It Was a Dark and Stormy Night …

by Zoë Sharp

I’m fascinated by opening lines. It’s a question I always ask other writers: "What’s the opening line of your last/latest book?" and it’s amazing how often they can’t quite seem to remember, or maybe they’re just a little embarrassed to be able to quote it verbatim off the top of their head.

For me, nothing is harder to write than that first sentence. I’m reminded of the famous quote – can’t remember who originally said it – that goes: ‘After three months of continuous hard labour, he thought he might just have a first draft of the opening line.’ Always gets a laugh, but the terrible thing is that it’s not far off the truth.

I just can’t go forwards until I have a start I’m happy with. Maybe it’s because when I pick up a book by a new or new-to-me author, the first thing I read is the opening paragraph. It says everything about the pace, the style, the voice. It basically tells me if I want to go on with the rest of the book, almost regardless of anything else.

So far, I’ve been lucky and nobody’s asked me to change the start of a book – it’ll happen, I’m sure – but generally speaking, I’m pretty easygoing about edits. If my agent or my editor says something needs altering or cutting, and I don’t have a really good reason for that scene to stay, it goes. Comes from years of non-fiction writing for magazines, where you couldn’t get away with lying full length on the floor and beating your fists into the carpet, wailing, just because somebody wanted you to cut half your deathless prose to fit around the pretty pictures.

But I hate it when people mess with the rhythm of what I’ve written for no good reason. I put commas in for their original purpose – to tell the reader when to pause, where to place the emphasis within a sentence so it reads with the same cadence as it had in my head when I wrote it.

I did a short story for a particular magazine last year. It had to be to a specific length and I delivered it precisely 32 words over, which I thought was pretty close to target. The story was entitled ‘The Getaway’ and my original opening went:

‘Lenny Bright sat opposite the Holland and Seagrave Building Society in a gunmetal Honda Accord with the engine running. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the front door for twenty minutes, and right at that moment he would have sold his soul for a cigarette.’

But when the magazine arrived, to my surprise the editor had changed the opening to:

‘Sitting opposite the Holland and Seagrave Building Society Lenny Bright kept the engine of his gunmetal Honda Accord running. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the front door for twenty minutes, and he would have sold his soul for a cigarette.’

Not a great deal of difference, I grant you, but enough to change the whole character of the opening, the pace, the style, everything. Lenny’s a getaway driver, as the title suggests, so it’s not his Honda, for a start. And somehow the ‘right at that moment’ seemed an important point to make about Lenny’s sudden craving for nicotine. Quite apart from anything else, it just reads WRONG to me, and I wish they’d asked me before they messed with it – or even told me beforehand that they intended to – but there you go. Argh!

When I was kicking around the idea for this post, I went and looked up the opening lines for my fellow ’Rati, and when you look at them all, one after another, you really get a feel for the eclectic styles of this highly talented group of writers.

Pari Noskin Taichert – THE SOCORRO BLAST

‘If hell exists, it’s filled with old boyfriends … and a cat.’

Louise Ure – THE FAULT TREE

‘At the end, there was so much blame to spread around that we could all have taken a few shovelfuls home and rolled around in it like pigs in stink.’

Robert Gregory Browne – KISS HER GOODBYE

‘It all started when the pregnant girl went crazy.’

JD Rhoades – GOOD DAY IN HELL

‘The first blow split Stan’s lip and knocked him into a stack of re-capped tyres at the back of the repair bay.’

and THE DEVIL’S RIGHT HAND

"She ain’t no damn lesbian," the stocky man said.

Ken Bruen – CROSS

‘It took them a time to crucify the kid. Not that he was giving them any trouble; in fact, he’d been almost co-operative.’

Brett Battles – THE CLEANER

‘Denver was not Hawaii. There were no beaches, no palm trees, no bikinis, no mai tais sipped slowly on the deck of the Lava Shack on Maui.’

JT Ellison – ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS

"No, please don’t."

and 14

‘Would the bastard ever call?’

Alexandra Sokoloff – THE PRICE

‘Dead of winter, and snow falls like stars from a black dome of sky.’

Toni McGee Causey – BOBBY FAYE’S VERY (VERY, VERY, VERY) BAD DAY

‘Something wet and spongy plunked against Bobbie Faye’s face and she sprang awake, arms pinwheeling. "Damn it, Roy, you hit me with a catfish again and I’m gonna–"’

All very different, all fascinating. They make me want to know more about all these stories, just from the opening lines. Not only that, but I’m intrigued to know if these were the original opening lines for each book? Were there lots of ideas kicked around? Did an editor disagree with your preference and you had to make a major change?

But what makes a good opening line? What’s your personal favourite as a reader? How do you decide on one as a writer? The openings of some of the most famous novels vary wildly, from the famous "Call me Ishmael" of MOBY DICK to the incredible opening sentence from Montgomery’s ANNE OF GREEN GABLES, which weighs in at a hefty 149 words, beating Dickens’ positively lightweight opener to A TALE OF TWO CITIES by a solid thirty. Wow, people must have had the breath control of a whale in those days.

