Entertainment Weekly, or the Bible as it’s called in my house, recently listed the Top 100 Greatest Characters of the Last Twenty Years. 

As its title indicates, Entertainment Weekly concerns itself with entertainment generally: movies, television, music, the interwebs, theater, and, yep, books.  Perhaps not surprisingly, the bulk of their hundred greatest characters were known from movies and TV.  Omar Little, Cosmo Kramer, Buffy Summers, Lorelai and Rory Gilmore, Homer Simpson.  Hard to argue with most of the choices.

Omar LittleThe list did acknowledge a few literary characters, but most of those were discussed in terms of their dual identities, existing both on the page and in film, such as Dexter Morgan, Bridget Jones, and Harry Potter. 

But as I perused the article, I was struck by how many of the TV and movie characters actually originated in novels and short stories.  My first instinct was critical.  Why, I asked, did the magazine make only brief mention of the original works while reserving celebration for the filmed or televised version of the character?  Why didn’t EW discuss both the literary and films versions, as the article did, for example, with Bridget Jones?

I realized, however, that as much as we readers like to say that adaptations “destroy” our favorite books, sometimes actors, directors, and screenwriters create something entirely new from literary inspiration, or at least sufficiently unique to take on new life.  When I think of Red from the Shawshank Redemption and Annie Wilkes from Misery (who both made the list), I think of Morgan Freeman and Kathy Bates, not the works of Stephen King in which they first appeared.

I confess that I had forgotten that some of my favorite characters had literary predecessors.  I can’t imagine Tracy Flick, for example, apart from Reese Witherspoon’s interpretation of her.

Forrest Gump, in my mind, looks and sounds forever like Tom Hanks.

And, with all due respect to Candace Bushnell, when most of us hear Carrie Bradshaw, we think (for better or worse) of TV Carrie, not book Carrie.

BetterWay worse

Some adaptations stray so far from their source material as to be unrecognizable.  I’m told, for example, that the novel upon which Up in the Air was based did not have either of the two female characters who taught George Clooney so much about life.  Many people did not realize that the film O Brother, Where Art Though? was based on Homer’s Odyssey until the Academy nominated the screenplay for best adaptation.  In our own genre, I can’t be the only Michael Connelly reader who was, shall we say, surprised at filmmaker Clint Eastwood’s take on the character Buddy.

Two questions for discussion, one with subparts:

1) Who are your favorite literary characters of the last twenty years?

2) And which translations of literary characters to TV or film have been most horrific, accurate, or even improvements on the originals?

by Alafair Burke

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Watching: Get Him to the Greek; The Good Wife

Listening to: Psychedelic Furs

by Alafair Burke

It’s eighty degrees and I’m writing this from the newly remodeled Washington Square Park, where the fountain – now symmetrically aligned, thanks to Mayor Bloomberg — enthusiastically welcomes in summer by spraying bare-chested SPF’d children and apparently un-SPF’d ripple-abbed men (not that I noticed).

Perhaps because I’m typing this as a crazy-ass homeless dude in a multi-colored wig and butterfly-patterned skirt harangues me about the carry-out lunch that awaits my attention on the bench next to me,* I’ve decided that dog watching is a safer park habit than people watching.** But it’s nearly as interesting.

No day in Washington Square would be complete without the dogs. The big ones. Little ones. Happy ones. Neurotic ones.

And my afternoon of dog watching got me thinking about my relationships with pets. As some of you know, I have a special relationship with my French Bulldog, The Duffer. My tremendous respect for him is reflected even in his name. I wanted to call him Stacy Keach. My reasons should be self-evident.

Stacy Keach and the Duffer (which is which?)

My  husband, however, was perplexed by the choice. “People will think a dog called Stacy is a girl.”

Um… so?  And, more importantly, we would not call him Stacy.  We would call him Stacy Keach. Every single time. Because that would be his name.  My husband put his foot down, but that didn’t mean I was going to cave for some stupid dog name. No Fidos or Fluffies here. But Duffer? Yeah, that might work. But only he had to be THE Duffer. All regal and stuff.

The Duffer’s my first dog, and I have to admit I’m still surprised by the love, affection, and empathy I have for my little friend — and which, yes, I believe he has for me. I truly believe he has moods and feelings and expressions that leap from that one-of-a-kind mug of his. I talk to him constantly and imagine what he would say back to me if only he could.

Does this make me insane? Maybe. Or more optimistically, maybe my internal (and sometimes external) running dialogue with the Duff is just a sign of my overactive imagination. Or it could be a recognition that animals, although lacking our ability for language, opposable thumbs, and fire making, have attributes that we chalk up to feelings and emotions in humans, but to our own imaginations in our pets.

I mean, is it not obvious that the dog in this photograph

was in a different mood, and yet the very same silly beast at his core, as in this video? (Warning: NSFW)

Dogs are not alone in their unique personalities. My agent and his wife recently welcomed two new kittens into their home. One is named Ellie Hatcher, and her brother is called Mickey Haller. In light of her namesake (my series protagonist NYPD Detective Ellie Hatcher), I was rooting for Ellie to be one playful yet take-charge, bad-ass mo-fo of a cat. But guess what? It’s her twin brother Mickey (named for Michael Connelly’s Mickey Haller) who’s the rapscallion. If he were a human being, he’d wear overalls, carrying a peanut butter sandwich in one pocket, a slingshot in the other. Mickey’s the feline equivalent of Dennis the Menace.

