To Be Made Flesh… Again

Many years ago, when I was still living in Honolulu, I went to a hypnotherapist for what’s known as a past-life regression session.

For those of you who don’t know, such a session is very similar to your typical hypnotic regression, but takes you beyond childhood and into your past lives — all in hopes of helping you find out what happened way back when that may be screwing you up now.

I didn’t, however, undergo this procedure because I was feeling screwed up. Instead, I was researching an idea for a screenplay and wanted to get some first hand experience.

It was an interesting hour. I don’t know if I was actually ever under hypnosis — it certainly didn’t feel like it. But I did find myself seeing visions of a previous life. Visions that were either real memories or simply figments of my overactive imagination.

I tend to believe it’s the latter.

If the visions were real, then I was a Southern Belle during The Civil War who lived on a sprawling plantation. If not, then I have problems that may well need to be addressed by someone with either a degree in psychology or intimate knowledge of the plot to Gone With the Wind.

Reincarnation is a subject that has interested me for many years. I have no reason to believe it’s possible, but then I have no evidence that it’s hooey, either. It makes perfect sense to me that we could well be living our lives over and over, in various forms, all in an attempt to finally get it right.

The woman who hypnotized me told me I’m a very old soul and am currently on my last life. So I guess I’m finally getting it right.

One can only hope.

Reincarnation is one of those subjects that nearly everyone has an opinion about. There are a ton of books about the subject and probably an equal number of movies and television shows that have addressed it.

While I’ve never approached the writing of a book from a commercial standpoint — that is, creating a plot simply because I think it’s hot and will sell — I have to admit that the idea of plotting a story based on a popular subject like reincarnation was pretty compelling. Over the years, I’ve found myself so consumed with the phenomenon that I’ve never been able to let go of the story premise that sparked that long ago hypnosis session. A story premise that goes something like this:

What if a woman discovers that she’s the reincarnated victim of a serial killer — a serial killer who may still be alive?

This creepy notion was the jumping off point for my new book, KILL HER AGAIN, which I’m happy to say was just released in the U.S. yesterday.

KILL HER AGAIN is the story of Anna McBride, a disgraced FBI agent whose life is slowly being destroyed by terrifying visions of a kidnapped little girl. And while my original premise plays strongly into the story, it really was just a jumping off point.

After pitching the idea to my friend Peggy White a couple years ago, she had one of those “what if” moments that really turned the premise on it’s head and made me realize that it really was time to write this book. So thank you, Peggy, for helping me make a good idea great.

I’d love to tell you more about the book, but I’ve already given you enough of a spoiler. And if you’re at all interested in the notion of past lives married to an unrelenting thriller plot, I would be a fool not to urge you to pick up a copy <big grin>. I’ve been telling everyone it’s a great beach book, and I certainly hope a lot of people will be going to the beach this summer…

Blatant self promotion aside, I’d like to bring this topic around to you, by asking you a few questions.

1. Do you believe in reincarnation?

2. Who do you think you might have been in a past life?

3. Who would you like to be in a future life?

And five of you who comment will be chosen at random to win a signed first edition of my debut thriller, KISS HER GOODBYE. The deadline is midnight tonight, and the winner will be announced on my web page on Friday.

In the meantime, you’re all gonna have to do the right thing and immediately rush out and buy a copy of KILL HER AGAIN. If not, I may just have to come after you in the next life….

Ban my book. Please.

The Easily Offended People are at it again. This time, it’s happening out in Milwaukee, where they have raised a ruckus about a young adult book in their local library. Not only do they want it removed from the collection, they also want it publicly burned and destroyed (!). (I find this case so absurd that I’ve already mentioned it on my own blog. ) The book in question is Francesca Lia Block’s Baby Be-Bop, which the complainants deemed “sexually explicit.” They’re suing for emotional damages caused by being exposed to the library’s book display.

Milwaukee Group Seeks Fiery Alternative to Materials Challenge

Life grows more interesting by the day for officials of the West Bend (Wis.) Community Memorial Library. After four months of grappling with an evolving challenge to young-adult materials deemed sexually explicit by area residents Ginny and Jim Maziarka, library trustees voted 9–0 June 2 to maintain the young-adult collection as is “without removing, relocating, labeling, or otherwise restricting access” to any titles. However, board members were made cognizant that same evening that another material challenge waited in the wings: Milwaukee-area citizen Robert C. Braun of the Christian Civil Liberties Union (CCLU) distributed at the meeting copies of a claim for damages he and three other plaintiffs filed April 28 with the city; the complainants seek the right to publicly burn or destroy by another means the library’s copy of Baby Be-Bop. The claim also demands $120,000 in compensatory damages ($30,000 per plaintiff) for being exposed to the book in a library display, and the resignation of West Bend Mayor Kristine Deiss for “allow[ing] this book to be viewed by the public.”…

… Accusing the board of submitting to the will of the American Library Association and the American Civil Liberties Union, Ginny Maziarka declared, “We vehemently reject their standards and their principles,” and characterized the debate as “a propaganda battle to maintain access to inappropriate material.” She cautioned that her group would let people know that the library was not a safe place unless it segregated and labeled YA titles with explicit content. However, after the meeting board President Barbara Deter emphasized that it was the couple’s “freedom of speech” to challenge any individual library holding, according to the June 3 Greater Milwaukee Today.

