by JT Ellison

“Where do you get your ideas?”

It has to be the most frequently asked question in fiction. I can’t remember a single event that I’ve done that it hasn’t come up. And the answer, of course, if everywhere. We’re writers. There is little that escapes our notice. Our job is to observe, synthesize and report back our findings in new and different ways. The magic of that process can’t be quantified – give fourteen mystery writers the same newspaper article and instruct them to write a story about the topic, and you’ll get fourteen different stories.

The question that readers should be asking us is: “How in the world do you keep all the billions of ideas you have on any given day in any semblance of order?”

I’m no different from any other writer. I never know what will trigger my imagination. It could be something as simple and natural as an exceptionally fluffy white cloud passing overhead in a crisp blue fall sky, or as complex as the murder of a young pregnant mother. There are times that I seek out new inspirations, and other times that something odd catches my eye and I think, hmmm, that might be an interesting story.

I also subscribe to the belief that if a story idea is solid, it will stay with you, growing and fermenting over time, without too many influences or excess research. Which can be difficult to deal with when you’re first starting out, because you’re juggling about 1,000 different ideas about how to make your story better, and the thought of one of them slipping away is tantamount to inspiration genocide.

But it’s not. I’m here to assure you – those scattered idea that you don’t write down can sometimes be the genesis of something exceptional.

Anyway, I’ve gotten myself off track. What I wanted to talk about today was my idea box.

It started as a few cuttings from the local newspaper, or printouts from websites, that I stashed in a file folder and shoved in my drawer. When something would leap out at me, I’d throw it in the file and leave it alone. As time went on and my repertoire for idea building grew, I started throwing jotted down scraps of ideas into the folder too: lines of dialogue that amused me, amorphous scenes, pictures of kitchens. Imprints, really. Imprints of ideas, of possibility. These aren’t the IDEAS themselves, they are the germs, the bacteria of my mind’s eye. The microscopic beings that find their way under my skin and eventually force me to scratch.

When I get stuck—and yes, that does happen, even though I’m resistant to call it writer’s block because block, I think, is your story’s way of telling you you’re going in the wrong direction and being stuck is something wholly different, more a necessarily evil to the thought process—I clean. I organize. I shuffle, realign, file and trash. I rearrange the furniture, delete long overdue dead files, read, catch up on scheduling issues, sort out my archives, anything that’s not inherently creative in nature. I’ve come to welcome these spurts of agony, because something wonderful always comes out of it in the end.

The last time I was really and truly stuck, I organized my ideas file.

It had grown to an idea drawer while I wasn’t looking. Folded up newspapers lazily shoved into the space where the folder should go, post-it notes stuck to printouts – it was a mess. No rhyme or reason. Just a collection of whimsies, stowed out of sight until I might need them.

But isn’t that what a creative box should be? Isn’t there something magical about knowing it’s there, that you’ve dropped your little bits of inspiration into one secure place to ferment? I liken it to Dumbledore’s penseive – an aggregator of memories swirling around in some sort of transparent fluid. The idea box is just that – the repository for lost ideas.

So I took an afternoon and organized my drawer. I went to Staples and bought a smart looking expandable file folder that has a hard top and sides, and offloaded everything from the file that became a drawer into the box. I cut out the newspaper articles, sectioned the stories out into subject and geographical region, and slipped the cleaned sheets into the box. Then I stashed it right behind my chair, so I can look at it anytime I want. Just knowing it’s there is fine with me. I don’t need to open it and lovingly finger the papers inside. That, I’ll save for the next round of proposals, or when I need a random subplot.

If these thoughts and ideas mature and make it out of the idea box, they will be transferred to their attendant book box. I read Twyla Tharp’s THE CREATIVE HABIT last year and was surprised to find I already used the same organizational method for projects as Tharp: the individual book box.

Every book I write has it’s own plastic, sealable box. Everything related to that book goes in the box as it’s written. That way, I always know where everything is. By the time I’m done with the book, the box is full to the brim: each draft of the manuscript, the copyedits, the author alterations all go in, on top of the research material, notes, music, etc. When I finish a book and it’s gone to ARC, I take all my notes from their yellow legal pads and stash them in there, too. And then I put them away.