Ellie? She’s earnest. Tentative. Watchful. The kind of girl who’d tell on herself if she ever broke the rules. Sigh.

I’m not the only writer with pets on her mind these days. The wonderful Laura Lippman recently blogged about once helping out Reba, “a hang-dog dog, shy and mopy.”  (She’s following it up with a contest. Just post a memory about your favorite pet or pet name, and be entered for an advanced copy of her eagerly anticipated novel, I’d Know You Anywhere.)

Perhaps because we recognize that our pets have personalities, it’s no surprise that writers have looked to pets for fictional characters.  It’s fashionable these days to diss cozy mysteries where cats solve crimes, but some pretty damn good books occasionally make room for the non-human animals.  (Have you read Garth Stein’s The Art of Racing in the Rain?  The entire novel is narrated by a dog, and it’s actually good.  I kid you not.)

Sometimes the addition of a pet tells the reader something about its person.  Leave it to Stephanie Plum to find a best friend in Rex the hamster.  Readers also become attached to literary pets in their own right.  I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve been asked whether James Lee Burke‘s daughter actually owned a three-legged racoon named Tripod.  (The answer, for the record, is no.)

I like to think I’ve created a true character in Vinnie, French bulldog pal to Samantha Kincaid.  I conjured Vinnie well before I was a dog owner myself. He’s a little lazy, likes his people, and makes loud, fast snorting noises like an old fat man when he eats. He’d sound like Buddy Hackett if he could talk.  And he finds endearing but frustrating ways of expressing his displeasure when Portland cop Chuck Forbes moves in.  (I’m not alone in my frenchie obsession.  The Kellerman family has a beautiful dog named Hugo, and Jonathon Kellerman‘s Alex Deleware has a frenchie as well.)

So, here’s my question for the day: Who are your favorite literary non-human animals?  What do they add to their books, either vis-a-vis the human characters or in their own right?  Which pets do you wish could talk, and what would they sound like and say?

*A further aside about the aforementioned homeless guy.  He wanted to know what I was going to use to eat my lunch.  “A fork,” I said.  His response?  “Well go fork yourself!”  Jesus, I love this city.

** In addition to dog-watching, I also got in some simultaneous people-walking. Random things that have happened at the park while I’ve been typing: A three-year-old banged his drumsticks on the bench next to me; two hand-to-hand drug deals (that I noticed, at least, though I haven’t been going out of my way to look for them); an orange-haired Asian kid nearly knocked a mohawk dude over with his hoola-hoop; and the little girl on the Razor scooter proudly declared, “I’m super really stinky.”  I swear, I’m not making this stuff up.  Today’s officially a great day.

Watching: Modern Family

Listening To: Sade

Reading: Lee Child’s 61 Hours

Surfing: LOST re-enacted by cats (you’re welcome)

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by Alafair Burke

This has been a joyous week for me, thanks to a visit from one of my BFF’s who recently left New York (boo!) for an academic position elsewhere.  It has also been an active week.  See, here’s the thing about people who know and love New York, but who are limited to occasional visits: They have a tendency to pack a month’s worth of their favorite routines into a single day.  And, thanks to my friend’s kamakaze fly-by, I had the pleasure of living one of those days.

We didn’t set out to walk twenty miles.  The morning began simply enough with a morning stroll with my french bullog, the Duffer.

We walked through the west village to the river up through the Meatpacking District, then back over through Chelsea to my place near Union Square.  We picked up Starbucks and Bagel Bobs along the way.  Stopped in Washington Square Park to snack.

But then we dropped off the Duffer and realized it was still only ten in the morning on what we’d sworn would be a true no-work day.  Soon enough, my friend’s friend happened to call.  He needed someone to help carry a new art acquisition from a Chelsea Gallery to his loft in the fashion district.  Off we went, back to Chelsea.

By the time we finished moving the canvas, it was time for lunch.  Back to the Meatpacking District.  Bloody mary and a dozen oysters outside = yummy.  Pitstop to the Apple Store for my handy, dandy, and completely unnecessary iPad.  Woot!

Next on the route was SoHo, requiring a stroll down from the Meatpacking District through the west village.  In SoHo, we hit six different furniture stores, researching the perfect pull-out sofa.  Turns out, there’s no such thing.

Suddenly it was five-thirty.  Back to the apartment for a quick shower before catching our Broadway play, Next Fall (marvelous, by the way).  Small post-theater snack and glass of wine at the lovely Aureole.  Subway back to Union Square.  Still hungry.  One a.m. stop at the late-night taco truck for corn tortillas and Horchata.  By the time I checked my Bodybugg, we had logged just over twenty miles!

I went to bed exhausted.  And really, really full.  And incredibly inspired.

A few weeks ago, I wrote about my need to walk away from the keyboard and free my brain when I really need big-picture creative inspiration.  Based on my near-marathon city walk, I now believe those walks away from the desk should always be through the city I now love and write about. 

