by JT Ellison

There comes a time in every writer’s life when they have to take a serious inventory of their career, and make decisions accordingly. Ever since I wrote this blog post a few months back, I’ve been taking inventory. Measuring and analyzing and talking and trying to figure out where my time goes. I’ve been reading books on a variety of topics, trying to expand my consciousness about what’s happening to my mind. I’ve read about what the Internet does to our brains (The Shallows)  how we can better unplug (Hamlet’s Blackberry)  and how I can find my inner artist and treat her a little better (The Artist’s Way). I’ve even been looking at ways to redecorate my house to make the flow better (Apartment Therapy) and diving back into cooking (Mastering the Art of French Cooking, La Cucina Italiana).

There have been some very, very personal setbacks too, setbacks that have rocked the core of my identity as a woman, and scattered my thoughts about what’s important, and what’s not, to the winds. 

I’ve seen the writing on the wall for a while now. With all the traveling and networking and socializing and promoting and, oh, yeah, writing, I’m missing parts of my life. Not just that. Somewhere along the way, I’ve lost me.

Me, who used to read four books a week. Me, who used to cook elaborate meals. Me, who used to look forward to the weekend, because it meant quiet time, family time. Me, who was so disciplined and focused she could write three books a year with her hands tied behind her back. Me, who used to have time to attend meetings in town of my organizations, meet friends for dinner or drinks. Me, who didn’t have to refocus my attention on my husband when he asked a question because I’ve been lost in Internet land. Me, who used to adore writing non-fiction, and now struggles to say something, anything, that hasn’t been said before a thousand times.

I need to find that girl again.

I’ve been incredibly blessed in my career. I’ve been able to write books, get paid for writing them, travel around the world promoting them, meet readers, have adventures, and pull those experiences into my stories. I’ve been blessed to be a part of the finest crime fiction blog on the planet. I’ve been blessed with amazing readers, newfound friends, and deepening relationships with old friends. I’ve pissed a few people off along the way too, but as my darling husband always says, if you’re not pissing some people off, you’re not doing anything. (To those of you who are reading this that I’ve pissed off – I’m sorry. No offense. Truly. I wish you light and love, always.)

Highs, and lows. Joy, and sorrow. This, as you all know, is life. 

I’ve come a long way on this blog, from those first tentative, worrisome, nail-biting, took a week to write posts that I made my husband read to make sure I didn’t sound like an idiot, to having the confidence to actually share what I’ve learned about the writing and publishing process.

But I have a workload that has gotten seriously out of hand… Y’all may have heard that my editor left, so there are changes afoot in my novel world. Being orphaned is scary business, but I’ve landed with a fabulous new editor who I’m sure is going to challenge and stretch malleable me into a better writer. I’ve been working on a sekrit project, plus a standalone, plus the new Sam book, plus three short stories and planning a series in a completely different genre… These are the things we writers dream about – too many ideas, and not enough time to work them all in. An embarrassment of riches, to be sure, but time consuming, for all that.

So I’m making a few changes, across all my Internet worlds. The biggest of those is my role in Murderati.

The wonderfully gracious, lovely writers of Murderati, who understand me more than I understand myself sometimes, have granted me a leave of absence. I’m taking the next six months off from the blog. In April, I’ll reassess where I am, and make a decision to either come back or leave permanently.

Because of my selfish desires to regain some more me time—and selfish they are, I admit. I’m really hanging people out on a limb with this decision, and I hate that—there will be more changes to follow. Pari will be going into those on Monday.

I’ll still be out in the world, posting occasionally to Tao of JT, on Facebook and Twitter, but it’s time to hibernate, to pull in, to focus on being as creative as possible for the next several months.

I’m so incredibly grateful to all of you. For the past six years, you’ve cheered me on, held me up, made me laugh, made me bite my tongue, and supported me. The real me. Not just JT the writer. JT the woman. I can’t thank you enough for being here, every Friday, then every other Friday, helping me grow as a writer, a columnist, and a person. I will be forever in your debt.

So, a thought to leave you with, because if I go on any longer I’m going to start crying:

Advice From a Mountain

Dear friend,

Reach new heights
Savor life’s peak experiences
There is beauty as far as the eye can see

Stand in the strength of Your True Nature
Be uplifting
Follow the trails of the Wise Ones
Protect and preserve timeless beauty,
silence, solitude, serenity,
flowing rivers,
ancient trees

Rise above it all
Make solid decisions
Climb beyond your limitations
Leave no stone unturned
Never take life for granite

Get to the point
Patience, patience, patience
Life has its ups and downs
Let your troubles vanish into thin air
To summit all up
It’s the journey step by step

Rock on!

~Ilan Shamir

I’ll see you in April. Blessed be and merry part.

xoxo,
JT

Wine of the Week: A recap of most of my favorites, posted here for your viewing pleasure.

by JT Ellison

Oh look. It’s a woman. She’s an idiot. We can take advantage of her.

I am full up with men trying to take advantage of me this week. Don’t worry, this isn’t an anti-male screed. I love men. I love my men in particular. My darling husband, my awesome dad, my brothers, my best guy friends. Love them all – and they all get a pass from this. But I am here to lay the truth on you.

Sometimes it absolutely sucks to be a woman.

I mean, really. There are days that I would trade in my girl card in an instant if it meant I would be able to say no without guilt, get an oil change that didn’t involve a laundry list of things that MUST be done to my car to allow it one more moment of life on the open road, get my tires rotated without someone trying to tack on $15 for a “brake test”, have a storm door installed without a huge pitch for rebuilding the doorjamb and buying yet another door, have to carry mace in my purse to defend myself against idiots, cook, clean, do laundry (cook, clean, do laundry, cook, clean, do laundry, cook, clean, do laundry) and in general try to exist in a male-oriented world.