I have to say, this is a really good system. I got to test it out with the fourth book in the series, THE COLD ROOM. Because the box had been put away. Stored. Done. Complete. Smiley face on top (okay, no smiley face, but you know what I mean.) And when my editor wanted me to make a change, it was easy to see exactly where I’d been. I pulled out the box, pulled out the notes to refresh my memory on its impetus, scanned through the original CEs, and went from there.

And since I use a Brother touch labeling system, it was simple to print out a new label for the box with the new title. And soon, the box will go away again, nestled deep in the closet with its friends, and I’ll reopen the next box. And the next. And the next.

I’ve been thinking a lot about my process lately, looking for ways to make things even more streamlined. I have tried a number of different methods for idea storage. There are a number of online avenues to do this. Most everything I do is online now – calendar, to do list, email, goals, even ideas, which I clip to Evernote.

But I’m resistant to the idea of doing away with my boxes, simply because I just love those moments when you spill everything out onto the floor in front of you and comb through the mess looking for that one little spark that will help you move along. There must be some chaos to the creative process. I think we can stifle ourselves if we try to do everything to perfection.

So, where do you keep your ideas?

Wine of the Week: Gnarlier Head Old Vine Zinfandel

by JT Ellison

You may be aware of the shot heard round the world that emanated from my backyard this week. Sports legend Steve McNair was shot and killed on the 4th of July. Murdered, in his own home, in his own living room, on his own couch, a stone’s throw away from the house that he built, known officially as LP Field, but still referred to by most Nashvillians as The Coliseum. The place where giants and gladiators stride on any given Sunday for our entertainment.

As far as stories go, it’s sad. Terrible even.

But this is Nashville. Which means there’s more to the story than meets the eye.

______________________

Steve McNair was a good guy. As an athlete, he was a glorious God. In a quick glance at his football career en totale, from little Alcorn State in Mississippi to the Houston Oilers to the Tennessee Titans, he is referred to in reverential tones, a tough and humane player who never complained, never shirked his duty, always set the example on the field. He will be remembered well, I think. I’d say there’s better than an 80% chance he will be posthumously inducted into the Football Hall of Fame. And Steve deserves to be in Canton, there’s no doubt about that.

But Steve didn’t make the news this week because of his skills and dedication to the game. Steve made the news this week because he was cheating on his wife with a 20-year-old waitress from Dave & Buster’s, an obviously unstable little girl who racked up a DUI, a semi-automatic purchase and a murder, all in three days.

Steve is in the news because he cheated on his wife with a girl who shot him dead in his own living room, then killed herself.

Sounds pretty straightforward, right? It’s a classic locked-room murder scenario – inside the locked house with no signs of forced entry are two dead bodies, one riddled with bullet holes, some close contact shots, and a second, smaller body, with a contact wound to the right temple, laying on the murder weapon. The two persons involved were in a rather public relationship despite the fact that one of them was married. The two persons involved were not known to have any domestic assaults on record, were law-abiding citizens, and seemed to be in love.

So what really happened in the early morning hours on the 4th of July???

That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out.

______________________

On the surface, this does look like a straightforward murder/suicide. But this is Nashville, and nothing is ever what it seems. Here’s what we know for sure.