Among the various quotidian details, all inspired by my long walk, that you’ll likely find scattered through my next novel:

The New York foodie’s never-ending search for the best food trucks:

 The chess-game culture of Washington Square Park:

The way a texting New York pedestrian will slam into another human being and then scream at that person for being in the way:

The Highline, an elevated park with a uniquely Manhattan blend of industrial chic and actual nature:

The Standard Hotel, whose floor-to-ceiling windows above the Highline have proven irrestible to exhibitionists:

And, not sure this will make the book, but I did learn that there is a chair called the “Do Hit Chair.”  Price: $8,000, or $15,000 if beaten by the actual artist.  I’m not making that up.

Best of all, I somehow came home with a major plot point magically worked through.  A day of friendship, a plot development, new energy about the urban landscape of my books, and three thousand calories burned to-boot.  I’d say my hooky day turned out to be productive after all.

Has a play day ever turned into inspiration for you?

by Alafair Burke

I’m still on the road for 212, but was lucky enough to lock in bestselling thriller author, Lisa Unger, for a little chat here at Murderati.  If you’re not yet reading Lisa’s books and following her online, you should be.  She is not only a master plotter, but also a talented writer whose characters stay with you long after you close the book.  And lucky for us, she’s also incredibly thoughtful about the creative process. 

Lisa’s excellent novel, DIE FOR YOU, is out in paperback this week. 

For readers who don’t know the premise of your wonderful novel, DIE FOR YOU, please tell us a little about the book.

Isabel Raine has the pefect life.  She’s a bestselling novelist, close to her family, in love with her husband Marcus.  It’s not a perfect marriage; there have been problems — an affair, a miscarriage. But Isabel loves the man she married, can’t imagine her life without him.  Then, on a day like any other day Marcus, an inventor of computer games, leaves for an important meeting and doesn’t come home.  In the frantic search for him that follows, Isabel comes to realize that the man she married is a stranger.  She didn’t even know his real name.

In addition to being a story about Isabel’s search for the truth about her husband, it’s also about marriage and how well we really know each other.  It’s about family and the ties that bind.  Everyone in DIE FOR YOU has a secret heart.  So, it’s about that, as well, how sometimes we hide ourselves from the people we love the most.

You live in Florida, but DIE FOR YOU takes readers to the streets of both New York City and Prague.  How did you decide to set the book in these locations, and how were you able to depict them so credibly?

I lived in New York City for thirteen years, and visit many times a year. So it really is one of the places I know best.  When I close my eyes, I can hear it, smell it, taste it.  And it has occupied such a huge place in my heart and imagination for so long that my novels seem to naturally begin there. 

In 2007, I spent five weeks in Prague.  And the city itself – its dark history, its gothic beauty – inspired DIE FOR YOU.  I wandered the streets of that city with my husband and daughter and just let it sink into my skin.  I kept thinking that Prague was a city of secrets, that beneath its pretty cobblestone streets beats a dark heart.  I love that energy … it’s the same pulse in New York, and even in Florida.  This idea — that beneath the glamour of New York City, the beauty of Prague, or the sunshine of Florida lurks something feral — is fascinating for me.  The same might also be said for the lives of many of my characters.

Did your time in Prague change anything about your creative process or writing habits?

Initially, I went to Prague to vacation.  I needed a little time off after writing BLACK OUT to recharge creatively.  But the city so inspired me that I couldn’t keep the pages from coming.  DIE FOR YOU is the first book inspired by a place; so that was a change.

My schedule fell into place much as it is at home; early mornings from 5 AM writing while my husband takes care of our daughter, and afternoons as a mom.  But, of course, as a mother nothing is every seamless. Since my daughter always comes first, I have to be creative and very flexible about when I get my pages done.  That’s true whether we’re in Prague or Florida.  I am always performing a balancing act!

You have an active presence online, with thousands of Facebook friends, regular Twitter posts, and an active blog.  What do you see as the advantage, both for you and your readers, of social networking?  What do you see as the proper balance between letting your books stand on their own and allowing readers to get to know the woman behind the books?

Facebook and Twitter are fantastic ways to stay in touch with readers.  I love the feedback, the connections.  And I love the way those connections intersect with the real world, how people turn up for appearances because they know me on Facebook.  In an industry that’s changing all the time, Facebook is an important tool for authors in terms of creating exposure and allowing for an unprecedented relationship with readers.

I try to be very organic about my posts and my blogs, only writing when the spirit moves me and only about things that are important to me.  So in that way, I’m pretty open.  I feel like I owe this my friends/fans/ followers. When they hear from me, I want it to be real – whether it’s about my books, other authors I want to support, what I’m thinking, feeling, listening to, watching. 

In some respects, the social networks are about marketing.  But the relationships one creates there are true.  Finding the balance is tricky.  I had a nudge from a follower on Twitter.  She said she hoped I was hard at work on the new novel because I hadn’t tweeted in a while.  And it’s true that the more focused I am on my work, the less present I am online.  It’s about the writing first.  Everything else – marketing, publicity, blogging, social networks – come after the craft. I think readers who follow me on the networks know this about me.

I know that you have made book touring a family event.  Can you talk a little about your experience touring with your family?