Yeah. It can be hell out there. And it burns my butt to have it happen, because I’m lucky enough to recognize when I’m about to be takne advantage of, and I can call them on it. Men. Sometimes, why, I oughta…..

I know a lot of empowered women who thing God is a she – I must beg to differ. Take one look at the monthly gift. Monthly? Really? Only a devious male could have arranged for us to only be rational twenty-six weeks out of the year.

I’m not even getting into the professional stuff. Not even going there.

I know you’re smiling. I am too. But I’m going to wipe that smile right off your face, because we need to talk about something very serious. Something that happened to me last Saturday that scared the living hell out of me. Something that would never have happened to a man.

Normal Saturday. We were working around the house. Randy needed to power wash the deck. We dropped my truck to get the tires rotated, had a bacon date, stopped at Home Depot, the grocery store, and headed home. I had a bunch of work to do before football prep – we had friends coming over to watch the game and I needed to whip up some football-oriented masterpieces to feed them.

As always happens when you have these kinds of busy days, you forget something. We got home and realized we needed two pots for the mums I’d bought. And I needed to take a few things to Goodwill, and stop at the UPS store. I hopped into the same car we took Saturday morning and headed out. Radio blaring, smile on my face. Distracted.

I was at a stoplight when a man came running up to my driver side window, shouting at me. I could hear his words clearly through the glass.

“Your car is on fire!”

I immediately put the window down. Dark acrid smoke was billowing from my left rear tire. The guy was still talking, about a mile a minute, so I dragged my focus from the tire to him. He had a card in his hand.

“You’re wheel bearing caught on fire. It’s metal to metal back there.”

“Is it still on fire?”

“Yeah. Flames. I have a hot rod shop. I can fix that for you.”

Hands me the card.

“I can fix it now if you want. You can come right back to my place and I’ll fix it, or I can come to your house and do it. My shop is just up there.” He pointed vaguely up the road.

My mind was processing too many things at once. Mostly – FIRE.

I’m not a fan of cars on fire. When I was a kid, new to driving, I had a car that caught fire whilst I was crossing a bridge. So this particular situation caused an immediate flashback, and all I wanted to do was get the hell out of the car.

I rolled forward a bit, threw on my hazards and started to get out. The guy, still in my window talking a mile a minute said, “No, no, you have to get it out of the road. Pull it up around the curve.”

That led into a neighborhood. I did what he suggested. He followed in his car, and pulled onto the grass behind me. (Just FYI – I was still in the intersection. I only went twenty feet. I did not leave the original location. I just moved out of the way like you’d do with an accident.)

And suddenly it hit me.

JT, what the HELL are you thinking?

As he approached this time, on the passenger side, my heart rate sped up. I didn’t look at his face, I watched his hands. I was positive he was going to have a gun. I saw every freckle, the shape of his nails. For a so-called mechanic, they were awfully clean.

I told myself I was being silly. But I grabbed my phone and speed-dialed home.

He made a motion for me to put down the window. I left the car in gear, my foot on the accelerator, and put it down halfway. This time I did the talking.

“I’m calling my husband.”

And those were the magic words. He skedaddled. Got in his car, did a three-point turn, and took off.

I got out of the car. No more smoke. No flames. No sign of fire. Nothing.

I had to call a neighbor to get Randy out of the backyard and onto the phone. We both immediately agreed something felt… off.

We made a plan to take the car to Sears immediately and have it looked at. I was to drive, slowly, toward the shop, he would be right behind me.

And still I’m thinking – Jesus, the car is going to burst into flames any second. I was literally coasting.

We got it to the shop and told our mechanic the story. The look on his face said it all.

I had been scammed.

As best we can figure, the guy was behind me at the light, got out of his car, and as he went by, either tossed a smoke bomb under the car, or splashed WD-40 on the rotors. Transmission fluid will create the same illusion of fire, but that would ruin the bearing as well, and they didn’t find any traces of anything. Thank goodness. That would have cost a load.

It took a few more minutes before it all sank in.

I had just been a victim of a scam. A good one. One that if pulled on the right woman, could have resulted in this idiot making some cash.

Or, worse.

Once I really had time to gauge what had happened, my hands started to shake. That didn’t stop for a few hours.

How easy would it have been for him to actually put a gun in my window, get in the car, force me to drive somewhere, and do who knows what?

The moment our mechanic confirmed the wheel bearing was just fine, I called the police.

Because this brilliant criminal mastermind had given me his card.

With his name, email, and a website link. Plus I had his car make and model, a pretty solid description, and since I’d been scared half to death, a perfect recall of every moment of the event.

So after the police filed the report and went to talk to him, I did a little sleuthing of my own. Because there was no way we could know if the card he gave me was actually his.

Took me about fifteen minutes online before I found him.

It WAS the guy on the card.

I was off on his age-he looked younger in the baseball cap he was wearing-but I’d gotten everything else right on the money. Which settled my nerves, because I hardly think a sex offender is going to be running around town planting smoke bombs and telling lone women their car is on fire, then handing them his name and email to follow up.

Then again, anything is possible.

So, today, I want you to pick out the six things I did wrong during my little run-in on Saturday. It was a real eye opener for me, and I’m damn lucky it went the way it did. It could have been much worse. I’m not accustomed to feeling vulnerable in my car. Now that I’ve had a taste, I’m going to overreact, because I never want to have this happen again. Concealed carry permit, here I come.