Attempts to ban books almost certainly go back to the age of papyrus and parchment, and the reasons may be political, religious, or moral. But sometimes, I just have to scratch my head at what offends people. During a recent visit to a Maine library, I asked the staff if they’d had any recent challenges to their collection. The children’s books librarian (book banning efforts usually happen in the children’s section) laughed and said, “Oh, yeah. One parent was outraged by a history book about famous women scientists.”

Famous women scientists? What could possibly be offensive about that?

“It had a picture of 1940’s actress Hedy Lamarr, dressed up in typical movie star garb,” the librarian said. (Hedy Lamarr, for those who don’t know it, was also a brilliant inventor.) “The parent thought the photo was too racy, and she wanted us to remove the book from the collection.” Of course, the librarian refused.

Librarians are like that.

If a picture of a 1940’s actress can offend people, then so could just about any book, on any subject. Recently, one of the most-challenged titles has been an illustrated children’s book, And Tango Makes Three, by Peter Parnell and Justin Richardson. It’s based on the true story of two male penguins in New York’s Central Park Zoo who bonded and together raised a penguin chick. Immoral penguins! Horrors!

Another much-challenged book, to my astonishment, is Maurice Sendak’s delightful In The Night Kitchen, which was my sons’ favorite childhood picture book. The reason it’s offensive? The little boy in the story falls out of his clothes and actually ends up — gasp — naked. (Hey, if God wanted kids to be naked, he would have made them that way.)

Take a look at the list of most-challenged books in the U.S. and you’ll find some of literature’s best-known and most beloved works, from Catcher in the Rye to the Harry Potter series. In fact, that list of banned books could also be a list of the bestselling books in this country. Merely a coincidence? Do bestselling books end up on banned-book lists because that’s how Offended People find out about them? Or are they bestsellers because they got challenged, thereby boosting their sales?

Most authors will agree: banning books just doesn’t work. All it does is draw attention to the book, enticing people into reading it.

Author Sherman Alexie (who has himself been a banned author) says: “The amazing thing is these banners never understand they are turning this book into a sacred treasure. We don’t write to try and be banned, but it is widely known in the (young adult) world, and we love this shit.”

Yeah, we do love it.

So please, ban my books. I want to join that lofty pantheon of authors that includes Alexie and Sendak and Twain and Vonnegut. My books have plenty to offend everyone. There’s adulterous sex and graphic violence, foul language and disturbing perversions. So go ahead, ban me!

I could use the extra sales.

Giving up

by Pari

I know I’m not supposed to admit it, but sometimes I feel like throwing in the towel. Most of the time, I have this fierce belief that I’ll be able to “make it” someday. But it’s those other times, the downhearted ones, that knock the air out of my lungs. That’s when I realize that if success is in the eye of the beholder, my eyes feel like they’re wide open in a sand storm.

My up-down measures of “making it” vary. When I think of it in financial terms such as: Can I make enough money to pay for my children’s education through college? It seems daunting. Other times I tell myself I know I will have succeeded if I make the jump to a respected NYC publisher, win a recognized mystery award, have one of my books optioned, or meet someone who really understands the themes in my works or . . . or . . . .

Yes. There are many moments of happy victory. There are also many of sheer discouragement.

The impetus that throws me into quiet exasperation or frustration isn’t always obvious. It can be as simple as a really unproductive writing session. It can be as complicated as a bracing analysis of the impact of early business decisions in my career and their future ramifications. It can be a bad review. It can be envy, jealousy or even an unearned sense of superiority.

No matter the cause, these times of self-questioning and doubt are corrosive. They eat at my resolve, my determination to continue.

Last week, I found myself thinking too frequently about life without writing toward publication. Should I just go out and get some shit job to start bringing in more money for our family? Would I be happier? Would I even write my fiction without a goal of selling it?

While I wallowed in the muck of these questions, I also began to think of writers I’ve enjoyed who did just what I was considering. There is Stephen Greenleaf. I’ve read every one of his books, grateful for his gorgeous prose and plotting. I don’t think he’s writing anymore. Deborah Donnelly had a wedding planner series that was both intelligent and great fun, but she hasn’t put out a book in years. Lee Killough’s paranormal fantasy/mystery works are beautiful psychological analyses of ordinary people thrust into extraordinary circumstances. Is she writing anymore?

I’m sure there are many other novelists who’ve stopped due to exhaustion, disappointment, spent dreams.

When I pause and look at my future, I can’t truly imagine quitting yet. Without being romantic, writing fiction is a creative endeavor that requires heart and dedication. To give up that focus—at least with the written word—seems to me to be a very empty proposition.

But some days, some weeks, the temptation becomes frighteningly attractive.

Writers: How about you? Have you ever felt discouraged? What brought on the feeling? What helped it pass?

Readers: Do you miss any writers who are still alive but who’ve thrown in that towel?

Dear Summer…

by Toni McGee Causey

Dear Summer:

Nice t’ see you. Do you really have to freaking fry my ass this early, though? There’s this thing called moderation. Learn it. Embrace it. We’ll all love you for it.

–melting, and you’re cleaning it up.

Dear Spin Class Bicycle:

You’re not serious. Do you not know my ass has been sitting on a soft leather ergonomic office chair for eleventy billion hours? Come back and talk to me when you’re padded.

–and no, I do not find the “can hold 2 tons” sticker humorous, either. Bite me.

