll pop in then : ))

Wine of the Week: Anything from Chile. After the recent earthquake, much of the wine was spilled, the racks broken, and general havoc wrecked throughout the Chilean wine industry. Estimates say 12% of the 2009 vintage was lost. So show your support, and ask your local wine store for a few suggestions. Chilean wines are excellent, you can’t miss with the cab, or the caremere.

NO STRANGERS – ONLY FRIENDS

by Zoë Sharp

This week, I’m delighted to be able to do an interview with a writer I greatly admire. Please give a warm ‘Rati welcome to…JT Ellison!

Yes, I realise that you all know JT, but that doesn’t mean you’re aware of just what an all-round superhero(ine) she is. So, for those of you who are unaware, I’m going to quote from her author biog:

“JT is a graduate of Randolph-Macon Woman’s College and received her master’s degree from George Washington University. She was a presidential appointee and worked in The White House and the Department of Commerce before moving into the private sector. As a financial analyst and marketing director, she worked for several defence and aerospace contractors.

“After moving to Nashville, Ellison began research on a passion: forensics and crime. She has worked with the Metro Nashville Police Department, the FBI, and various other law enforcement organizations to research her books.

“Her short stories have been widely published, including her award winning story “Prodigal Me” in the anthology KILLER YEAR: STORIES TO DIE FOR, edited by Lee Child, “Chimera” in the anthology SURREAL SOUTH 09, edited by Pinckney Benedict and Laura Benedict, and “Killing Carol Ann” in FIRST THRILLS, edited by Lee Child.”

Not only that, but JT was lucky enough to have Lee Child as her mentor for Thriller Year, an organisation that was dedicated to raising awareness for the debut novelists of 2007. How could she possibly fail?

“She is the bestselling author of the critically acclaimed Taylor Jackson series, including ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS, 14, JUDAS KISS and now THE COLD ROOM. Her novels have been published in 14 countries, and she was named “Best Mystery/Thriller Writer 2008” by the Nashville Scene.”

“She lives in Nashville with her poorly trained husband (Randy) and a cat.” Oh, hang on, I may have got that last bit the wrong way round …

This interview all came about because of JT’s latest book, THE COLD ROOM, as you’ll soon see:

Zoë Sharp: Where did the character of Taylor Jackson originally come from? Allison’s blog last Sunday about the characteristics of strong leading women felt quite apt as I was reading about Taylor, a strong, intense and sensual woman, who finds it difficult to resist the physical attraction of another man, even though her emotions are completely wrapped up in her fiancé, FBI profiler Dr John Baldwin.

JT Ellison: “I got the idea for Taylor after reading John Sandford’s PREY series, back in 2003 or so. I was driving down Interstate 40, thinking about Lucas Davenport’s icy smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and that scar, and his depression, and realized I wanted to write about a woman in his shoes. A woman in control, who’s strong without being strident, who commands the respect of her peers and her enemies. One who’s worked hard and paid her dues. Taylor literally leapt fully formed into my mind, talking in that low, smoky drawl, and I was hooked. I knew I had to tell her story. Considering her humble beginnings, it’s so fitting that she represents Athena to me. And aren’t all Goddesses irresistible to the men around them???”

ZS: The character of Taylor’s lover, Baldwin, is a strong figure right from the start of the series. Did you always intend to give Taylor a partner – both in her professional and personal life – or did he creep up on you? How do you feel their complementary skills give the pairing a unique edge?

JTE: “No, I didn’t. Initially, she was on her own, still recovering from the betrayal of her last boyfriend, a dirty cop she was forced to kill after he attacked her. The first book I wrote with Taylor, she hadn’t met Baldwin. He came in halfway through the story, and she wasn’t terribly enamored with him. Truth be told, she felt sorry for him. He was in an emotional tailspin, self-medicating with alcohol, and truly on the edge. She was HIS savior, not the other way around.

“Now, they’ve started to depend on one another, and that’s going to cause its own set of frictions.”

ZS: How important do you feel the actual police procedure is? Obviously, Taylor is a Nashville Homicide detective, so it has to play a large role in each book, but how tied do you feel to accuracy when it comes to this aspect of your storytelling?