If you correctly identify the six things I did wrong – I’ll send you a free book. Tonight I’ll post an addendum to this to show what I should have done. And if you’d been a victim, or someone tried to take advantage of you lately, please share so we can learn too.

And please, please, please, take some care out there. We’ve all seen the email chain letters that talk about a man disabling a woman’s car, following her to a remote location, and doing bad things. Snopes always says False, or Hoax, but I’m here to tell you – this happened to me. Me. Miss Paranoid. Miss Mystery Writer. Miss Does Research With The Cops. Trust me, the patrol officer who took the report gave me a piece of his mind, and he was right to do so.

Wine of the Week: I’m going with a comfort wine this week. One of the hallmarks of an excellent bottle of wine is it’s ability to recreate the experience over and over and pver. So today, we go with Smoking Loon Old Vine Zinfandel. Brilliant, every time.

 by JT Ellison

‘A good traveller has no fixed plans, and is not intent on arriving.’  ~Lao Tzu

No.

It’s not a pretty word.

It connotes negativity, refusal, rejection.

It is also the working writer’s best friend.

No doesn’t always have to be negative.

No can be healthy. No can mean you’ve made a measured decision that is in your best interest. No can mean you’ve taken control of your life. No can mean you have a solid understanding of your limitations.

So why is it so hard to say no?

I’m a yes girl. I find it difficult to refuse requests, especially when it means helping someone else out. And that’s not necessarily a good thing. There are times, like now, that I’ve said yes to so many things that nothing is getting its fair due. I’m juggling five projects in addition in to launching a book and touring and all that jazz. Nothing is getting done well, thoroughly, mindfully, because I can’t focus completely on any of them.

No is hardest to say when you’re in the midst of promoting a book. No one wants to miss an opportunity, especially when we don’t know what the secret magic sauce is to reach readers. There’s always that little voice in the back of your head niggling at you, saying “If you say no to the wrong thing, a chance could pass you by.” And that chance might have been the one little thing that tips the scales in your favor.

But wow, that kind of thinking can drive a writer mad.

I had to pull out of a project yesterday. It wasn’t one that was earth shattering, but I told someone I’d do something, and I had to write them and withdraw that promise. I hated to do it. But when the email was sent, and I self-flagellated for a few minutes, I looked at my calendar, and suddenly, I found another six things that I could cut from my schedule. And boy, did it feel good. The pressure lifted off my shoulders.

I’ve always been good at telling other people that they need to find balance. That they should weigh their options and choose what makes the most sense for them.

I really need to start taking my own advice.

I read an interesting article last week by Joshua Millburn of The Minimalists teasing an essay he’s written about living three months with no goals. And of course, I immediately set out to read the attendant articles to see if this is something that I could do. 

One of my favorite quotes from one of the articles, from Leo Babauta, who I call a good friend though I’ve never met him and he has no idea I exist, simply because so much of what he’s said over the past few years I’ve tried to emulate, follows: 

“What do you do, then? Lay around on the couch all day, sleeping and watching TV and eating Ho-Hos? No, you simply do.”

That complements my all time favorite quote, the one I keep in my email signature line to remind me to stay on the path:

“Do or do not. There is no try.” – Yoda 

That’s really a truth worth exploring. I wasn’t surprised to hear it echoed by Steven Pressfield, author of the fabulous The War of Art, this week as well.

The addict is the amateur; the artist is the professional.

At its most basic, all three truths say the same thing. You either do the work, or you don’t. 

But can you accomplish all you need, and want, to do, without goals?

The whole concept is intriguing to me. I live for goals. I get a great sense of satisfaction by setting, meeting, and exceeding goals. Hell, I’m the one who will add a forgotten task to a to do list post-completion just so I can cross it off.

No goals?

{{{{HIVES}}}}

So that’s exactly what I’m going to try to do.

I set some seriously unrealistic goals for myself this year – 43 of them. Yes, I just went back to my planner and counted them. Some are realistic – finish book 7, write book 8, start book 9 – done, done, done. Some are amorphous – appreciate more, be open to new experiences, try sushi. Some are more concrete – yoga, running, golf twice a week.

But as I look at my list of goals, and realize it’s the end of September, and there are so, so many that I haven’t accomplished — become fluent in Italian, cut online time in half, carve out ample time to read, write a non-fiction proposal — nor will manage to master by the end of the year, that I start to get upset with myself.  I am not meeting my goals.

Joshua’s essay made me realize all I’m doing is saying yes, and I’m not getting anything done.

Yes, I wanted to get better at speaking Italian, and cook at home more, and run three times a week. Yes, I wanted to renovate my kitchen and dining room and lose twenty pounds. And… and… and. But so much of my goals list is just wishful thinking.

And if my wishes aren’t getting fulfilled, even if I’m the one in control of them, something is wrong.

I’m striving.

Lao Tzu taught that:

All straining, all striving are not only vain but counterproductive. One should endeavor to do nothing (wu-wei). But what does this mean? It means not to literally do nothing, but to discern and follow the natural forces — to follow and shape the flow of events and not to pit oneself against the natural order of things. First and foremost to be spontaneous in ones actions. 

Just what Leo said, and what Steven said, and what Joshua will say when he posts his essay.

Will mastering my to do list and scratching off the goals I’ve set make me happy? Or will striving to meet so many unattainable goals drive me crazy? I tell you what makes me happy. Writing. When I’m not writing, when I’m so focused on all the things I have to do that aren’t just plain writing, I am not happy.

It’s as simple as that.