But it’s not just the opening lines that intrigue me, it’s what they represent. They are the jumping-off point for the whole tale. Books never start at the beginning of the story, and deciding exactly where to invite your reader to join you on that journey is an enormously difficult choice, because it’s vital they arrive at the right point to engage their interest, intrigue them, make them unable to leave that bookstore without your book clutched under their arm. But you can’t cheat, either. You can’t open the book with a situation so outrageous that, when the explanation’s finally revealed, it can never live up to the set-up.

When I wrote the opening line for SECOND SHOT, it was one that came to me immediately and it never changed:

‘Take it from me, getting yourself shot hurts like hell.’

The whole of that opening scene, where Charlie Fox, shot twice, lies bleeding in a freezing forest in New England, watching her principal die in front of her, arrived in one big lump, like something out of a movie. I watched it unfold in front of me and I wrote down what I saw, as fast as my little fingers could thump the keys.

But, as you can imagine, the opener for that book is very definitely not the start of the story itself. And, contrary to many expectations, it’s not the end of it either. Not by a long shot. Or, in this case, a couple of medium-range ones. One of the whole ideas behind the book was to strip away Charlie’s physical self-assurance, her capability when it comes to defending herself and those she’s been tasked to protect. So, I put her on crutches for the latter half of the book, just to see how she coped. So, I suppose you could say the real start for the story is Chapter Two, when she first meets Simone, the woman whose life she will fail to save, and Simone’s young daughter, Ella. And that was a pig to write.

Closing lines are just as bad, although when JT told me the closing line for ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS, it links just beautifully with that opener: "No. Please don’t. Yes."

The closing line for SECOND SHOT arrived in the shower while we were staying at a friend’s house in Chicago, and I literally had to jump out from under the spray and write it down. It came to me long before I finished the rest of the book and when I got there, it just seemed to fit perfectly. Maybe I was subconsciously writing towards it the whole time:

‘So, still I ask myself the question: Did I kill him because I had no choice, or because I made one?’

And boy, I hope I never enter one of those bizarre alternate realities where fictional characters spring to life, because if that ever happens I swear Charlie Fox is going to seek me out and beat the crap out of me for what I put her through in that book.

Erm, and the next one, actually …

This week’s Word of the Week, appropriately enough is persue. Not only is this an obsolete spelling of pursue, but it derives from the French percée, the act of piercing. It was used by Spenser – and I mean Edmund the English poet, rather than Robert B Parker’s detective – to mean a track of blood.

How Far is Too Far?

by Robert Gregory Browne

I read a lot of books. I read whole books and parts of books. I read
two and three books at a time. Walk around my house and you’re likely
to see a number of them cracked open and waiting for me to pick them up.

Recently I started a reading a new book, but suddenly had to quit. I couldn’t go forward. And I want to tell you why.

What follows is not meant to be a criticism of this particular book.
I haven’t read the whole thing, so how can I possibly criticize? I will
say this, however: the person who wrote it can write. I mean, REALLY
write.

And while what he’s writing would likely be characterized as
melodrama, there is nothing melodramatic about his writing. There is a
certain minimalist grace to his prose that I wish I could manage.

I was immediately swept up by his style, his tone and his story.
And, judging by the critical attention the book has gotten, I’d say
that I’m one of the few who actually stopped reading.

But now to the why.

I don’t want to risk giving anything away, so I’ll be fairly vague
about the storyline. But let me boil it down to its essence — at least
what I know of the story.

It’s about a man who has an affair and how that affair causes his
life to take a sudden and devastating wrong turn. It all hums along at
a good clip, keeping the reader intrigued. They meet, they flirt, they
fall in lust… Then there is an incident about forty or so pages into
the book that is so awful, so invasive, so repellent that I simply had
to put it down.

I can’t describe that incident to you. But let’s just say you wouldn’t wish it on your worst enemy.

And as I set the book down, telling myself that I didn’t think I’d
continue reading, I had to ask why? (Yes, I’m getting to it.)

Was it because the incident in question was too intense? Too
graphic? No, I don’t think so. I’m not particularly bothered by graphic
scenes and, frankly, as far as graphic goes, my own mind did most of
the work — a sign that I’m dealing with a very good writer.

But here’s the thing: no matter what happens in the rest of the
book, no matter how happy the ending might be, no matter who lives or
dies, who kisses and makes up, who is rescued from evil —

– it’s all too late.

Because once the incident in question happens, nothing any of the
characters might do from that moment forward can change that fact. No
matter how wonderful everything turns out in the end — and I’m assuming
it will — there is nothing the author can do to erase that awful, awful
moment and somehow make it better.

Well, there is ONE thing the author could do. Probably what I would
do, if I were writing the book. A major twist could change everything —

— But I can’t count on that happening.
And because I was so devastated by that one act, that one scene, that
one irrevocable moment, I lost all desire to go forward, even if a major twist will change it all. The damage has been done.

So I have to ask, how far is too far?