JTE: It’s very, very important to me. I want to at least know the procedure so I can make an educated decision whether to alter it to fit the story or keep to the truth. I’d say I keep to the truth about 99% of the time. The procedural aspects are what lend credibility to the books. The thriller formula is inherently preposterous. How many times can one cop be singled out, be touched by evil, be forced to kill? Most cops never draw their weapons, Taylor has killed four people. The procedure keeps the books grounded in a bit of reality, enough so that readers can suspend their disbelief at Taylor’s horrific luck in the serial killer department and enjoy the story. At least, that’s my goal.”

ZS: In this book, you use the character of DI James ‘Memphis’ Highsmythe to create an internal conflict for Taylor. How do you go about putting your protag under pressure on a constantly changing basis? Obviously, there’s the pressure of catching the bad guys, but this book also worked on a more personal level for Taylor, not just because she’s been busted back from Lt to Det. Was that a deliberate objective you set out to achieve?

JTE: “Absolutely. On paper, she seems nearly perfect: Intelligent, beautiful, loved, respected. She’s a hero, she must be larger than life and “better” than the average Joe. But I wanted to let people see that’s she’s human. She’s struggling with her emotions, with her independence, with the idea of commitment. She’s been dragged through the mud and publicly humiliated, and she has to keep her head help high and soldier on. That outward strength is so important, because when the reader gets a glimpse of her true self, her vulnerabilities, they can relate. We’ve all put on a brave face before.”

ZS: Where did the character of Memphis come from? The son of an earl, working for the Metropolitan Police in London? Why a Brit rather than a guy from the LAPD, or Chicago? Or even an Italian, since part of the book is set in Italy, and it feels like you know that setting very well? What made you come up with him, and how tricky was it to get inside the head of someone from another culture?

JTE: “Because I love to challenge myself. Memphis was another one of those characters who practically writes himself. He started as an Interpol agent, until a source of mine from Interpol explained that he wouldn’t have the freedom to chase after a suspect. Since there were crimes being committed in London, he became a New Scotland Yard DI. Which necessitated tons more research, and of course, I had to make him a Viscount, so he would stand out. Speak differently, act differently. He and Taylor are such similar creatures, both products of their environment, both from privileged backgrounds, both eschewing their personal wealth to work in law enforcement.

“Memphis posed so many challenges… (and just a note to our readers, Zoë is the reason Memphis came to life. I can’t count how many emails we exchanged trying to nail him down. Phraseology, background, everything, Zoë influenced in so many ways. So THANK YOU!)

“I could have made him Italian, it certainly would have been easier on me, the language, the history, the setting. But sometimes a character is who he is, and I can’t explain why. That’s the deal with Memphis. And it means I get to do more research in England, which will be cool.”

ZS: I’ll never forget the initial email from JT that read: “I want my Brit character to see my main protag and have a bit of an inconvenient erection. How would he refer to this?” As you can imagine, the conversation went rapidly downhill from there…

But, I digress! The structure of the story has altered from the version I read when we were kicking bits of Britishness backwards and forwards. It originally started with a scene of Taylor at the gun range, and then moved to the character of Gavin Adler. Why did you lose that initial opening?

JTE: It had been dropped in the Australian version, and when we pulled the book and went back through it, my US editor really wanted to drop it as well. I fought long and hard, because I felt that was such a quintessential scene. But it was important for Taylor’s character, and not the actual story. It was a very “hard” opening, and they wanted her a bit softer. It might make its way into one of the future books, because I still love it. But revision is all about killing your darlings to make the story work better, right? And opening with Gavin just set the perfect, creepy, scary tone. In retrospect, I’m very glad we did drop it.”

ZS: You mentioned in your last blog that you were asked by your publisher to alter the direction of the book for Taylor. How do you feel you’ve done this? I know, with a series character, you have to make the decision to keep them static, or take them on a journey through each book, from which they emerge changed in some way. What was your original journey for Taylor, and how do you feel it’s altered in the final version?