The pressure of deadlines, the constant go-go-go that happens when I get online, the striving-all of that is trumped when I sit down to the keyboard and create a new world. When my husband comes home at night and I’m bubbling over with excitement at some random plot twist that happens, and he smiles at my exuberance – that – THAT – makes me happy.

I see now that crossing goals off a list makes me feel like I’ve accomplished something on the days when writing becomes work. My friends and family tell me I work too hard. To that I truly scoff—if I was really working too hard, I’d have six books a year or more under my belt, like many authors I know. I’d be mothering a child. I’d be answering to a boss. Instead, I float in that netherworld of getting my writing done, sandwiched between hours of doing a bunch of things that really don’t matter. I work hard, yes. I won’t discount that. But I’m not working smart. And that is not a good thing.

So instead of striving to meet all these insane goals, I’m going to try something new. No goals. My weapon with be two little letters, a simple word, that holds great power.

No. 

Tell me, friends, when’s the last time you took control and said no? And did you feel terribly guilty about it, or was it freeing?

Wine of the week – this one is dedicated to the divine Laura Lippman, who I finally met in St. Louis, and was charmed by, not that I expected anything less, but sometimes it’s really cool to find out your heroes are rocking cool people, and besides, it fits the whole theme of today’s post rather well….. Irony Cabernet

And I would be remiss if I didn’t do a tiny plug – the ebook of WHERE ALL THE DEAD LIE goes on sale tomorrow, so if you’ve been waiting for the digital version, here you are : )

Nook
Kindle 
Google Books

It’s that time again.

I have a new book out on Tuesday. And since I’m at Bouchercon today, I thought I’d take this moment to share with you the journey I went on writing WHERE ALL THE DEAD LIE.

(Journey? It was more like a hike up Everest, K9, and Rainier, all in a week.)

I got the idea for WHERE ALL THE DEAD LIE on September 14, 2009, and started writing the book July 23, 2010. It was easier in the beginning. Or so I thought.

But back to the book’s inception. I’d just returned from vacation, and had an unbelievable amount of work on my plate. I was getting ready to shoot the video for the OWN Network, so my thoughts were not exactly on writing as much as what I would wear. I was revising THE COLD ROOM, which was three books ago. I was starting to work on THE IMMORTALS, and slightly fleshing out a concept for SO CLOSE THE HAND OF DEATH. I was not thinking four books from that moment. Not at all. And yet, I was in the car, and heard a song by Tori Amos called “Welcome to England.”

And I saw Taylor stepping off a plane at Heathrow, into the waiting arms of Memphis Highsmythe. You may remember Highsmythe from THE COLD ROOM, the wounded Scottish Viscount who joined the Metropolitan Police of London – New Scotland Yard – a man who in many ways mirrors Taylor – the privileged upbringing, eschewing their parents’ wealth and influence to strike out on their own, a sense on longing, of solitude, even when surrounded by loved ones.

I was curious about why she would do such a thing, but knew I’d have to explore the idea. So I made myself some notes and put the idea away so I could focus on what was at hand.

But ideas like this, so big, so different, wend their way into your psyche. From that moment forward, I was writing toward this book, even though I wasn’t consciously doing so.

When it was time to start working on Dead Lie, I knew much more about the reasons for Taylor’s flight to England.

She’s been grievously injured. She’s not healing. She can’t work. She is deathly afraid of what all of this means.

And most importantly, she can’t talk.

Having a mute protagonist was terrifying for me. Dialogue is a hugely important part of my books, the interplay between Taylor and her team, her lover, the victims of the crimes she investigates – it’s not something I wanted to take from her. But I had to. She had to be forced into a corner and fight her way out. Not fight against a villain, but against herself.

And I wanted it to be more than that. This tale is very much a version of the classic fish out of water, a person set into an environment that is unfamiliar, unsettling. I knew I wanted to set the book in Memphis’s world, London and Scotland, with the Scottish Highlands as the backdrop, at Memphis’s ancestral home. His haunted castle. His Manderley.

Suddenly, I was writing a gothic. In the vein of Du Maurier’s Rebecca.  Complete with a questionable housekeeper, an errant friend, a dead first wife, and a serious case of PTSD.

When you’re used to the blistering pace of a serial killer thriller, and the ease of writing a mouthy protagonist, having both those crutches taken away from you is at once both scary and liberating. All the rules I’d followed in the books that came before were thrown out the window. I knew I wanted this to be a stand alone – even seven books in – especially because it’s seven books in. And it’s the first book printed in the trade paperback format – so it’s a chance to reset, if you will.

But well before the marketing decisions were made, I was struggling. The story was unfolding in ways I didn’t like. I kept returning to the proposal I’d written, in June of 2010, trying to find the thread that would lead me through.

The truth was, I was scared.

I’m still a relatively young writer – young as in this was only the eighth novel I’d written. I’d just lost my beloved editor, I was trying a completely new genre, and the resistance I was feeling, all self-imposed, of course, was stifling. As much as I wanted to tell this story, I just didn’t believe in myself. I didn’t think I could do it justice.

On the surface, everything was flowing wonderfully – I took two trips to Scotland for research, both of which were amazing – I highly recommend setting books in other countries so you’re forced to go outside of your comfort zone to make the stories come alive. I loaded the book with the things I’d seen – the setting wasn’t ever the problem. It was the story. Despite my proclamations to have a gothic, I kept trying to sandwich in a serial killer subplot.

While I was in Scotland the first time – the Peter Tobin case broke. Tobin is a Scottish serial killer who killed several women and was sentenced to life in prison. While we were in Scotland, the police connected him to Bible John, a serial killer from the 70s.