While I’d never say we’re obligated as writers to make everything
smiley and happy — quite the opposite if you want to write readable
books — I do think that we take a huge risk when we treat a character
so brutally that the smiley happy moments can’t erase what we’ve done.

As I said, I think the author is a wonderful writer. In fact, I just picked up another of his books.

But that one scene just killed it for me. Maybe I cared too much.
Maybe it’s because the writer has done his job. But it got to me and I
felt sick to my stomach and just didn’t want to go forward.

I won’t name the book here, because I don’t think it would be fair to the author.

But I’m curious to know if any of you have ever had a similar experience, where you felt the author had somehow crossed the line and you just couldn’t read any further?

The Best of Times?

By Louise Ure

There are enough bleak times to span the seasons. But then, every now and again, a couple of THESE weeks come along, when all your favorite things happen at once.

Weeks when lots of old friends show up at book signings in Seattle and Los Angeles and San Leandro.

And they buy books. Lots of books.

Weeks when your desk is covered with anthuriums and orchids because your spouse knows the value of a continuing Valentine’s Day celebration.

Weeks when you get to have lunch with one of your favorite people in the whole world. (Mrs. Claus was there, too, although suffering with a mean bronchitis.)

Weeks when your sister arrives for a weekend’s worth of birthday partying (hers, not mine). She gets to request any meal and almost always picks osso buco.

Then we pamper ourselves with pedicures and good red wine.

Weeks when you’re reading a new friend’s manuscript and realizing what a fine, fine writer she is. (Are you listening, Susan?)

Weeks when you treat yourself to a new toy and find it to be even more fun than you ever thought possible.

Weeks when some neighborhood wag leaves this on your door and makes you smile.

Ha!

So what’s the problem? Anhedonia, I’m guessing, or its little sister "too much input, not enough time for reflection."

Anhedonia, of course, is an inability to appreciate normally pleasurable activities. For me, this week, it’s literary anhedonia. An inability to enjoy a good read (with a couple of exceptions) or write anything worth a damn myself.

And that’s scary. When your go-to source of pleasure dries up and no matter how many other good things in life are happening, all you can think about are the things that aren’t.

The tour is almost done. I have the gorgeous Authors on the Move event in Sacramento to look forward to, then a visit from our own Pari, then Denver for LCC.

Someplace along the way, I hope I can dash this feeling of ennui and dissatisfaction that’s taken root. I need to fall in love with reading and writing again.

Tell me, my ‘Rati brethren, what makes a great week for you? And any suggestions for this too-long string of days when the pleasure of reading and writing has abandoned me?

More than magic in this city

by Pari

The subject of conventions has come up more than once on the ‘Rati, but some are so special they deserve a post of their own.

Enter Murder in the Magic City.

Each year, in early February, Margaret Fenton and the Southern Sisters in Birmingham, Alabama host this one-day event at the Homewood Library. It consists of four sequential panels, a lunch, and a talk by the Guest of Honor. Sounds simple, huh?

The next day, authors caravan to Wetumpka, Alabama for Murder on the Menu. This luncheon fundraiser for the local library is the brainchild of indie bookstore owner Tammy Lynn.

A person could argue that the success of these two events rests on the fact that they’re only on one day, or that they’re small and manageable. However, I think those comments diminish the real magic here.

From the moment authors accept the personal invitation to come to Alabama, they’re treated with warmth and respect. Margaret and Tammy make a point of communicating frequently with useful information; you know they’ve got their act together. What other convention picks up ALL of its writer panelists at the airport, gives them great food and drink? What other convention strives so hard to make people — audience and author — feel appreciated? The same is true for the Murder on the Menu. There are gift bags for the authors and happy fans who can’t wait to discover new fiction.

Every single detail has been thought through and improved upon.

This year, for the first time, organizers were faced with many last-minute changes — authors got sick, the weather didn’t cooperate — and yet, I doubt anyone in the audience noticed. Every panel was excellent, each participant talking about craft and life with intelligence and humor. The audience was delighted. I loved being able to listen to all of my fellow authors at both events, to learn more about them as writers and people.

And, the audiences at both MitMC and MotM come to buy. It’s a beautiful thing to see that many people, their arms laden with books, waiting in line.

Some of the most memorable moments for me this year were:

Meeting Gena Ellis, a talented screenwriter, with whom I’ve corresponded since she posted on DL. I spent time with Julia Pomeroy, Deb Baker, Donna Andrews and Toni Kelner. Talk about quality fun! What pleasure to meet Linda Berry, Kathleen Delaney, and the K-Y man Darden North; to hear Radine Trees Nehring and Lonnie Cruse speak so eloquently about their work, to watch Gayle Wigglesworth on a panel. Betty Webb did a bang-up job as a moderator; Jane Cleland danced and sang; Donna told us about penguin sex; Rosemary Harris glowed with that wonderful newness of an author being on a panel at a convention for the first time; and J.T.‘s happiness was palpable when she explained the pleasure in returning to MitMC as an author after having been in the audience just two short years before.