Dear Baskin Robbins Double Chocolate Chocolate Chip Ice Cream:

I don’t know how to say this. We have to break up. I know. I know. I promised you it would be forever. It’s just… it’s just that… oh, hell, I can’t take this anymore! You have no idea how damaging you are! You’re addictive, okay? There. I said it. You’re bad for me. Bad! And I’m stronger than this! NO! No, don’t even say it. Not even if you take the chocolate chips out. No, you’re just… I have to go. I can’t do this anymore.

–shut up, I am not crying, I have allergies, that’s all.

Dear Spin Cycle Instructor, otherwise known as the Chipper Demon from Hell:

What do you mean, that was just the warm-up?

–and yes, that is a death glare I am giving you, deal with it.

Dear Spin Cycle Creator:

Tell Satan I said hello.

–hope you are frying right now.

Dear Baskin Robbins Double Chocolate Chocolate Chip Ice Cream:

That was not me with my nose pressed against the window. You should see a doctor about these hallucinations.

–you really didn’t need the restraining order.

Dear Summer with your skimpy clothes:

Bitch.

–I always liked Autumn better, anyway.

Dear Spin Cycle Instructor, otherwise known as the Chipper Demon from Hell:

Are you out of your mind? You want me to increase the tension on the bike? That was the “easy” part? I have ALREADY been on this torture-cycle FOREVER and EVER and I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE and you cannot expect me to—what? I’ve only been on here 3 ½ minutes? I have another 50 minutes to go?

–kill me now.

Dear Legs,

Look, I know. I know it sucks. It’s hard. But c’mon—see up there in that row in front of us? See that old lady? She’s 87. And she’s riding that damned bike way better than you are. You cannot let a little old 87 year-old out-ride you, now, can you? That’s it, that’s it…. You can do it.

–will one day be proud of you.

Dear Legs:

Telling me to ‘fuck off and die’ is not very nice. Just for that, I’m gonna follow the instructor and make you stand up and pump those pedals.

–ha! We’ll see who’s boss.

Dear Floor:

Thank you for catching me. Again.

–I would move if I could feel my legs

Dear Summer:

I am writing a harshly worded letter to your boss.

–and no, not even your pretense at giving me more time to read is gonna help you any.

Dear Baskin Robbins Double Chocolate Chocolate Chip Ice Cream:

So. Yeah. You’re looking good. Great, actually. Love what you did with the cone, there. Me? Oh, nothing. Really. Just, you know, here and there. Working out. Yeah, rocking the spin cycle. Oh, yeah, I’m really good at it. Yeah. Oh? You heard about that? No no, it was just those six times that I fell. Anyway, just… hanging out. Happened to be in your neighborhood. So…. you, um, seein’ anyone?

~*~

So how about you? What are you doing this summer?

~*~

Quick note – book 2 in the BOBBIE FAYE series — GIRLS JUST WANNA HAVE GUNS — is out on TUESDAY, JUNE 30^TH. Read an excerpt here.

CONTEST — everyone who comments will be eligible for a drawing for one SIGNED copy of (book one) CHARMED AND DANGEROUS, + a $25 gift certificate to Borders ~or~ BN.com ~or~ Amazon, + some Louisiana goodies. WINNER to be chosen next Saturday announced NEXT SUNDAY at the end of Allison’s blog.

Follow me on Twitter: http://twitter.com/ToniMcGeeCausey

Never Let Them See You Sweat

by JT Ellison

Ah, nerves.

Many of you know that I nearly came apart early on in my career because I was going to have to do the one thing I was terrified of doing. And when I say terrified, I mean heart-pounding, panic-attack, sweaty-palms, spots-dancing-before-your-eyes, stomach-tied-in-embarrassingly-gurgly-knots, on-the-verge-of-passing-out terrified.

Of course I’m talking about speaking in public.

And I’m not talking about a mild case of nerves, either.

I’ve always had problems with being the center of attention. And no, I will not pay for the keyboard you just spit your coffee onto, because I am dead serious. Having people look to me to be the voice of reason, hell, to be the voice at all, isn’t my cuppa.

“But JT,” you say, “that can’t be true. You have such an outgoing, effervescent personality. I’ve seen you at conferences, laughing in the bar, having a grand old time.” And you’d be right – in my element, with my friends, I’m entirely at ease and not worried of making an ass of myself.

But being in front of a group is much, much different than being a part of a group.

I remember, long, long ago, a semi-drunken night at one of Nashville’s adult establishments where I was crying, quite literally, on Randy’s shoulder in fear. “What if the book sells?” I wailed. “I’ll have to talk to people. I’ll have to get up and speak. I don’t think I can do that.”

“You’ll do what you have to,” my eminently practical husband said, before taking me home and pouring me into the bed.

Imagine the terror I felt when the books did sell. The weeks leading up to my debut were unsettling, to say the least. I was planning a launch party, at which I was going to have to, gulp, speak. I wrote out a speech, figuring I’d just read and pray no one laughed to my face. Before I knew it, there were interviews, and signings set up in 12 states, and I knew I needed to conquer my fears, and fast.

I relayed my worry in an offhand comment to my doctor, and he prescribed medication to help me conquer my fear. And conquer my fear it did. Inderal is a beta-blocker, used for lowering blood pressure. It’s the medication they prescribe for people afraid of flying. It works to even your heartbeat so you don’t get the palpitations and sweaty palms. It nips your fear in the bud. “Take it 30 minutes before you go on,” he told me, “and you’ll be fine.”

And strangely enough, it worked.

But it had its drawbacks. Most of my speaking engagements were an hour long, and I’d noticed, somewhere around the 40 minute mark, a wild sense of unreality, like I was outside of myself looking in. My head would feel sort of floaty, and my heart would pound a few beats more than entirely necessary. Which would make me stumble. Not a perfect scenario.