Touring with the family is not for the weak.   My daughter was four months old when she went on her first book tour.  I couldn’t NOT go; and I wasn’t about to leave my munchkin behind.  But getting on the road with your four- month-old, nursing infant requires the mobilization of a small army – my husband, my parents, friends in various cities.  Not to mention the gear … stroller, car seat, breast pump, massive diaper bag.  Of course, now she’s four – and it’s easier in some ways (less gear, for one thing), harder in others. As crazy as it can be sometimes, I can’t imagine doing it any other way.  Touring can be very stressful – and although traveling with your family doesn’t make it LESS stressful certainly – it keeps everything very real.  There’s never any forgetting what’s important.

Because I’m on tour right now, I’ve got touring on the brain.  Are you willing to share the craziest thing that’s ever happened during your travels?

There have been so many crazy moments on the road, especially with Ocean!  There was a funny piece in the New York Times about our various adventures.  I always say that she has been breastfed in the parking lots or back rooms of hundreds of bookstores across the county!  I had to nurse her before each event to be sure she didn’t freak out in the middle of a talk.  At first I used to do it in the car, because I was shy.  After a couple of cities, I just asked for a place to nurse before each event.  And everyone seemed to take this in stride – media escorts, bookstore owners.  The folks at Stacey’s in San Francisco said, “Everything comes after feeding the baby!”  And this is so true.

You are known as one of the smartest plotters in the thriller genre, but I happen to know that you don’t outline your books in advance.  Tell about your process for creating such seamless plotting and pacing without advance planning?

Aw, shucks.  Thanks for that, Alafair.  Anything can be the germ for a novel.  A voice I hear in my head or someone I keep seeing.  It might be a poem or a news story or lyrics from a song.  And if it stays and repeats, spins out and grows, then it’s a novel.   I never know how a book is going to end, who is going to turn up, or what they are going to do day to day.  I write for the same reason that I read, because I want to know what’s going to happen.  And it has always been this way for me.

You and I have talked about this before.  And it all sounds very magical.  But I’m not sure it is really. I have been an avid reader and a writer most of my remembered life.  I have studied virtually every type of writing from journalism to poetry, from play- and screenwriting to the novel.  My entire education and every goal I’ve had personally and professionally has focused on the craft.  So because of that I suspect that I have internalized the form to the degree that it’s almost second nature.  I think like a fiction novel.  

I am also full of faith and wide open to the possibilities of the blank page every day.  So I am fully waiting and ready for the magic.  And when the magic doesn’t come, I am dedicated to the craft.  Plot flows from character. I hear my characters.  I respect and have empathy for them.  I get to know them and don’t seek to control their actions or consequences.  I am ferociously curious about life and people.  And I never get tired of exploring all of these things.  And it’s in that place of faith and empathy that my plots evolve, just as life does. 

How do you like to spend your time that’s not spent reading and writing?

I am a brilliant golfer.  I love it.  Can’t live without it.  Okay, not really.  (Alafair, knows better than anyone what a complete lie this is.) I do, however, have a pretty active lifestyle, enjoying boating, kayaking, tennis, walking, and yoga.  My husband and I are total foodies and love to entertain.  Traveling is high on our list of the most important things in life, so we make it a point to get somewhere new every year.  But mainly, I just enjoy doing all these things with Jeff and Ocean.  So even if we’re just home watching a DVD, that’s pretty great, too!

A CHANCE TO WIN A FREE COPY OF LISA’S NEW TRADE PAPERBACK OF DIE FOR YOU. 

I hope you enjoyed hearing from Lisa about her writing process as much as I always do.  I find her dedication to the art of writing so inspiring. Thanks, Lisa, for stopping by Murderati, especially on… your birthday!  Happy Birthday!! 

Now, on to the comments section.  Of course Lisa and I would both welcome your responses to her remarks.  But I’d especially love to hear folks answer the last question I put to Lisa: How do you like to spend your time that’s not spent reading and writing?  We have quite a community here at Murderati but we usually talk about our shared love of books.  I thought it would be fun to have a day when we talked about our other passions as well.  So to enter a raffle for a free copy of DIE FOR YOU, just post your response by 9 am (PST) tomorrow: How do you spend your non-book time?

by Alafair Burke

Last night I glimpsed a new neighborhood in New York: Bay Ridge.  I know, I know, Bay Ridge has been around for-evah.  It’s also nothing new to creative types.  Tony Manero lived there in Saturday Night Fever.*

So did Peggy from Mad Men, announcing, “I’m from Bay Ridge.  We have manners.”

But nearly a decade since I left Oregon for New York, I am still learning about this city.  Last night the subject was Bay Ridge.  I was there for a book event (terrific store in Bookmark Shoppe, by the way), so took some time to check out the neighborhood.  I even made my local friend, Jeff, show me the home several customers referred to as the “gingerbread house.” 

Rumor has it that the garage floor rotates like a turntable so the owner doesn’t have to back the car out.  Pretty sweet.

Do I know the ins and outs of Bay Ridge as well as Jeff?  Of course not.  Could I set an entire novel there with authenticity?  I doubt it.  But I saw enough of 3^rd Avenue, 83^rd Street, Shore Road, the Fort Hamilton Athletic Field, and the gingerbread house to set a scene there. 