Now, the possibilities there were endless. And eerily reminiscent of Nashville’s own Wooded Rapist, who worked across town with a different MO and moniker – the Dome Light Rapist…

So I tried to dump all of that into the book, thinking the straight suspense wasn’t going to work.

I was wrong. The serial killer aspect of the book was terribly distracting. In the end, I cut the whole subplot.

There was a second subplot that disappeared – the story of John Baldwin’s son. Too much information, too little space to have it.

And still the book wasn’t working.

I’ve never walked away from a story before, but I nearly abandoned this manuscript several times. The thing about art is recognizing when something isn’t working, and giving yourself permission to walk away.

But I’m stubborn. And I loved this story.  I loved Taylor’s frailty. I loved the backdrop of Scotland. I loved that my incredibly strong heroine was seeing things, hearing things, being driven to the brink of insanity.

And that she had a true attraction to another man.

So I focused all my energy on Taylor and her forbidden relationship with Memphis.

I listened to the feedback form my beta readers, and then wonderful new editor.

I revised and revised and revised.

And two days before I was due to turn it in, the book came to life. After a looooooong conversation with one of my best friends, in which I expressed my desire to toss the book out the window, she said something that made me see all the missing pieces. I rushed through a full revision in two days, and boom, there it was.

You’d think that the more books you write, the easier it gets. The better you get at telling stories. The quicker you can lay down your ideas.

That just isn’t true.

Writers can be incredibly myopic. That’s why we have editors and beta readers and critique groups. It was my tribe that helped me see the forest for the trees in this one. And once I could see that forest, everything was so plain. I just needed to get out of my own way and let Taylor be the star. I’ve always seen her as unassailable. Perfect. Larger than life. In WHERE ALL THE DEAD LIE, she is flawed. Physically and emotionally flawed. Weak, even.

And so much more interesting for it.

And here we are – eight revisions later – with a new baby being born. Makes it all worthwhile, really.

I have a few more stories about the writing of this book on the Tao of JT, plus a contest, so stop by and check things out! Or buy your copy now! Remember to support your indie bookstores too!

Wine of the Week: Ca Veja Nebbiolo d’Alba  We had this bold, rich wine last night – it was perfection!

Where All The Dead Lie Trailer from JT Ellison on Vimeo.

Back in January of ’09, I wrote  a post here called Cliff Jumping – not about actually jumping off of cliffs, but about seizing your dreams. About not letting fear get in the way of your career. About taking chances.

I’ve been feeling rather hypocritical about all that lately. You see, while I take chances all the time in my work, real leaps and bounds, in my personal life, I don’t.

In fact, I’m a bit of a scaredy cat.

Say it ain’t so, JT!

Oh, but it is. I’m afraid of heights, spiders, clowns. Speaking in public – one that I managed to conquer. I hate staying by myself overnight when Randy is out of town. I don’t like scary movies, or scary books. I will steer clear of anything that includes the words “nerve-wracking” “surprise ending” “spine-tingling” or “the last five minute will blow you out of your seat.”

I’ve never been a big fan of being scared, but there’s more to this. It’s becoming almost phobic. Something deeply rooted in my psyche. And the worst part is, when I get frightened by something, it manifests, and then I start to dream about it. And the dreams are a thousand times worse than anything I can experience in real life. Which starts a really bad pattern of not wanting to go to sleep because I don’t want to experience the dreams, then having to knock myself out with Ambien and the like to get to sleep, lather, rinse, repeat…. Unhealthy, to say the least.

When I start down this unhealthy path, I realize this, recognize it for what it is, and try to move on. But last year, looking at this phenomenon, I started to see a pattern.

The more cliff jumping I do in my business life, the more reticent I get in my personal life.

I am getting quirky.

Maybe it’s age. Maybe as you get older you have a tendency to pull back, to be careful. To allow your rational mind to say no instead of hells, yeah, bitches. Let’s roll! Or maybe it’s more than that. Because I didn’t used to be this way. This sense of must control everything started about ten years ago, and with it came the fear.

I don’t know. All I can say for sure is I don’t want to be scared anymore.

Which involves, as you can imagine, some desensitization therapy.

Last year, when I did the autopsies, and managed to get through it without fainting, falling down or throwing up, I realized something. If I can watch people being cut open, I can handle just about anything.

When Randy and I went to Santa Fe for Left Coast Crime this spring, we drove north and stayed overnight in Taos. I adore Taos. It’s a funky, eclectic ski town, filled with art, cool shops and galleries, amazing food, and really laid-back people. I first went with my parents to meet the artist R.C. Gorman, ten or so years ago, and fell in love. So I wanted to show my man, and during our explorations, we found ourselves out at the Rio Grande Gorge.

And the Gorge has a bridge. A bridge without any safety controls. No nets or wires or anything to keep people from going over the edge.

Now, ten years ago, with my parents, my dad could barely get me to agree to get out of the car. I most certainly wouldn’t go anywhere near the bridge. He, fearless, strode out into the middle, took pictures, and came back, obviously exhilarated.

I was just feeling blessed I didn’t get anywhere near it.

Being afraid of heights is a little different for every person who experiences it. For me, I get vertigo. Bad vertigo. And experience this bizarre desire to fling myself off the edge and see if I can fly.

Which wouldn’t be a good thing.

But in my newfound recklessness, I decided I was going to go out there, come hell or high water.

Or steep drops into the abyss…..

So out we went, me clinging to Randy’s arm like a limpet. The first glance down I nearly threw up. Literally. Everything started to spin, I felt dizzy and nauseous. It was awful. But I kept walking.