Ultimately, it wasn’t a doctor who cured me, but a fellow writer. My friend James O. Born saw me popping pills at Southern Festival of Books and asked what the deal was. I told him and he laughed— that hearty guffaw that Jim has—and asked me, “What in the world are you afraid of? Do you think the audience is going to rush the stage, throw you down and gang-rape you?”

“Well, no,” I answered.

“Then what’s the big deal?”

He was right, of course. My next event, I skipped the Inderal. I made it through just fine.

That was two years ago. I’ve fully mastered my nerves now. No medication necessary, a few deep breaths before I go on and I’m fine. I’ve gotten to the point when I’m decent at the speaking part, I think. I still much prefer panels and group signings to speaking solo, but I can manage just fine either way. I just turn on JT, author girl, and become what the audience needs to see. My problems are behind me.

Aren’t they?

Not so fast.

I had an event last week, my last of the summer, in fact. I’m taking a few months off promotion to focus on me, something that’s been sorely lacking since I started this gig. I was really looking forward to this event; it felt like a chapter was closing.

Until I woke up at 4 in the morning with some sort of food poisoning.

Terribly sick.

I couldn’t cancel – this event had been booked for months, a large turnout was expected, a bookstore was coming in to sell the books – I just didn’t have the heart to bail on them. So I sucked down a bottle of Pepto and said a prayer.

To no avail. I got sick before I left the house. I got sick as soon as I got to the venue. I managed to meet my hostesses before I had to bolt to the bathroom again. When they served lunch, I nearly came undone at the table.

And suddenly, the nerves kicked in. Nerves like I hadn’t had in two years. Bordering on panic attack nerves. I honestly didn’t think I was going to be able to pull it off. Try as I may, I couldn’t put on my JT, author girl, suit and go get ‘em, tiger. I was shaky and sweaty and pale and feeling terrible, and I couldn’t for the life of me separate me from JT.

I’ve spoken before of the dual personalities that reside inside my body. The people who know me, know my real name and are a part of my real day-to-day life, aren’t always the same people who know JT and are a part of my book life. I do try to keep the two separate, if only as a buffer for the inevitable bad reviews that happen to that poor JT girl. It’s that same other person who takes over when I have to perform. No true artist can let the world see their tortured soul, the tiny, squawking baby bird inside the glorious Phoenix we must project. You drape yourself in whatever invisible cloth you have designed as your mask, do your thing, and shed it when it’s over.

But that little bit of quiet magic wasn’t working for me last week. I finally had to tell my tablemates that I wasn’t feeling all that hot and had a bad case of the nerves, because I think they were about ready to send out for some sort of elephant tranquilizers. They were very sweet, and understanding, and allowed me some space to gather myself, then smartly got me talking about the books until I finally, finally settled down.

They say never let them see you sweat. And no one outside of my table knew I wasn’t on my game, which helped. When I got up to speak I was okay. Not great, but okay. I gave them my best, but left disappointed that I couldn’t give them the whole show, the full monty. No one who was there had ever seen me speak before, so I’m sure it came across as completely capable. But it wasn’t my most stellar effort.

I’ve only performed sick one other time, at Left Coast Crime in Denver, just after the Great Kidney Stone Attack of 08. I swore that I’d never do it again, because I don’t want to shortchange the readers. There’s a level of expectation involved in public promotion, so much that I understand the desire to be a recluse. I’ve read that Henry Fonda threw up before every performance. I know there are athletes and actors and writers and politicians who do the same. And I applaud every person who tries to overcome their terror and fulfill their purpose. It’s hard, and you should be lauded for your efforts.

For you newbies out there who may be suffering from stage fright, it’s okay. We’ve all been there. The audience is incredibly forgiving. They want to see you succeed. They will be kind. And always remember, no one knows your topic like you do. You are the expert. If you feel yourself faltering, talk about your inspirations and that should get you through the worst of it.

So what about you, ‘Rati? Ever experience performance anxiety? (And that’s for everyone – not just authors have to deal with these issues.)

Wine of the Week: 2006 Cellar No. 8 Merlot

What’s in Your Bag?

by Zoë Sharp

There have been some brilliant posts here lately, and I’ve missed them, dammit.

I’ve been head down, full tilt in the latest rewrites which are finally, out of the way. (Hurrah!) Yup, I’m finally in that nice little cosy cocoon between sending off and hearing back, when all things are possible and all hopes are, as yet, undashed.

I have my fingers, eyes, and toes crossed. Which makes it pretty difficult to type, I can tell you.

But, this means I can get round to all the email that’s built up over the last couple of weeks. Most of it is very straightforward, but in among the usual correspondence is the odd little gem, like this request from a local librarian:

“I am giving a talk to the Mothers Union in September and the theme is ‘Handbags’. I am hoping to get some photos and details from famous people like yourself to send me a photo of their favourite handbag and what is the most unusual thing they carry around in it.

“I know this sounds like a strange request and perhaps like your famous character, Charlie Fox, you don’t have a ‘handbag’. Unless she carries her gun around in it!

“I look forward to your reply.”

How could I resist something like that? Of course, having the kind of twisted mind that I do, my first thought was, could this information be used for some sinister purpose? Not that I think for a MOMENT that a nice Lancashire librarian has any designs on my handbag, don’t get me wrong. But from such things as this, whole plots sometimes spring. I had a run-in with a car insurance salesman last week, and THAT is just crying out to become the nucleus for a serial-killer book, let me tell you. Oh, boy …

But anyway, back to the handbags.