One of my absolute favorite moments was after the delicious barbecue dinner on Saturday night. Most people had gone off to bed, but a few of us stayed around a table, unwilling for the night to end. Don Bruns took out his guitar and began to sing ballads so lovely they brought tears. And, in the way that these things go, others began to sing. Deb Baker wanted to hear Piano Man and Bob Morris — bless him — whipped out an IPhone (or whatever that little computer dillybob was) and looked up the words. We sang and sang until the hotel staff turned off the lights.

I’d urge EVERYONE — fan and author alike — to put one or both of these events on your to-do list. The hotel isn’t expensive. Restaurants are nearby. And, I can guarantee you’ll have a magical time.

Below are some pictures from Murder in the Magic City. I’m including them so you can see some of your friends or favorite authors. I wish I’d been together enough to have better quality, snapped more . . .

Above: Gena Ellis and husband in the bookroom. J.T. holding her debut novel.
Below: Radine Trees Nehring and her husband, John, at breakfast. Gayle Wigglesworth and Betty Webb at their signing.

Below: Julia Pomeroy, Don Bruns and Deb Baker.
And, next to that . . . well, it’s the giant statue of Vulcan that overlooks Birmingham. And, um, I liked this particular angle.

LATE BREAKING PHOTO — from Margaret Fenton this afternoon. How many of these authors can you identify??

that’s the way I like it…

It’s just been one of those days… one of those good days when all is right with the world, or at least a little piece of it, for a few minutes, and I’m happy at work on something that’s new and exciting. Which means my brain is full of that new world, teasing out the nuances, and all other subjects just seem to glance off, stones skipping over the surface.

Somewhere in all of that process, there’s the hope that the new stuff will resonate with readers, which of course, leads back to the curiosity of what makes them buy a book. I know. We just discussed this.

But this time… it’s a poll.

I know, I know. Completely original idea.

But hey! It’s easy! It shows a running total! It coordinates with the colors of the blog! What’s not to love?

(I am not guaranteeing that this thing will actually work or that you won’t break the entire internet as soon as you click “cast your vote.” Seriously. If you click and your computer doesn’t explode, we’ll count that as a success.)

A book buying poll:

So, tell me please, what book did you buy this year that was a new-to-you author? And if you want to tell… how did you find them?

And… who have you been recommending to others?

THE PRICE – in more ways than one…

Yes, finally, THE PRICE will be in fine bookstores everywhere on February 19 or 20, depending on… I’m not sure exactly what.

Don’t we love this cover? It is so EXACTLY right for the book it’s – well, spooky. Kudos to Adam Auerbach at St. Martin’s Press!!

I will be starting off my tour in Southern California tomorrow, teaching workshops at the Southern California Writers’ Conference in San Diego this weekend, then signing at the divine Mysterious Galaxy on Tuesday, February 19th at 7 pm, and at legendary Book Soup on the Sunset Strip in Los Angeles on Wednesday, February 20, also 7 pm.

Yes, there will be wine, as we most definitely need to toast the successful conclusion of the writers’ strike.

(Okay, more specifics about the book at the end of this post, but first, the topic of the day…)

———————————————————————————

So, the second book!

All the interviews have started, and as I’ve said before, there’s nothing like an interview to shock you into remembering why you write to begin with and especially why you wrote a particular book.

I wrote a blog here a few weeks ago about personal mythology and was delighted with all the thoughtful examples of ‘Rati personal myths. I was actually struggling toward a topic of theme that I didn’t quite get to that day, so I will try it from a different angle today.

I really do believe that as authors we only have a few themes that we’re working on, or working out, over and over again, and it’s useful to identify our personal themes, as people and as authors.

Well, one of mine is the deal with the devil.

This is a funny personal theme to have, considering that my parents are two of the most agnostic people I know and we really had no religious upbringing at all. My sister and brother and I were taken around to different churches and temples and mosques and encouraged to go to whatever religious service was happening in whatever family our parents had pawned us off on for the weekend (KIDDING)… but, in essence, not a religious family by a long shot.

Nonetheless, I really seem to have a thing for the devil.

I don’t like the word. "Satan" is much more, well, elegant. But even Satan is too on-the-nose a term for the core concept that intrigues me.

Which is not about temptation, so much, but about what you’re willing to do for what you want.

I honestly have no idea when this obsession started. I was always into vampires as a kid (much more than I am today) so I guess the idea of forbidden passion and the price of unchecked desire loomed large, with big teeth.

I think I was also hit hard early on by Simone de Beauvoir’s famous statement, re: women artists – "The book or the baby." That is, as a female artist you have to choose between the two.

Now, obviously two of my favorite writer/friends, Heather Graham and Allison Brennan, have driven a massive and multi-pronged stake into the heart of THAT little homily, but I didn’t know Heather and Allison in my formative years and I did see an alarming number of the wildly talented women writers and actors and designers I knew in college choose the family route and never find the way back to their artistic dreams and potential, and it disturbed me. More than disturbed me, it ATE at me.