And I discovered something really amazing.

Once I have a chance to orient myself, the vertigo stops.

It took about five minutes – yes, I stayed out there that long. Standing in the middle of the road, mind you, until the very end, when I edged closer to the railings, and actually looked over into the gorge.

I was still nervous, but at least the urge to fly receded.

Here’s proof that I really did go out there.  

Fast forward to this week. Randy and I went to the Harry Potter park at Universal Studios. If you know me at all you know I am a huge fan of all things Potter. I had some seriously high hopes for the day. We went in, and I was giddy with excitement. You see, there are roller coasters. And I had decided that come hell or high water, (or steep drops into the abyss…..) I was going to ride them.

We started at the castle itself. I’ve heard amazing things about this. You tour Hogwarts, seeing all the nooks and crannies of the castle, Dumbledore’s office, the Gryffindor common room, meet the sorting hat. It takes 45 minutes to wind your way through. And then you get on a ride that is called the Forbidden Journey experience.

I don’t know what I was really thinking, but as usual, I was wrong. The castle part was… meh. It had some cool stuff, but it wasn’t a 45 minute tour through Hogwarts in the way I was thinking. (That was my reaction to the whole park, actually. There was no charm. But I digress.)

And then came the ride.

And that’s when the wheels came off.

All throughout the lines were big signs and warnings: if you experience motion sickness, you should not go on this ride.

I loved the sign… but it had me a little worried. I do get motion sickness. Always have, ever since I was a kid. But I ignored the signs. There were kids all around me. How bad could it really be?

I don’t know what I was thinking. I expected something like the old Disney Haunted Castle ride. Boy was I wrong.

We got seated, they tucked us into the carriage, we went sideways, Hermione blew some powder at us, and poof, we were off.

Almost immediately we went upside down, tilting backwards. The screen in front of us started to move, come to life, really, and the next thing I knew, we were flying.

I had to shut my eyes.

I had to shut my damn eyes.

It was like IMAX, where you are literally in the scene. I got queasy immediately. Didn’t even take a heartbeat before I knew if I didn’t shut my eyes, I was going to boot.

I tried opening them a few times, and caught glimpses of the amazing technology. But the ride is a gyroscope, so add gyroscope to the already unbalanced feeling I get from IMAX and you have a recipe for sure disaster.

I didn’t barf, but I also didn’t get to see 85% of the ride.

And I was so mad at myself.

This wasn’t fear. I wasn’t afraid of what was happening. This was a bona fide physical reaction. I’ve always had motion sickness problems. Like reading in a car – hell, looking at the email on my iPhone while riding in a car makes me nauseous. Strangely, I don’t get sea sick. Ever. I love boats. So if anyone has a medical answer for that, let me know. Because I want to go back and go on that ride, and experience the whole thing.

Didn’t get on any rollercoasters either – right after we left Olivanders, it started to rain. And I mean pour buckets from the sky rain. They shut down all the rides.

So we left, taking with us my new wand, and a queasy bellyful of regret, which was part fury at myself, and part that second butterbeer (which is very good – like cream soda with butter)

Oh well. You can’t win them all, right? I conquered the gorge, but a children’s ride undid me. 

So tell me, ‘Rati – when’s the last time you were terrified?

by JT Ellison

Don’t you love having epiphanies?

Those lightning bolt moments of awareness, enlightenment, insight that alters your consciousness, your actions, even the course of your life?

I’ve been on the road a lot over the past two months. Florida, New York, Florida again, Colorado (where I am now) and then to Florida once more, then on to St. Louis for Bouchercon. Six roundtrips in two months – for me, that’s a lot of on the road time. A lot of out of the groove, snatching time to write, long stretches without Internet access, and even, blessedly, some downtime. I have been writing the whole time, and I’ve also been sick. Those of you who saw me in New York got to witness that first hand, and now I’m catching another little summer chest cold. Ugh.

But along these crazy paths, I’ve gotten time to do some thinking. About my work, and my life. About what I want to be doing, and where I want things to go. And with that kind of Jack Handy deep thoughts come the epiphanies.

The first was along a darkened road in Florida. This one was so hand to forehead smackingly obvious that I felt like a true idiot when I figured it out.

I’ve been blogging for many years now. First weekly, then bi-monthly here, and also infrequently on my own blog, Tao of JT. I’m sure every blogger in the world who also writes novels has the same issue—you tend to think every moment spent away from your novel is a moment lost. But it’s something we need to do. Each and every moment in the real world can be mined for blog material. At least that’s my thinking. I’m always examining moments and situations and wondering, “How can I turn this into my Murderati blog?”

I went through this when I first joined Twitter. I started thinking in 140 character updates – how can I share this experience in 140 characters or less, make it relatable and also funny? Thankfully, I trained my mind away from that, because it’s just too easy to get lost in that kind of thinking.

Blogging, Twitter, Facebook – the sharing of information we find important, but the vast majorities of others don’t.

I’ve always viewed these extraneous activities are relatively unhealthy endeavors. Outside of blogging, which has taught me the discipline of deadlines and getting butt in chair to write, even if it is non-fiction.

My epiphany was thus: I’m a novelist, damn it. I shouldn’t be mining my moments for blog material. I need to be using those little vignettes in my fiction.

Ding. Dingdingdingdingdingdingding!

I think I knew this unconsciously, because so many of my vignettes do get poured into my fiction. But realizing I was thinking in terms of what to blog instead of what to write was revelatory for me. And of course, my first reaction was I must stop blogging.