But what if I hadn’t seen the place?  I could read about it on Wikipedia.  I could stroll its streets on Google Maps.  I could also make it up from whole cloth.  Would it really make a difference?

For reasons I haven’t fully identified, I’m uncomfortable writing about places I don’t know.  I mean, really know.  Ellie Hatcher’s backstory is in Wichita, Kansas, where I spent fourth through twelfth grade.  Ellie works for the NYPD, and her life takes place almost entirely in the pockets of Manhattan I know best.  Her apartment is in the same spot as my husband’s former place.  Her latest homicide case occurs in the fancy new condo building across the street from me.  Samantha Kincaid is a prosecutor in Portland, Oregon, where I lived for nearly a decade (and worked, yup, as a prosecutor). 

Why do I make these choices?  Maybe I’m just lazy.  Research, after all, is not my favorite part of the fiction gig.  But I think there’s more to it.  After all, starting a second series set in New York (the Ellie Hatcher series) was definitely not a lazy move.  I had plot, character, and procedural reasons for doing so.  But that move was also about place.

Five years after leaving Portland, I was starting my fourth Samantha Kincaid novel and wrote a scene I knew just wasn’t right.  I went for a run to figure it out.  Sure enough, I had Sam hailing a cab outside a witness’s house in the West Hills.** Homey don’t play that. 

I not only caught the mistake, saving myself from the “you’re-an-idiot” emails that surely would have followed upon publication, but I also took it as a strong hint that my imaginary life in Portland was growing dusty.  At the same time, I realized I had finally become (gasp) a New Yorker.  I decided to try my hand at this new town of mine, at least the Manhattan parts, and think I’ve managed to capture the place pretty well.  I even named my most recent novel 212 (the original Manhattan area code) to highlight Manhattan as a main character.  My writing will get back to Portland when the time is right, but I’ll probably only jump in after rekindling my relationship with the city. 

I do, however, realize this is likely a whole lot of ridiculousness on my part.  Plenty of writers continue to capture the magic of places they’ve long left behind.  Michael Connelly no longer lives full-time in Los Angeles.  JLB wrote the first four books in the Dave Robicheaux series from Kansas.  Even the miraculous Lee Child can’t possibly live in all those Jack Reacher stops (or can he?).

What do you think: When a writer truly knows a place, does it make a difference on the page, or only in the writer’s mind?

 * I have so much love in my heart for Saturday Night Fever that it took incredilble restraint not to insert a 400-word digression here about the brilliance that is that film.  Please tolerate this footnote instead.

** Lest you’re wondering, these are the same West Hills referenced in the Portland band Everclear’s “I Will Buy You a New Life.”  No cabs there.  Trust me.

P.S. I’m out on tour still, this time in Washington DC (Borders, Bailey Crossroads, 7:30 PM).  I’ll be checking in as I can, but forgive me if I’m slow to acknowledge your comments.  I want to see them though, please!

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I pride myself on professionalism as a writer.  I meet deadlines.  I (usually) listen to my editor.  I show up to meetings and events on time and sober.  And, as part of this code of professionalism, I make an effort not only to write my books but also to help sell them.  Book tour?   Bags packed.  Signings?  Pens at the ready.  Social networking?  If you’ve been following me online (here or here), you know I’ve lost all trepidation about pouring my guts out on the Internet.

But every once in a while, I’m reminded that I’ll never be a schiller.  I just can’t do it.  This weekend, I took off on my first flight for book tour.  The guy next to me was reading Harlan Coben’s Long Lost.  Any self-promoter worth her salt would have seen the opportunity to gain a new reader.  What do I say?  “He’s great, isn’t he?”  Those promotional bookmarks I keep in my briefcase?  Yep, they’re all still there.

I also have to admit that, as much as I keep my head down as a work-a-day writer, I have an inner diva who occasionally rears her precious head.  I’ll refuse to change that word that irks my editor.  I’ve been known to keep that leisurely scene, the one that doesn’t advance the plot but sure was fun to write (and hopefully read).

I know the pro in me should probably blog today about my new book or at least say something about the tour.  This is, after all, a blog about writing, both the art and the industry.  But you know what?  I was lucky enough to speak last weekend to a room filled with enthusiastic undergrads at Indiana University of Pennsylvania, and I’m going to follow a piece of advice I gave them: Write what you want to write.

And, I’m sorry, y’all, but in the middle of the big publicity push, I just can’t bring myself to write about either the craft or the biz today.  What the inner diva wants to write about is Sandra Bullock.
 
As you may know from previous Rati posts (here and here), I have a fascination with both celebrity and sex, and I refuse to chalk either one up to prurience.  Or, at least, not entirely.
 
You’re undoubtedly familiar with the tawdry facts that have put Jesse James, Sandra Bullock, and this gem of a gal on countless magazine covers. 

Michelle “Bombshell” McGee

The tattoos.  The white supremacist connection.  The Vanilla Gorilla nickname.  The additional women who’ve stepped forward, placing James neck and neck with Tiger Woods in the most-women-sexted tourney.  That’s the stuff for the voyeurs.
 