(Things that eat at you tend to turn up in your stories, don’t you find?)

And beyond all that – let’s face it. Those of us with the need to write are pretty ruthless about it. Writers aren’t particularly nice people. We are often kind, and empathetic, and compassionate – but nice? Not so much. We are focused, we are determined, we are obsessive, we are relentless. Some of us hide it better than others, but bottom line is – we have to be all those things, or we would never, never get it done.

And we make choices all the time that seem on the surface to be irrevocable. We give up one thing to get another – all the time. And… getting to the heart of it now: who here hasn’t whispered a little prayer that possibly is not meant for God to hear… about what we would really do for what we want?

So where does the devil come in?

Well, it’s partly just sex, of course – if sex can ever be referred to as JUST sex. If you’re going to sell your soul,or make a bargain that you’re going to spend all of eternity paying off, wouldn’t you rather it be to someone sort of dashing?

But also I’ve always thought that just as God is supposed to, the devil KNOWS you – knows the depths of your soul – knows the things that you want that you would never breathe a word about to another human being.

How intoxicating is that?

In fact, you could argue that the devil knows some things about you that you are going to great pains NOT to let God catch on to. And that’s intoxicating, too.

So that’s the tension that draws me again and again to Satanic characters: the idea of an overwhelmingly erotic and all-knowing figure who knows you to your core – knows you well enough to offer you your most secret desire – at a premium price.

I watched SILENCE OF THE LAMBS again last night (probably my three-dozenth time) because I’m teaching with it this weekend, and you better believe that the deal with the devil is the driving theme and force behind that book and film. A perfect depiction in every way, and not coincidentally, one of my five favorite books AND movies of all time.

Well, THE PRICE is all about the deal with the devil, too. And it won’t be my last book on the subject, either. My Satanic villain in THE PRICE knows exactly what a human being is worth, exactly the pressure points that will make them cave, exactly what every one of us is willing to do, for good or for evil.

And what would I be willing to do?

Hah. Like I said – I’ll never tell a human soul.

But I hope THE PRICE will tease readers into thinking about it.

So several questions for today, and no, you don’t have to answer in writing:

– – What have you given up for what you most want?

– – What WOULD you give up for what you most want, if someone who really had the power were offering?

– – And less drastically (!) – what’ do you feel is one/are some of your recurring writing themes?

On the road, now.

– X

————————————————————————————————————————

Here’s the scoop about the book, and you can read the first three chapters on my website, too.

What would you give to save your child? Your wife? Your soul?

Idealistic Boston District Attorney Will Sullivan has it all: a beautiful and beloved wife, Joanna; an adorable five-year old daughter, Sydney; and a real shot at winning the Massachusetts governor’s race. But on the eve of Will’s candidacy, Sydney is diagnosed with a malignant, inoperable tumor.

Now Will and Joanna are living in the eerie twilight world of Briarwood Hospital, waiting for Sydney to die, and both going slowly mad with grief.

Then a mysterious, charismatic hospital counselor named Salk takes special interest in Will and Joanna’s plight… and when Sydney miraculously starts to improve, Will suspects that Joanna has made a terrible bargain to save the life of their dying child.

"A medical thriller of the highest order… a stunning, riveting journey into terror and suspense."
– Michael Palmer, bestselling author of THE FIFTH VIAL

"This heartbreakingly eerie page-turner paints a vivid picture of the struggle between reality and the unknown."
– Library Journal

"A psychological roller coaster that keeps the reader on edge with bone-chilling thrills throughout."
– Heather Graham, bestselling author of THE SEANCE

"Beyond stunning, it is harrowing in the real sense of true art."
– Ken Bruen, bestselling author of PRIEST

Watch the book trailer

More tour information is here, and being added to daily.

In The Beginning

By J.T. Ellison

Oxymoron of the Week: A Good Problem

Usage: Wow, that’s a good problem to have!

How can a problem be a good thing? By its very nature, problems are just that, issues that create roadbloacks, which in turn need to be overcome. This week, I’ve been facing my own oxymoron, one of those "good problems." I’m getting started on my new book in earnest. I’m writing full-time, which is the good part (thanks, Brett, for that reminder). So, here goes with the problem side of the equation.

How do you write a book?

Because I need to confess… I’ve had a few moments over the past week that make me think I’ve forgotten.

This might sound insane to you readers, but the writers out there know what I’m talking about.

Starting a new book is a bit like climbing out onto an icy ledge in the Himalayas with a 10,000 foot drop-off. The view is beyond description, but there’s the terror of plunging to your death to contend with.

I know I’m not alone when I say I have a hard time getting started on a new book. This is the fourth "new" book I’ve begun, and I’ve had this issue with each one. I forget how to do it. I stutter, and stall, write a few pages and walk away, find a hundred other things that need to be addressed immediately, all the while telling myself, just get this one last thing done, and it’s full-steam ahead in the morning. It’s when I’ve said that for fourteen days in a row when I recognize that I’ve got the yips.