We at Murderati have seen a rash of authors having this revelation lately. The more we focus on our fiction, the more books we can produce, and in the current environment, which is undeniably rough, the more good books you can write, the better off you are.

Since I’m prone to the drastics sometimes, I forced myself to take a step back, and talked myself off that particular ledge. At least for now. Instead, I have been working very hard to reprogram myself to think in terms of fiction instead of non-fiction. To separate what is story, and what is information. What is narrative, and what is insight.

The second epiphany was during the writing of a book I’m working on. I’ve always said writer’s block is your story’s way of telling you you’re going in the wrong direction. I hit a point in the story that just didn’t feel genuine. Something was very wrong. I started trying to talk it out – to Randy, to my parents. I’d just decided to go ahead and call my agent and get his take when it hit me. The part I was concerned about wasn’t the issue, it was 15,000 words earlier – an action the heroine takes that is … well… I don’t want to be too hard on myself, but the course of events was just plain STUPID. As in stoopid, stupid.

When I saw that, the path to the next act became very clear. Phew.

The third epiphany came early last week, when I sat down to a beautiful long clear writing day and got exactly jack shit done.

I was so mortified with myself that I figured I needed a public tongue-lashing. I wrote a blog and detailed all the things I had done instead of creating – and the responses gave me an interesting thought.

Sometimes, I need a little external motivation. I know people think I write fast, but as we’ve discussed, I am a bulimic writer – I gorge on words during marathon writing session instead of doing a good job of the daily grind. Take one look at my travel schedule and you see how that’s playing out for me. It’s cacophonous. My good habits have been broken. I need to reset, majorly.

I used to be able to do the daily grind. Before conferences and promotions and book tours – all the things that have to happen if you want to get your name out there.

I am a writer. My JOB is writing. So damn it, writing is what I’m going to do, even if I have to publicly report in what I’ve done that day to get myself back on track.

So if you’re interested in that daily grind, I’m writing it up on Tao of JT. I’m posting at 5pm each weekday, just a little snippet of what I’ve done that day – the good, the bad, the ugly. I of course have been feeling a little guilty about this – as I went into last week looking at ways to cut back my non-fiction writing, and instead seem to have quadrupled it. But I know myself, and I know what I need.

The fourth epiphany came just this morning, as I was reading through my RSS feeds. It isn’t exactly a revelation to you that I try to follow a minimalist lifestyle. I am working on finding my inner zen, because the more serene I am, the more serene my surroundings, the better I work, and the happier my family is. This journey has been fraught with setbacks, but I finally feel like I’m making progress. This morning, I was re-reading “30 Lessons from 30 Years” by Joshua Millburn of The Minimalists, and his number 10 slapped me across the face.

10. Finding your passion is important. My passion is writing….

My passion is writing.

Ding. Again.

My passion is writing. Writing. Whether it’s fiction or non-fiction, the manipulation of words to convey meaning, emotion and story is my passion.

I don’t need to feel guilty about blogging. That isn’t necessarily time away from writing. It IS writing. It’s all writing. Every time I put my fingers to the keyboard, I’m creating.

Duh.

Sometimes I feel so new to this game. I imagine my more experienced colleagues are reading this and laughing behind their hands at my naïveté. But hey, we all have to have our own realizations. No one can tell you exactly how to climb the mountains. They can just wave when they climb back down and tell you how exhilarating it is when you reach that zenith.

So, ‘Rati, tell me – Have you had any epiphanies lately?

 Wine of the Week: Layer Cake Primitivo Super yummy!!!

by JT Ellison

I’ve finally started reading THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO.

How I’ve managed to go this long without knowing the actual storyline of the book is remarkable – especially since it was the very first ebook I ever bought. I haven’t read a single review. I don’t know any details at all. I know it swept the world away, but today, 100 pages in, realizing it’s a story about  a missing woman… the set up seems utterly prosaic. Though I am invested in the story, I am afraid to be disappointed by going forward and finding that this is simply a regular tale, one not mythic, not life-changing, not genre-transcending.

All of that is in direct conflict with the books’ backstory, and current about to be a blockbuster movie status. The dead author, one who’s been in turns accused of gross misogyny and tender enlightenment, who witnessed a girl’s rape in his teens and by all accounts spent the next 15 years trying to rid himself of that mental horror. The battle for his estate. The films, heralded, revered, and soon to be released in the US. In all honestly, I didn’t feel there was any way the book could possibly live up to the standards of which the media shrieks set forth.

But how could that be? The idea that this book (these books) aren’t supremely special in some way is anathema to me. There must be more. There has to be something unique and brilliant about them, or else they’re just another mystery and we’ve all bought into the hype and that ultimately lessens the craft.

What, at its most base, is this whole spectacle about?

A story that explores the mystery behind a missing girl.

When I realized that, I went – That’s it?

No way. There is so much more to this story – I can already see that. And as I read, all the bits and pieces from the past few years, the details I’ve purposefully obfuscated, are coming into focus.

I didn’t want to read this book. I’m not sure why. I adore a good thriller. Maybe it’s because I’d just tried and failed with Jo Nesbo’s REDBREAST (just wasn’t in the proper intellectual space at the time) and the whole Scandinavian thing scared me. Or maybe it was the warnings about the financial stuff at the beginning. Being told the first 50 pages of a book are boring, but to stick with it isn’t exactly the way to get me on board.

I’ll be honest, I bought it, and I’ve glanced longingly at the cover several times, but it wasn’t until the US movie casting that I decided I was going to give this a chance. The whole Daniel Craig as Blomkvist is a beautiful thing, but that wasn’t it. It was sweet-faced Rooney Mara, who was asked to transform into hard-edged Lisbeth Salander.