I’ve never been a big handbag kind of a girl. Mainly because, if I carry one, it tends to become less of a dainty purse and more of a heavy duty rucksack. It’s simply one of the laws of physics that junk expands to fill the square of the space available. So it is with handbags. What starts out containing keys and a cellphone ends up filled with just-in-case essentials that require either weekly visits to the chiropractor to realign your spine, or employment of a pack mule.

So, if I’m just nipping out to run a quick errand, my wallet and change go in my pocket, my cellphone goes on my belt, and my keys are in my hand. This latter also doubles as a handy self-defence tactic, but that’s another story.

But, for longer trips, there’s other Stuff that a writer just can’t get away without. So, yes, I have an all-purpose handbag, and here it is.

Damn fine splendid, isn’t it? The G&Co refers to my literary agent, Jane Gregory & Company, and the bag was a Christmas gift several years ago. Not exactly ideal as a slinky dinky evening carry, I admit, but incredibly useful all the same.

And it certainly gets a lot of use.

In fact, this bag went all over the States with me, when I was touring FIRST DROP. It’s large enough to take a lap top, a rolled-up evening dress and a pair of heels, and small enough not to rick my back trying to lug it around. It has an outside flap covering the main pockets for additional security, and a strap long enough to go over my shoulder. Of course, for perfection I’d like steel wire in the strap, too, so passing bag-snatchers can’t knife through the strap and make off with it, but I try to a) be aware of who’s coming up behind me, and b) not put myself in those kind of locations to begin with.

So, what’s inside? Well, oddments, I suppose. Some of which I’d no idea were still there. In fact, when I emptied the contents out to make an inventory, it was a pretty good excuse to have a clear-out.

1. Swiss Army Knife memory stick

Since I acquired this at the Reacher Creature party at Bouchercon in Baltimore, I’ve carried it everywhere. Not just because I’m a big Lee Child fan – although, of course, I am. It’s a much smaller version of the Swiss Army knife I’ve carried for years, but it has all the essentials: back-up copy of the latest book (along with the memory stick’s original contents – the first chapter of GONE TOMORROW), pen, knife, nail file, scissors, red light. OK, not so sure about that last one, but everything else is great.

2. Headache pills, eye drops, antiseptic wipes

I get rotten headaches that I have to stamp on as soon as they start to rear their ugly … well, head, I suppose. Otherwise they’re the kind where even the weight of your own hair is too much to bear. So paracetamol and ibuprofen, which I occasionally take together for their anti-inflammatory benefits, in case of bad neck/back. The Visine is a lifesaver when I’m travelling, because air-con makes my eyes resemble two fried tomatoes, as does several days of continuous contact lens wear, if I’m away doing shoots. And the antiseptic wipes are so I can clean my hands before shoving one finger into my own eye to either insert or remove said lenses.

3. Elastic bands

Great for not only holding things together, but also for taking them apart. An elastic band will get the lid off a stubborn jar or, in my case, the stuck skylight filter off the end of a lens.

4. Mints

Always handy to have around, especially after that inadvised lunchtime garlic dip.

5. Flashlights

Yes, plural. I carry two. One is a little Maglite, which is wonderful for map reading in strange cities at night, when putting the interior light on would a) distract the driver and b) tell every drive-by gang-banger that Here Be fresh meat. Now I also have one of these little LED things that attaches to my keys, which is handy because I have it with me all the time, but you do have to squeeze it all the time you want it on. Very useful during power cuts in ladies’ lavatories. (Don’t ask.)

6. Giant tie-wrap

Officially, I carry this because of its versatile repair qualities. We were once doing a photoshoot on an extremely quick race car, when the down-force ripped away part of the front ground effects kit. A giant tie-wrap is just the thing to fasten the bits together long enough to get you home. And I absolutely DO NOT carry it because it would, entirely hypothetically speaking, make an ideal pair of instant PlastiCuffs for any would-be burglar or mugger. Uh-uh, no way …

7. Sweeteners

I happen to like Splenda in my coffee, and can’t stand certain other brands, which are sometimes all that’s on offer. The only disadvantage with carrying this is that it rattles when I walk. Either that, or I’ve started to rattle when I walk. Hm, maybe I better check that out.

8. Ziplock bag of almonds and raisins

Emergency rations. When I’m in the middle of a photoshoot, I usually don’t have time to stop and eat, but if the shoot’s a big one, eventually my hands start to shake, which is not the best situation for a photographer. I stopped snacking on motorway services junk last year, and started carrying a bag of almonds and raisins instead. Marcona almonds are the best – lightly toasted. And, when you’ve finished eating, the Ziplock bag can come in useful, too.

9. Ear defenders in old film pot

You never know when you’re going to need a set of these. Not that I’m expecting gunfire, but the guy in the next hotel room could snore for Britain, in which case they ensure a good night’s sleep. And your hearing is so important – and so easily damaged – that it’s a good standby that takes up very little room. I keep mine in an old film canister, which is airtight and waterproof, and great for other things, too.

10. Notebook, propelling pencil, ruler

Ah, finally we come to the writer-y bits. I think best in pencil, and the last time I flew I was told you’re not allowed to carry a pencil sharpener onto a plane any more (?!) so I invested in a nice propelling pencil instead. And a ruler because I like to doodle house and room designs in anticipation of our next build.