There’s also the human story behind the seediness, and you’ve probably heard most of that as well: the mistress who sold her man out to a tabloid for thirty grand, the intentional timing of the story to coincide with Sandra Bullock’s victory lap, the wince-worthy replays of the accolades Bullock heaped upon her husband as she enjoyed a spotlight that belonged only to her.

(At the Oscars, choking up when thanking her mother for allowing her to “have that,” her marriage with Jesse James)

(At the Golden Globes, thanking Jesse “who works so hard, all day, and you get dressed up in monkey suits with people you don’t know… I love you so much, and you’re really hot, and I want you so much.)

(With, gulp, Barbara Walters, gushing about the man who has her back.)

But there’s a reason my inner diva finally had to write about this story today, book tour be darned: I understand why Sandra Bullock might stay with Jesse James.

Didn’t expect that, did you?  Hold on, now.  Don’t throw anything at the computer yet.  Hear me out.
 
Jesse James is a lowlife.  He not only cheats on his wife, but apparently does so multiple times with multiple women and without protection.  So far, so Tiger.  Even worse, he allows her to entangle her professional identity with their marriage and to publicly share her every achievement with the man who “has her back,” even as he’s texting his next stripper hook-up.  In short, he makes us feel sorry for her.  Is there any worse betrayal?
 
As it turns out, the answer is yes.  By all accounts, Sandra Bullock has been a devoted stepmother to James’s three children by two different baby mama.  She has supported his battle against his ex-wife, porn star Janine Lindemulder, for custody of their five-year-old daughter.  While Lindemulder lived in a halfway house after a conviction for tax evasion, Bullock has reportedly raised James’s daughter as her own.
 
Supposedly Jesse James says he wants nothing more than to keep his family intact.  But guess what?  He’s not the one who’s losing his family.
 
Of all the bad, bad, very bad things that man did to his wife, the very worst was to allow her to love his children.  Being burnt by the man you love is hard enough.  I’d like to think I’d leave him every time, but smart women like Hillary Clinton and Silda Spitzer are evidence that love can be messy.  The addition of young children in the mix only makes it messier.  Ask Elin Nordegren, who might (as widely speculated) be staying for money, but could also be unduly optimistic for her children’s sake.
 
But even mothers – most of them at least – can decide whether to stay or go without losing their family.  But Sandra Bullock isn’t most mothers.  She’s not a mother at all, at least not as far as the law is concerned.
 
Of all of Jesse’s crimes, the worst was forcing his wife to choose between her dignity and a five year old child she has come to love as her own.  Ex-step-mothers have no legal rights.  Sandra – who dedicated her Academy Award to “the moms who take care of the babies and the children, wherever they come from” — cannot leave him without leaving them.  She cannot stay with them without staying with him.  And what will America say, and what will happen to her career, if she stays?

At least for now, James’s ex-wife is saying Sandra can stay in her daughter’s life: “She has taken care of our daughter as if she was her own … she sacrificed much … and I will forever be indebted to her for that.”
 
But people change their minds.  Ask Jesse James.            

The most painful Bullock quotes to rewind were given to Barbara Walters:

“I always had this feeling that if you got married, it was the the end of who you were.  I never met anyone who was bigger than me.”   

“We’re not [different].  The end result in life that we both want is the same.  The thing we want at the end of the day is the same.  He’s not out in bars…  He couldn’t be happier…. I never allowed myself to be cared for or protected that way in a relationship…. Not once asking me to be anything other than what I am…. It’s not a mistake that my work got better the minute I met him. I became committed to being scared and being braver.  I really couldn’t fail anymore because I have home to go home to.”

“Ten years from now… I hope the same people in my house today are there ten years from now.”

She appreciated what she had, but her husband didn’t.  She wanted nothing other than to keep it all — her work, her happiness, her man, and her children — but now she can’t.        

And that’s why Sandra Bullock is the person I had to write about today.  And why Jesse James’s next tattoo should be a warning label: Danger.  Loving this man could break you.

P.S. To appease the Gods of marketing, I will say that I’d love to see the Rati on tour.  View the schedule, pictures, book excerpts, and just about everything you can imagine here.  If you enjoyed this post, please follow me on Facebook and/or Twitter.

Ever watch Monk?  I did.  A lot.  And I miss seeing my friend, Det. Adrian Monk, in part because he made me feel kind of normal.  You see, I can be pretty obsessive.  That wall I painted a couple of weeks ago?  I had no plans on doing that, certainly not on that particular day, and perhaps not on any day.  But once I woke up knowing that the wall needed to stop being white, that’s all I could think about.  I called the paint store, ordered the paint, walked to the store to pick it up, came home, popped open the can, and didn’t stop working until the job was done.  I tried to stop.  I did.  I sat down next to my husband for a snack break, but the thought of all those open paint cans, damp rollers, and that line between dry white wall and wet grey paint had me back up on my feet again.