In golf, the yips are most prevalent in putting. Even the most experienced golfer has bouts of the yips — most commonly described as an involuntary movement of the wrist at the last moment in your stroke which makes the put pull or lag. It’s frustrating as hell. It also has pure psychological underpinnings, which sometimes manifest themselves physically. The more stress, the worse your yips.

And just a like a good golfer seeks help for their issues, a good writer sits down and does a mental check, trying to ascertain what’s happening. This isn’t writer’s block, mind you. Writer’s block is much more organic, much deeper. What I’m experiencing is this silly, frustrating feeling that I don’t know how to write a book.

Obviously I do. I’ve written several now. So what’s wrong with me?

I’ve been posing this question to those closest to me this week, with twofold hopes. One — reassurance, the yes, you can do it pep talks. Two — maybe someone could tell me how to fix my yips. I’ve received tons of the former, and none of the latter. So I interviewed myself, starting at the beginning. It took a few days of massive navel-gazing (also known as Facebook Syndrome) to realize the "how" behind my writing.

I dreamed the plot of the first book. The second was based on three separate scenes, full-blown mental vignettes, that popped into my head and stuck there. Strangely enough, one was simply a look between Taylor and Baldwin. I knew I needed that scene, it was vital, and strong, and important to their development. So I wrote the entire book around it. Then came the two others vignettes, and I built around those.

Okay. Now I’m getting somewhere. The third book, based in part on a real-life murder, also had these elemental building blocks, a few key scenes that gave me the tools to build the story around them. I saw them in my mind’s eyes, heard the dialogue, felt the surroundings, and went from there.

With this epiphany, I was able to start thinking about this new book in a different way. It already has a plot, already has a character line-up. The conflict and the resolution are set, the middle is still a bit amorphous, but the basic gist of the story exists. Driving home yesterday, I had one of those vignettes come to me, a scene of dialogue that I realized was coming from this new book. After my self-actualization yesterday evening, I sat down and put it on paper. As I did, a few other scenes popped in.

Phew.

So now I know how I write a book. I have two or three scenes banging around in my head, they gel and morph, and I write the story around them. This feels like a mess to me, when I look at it on paper. For a structured person, I’m certainly not when it comes to the actual writing of the book. But the relief I felt when I realized the "How" was palpable. I’ve just got one or two things to clear off my plate, and tomorrow it’s full-steam ahead. I’ve conquered my yips.

So let me know I’m not alone. Writers, tell me your "How." And to our readers, what gets you sidetracked from your goals?

Wine of the Week: Cascina Pellerino Langhe Nebbiolo

A Quick, Happy P.S.

Good thing I’ve gotten the yips under control. Yes, the rumors are true, the announcement has been made. I’m thrilled to
let you know that I’ve just signed a new deal with my incredible editor Linda McFall at Mira for three more
Taylor Jackson books. Many thanks to everyone who had a hand in this, especially my wonderful agent, Scott Miller. So to celebrate, I think everyone should head to
the store and buy a copy of BURN ZONE, from one of Taylor’s favorite
authors, James O. Born. BURN ZONE released yesterday, and is the second in the Alex Duarte series.
Trust me, it’s well worth your time. Oh, and Jim is one of my favorites
too, so if Taylor’s endorsement isn’t enough, please accept mine as
well.

Yip!

Up The Hill Backwards

I want to talk about a dirty little word a lot of writers don’t discuss in public too often. That word? Work.

I don’t mean the writing. I mean the day job. Like it or not, there are a lot of us published novelist out there that still have a day job. We yearn for the day we can ditch it, and just concentrate on the words that float through our minds and come on as stories on the screens in front of us. For a lot of writer, I dare say a majority, that day probably will never come. That’s just the reality. But even knowing that reality, we all still have the dream, the hope. You’ll notice I didn’t write “For a lot of us.” I’m holding onto the hope, and refuse to believe it won’t happen.

But I’m also very aware that without the day job, I ain’t got a roof over my head, or food on my table, or clothes on my back. So I go in every day and try to do my best.

My guess is, other writers do the same. But in public we don’t talk about the day job a lot. We prefer the illusion that we are writers, and writers only. Sure a few of us discuss it. Dusty’s a lawyer, and until tomorrow Duane Swiercynski’s still the editor at the City Paper in Philly. (A HUGE congrats to Duane for making the leap to full time writer!) But most of us keep that part of our lives is better kept to ourselves.

It’s Duane’s decision to devote himself full time to writing that got me thinking about this. I think I read somewhere that he said he wanted to focus on writing. And that’s exactly the point. With the fulltime job – which, don’t get me wrong, I’m very thankful for and we all need at some point – it is so difficult to focus.

There it is again. Focus.

I work in Hollywood. Or, to be more specific, not really Hollywood but a couple miles to the south. The company I work for is located in the middle of the Miracle Mile very near the La Brea Tar Pits. You know, the place where they dig up the mammoth and saber tooth tiger bones? If I press my face against my office window and look to the right, I can actually see the tar pits.