And then we come to the slightly stranger stuff:

11. Out-of-date map of the London Underground

Hm, November 2007. Have they changed it much since then? Not sure. Still, very useful thing to carry, although since I stopped going to committee meetings for the Crime Writers’ Association, I don’t need to have it in there.

12. Neck pillow

This is still lurking in the bottom from the last long flight, I think. Occasionally useful to have in the car, but that’s where it ought to live – in the car.

13. two £1 book tokens for a bookstore that no longer exists

Damn, why didn’t I spend these before Ottakar’s was taken over by Hammick’s? Come to think of it, I think Hammick’s has now been taken over by Waterstone’s. Just how old are these things?

14. piece of extremely rude Dutch toilet paper

OK, not actually going to show much of this, just in case of offending any Dutch speakers out there. I happened across this in the loo of a little back street garage in Burnley, Lancashire. We asked the garage owner if he’d recently been to Holland, and he said no, it came from the Everything Less Than A Pound shop in the town centre. Out of prurient curiosity, we took some along to CrimeFest for Adrian Muller to translate for us. He did a bit of it, went very pink, and promised to do the rest later. Still, I now know at least one very rude word in Dutch …

And finally:

15. Improvised knuckle-duster

Hellfire, what’s that still doing in there! This was something I made for my Creative Thursday workshop at last year’s Harrogate Old Peculier Crime Writing Festival, which was entitled ‘How To Kill Someone With Loose Change’ and was all about improvised weapons. This was a little piece I made out of a cheap table fork, and caused constant fascination at the event. But, I could probably be arrested on the spot for carrying it, so by the time you read this I will have already removed it from my person!

So, while I realise that all you manly men out there will, naturally, disdain at the idea of carrying a handbag, with or without such contents, what’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever found in a pocket, bag, or the glove compartment of your car?

If you could only keep one item, what would it be?

In an ideal world, what would you LIKE to have in there. And no bottomless pints of beer or X-ray specs, please. Well, OK then, if you insist …

I’m away on shoots all day today – with my G&Co bag, of course – but I will be back to answer your comments later this evening.

And this week’s Word of the Week is salto, meaning a daring leap, or (in gymnastics) a somersault. Also, salto mortale, meaning a mortal or fatal leap.

What Would You Do If I Sang Out of Tune?

Motivation. Focus. Productivity.

All of the above have been sadly lacking in my life lately.

As some of you already know, June 2009 has been one of the most difficult months of my life. Nobody’s died (yet) , and I’m still married, but other than that, it’s been a perfect storm of setbacks and disasters, on multiple fronts.

I’m not going to bore you with all the details. E-mail me if you’re a glutton for punishment. Suffice it to say, in the words of Ned Racine in BODY HEAT: “Sometimes the shit comes down so heavy I feel like I should wear a hat.”

As a fellow ‘Rati noted to me a few days ago, I’ve been under the radar lately. That’s because while this has gone on, I’ve barely had the energy to get out the things that absolutely have to get done. In the writing side of my life, that’s been the newspaper column and the Murderati posts. Fortunately, I already had some fragments and notes that could be turned into finished work without too much trouble. Otherwise, I don’t know if I’d have been able to do it. As for the current WIP: fugeddaboudit. Sunday was the first time I’d opened the damn thing up in weeks, and it looked like the work of a stranger. Not a particularly talented one at that.

But this isn’t a “poor poor pitiful me” sob story. Because I can report that things, for the moment, are looking a little brighter. Family and friends have rallied to offer help, both practical and spiritual. I’ve gotten great advice, encouragment, and career help from fellow writers and from readers. All of it’s been offered freely, without my even asking.

I thank you all from the bottom of my heart.

I’ve made some changes and some new beginnings. And I have started back to work on LAWYERS, GUNS AND MONEY again. We’re not out of the woods yet, but I’m beginning to see some glimmers of daylight.

Which brings me, finally, to my point. Sometimes the shit does come down so heavy, you feel like you need a hat. But you’re not alone. Somebody else has probably been through it. You may feel like no one else has ever felt the way you do. You may feel, as I did, like just giving up and letting the water take you down. But let me say it again: you’re not alone. And no storm lasts forever. If I can get through it, you can get through it. With a little help from your friends.

Thanks again.

140 Characters

By Louise Ure

“140 characters is a novel when you’re being shot at.”

-Twitter post from Iran, June 20, 2009

Ten days ago, our Toni wrote a Murderati post about Twitter, MySpace and Facebook and the relevance of these social networking sites to writers. My response then was that I was a Luddite in social networking, but that if Twitter and the other options gave voice to otherwise unheard populations like the demonstrators in Iran, it was a good thing.

And then came the even-shorter-than-140-character tweet seen above and I now have a whole new appreciation of the format, one from the point of view of a novelist.

I have always believed that short stories are harder to write than novels. That songs are harder to write than short stories. That haiku is harder than songs.

We even have cell phone novels now, called keitai shousetsu in Japanese, both written and read electronically in 70-word bites. And what about those six-word memes that are rolling around (“For Sale. Baby shoes. Never worn.”)

The distillation of ideas and a paucity of words make one choose carefully. But it makes the work no less meaningful. It can be a quick slash of pain rather than a long drawn out disease. A moment of euphoria instead of a lifetime of gentle happiness.

The poster of that Iranian Twitter message is right: whole worlds can be described in a hundred and forty characters. Hearts broken. Stories told. Lives remembered. It’s not just flash fiction; it’s Big Bang fiction.