But where Adrian Monk’s obsessive tendencies were sadly debilitating, I’ve always thought that I have a healthy amount of obsession.  My wall did get painted, right?  I’ve also lost a few pounds lately, doing it the only way I know how: obsession and ritual.  Count every calorie popped into the pie-hole and make sure that number is less than the calories burned.  (Shout-out to my calorie counter, Bodybugg.)  Back at the District Attorney’s Office, I used to crank through misdemeanor-issuing duty by forcing myself to issue cases in blocks of ten before even considering a coffee, bathroom, or hallway-gossip break.  Yesterday, I ran three miles in precisely 24 minutes — not 23:59, not 24:02, but 24:00.  Why?  Because I realized after a mile that I could beat my usual 25:00 pace, but didn’t want an uneven number, so I sped up as necessary to get the digital readout to wind up at 24:00.  No, I’m not kidding.  I actually did that.  Afterward, I looked like this, but without the tats.  Or boy parts.

One woman’s discipline is another person’s anal-retentive OCD freakshow.  I know.

But as much as I thrive on ritual, I can’t seem to import my usual habits to writing.  My fellow gym rat, Laura Lippman, recently compared her workout routines to her writing routine, where she puts in a requisite and round-numbered 1,000 words before considering a break.  I know many of you have similar word-count, page, or hours-at-desk minimums. 

Inspired by Laura, I’ve been trying to put in my 1,000 words a day.  But where hard, concrete, numerical goals do the trick for me in every other aspect of my life, this time it’s just not working.  Yesterday I walked away from my desk with a mere 489 new words added to the manuscript.  Unacceptable!  I would never hop off the treadmill after 4.89 miles.  4-8-9.  Nothing pretty or round or even or appealing about that at all.

The difference, of course, is that writing requires a different part of my brain.  On a treadmill, I don’t have to think about how to run.  I just put one foot in front of the other and try not to disturb my fellow gym patrons with all my panting and stomping.  Painting a wall is just a matter of moving brushes and rollers around until the color changes.  But words and sentences and paragraphs and chapters and entire stories?  Those require inspiration and voice and sense of character and… choices! 

We writers often boast about discipline.  Even I of the undisciplined do strive to write something everyday and never to miss two consecutive days.  But I’m starting to think that walking away from the keyboard can also require discipline.  Last month, I suddenly worked through a plot problem in my work-in-progress while I was staring at the beach in Jamaica.  One of the biggest “a-ha” moments in my new book, 212, came to me during shavasana, or dead man’s pose, in yoga.   

“I’m not dead…but I know who’s about to be.” Is it that hard to believe that the art of writing requires you to let go of the part of your brain that likes round numbers?  So now instead of forcing myself to stay put for that 1,000 word limit, I ask myself why I want a break.  Do I know what needs to be written, but would rather play with Duffer or watch American Idol?  If so, I need to keep my behind in the chair and my fingers on the keyboard.  But if I want to leave my desk because I need to think – about character, about voice, about motive, about story – I’m going to start trusting my instincts and turning off my inner Monk.

What are your rituals, successful or failed?  And when have you strayed from them, for better or worse?

Much to my continued surprise, I find myself a New Yorker.  And by that, I don’t merely mean that I happen at this moment to live in New York.  I mean that I hate to drive.  That I’m overwhelmed by big box stores.  When I go to Times Square, I no longer marvel at its majesty, but instead complain about the tourists who block my route from the subway to the theater by staring up in the sky and posing for pictures with the Naked Cowboy.

But I’ve come to realize that there’s one part of me that’s still from the rest of the country.  New Yorkers, more than any other people I know, hire people to do their work.  They have housekeepers, doormen, handymen, personal trainers, personal shoppers, and dogwalkers. They send out their laundry.  And they have everything under the sun delivered.

Apparently I haven’t quite made that leap.  This week, I shocked my NYC friends by painting the wall of our apartment all by my lonesome.  Here’s the proof:

And next week I just might slap up some wallpaper.

Now, this DIY stuff is nothing new to me.  Back when my sewing machine still worked, I sewed my own clothes. And when I bought my first house on a baby DA’s salary, I spent every weekend at Home Depot.  By the time I sold that house three years later, I had tiled a hearth, lineoleumed a laundry room, laid down a wood plank floor, painted thousands of square feet of walls, replaced two faucets, and even built a cedar fence.  Consider me handy.

And in many ways, my recent painting adventure was typical of my do-it-yourself tendencies.  I do my own taxes.  I made my own video trailer for my new book, 212.  I navigate my way through the lay-out for the (admittedly imperfect) newsletter I send to my mailing list. And today, I’ve tinkered once again, creating a mystery thank-you gift to send to online friends who pre-order 212.   (Details below, online friends.)

But if you ask my husband, I’m no DIY-er.  He teases me that if we had enough money, I’d hire a butler to cater to my every whim.  Why would he tease me that way?  Because despite lingering self-reliance, in some ways, I have begun to adjust to the New York way.  My dog, the Duffer, has both a dogwalker and a daycare center.  I’ve been known to have wine, groceries, and even a small container of chicken soup from the downstairs-deli delivered.  If it were up to me, we’d send out our laundry instead of dealing with the apartment complex laundry room.  And, I’m ashamed to say it, I once paid a woman to clean out my closet.

So what’s the deal? Why do I happily entrust some aspects of my life to others while I pride myself on handling the rest on my own?  Am I hopelessly conflicted and inconsistent, or is there some method to my madness?