My job? I’m an executive producer at E! Entertainment Television specializing in on air graphics. I know…what does that have to do with writing? I mean, I’m in Hollywood after all, shouldn’t I have a job that takes advantage of my writing skills? My answer to that is no. I purposely got involved in a part of the industry that didn’t require me to write to much. I was afraid of burning out during the day and being unable to write at night. I achieved that, but there are other draw backs as you’ll see in a moment.

But my job does sounds pretty good, doesn’t it? There are many people in my line of work who would love to have my position. I know that. I know I’m lucky.

But a couple things you need to know about a job like mine. Mainly it’s effect on my focus as a writer. During the day I’m pulled in a million different directions, I have projects that come in and need to be done in an hour, and projects that will take several weeks all happening at the same time. It’s not untypical for me to be supervising 15 to 20 projects at one time. If I call in sick, or take a day off, I get phone calls. If I go to a writing conference I get phone calls. That’s a lot of work and a lot of stress and many times very brain tiring. In other words, a great destroyer of focus.

I’ve written else where – maybe even here – that my routine is to get up at 5 am and start writing by 6. What I didn’t say is that I have to stop by 8 and go to work for 10 hours. And even if I have the energy to write in the evenings, my focus is often lacking. My brain is numb. I’ll force myself sometimes, sure, but my productivity is about half that of what it is in the mornings. So basically I have to squeeze a novel out of two-hour sessions during the week, and a few extra on the weekends.

It’s hard to keep the narrative flow when the task is cut up in this way. It’s hard to pick up 22 hours later in the middle of a chase scene or an argument or even a flashback. But I prefer doing any one of those to starting a new chapter. If I’m at a chapter break I’ll try to write a few paragraphs to get things going. That way when I sit down at my laptop the next morning, I’ll at least have some sense of where I am.

In the end it all comes together. That’s what the rewrite is all about. I’m able to smooth things out and make everything work, thank God.

My friend likens me to one of those Chinese acrobats that keep the plates spinning. And it’s probably an apt description about all aspects of my life. The trick is to keep them from falling. They’ve gotten close sometimes, but so far I’ve been able to keep them going.

I’m not complaining. Not at all. The job thing is just the reality of being an author that many people don’t talk about, and I probably won’t talk much about again, either. But it was on my mind, because of my happiness for Duane, and yes a tinge of friendly jealousy.

And a hope…that someday, hopefully sooner than later, I’ll be able to do what he did. The day I’ll be able to focus only on my writing. Until then, I’ll chant the author mantra, “I will get there. I will get there. I will get there.”

I will.

I don’t want anyone to fess up their jobs, but how about a count of hands of people who know what I mean…

BONUS: I’m running a sweepstakes on my personal blog for an advance copy of THE DECEIVED. Details here.

Happy Valentine’s Day to everyone. Be safe out there!

The Gravel Road of Broken Dreams

by J.D. Rhoades

“Down these mean streets a man must go…”

So begins one of the most famous quotes in crime fiction, from Raymond Chandler’s essay, The Simple Art of Murder. For years, though, those mean streets were in a limited number of places, all of them big cities. Phillip Marlowe had L.A. Sam Spade had San Francisco. Mike Hammer (and most everyone else) had New York. Spenser had Boston. For the longest time, it seemed only the metropolis was where the action was, crime-fiction wise, at least on the hardboiled end of the spectrum. You’d think the only big crimes were in big towns.

Those us from outside the sprawl knew differently, of course. It’s not just urbanites who have it brought home to them that “murder is an act of infinite cruelty.” For every mean street, there’s a dozen dirt roads just as mean, if not meaner. Not to mention your mean desert highways, your mean mountain roads, and your mean bayous.

Eventually, crime fiction began to reflect this. James Crumley gave us Milo Milodragovitch and C.W. Sughrue out of Montana. James Lee Burke gave us Dave Robicheaux from New Iberia, Louisiana. Stephen Hunter gave us Bob Lee and Earl Swagger, of Blue Eye, Arkansas, and points west. The list goes on and on: CJ Box, Nevada Barr, Daniel Woodrell, the amazing Lori G. Armstrong….and let’s not forget our own Pari and Toni, who set their books in small towns in the Southwest and Louisiana, respectively, and Louise, who spends a good part of her fictional time in the Arizona desert.

And, while I’m on the subject, just let me say I’ve read a couple of as-yet-unpublished crime novels set in rural areas: Anthony Neil Smith’s YELLOW MEDICINE and Ed Lynskey’s PELHAM FELL HERE. Both of them are flat out fantastic. Dark, gritty,
and as merciless as a farm foreclosure. When they come out, grab ’em.

Obviously, this is a subject near and dear to me, because most of my books are set in rural and small-town North Carolina. That’s what I see, those are the voices I hear, so that’s what I write.

I wonder sometimes, though. While there are a lot of books set outside the major cities, and a few achieve success, the real heavy sellers—your Crais, your Connelly, your Lehane, your Pelecanos—seem to be mostly working within the classic metropolitan locales. Sometimes it seems as if the farther you go out into the country, the harder it gets to hit that big bestseller.