And it’s not the same thing as those 25-word elevator pitches we’ve all been encouraged to develop. It’s not a summary: it can have the salty emotional punch of an entire ocean reduced to a single tear.

I saw something in a chat room once that detailed the sad saga of a 54-year old woman seeking the child she’d lost on the streets of Chicago twenty years ago. In Tweet-speak it would look like this:

“I lost my daughter in Chicago in ‘88 and have not seen her since.

Her name is LuAnna Jackson. Born 11/26/73.

Finding her again would be the high point of my fast fading life.”

Or the email message I got from a girlfriend five years ago:

“They set my arm and gave me an icepack in the ER.

He promised he’d never do it again.

That was the last time he ever lied to me.”

Or this good news from a friend whose dreams of adoption came true:

“Her name is Elaine. She was born yesterday,

weighing 7 pounds 11 ounces.

We leave for Beijing in the morning.”

Or even the opening lines from my latest book, Liars Anonymous.

“I got away with murder once but it doesn’t look like

that’s going to happen again. Damn.

This time I didn’t do it. Well, not all of it anyway.”

Who knew I was an unrealized Tweeter?

So help me out here, ‘Rati. Create some Big Bang Fiction for me. Break my heart. Make me laugh out loud. Go on. I know you can do it.

Write me a 140 character novel.

Other people’s houses

I’m interested in other people’s houses.

This fascination isn’t voyeurism; it’s the stuff of fantasy.

I first started thinking about my approach to other people’s houses in March. That’s when I started our new dog on his canine fat camp regime. In order to get our 3-6 miles/day in, Chance and I explored neighborhoods I’d never traveled before on foot. We’d pass a beautifully manicured lawn and I’d think about the person who cared so much about creating that perfect expanse of green. Was he obsessed with order in other parts of his life? Did he have walk-in closets with clothes organized by color? Was he a loner. a retiree with only one chair at his dining table?

We’d walk a little further and spot a house with solar panels on its roof. Were the homeowners former hippies? Did they hope to get completely off the grid someday? I imagined their floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in a skylit foyer. Their master bedroom would have a real fire place rather than than a gas one. And they have to have a vegetable garden in their backyard.

What about that place with high fences and growling dogs? Why all the secrecy? I mentally wrote the bullet holes in the wide wooden table in the living room, the mildewed carpet with cigarette–or dope–burns. Was there a safe room with gun racks in it? Was the building used for cooking meth? A nice neighborhood would be the perfect cover.

I had many questions but . . .

On the rare occasions I actually saw someone from one of those houses walk outside to pick up the morning paper or trim a hedge, my imagination spluttered.

I didn’t want to know the reality.

I didn’t want a peek at their furnishings or the insides of their cabinets.

I had a lot more fun with the truths I made up myself. Building worlds in those houses, peopling them with the characters I imagined, gave me a wonderful creative rush. A buzz of pure pleasure.

Ever since I noticed this curious tendency, I’ve been reading books with an eye toward how authors handle the little things in their characters’ homes. The extra-enjoyable element in this process is playing with what’s left out of the descriptions.

What type of faucet is in Poirot’s bathroom? I like to imagine a really cool deco one with sleek lines and, maybe, some kind of interesting black and white marble inlay.

What does the dresser in Sookie’s bedroom look like? I think one of the drawers might stick, maybe a handle is a little loose?

We know Susan spends time in Spenser’s kitchen, but do we know what color his stove is? I suspect he’s a black or chrome appliance kind of guy.

Nancy Drew’s kitchen could very well be done in avocado green with a cheery yellow dinette set, the kind with plastic-covered cushions that stick to bare thighs on hot summer days.

I don’t know if all this fantasizing will influence my writing. I’ve found that most creative exercises flex muscles that often get used in ways I don’t anticipate. But that’s not why I play with this. It’s just a kick to let myself go with these vignettes, to see what I come up with.

How about you?

Is there a house or building in your neighborhood you’ve already populated and furnished in your mind?
Tell us about it.

Is there a room in a favorite character’s house or place of work that you’ve spent time imagining–filling in the blanks left by an unsuspecting author?
What does it look like?

Role Playing with the FBI

By Allison Brennan

Stephen is jealous. He told me so on Facebook.

On Thursday I took the day off from writing (the day—not the night!) and participated in drills with the FBI. FBI Swat has a training program for agents and local law enforcement, and generally has a good mix of cops. The training program is for established and new agents to improve on their tactical procedures and includes class work, lectures, and drills. The more training a cop receives opens up more opportunities down the road for advancement or special assignments, so these type of programs and generally popular.

And I got to play this time!

The call (via email) went out on Tuesday asking for volunteers to play bad guys during tactical drills. Of course I replied, “Pick me!” On Thursday I headed over to the former McClellan Air Force Base for my assignment. I parked, so a bunch of firefighters training, and went that way . . . it was the wrong way, but a chivalrous fireman escorted me to the opposite end of the structure to where the feds run their drills.

I met up with Brian Jones, the FBI SWAT Senior Team Leader and Trainer (whose motto is “Failing to Train = Training to Fail.” I’d first met Brian when I participated in the FBI Citizens Academy last year. He let me blow up stuff, so he’s one of my favorite people. He’s also a fan—I gave him and his wife a book last year, and they have since bought my backlist.