I tried to hire someone to figure it out for me, but couldn’t find anyone on Craig’s List (kidding, of course).  The most noble explanation is that I recognize which tasks I’m either really bad at or simply hate to do.  I’m bad at throwing out old clothes from my cluttered closet, but I’m good at taxes.  I hate folding laundry, but creating my home-made book trailer was pretty damn fun.

Or maybe it’s about bragging rights.  You can bet that I told every person who visited my Portland house that I built that (semi-crooked) fence myself.  And if I do take on that wallpaper job, I’m sure I’ll point to every bubble and wrinkle like a gold medal.  But there’s no glory to be gained in doing laundry or preventing your closet from ending up on the next episode of Hoarders.

Or, you know, maybe I’m just random and incoherent about these things.  I’d love to hear from others on this.  What sorts of things, both in your work and home life, do you do yourself, and when would you prefer to hire out? 

P.S. As I mentioned, my most recent tinkering was on a special mystery thank-you gift for online friends who pre-order my new book, 212.  For every hardback copy of 212 purchased by March 22, I will send a mystery gift to thank you for supporting my work.  See details here.  (And, yep, I did the html myself so forgive the imperfections.)

by Alafair Burke

A pop psychologist coined the phrase Peter Pan Syndrome to describe men who want to remain boys.  If there’s a female version of the syndrome, I suppose I probably suffer from it.

Don’t get me wrong.  I like to think I’ve matured in the ways that matter.  I confront my problems.  I deal with people directly.  I don’t lie to my parents even when the truth is uncomfortable.  And when I want to lose weight, I do it sensibly – not like that popcorn and pickle diet I tried my sophomore year. 

There are perks that have come with age as well.  I have a real car instead of that oxidized baby-blue Chevy Chevette POS I used to share with my sisters.  I no longer work at Benetton.  I can stay up late whenever I want.

But, deep down, inside, where it really counts?  I don’t want to grow up.  I still dance in my living room, stomp in snow piles, and break out into the occasional handstand.  Last Thursday, I ate pudding for lunch an hour before teaching the search incident to arrest doctrine to my crim pro students. 

The world changes around me, but I’m still the same oddball interacting with it.

I used to be a choir geek obssessed with 

                + 

 These days, I inner choir geek watches America Idol and Glee, and, although I no longer tape posters to my walls — honestly?  I’d love for just one day (maybe week) to be

or   

Am I alone in feeling that external time passes far more quickly than our internal clocks can possibly register?  I don’t think so.

My mother told me when I turned thirty that she still looks in the mirror and expects to see her thirty-year-old self.  These guys?  I know they don’t define themselves through biological age.

So what’s my point?  If, at heart, most of us don’t want to grow up — and don’t really acknowledge that we have — why must our fictional characters age on the same clock as those of us stuck in the real world?  My husband always tell me to face the music: the only alternative to aging is death.  But why must that be true for the characters who live through our words?

One of my favorite writers once told me that his biggest writing regret was that he’d given his beloved series character a year of birth.  By doing so, he forever locked his character in the continuum of time, and inevitably that character will face the realities of grey hair and back pain.  And we’ve all experienced that as readers, haven’t we?  We watch as our favorite protagonists reach their seventh and eighth decades but suspend disbelief as they continue to kick in doors, crack heads, and score with the ladies.

My good pal Kinsey Millhone, on the other hand, gets to stay in her thirties.  But to keep Kinsey from aging in real time, author Sue Grafton created a time capsule, freezing the alphabet series forever in the 1980’s.  With no computers or cell phones, Kinsey’s world falls further into the distance from the present with each new book. 

But why must a writer have to choose between youth and the present?  Having celebrated its twentieth anniversary, The Simpsons is now the longest-running prime time show in TV history.  But Bart’s not a middle manager in an office park, Lisa’s not contemplating her biological clock, Homer and Marge are still ambiguously middle aged, and Maggie’s still working on her pacifier.  But the world around the family changes.  For example, in an early flashback, Homer was into Steve Miller’s The Joker.

 More recently, we learned that Homer spent college in a 1990’s Kurt Cobain-like state.

My Ellie Hatcher series is (hopefully) still in its inchoate stages at the third novel.*  Although I could always change my mind, my plan is to pull a Simpsons,** always setting the books in the present, but having only a short period of time supposedly pass between books.  The year will change.  So will the cultural references.  But the people in Ellie Hatcher’s world get to stay young.

If I’m lucky enough to enjoy a long-running series, I fully expect to receive emails complaining about “continuity problems,” but I plan to find a polite way to tell the haters to suck it.  If it’s intentional, it’s not a problem.  I pride myself on the authenticity of my work, but who says fictional characters have to age like the rest of us? 

I’d love to hear comments:  What have other series authors done to tackle the age issue?  And would you think less of a series if the protaganist got to experience a changing external world without having to age like the rest of us? 

*B-ish (because it’s a footnote) SP: 212, the third novel in the series, is out March 23.  Read awesome reviews here and here.  Watch my low-budget, home-made video trailer, set to one of the aforementioned pop idols, here.

** A lesson on knowing your audience: I unleashed my the-Simpsons-don’t-age observation at a book event, and it turned out that no one in the audience — I mean no one — had ever seen a single episode of the Simpsons.  They looked at me like a child who ate pudding for lunch.

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