JTE: “You know, it’s funny. I resist making Taylor be too girly, mostly because I’m not girly and can’t relate well enough to make her work that way. But she’s so tough, and the consensus was she was almost too tough. Too serious, too committed. Too earnest. The wanted me to “soften” her. But Taylor isn’t a soft woman. She’s intense and focused, and I struggled with the whole concept of “softening” her, because to me, that meant girlifying her up (Um, I don’t know if girlifying is a word, so…) I found a perfect solution. When I did the revision, I played up her sense of humor. Instead of being so angry all the time, she’s rolling with the punches a bit more. It worked very well, and helped me find another layer into her psyche that I didn’t know existed.”

ZS: When I first read your books, I was rather struck by the similarities between Taylor Jackson and Charlie Fox. Both are strong female protagonists, sure, but they both sport scars around their necks from knife attacks, and even both wear a TAG wristwatch. Now, that’s just spooky!

JTE: I LOVE that they have these bizarre bits in common. I remember reading FIRST DROP and saying Wow, Charlie and Taylor are so similar. Of course, Charlie could probably kick Taylor’s ass… The TAG comes from me, I’ve worn the same TAG HEUER watch since I was 21. And the scar – well, that was her vulnerability when I first started out. She’d nearly lost her life, and it colored the way she acted from there on out.

ZS: You said: “We all know how I feel about strong heroines, and the ways we give them flaws and vulnerabilities. I’m always in favor of a strong heroine who’s independent and not driven by a tortured past, who can handle most anything, but has some weaknesses that can be exploited for story. My favorite thing to do is hand my main character something that falls into the gray areas, situations she’s never faced that challenge her code. That’s the fun stuff!” Discuss!

JTE: “The gray areas are where we have fun, I think. Heroes have flaws, and throwing challenges at them is one of my favorite pastimes. Taylor especially is incredibly strong and sees the world in black and white, so giving her something that’s out of her spectrum, like having sex-tapes go live online, or getting demoted, helps me challenge her in the now, instead of focusing on things that happened in her past. We’re all the sum of our parts and experiences, but it’s more rewarding to me as a writer to find the paths that will move her conscience, alter her reality, and make her rethink her code.”

That’s it from me, but what questions do you all have for JT? And if you haven’t already rushed out and bought a copy of THE COLD ROOM, do so!

This week’s Word of the Week is scooning, or to scoon, a completely made-up one, that we’re trying to bring into common useage. A guy we used to know called Scoon was taking a long flight, when he fell asleep in his seat. Gradually, his head lolled until it was resting on the shoulder of the total stranger in the next seat. This guy was very polite and didn’t want to wake him up, until he realised that our friend had been drooling in his sleep and had actually soaked through the guy’s jacket and shirt and was making his shoulder damp. Now, if anyone drools in their sleep, it’s known in our household as scooning. Enjoy…

Party All the Time

by Rob Gregory Browne

I don’t know how many times we’ve talked about conferences here. Probably more than we should.

But with Left Coast Crime coming up next week (holy shit, time flies!), in Los Angeles no less, I’ve kinda got conferences on the brain.

Before I sold my first book, I had no idea what a writers’ conference was. I vaguely remember something called Bouchercon — which I pronounced boo-shay-con — but I really had no idea what the heck it was, even though I knew it was named in honor of William Anthony Parker White, otherwise known as Anthony Boucher.

But other than that one small kernel of knowledge (ha!), I was completely clueless about such things.

The way I looked at it, I really only had one shot at selling my book. That shot was my former screenwriting agent, who I hadn’t spoken to in a couple years and who I hoped would agree to read what I’d written and pass it on to one of her contacts in New York. Which, fortunately, is exactly what happened.

Had my ex-agent not loved the book, I’m not sure what I would have done, because I really had no idea how to go about getting a literary agent to read my work.

If I’d been smart and had been paying attention to the novel writing community (although I didn’t even know there WAS an actual novel writing community), I would have noticed that these little get togethers are not only a great place for authors to get drunk and gripe about their lives (let’s face it, we’re all lonely, isolated sonsabitches who need some simple human interaction), they’re also a truly terrific place for unpublished writers to get their feet in the door.

When I went to my first conference — Thrillerfest #1 in Arizona, still the best conference I’ve ever been to — I was surprised to find that there were a LOT of unpublished writers there. In fact, I was surprised there were any unpublished writers there at all. For some reason I had the mistaken impression that there would be writers and readers, with no crossover.