 Before

After

It was that transformative process that got me interested in the story, in actually finding out what all the fuss was about. For at one time, Lisbeth Salander was, on the surface at least, a fresh faced ingénue as well.

The choice to mar flesh is one made for a variety of reasons. I have several piercings and a couple of tattoos. Unlike many babies I see nowadays, I wasn’t allowed to pierce my ears until I was ten – and that event stays firmly lodged in my mind. My hands shaking on the long drive to the store. The smelly black marker, perfectly aligning the spot where the needle would go. The cold alcohol wipe. The sharp snap of the gun shooting the hard metal through my tender lobes. The euphoria when they held up the mirror and the two twin glints peeked from either side of my head. I felt like such a woman walking out of the mall with my small gold studs. I couldn’t stop looking in the mirror. At my birthday present. The marking of my flesh for the first time.

There’s something quite… addictive about it. Ask anyone who’s pierced themselves and they’ll tell you. Tattoos too. It’s strange, really. Incomprehensible to some, yet—dare I say?—a turn on for others.

I didn’t feel the lure to mark myself again until I was in my teens and decided to double pierce my left ear. Not both ears. Just the left one. The asymmetry appealed to me. Unbalanced. Off-kilter. It fit my personality.

The method was exactly the same as six years earlier. I felt that same rush.

My father, on the other hand, had kittens. Several litters, in fact.

Eventually he forgave me, in the form of a gorgeous little diamond. Just one. Only for that spot. I wore that stud in my left ear for years, a secret acceptance from him, the first true acknowledgement of my autonomy, the powerful knowledge that I could be myself and yet still be loved, and was heartbroken when it was stolen, along with the small diamond earrings my grandmother gave me for graduation, on my honeymoon.

I haven’t worn a diamond in its place since.

The next marking came in the form of a triple piercing in that same left ear, which I let close soon after, because it just looked strange to me. But in ’95 I went for something different – a helix, through the cartilage atop my left ear. I still have that piercing, a small silver tension hoop. I’ll never take it out.

The belly button was next – it took separate piercings to get it right, too. Then the tragus – that’s the bit of cartilage in your ear closest to your face. I wanted to do my nose too, but Darling Husband drew the line.

So I started on the tattoos.

Trust me, as good little pearl-ed, bow-ed, preppy college republican was replaced by the hippy Goth artist within—replaced, ha. Eradicated is more like it—the folks around me started to wonder.

Why, exactly, was I doing this?

That is a very hard question to answer.

A, I think it looks cool. B, while having needles poked into your flesh hurts, it’s a different kind of pain. C, there are times you want to make sure you remember. Good times, and bad.

The first tattoo, the Chinese symbol for strength, was designed to give me just that, a tangible, physical, always apparent symbolic reminder to stop, breathe, and remember that my strength comes from within. It was a very serious tattoo. The second, the symbol for rebirth, was inked when I felt I’d achieved that exact moment of true inner strength: the stasis of my life was suddenly over and I was hurtling forward into the world I live in now. It is a joyous mark, and I had no idea until later that the combination of the two meant Phoenix Rising. From the ashes. I couldn’t have picked something more apropos if I tried, and as such it means so much more.

The little purple butterfly I just thought was pretty, but as our Alex pointed out to me years after the fact, apparently my subconscious needed the evidence of that shattered chrysalis in a more permanent form. It is a delicate little fancy.

I was five tattoos in when I realized I may have gone to far. I had wanted an Ichthys on the inside of my foot below my left ankle, but was talked out of it. (Tattoo artist: “I can’t guarantee this won’t rub off eventually.” Me: “Well, then I need to do something different – I want something permanent.”) Idiots, the both of us. He wanted to get paid more and I was too naïve to realize it. I ended up with what was supposed to be a rising sun but instead we referred to as the Death Star – and he did the colors backwards so I had to have it redone. Two layers of ink – one orange, topped with red and yellow.

I chose to remove that one, a process which more than made up for my idiocy by putting me through some of the worst pain I’ve ever experienced. I do hear removal is better now, but at the time, I was a laser stricken guinea pig.

The phantom of that tat lingers on my left ankle. One day I’ll go to a cosmetic tattoo artist and have them ink the areas that hyper pigmented back to a more natural skin tone. But for now, it’s a reminder to me to think things through a little more. To look before I leap, which isn’t the easiest thing for me.

So I’m settled at five and one-half piercings (the tragus I stupidly removed trying to endear myself to some Nashville Junior Leaguers and it closed up, but I’m going to have it redone) and three tattoos – the small butterfly in profile on my left shoulder blade, and the two Chinese symbols on the inside of my right ankle. I adore all three and would never, ever mess with them. The ankle especially.

That doesn’t mean I’m not considering a fourth, one in a slightly less obvious place so I wouldn’t have to show it off if I didn’t want to.

A dragon is always foremost in the considerations.

Which brings me back to Mara Rooney, about to be immortalized as the girl with the dragon tattoo. For the movie, the piercings she did were all real – lip, brow, nose, nipples, four holes in each ear. The tattoos are drawn on, but the piercings – that took some guts. If you don’t have this particular predilection… well, suffice it to say, I’ll be a fan of the movies because of what Rooney did for her art.

Click Photo for full poster (NSFW)

I haven’t finished the book yet. But I already like Lisbeth. I’m rooting for her. And now I’m dying to find out exactly what each of her markings are about.

Have you marked yourself in some way? Do you regret it, or are you glad for it?

Wine of the Week: Snap Dragon Red