The set up is multiple stations where teams of eight are run through life-like scenarios in order to improve their tactical response to common situations. The four stations this day were the “House of Pain” which is a hostage situation; traffic stops (which I believe is the most dangerous for law enforcement); searching; and serving warrants (my drill!)

I was able to observe all the stations except the hostage drill because I couldn’t see it from my vantage point on the catwalk during our “break.” But I learned tremendously from the other drills.

The guns involved all discharge paint bullets (I’m sure there’s a technical name for these, but I forget) and we’re all required to wear protective gear because being hit by the projectile hurts. There were two air force MPs running the drills with us, and they took the brunt of the hits. Both had torn shirt sleeves and bruises by the end of the day!

The searching drill—for lack of a better name because I missed the initial set-up—had a team going into a house searching for a known felon. There were two or three people hiding in the “house” and the primary purpose was to teach the team how to expeditiously and properly search the facility and stay safe. Whenever cops go into a residence with minimal intelligence, they put themselves at risk. So the drill was to give them a practical experience. Each team went through each drill twice under different scenarios (for example, the role players may be told by the trainer to be compliant in one drill, but in the next resist, or hide—or in one drill be unarmed, but in the next be armed.)

One drill had a girl hiding in a couch hide-a-bed. Just a month before, the trainer had been involved in executing a search warrant where two prostitutes hid in a hide-a-bed for three HOURS before they were found. The room they were in had been declared clear—but obviously it wasn’t. In another drill, a bad guy was hiding behind a door that was open. There was another suspect in the open room, who was dealt with appropriately, but the agents had intelligence that there were two men in the facilities, so they went down the hall to search the last room . . . then the door slowly opens and the “bad guy” (Air Force Raven Jeff) opened fire. (NOTE: I learned all about the Ravens, a special security unit in the Air Force that has only been around for about ten years. It’s going in a book someday . . . )

Every team was caught with multiple injuries (probably fatalities) before the bad guy was taken (killed.)

I was up on the catwalk and I couldn’t see the bad guy, but I could see that there was space behind the door and I wanted to shout, “Look behind the door!” Don’t these guys ever go to movies? LOL.

In the traffic stops, there were multiple scenarios, but each ended in a shooting, and as I watched I couldn’t help but remember several high-profile traffic stops that ended up with cops dead.

Every drill we ran had elements taken from real-life tactical situations, so these weren’t just classroom fantasy scenarios.

Okay, now the fun part—my drill.

My group had four role players. In Drill #1, the agents had an arrest warrant but not a search warrant so they had to talk themselves into the house. In Drill #2, they had a search warrant.

I played the belligerent, white trash wife. My “husband” Larry was a drunk known pedophile. The arrest warrant was for “Billy” who was a pimp who transported an underage prostitute across state lines (a federal crime.) The prostitute was played by an 18-year-old- FBI intern, and “Billy” was really another Air Force MP.

The cops had to talk their way by me, and I didn’t want to let them in. My orders were to make them “work” for it, so they had to try different approaches. I made the first team really work for it, and it was fun. In the middle of my demanding ID, complaining, not wanting to let anyone into my house, and asking if they wanted Larry, my good-for-nothing husband (using appropriate profanity along the way), Larry would come out of the back and start swearing and stumbling and ordering me to shut the effing door. I’d push him and tell him not to effing tell me what to do (which is probably what I would do if my husband acted the same way—before I packed my bags and left. Hmm, but if I knew he was a pedophile, I’d probably be on my way to prison because he’d be dead or castrated. But I digress.)

It was usually this point that I’d swing open the door and tell the cops to go ahead and do whatever they damn well pleased, while still fighting with Larry—they had to deal with a domestic situation before the primary arrest warrant could be served. I was cuffed, searched, and questioned about who else was in the house and who had guns.

The second situation, Larry and I were in bed (asleep!) and the cops had a search warrant. We didn’t get up—they had to break in. And then search, not knowing how many people were in the house. This was a little scarier than the first scenario, and I was also cuffed, made to lie on the floor of my “bedroom” because of the unstable situation in the hall.

I learned later that our drill was also a deadly force drill. In the second scenario, “Billy” came out of hiding after the prostitute escaped from him, and he had a gun to his head.

Do you shoot him?

The primary exercise is to help cops learn and understand deadly force policy, but to ascertain their personal deadly force policy in different situations.

Do you shoot a man with a loaded gun to his head?

Yes.

Why?

Because action beats reaction every time.

During the last rotation, the trainer told the group that every time they ran the scenario where the agents were told not to shoot until the muzzle moved from the suspects head, an agent was injured (shot with a paint bullet.) Every single time. Because the suspect has the intent and “inside knowledge” so to speak, and the agent is reacting to the movement, which delays response.

The best part of the scenarios was listening to the trainer after the drill go through and tell them what they did right and wrong. For example, one team didn’t cuff or search me in my first scenario, which puts a potentially dangerous people (if I had a gun hidden on me) behind their line.

They only do this once a year in my hometown, and I hope they invite me back next time! I might be willing to get shot then.

What’s valuable for me, as a civilian, is to see first hand the pressure and split-second decisions that cops have to make in the field. It’s easy to play Monday morning quarterback, but when things are happening now and an innocent life is in danger, they have to rely on their intel and their training to obtain the best possible outcome.

I didn’t think anything could beat the morgue, but the SWAT drills surpassed it by far. And I can hardly wait to go to Quantico this fall.

For me, as an author, I gain a lot of insight not only into practical situations, but into the people involved. It’s invaluable. And a hell of a lot of fun.