Shows you how stupid I am.

So it surprised me to meet so many aspiring writers. But it also delighted me. Because I knew that these people were playing the smart game. There is no better way to get your work read by those who can really make a difference than to MAKE FRIENDS WITH THEM.

Yes, I put that in caps.

MAKE FRIENDS WITH THEM.

So next time you’re at Bouchercon and Lee Child walks by, be sure to grab him by the elbow and shout, “Lee! Lee! I love your books, will you be my BFF?”

Because I’m sure Lee will love you for it.

Okay, maybe not. That’s actually a pretty terrible idea. This ain’t Facebook. And even though Lee is one of the kindest gentlemen you’re likely to meet, you wouldn’t want to subject him to such abuse.

So it’s probably not a great idea to grab anyone by anything. That kind of behavior could potentially get you arrested. Or hurt.

What you DO want to do is not target any author or agent or editor in particular, but to simply start talking to the people around you. Make real friends. Share the moment.

Strike up a conversation with Joe over there, and Barbara over here, neither of whom have a book deal yet but may well introduce you to Bill or Trudy, who do. And who knows, by this time next year Joe and Barbara may have deals themselves. If you’ve become drinking buddies with all these published or about-to-be-published authors, sooner or later one of them may agree to read your book and give you the help you need.

But only if you’re sincere. Because insincerity will be spotted right away. If you try to be cynically manipulative you will be ignored. People aren’t interested in that kind of bullshit. Just be honest and real and, most of all, yourself. And remember that we were all in your shoes at one time — outsiders looking for a way in. So we understand.

And unless we’re total douchebags, we’ll be happy hang out with you and offer encouragement and sometimes even offer to help if we can.

I know because I’ve done it. There are a couple of people I’ve met at conferences whose books I agreed to read — books that turned out to be so good that I sent them on to my agent.

But this was after seeing these people time and again at different conferences and signings, developing a genuine friendship with them and knowing that they are sincere, talented people who just needed a little nudge from someone who has been fortunate enough (and I do think luck plays a part in it) to get published.

And if you want to get a good jumpstart on it all, one of the best things you can do is come to blogs like Murderati, make comments, have interesting things to say. Then, when you do show up at a conference, the first hurdle has already been made. We KNOW you. And we’re happy to see you.

I think I’m rambling at this point. I’ve been working so hard lately I tend to do that. Ramble.

So, I guess the point is, if you want to get your work read, if you want to be inspired to keep writing, then don’t be a clueless clod like I was and get your butt to the next available writers conference.

There. That should do it.

I’d love those of you who have been to conferences to tell me your best author-meet story and how it affected you and your career, if at all.

Oh, and see you next week in Los Angeles. In the Omni Hotel bar, of course.

Lee? BFF?

A Glimpse Into Crazy

By Louise Ure

About ten days ago I got an appreciative email from a reader that I want to share with you. Not that I want this man’s words enshrined anywhere (on the contrary), but to remind us all that there are some true crazies out there. I’ve removed his email address and signature line, just in case you’re so deeply offended (as was I) that you’re tempted to reply to him.

His message, complete with vitriol, bigotry, violence, illogic and original misspellings is as follows:

From: Crazy M-Fer

Date: February 20, 2010 9:38:52 AM PST

To: Louise Ure

Subject: THANK YOU for Liars Anonymous!!

Dear Mrs. Ure:

I want to THANK YOU so much from the bottom of my heart for your recent book Liars Anonymous that I just finished reading.

THANK YOU for redeeming Caucasian Christian Men, as you did in this book.

I was very worried when I first began reading, that your character was a bull dagger for her she was a woman who thinks she can act like a man and do the things men do, like kick ass, and protect women and children. This is NOT the job of a woman and your books proves how stupid, gullible, and easily led astray women are.

And you confirmed what men have been saying all along, only it means so much more because you are a woman – you are a real woman, yes? Not one of those girly men who’s transformed himself? For if so, then it doesn’t count.

We reaffirmed what men have been saying all along: women LIE! And women ESPECIALLY lie about being sexually molested as children, and especially to their best friends.