Is it just that there are more readers in big cities and they’re more likely to identify with an urban detective than they are with a small town or rural one? Are editors and reviewers more likely to warm to a gumshoe that works the mean streets they could take a cab to (if they dared) rather than a sleuth with mud on his boots?

City ‘Rati, Country ‘Rati: Where y’all from? And does it affect what you read? And what are your favorite crime novels from off the beaten track?

The Urgency of Shadows

By Ken Bruen

The title of today’s blog is from an email by Louise Ure.

Yes, our very own.

Louise was home in Tucson, on book tour and letting me know how it was going.

Describing being back in Arizona, she mentioned she’d forgotten the urgency of shadows. Apart from it making a hell of a title for a book, it describes her new book, The Fault Tree, too.

Rarely has blindness been better described.

It’s three years since I lived in Tucson, we’d brought my daughter there and she was entranced by the desert and cowboys.

The only cowboy she’d ever known was me, and in Ireland a cowboy is not
am … flattering.

The locals were mesmerized by this tiny wee thing with an Irish accent who had a mouth on her like Bart Simpson. Like me, she loved America and it never ceased to surprise her.

Our very first meal, in a steak house, when they brought the food, we were stunned.

Enough on the plates to feed Galway for a week.

We did our best but there was a mighty pile of food still remaining when we
cried … we’re done.

The waitress, asked if we’d like a doggy bag.

Grace said

“We don’t have our dog with us.”

I explained to Grace that you can bring the food home and she asked

“Why?’

I said you could have it later or even the following day.

Her look was beyond skepticism.

Took her a week to realize that chips were called French Fries.

Mostly, she was taken with the dry heat and not having to wear coats, jackets or search for umbrellas.

Paul Theroux gave what I think is the best advice to writers

“Leave home.”

In every sense of the term.

My previous visit to Arizona had been on tour, and in Scottsdale I finally got to meet Craig Mc Donald. We were staying in a hotel that was closing in two days. When we ordered a beer, we were asked what brand and we rattled off various fine ones only to be told

“You can have Miller or Miller Lite.”

I did a reading at the wondrous Poison Pen and got to have dinner with Patrick Milliken, Dennis McMillan, James Sallis, Craig and Debbie. We didn’t drink Miller.

It was one of those magical evenings where the company is as fine as it could be, the weather was amazing and I thought … all of this bounty because I sat down and wrote.

Craig told me he was planning a book titled Head Games.

If you’d told us then it would be nominated for the Edgar, we’d have drank a crate of Miller.

I have been truly graced with the writers I’ve met and mystery writers are the best of all.

See the sheer volume of care and warmth extended to Patry Francis on January 29th.

As writers, we might work in the shadows but when we come out in the light, watch the glow.

Which brings me to The Legacy

A poem, for Judy, Bill Crider’s wife, the way I see Bill talk not only to her but with her.

Bill’s blog, despite the harsh shadows on their lives, remains upbeat and yes, life-affirming, no matter what comes down the Texas pike.

They are usually on my mind with the urgency of shadows

… leave you

The leavings of

… an inarticulated thanks

Will to you

… the echoes of the lines

As yet unwrit

… term you the keeper of my conciliatory heart

That heart

… as mortgage

Hold.

I heard my daughter say her prayers in Irish last night.

She began, as we do, with Mhuire an Gras (Mary of Grace) and then she prayed for all the ones I’ve asked her to pray for and I’m just about to go answer the phone when I hear her add

“And God, will you let Dad get me a Big Mac today and no doggy bag.”

I’m thinking of three wondrous ladies I have the blessing to know

Susan Smiley

Honora Finkelstein

And Lisa from Delaware

All three have sent me warm and warmest emails just after I’d been castigated on a German mystery site for not responding to fan emails or readers queries.

As Honora expresses it, Hands on a healing heart.

What else do I need to know?

On Elaine Flinn’s blog, I’m laughing out loud at her responses to the comments to her Edgar remarks and she is all I love best in women

Feisty

Funny

And oh so full of true grit.

Louise Ure adds a terrific line, which applies not only to depression but to the insecurity most writers I know undergo

… I have a black belt in self-recrimination.

C.J Carpenter sends me a piece about an English coin I’d given her and mentions St. Jude, Patron of Hopeless cases and I want to phone the priest I know and tell him.

But like the true Irish he is, he’d ask

“Are you saying I need to pray to St. Jude?”

Lou Boxer reminds me of the wondrous question posed by Merton

“What can we gain by sailing to the moon if we are not able to cross the abyss that separates us from ourselves?’

I’m about to end this entry when Bukowski’s collection, "Poems Written Before Jumping Out of an 8 Story Window", catches my eye and I open at random and light on this fitting end line.

… the only thing needed

Is a little more strength

Visions on bad film seldom

… repeat.

Exactly.

Murderati

MURDERATI examines critical themes, historical archetypes and trends in publishing, marketing and the life of the published author.