And their motivation is always their sick attempt to destroy men and to make the real women who love those men look stupid and hateful to their children when they believe their man over those spiteful, lying girls.

We all know women make up childhood sexual abuse, and if not to bring trouble to grown men, then because their bull dagger therapists lead to to ‘remember’ false memories because we know these women hate men and want to destroy us.

And I am further thrilled that it is a dirty jew that was the evil force behind real murders and another jew was eliminated (which should have happened to ALL of them years ago); and the other evil force was that rich woman. Women are ALWAYS the manipulators and real dogs and you have proved it with your story.

I hope you leave your character in jail where she belongs and make her serve even longer that most women in this country serve for murdering anyone. Thank you for contributing so emmensely to the exoneration of men and proof that women make up abuse to try to punish us.

You are such a credit to women and making sure their role is kept as God meant it to be. I look forward to your next book! MEN RULE!

Where to begin?

First of all, I think you’re a hateful, deluded, dangerous person and I can’t believe you actually read books – any books – let alone mine. Did it bother you when my protagonist kneed the guy who was trying to rape her and smashed his elbow with a crowbar? I’m surprised you had the nuts to keep reading.

Let me take this point by point:

1.“THANK YOU for redeeming Caucasian Christian Men”

Uh, no. I think Caucasian Christian Men are just as likely to be evil as anyone else and maybe even more so, as they often hide their own insecurities and obsessions behind their religion.

2. “I was very worried when I first began reading, that your character was a bull dagger for her she was a woman who thinks she can act like a man and do the things men do, like kick ass, and protect women and children.”

You’re dating yourself here, pal. I haven’t heard the term “bulldagger” (derogatory appellation for an aggressively masculine lesbian , more often one who is muscular or burly , who assumes the male role in lovemaking) for decades. Imagine the horror of a woman saying “I’m going to touch you here.” My God, we can think and feel for ourselves!

And I’m sorry you f-ing chauvinist, but I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself and anybody else I care for including other women and children. Women today are not waiting around for some man to save us.

3. “ … their sick attempt to destroy men and to make the real women who love those men look stupid and hateful to their children when they believe their man over those spiteful, lying girls.”

Ooh, sounds like somebody’s got some history here. Do the cops still have you on a sexual predator list? Did your kids disown you when they heard? Sounds like you’ve still got the little wife cowed, though. But I’ll bet you don’t let her friends come by any more.

4. “And I am further thrilled that it is a dirty jew that was the evil force behind real murders and another jew was eliminated (which should have happened to ALL of them years ago)”

Okay, there you go, right past the Tin Foil Hat stop sign and into the high speed zone of dangerous, deadly bigotry. Zip it, you pinhead. I don’t have the time or energy for your particular combination of stupid and hateful.

By the way, there’s not one character in that book described as Jewish.

5. “. Women are ALWAYS the manipulators and real dogs and you have proved it with your story.”

Don’t you get it? Stories PROVE nothing. They’re stories. Fiction. I could just as easily write a novel about an ignorant white man who abuses little kids and then hides behind his religion to get away with it. Would that story be any more true? (In your case, maybe so.)

Back here in the reality-based world where I live, abuse happens to men, women and children all the time. And it’s assholes like you that try to excuse it away or pretend it never happened.

OK, ‘Rati Readers. I’m back, now that I’ve vented just about as much as he did.

I never did write back to him directly and hope to hell he doesn’t read this blog, but as hateful and misinformed as his email is, my real question is: does it matter? Does it matter that I didn’t intend to write any of those coded messages that he picked up? Does it matter that he’s misconstrued the basic nature of my characters and their battle with guilt, blame and responsibility? Once our work leaves our hands, can we still claim ownership of how it should be received?

The audience is free to interpret a poem, or a ballet or a piece of music. Does is matter that their comprehension is not what the poet, the choreographer or the musician intended?

Fire away, my ‘Rati friends. Either with your response to this Crazy M-Fer or at the notion of ownership of creative ideas once they’re loosed on the world.

PS: Tiny update on the situation at home. Bruce has fallen in love with those old-timey popsicles that have a joke printed on the stick. “What kind of clothes do frogs wear? Jump suits.” I’ll soon be a hit at all the kids’ parties.