• In the wee hours of Thursday morning, July 2, Steve’s mistress, Sahel Kazemi, was pulled over for a DUI. Steve and another unidentified person were in the car with her, but were allowed to leave in a cab. Steve returned and bailed her out in the morning.
• Sometime later that day, Sahel legally purchased a semi-automatic weapon in a private sale.
• On Thursday July 2, Sahel also put her furniture up for sale on Craigslist: “NICE FURNITURE. TV, COUCH, COFFE TABLE AND MORE – $1 (hermitage).”
• On Friday night, July 3^rd, Steve was on his usual rounds, out on the town for the night. A woman approached him in a lakefront bar and accused him of slipping her a roofie last year. She threatened him, saying her boyfriend was going to kill him.
• Friends saw Steve and Sahel talking in the Escalade he’d bought her for her birthday. They didn’t seem to be fighting.
• Steve was sent home by himself in a private car around 1:00-2:00 a.m. Sahel was waiting for him when he arrived.
• Sometime on the morning of July 4^th, Steve’s friend came to the house they shared (this seems to have been a bit of a “bachelor pad” for the boys), unlocked the door, went inside and saw the bodies. Instead of calling the police, he called a third friend. More than 45 minutes elapsed between his arrival and the eventual 911 call.
• Steve was shot four times, twice in the chest and once on each side of the head. The first three shots were from a distance of at least three feet, the last temple shot was at close range.
• Sahel was shot once, a contact shot to the right temple.
• The gun, the same gun Sahel purchased on Thursday evening, was found beneath her body.
• Her hands tested positive for gunshot residue, Steve’s hands had no trace.

______________________

Steve was a big, big supporter of the restaurant and bar industry in Nashville. And it wasn’t exactly a state secret that he played around on his wife. It was something that I couldn’t ever reconcile about him – this was an unbelievably accomplished athlete who had the respect of every single person who’d ever met him – but boy, did he like the ladies. Drove me nuts. Be the same man Saturday night as you are Sunday morning, and you get a lot more respect in my book.

Steve was dear friends with the owner of a few establishments that we frequent, and it was in one of these establishments where we met Steve for the first time. This was several years ago, when he was still Air McNair, the quarterback for the Titans.

We were sitting at the bar, and Steve came in with his driver. He sat next to us. We chatted a bit. He was sweet. I was struck by two things: one, he had a gigantic watch with diamonds the size of tennis balls on the bezel, and two, he was unfailingly polite and good-natured to all of the fans and well-wishers (and even the lone detractor) who came by to shake his hand and wish him luck on Sunday. Despite our proximity for the evening, I didn’t want to ask for an autograph. That’s not how we do it here in Nashville.

Celebrity in Nashville is a business. You can’t shake a stick in this town without running into someone hugely famous. Whether it’s Starbucks or PF Chang’s or Venetian Nails or Magic Mushroom or Joe’s Crab Shack or Whole Foods or Sunset Grill, you’ll see someone. But no one really does anything about it.

You see, Southerners are unfailingly polite. They know how to mind their own business, (which they do exceedingly well on the surface, but fail miserably in reality – how else would we get the good gossip otherwise?) But it wouldn’t be right to accost a famous person while they’re minding their own business. That’s how the likes of Nicole Kidman and Keith Urban and the legions of other celebrities that now call Nashville home can go out to Starbucks on a Sunday morning unannounced and be left alone – we’re too polite to stare and point. Instead, you’re likely to get a nod and a smile, and that’s it. Lovely for them, really.

But for the athletes, well, if you’re sipping rum and coke in a little suburban bar, you’re probably going to have a few folks stop by to wish you well.

Strangely enough, the night Steve died, he was doing just that.

______________________

Being a mystery writer in Nashville has its ups and downs. We have plenty of crime, more than enough to make my novels realistic. I’ve had two pretty farfetched scenarios that I’ve made up in my twisted little head make the news in real life. Three, now. The opening of my debut novel is, ironically, set on the 4th of July, with my protagonist, Taylor Jackson, sitting at her desk while the fireworks are shot off, wondering what crime scene she’s going to be called to.

Any minute now, she’d be answering the phone, getting the call. Chance told her somewhere in her city, a shooter was escaping into the night. Fireworks were perfect cover for gunfire.

On this 4^th of July, Randy and I had a most surreal night. We were downtown to have dinner and watch the fireworks. There was a storm brewing; one of Nashville’s nasty tornado-inducing thunderstorms was on the way. The city decided to move up the fireworks to 8:10 p.m. so people could take cover as the storms rolled through. Of course, you can’t time out Mother Nature, so the rain started in earnest after the second or third firework. We were standing on 3^rd Avenue, in a restaurant parking lot, under an umbrella, with the fireworks blasting into the sky to our left backlit by lightning, and the whirling lights of police cruisers attending the McNair crime scene to our right, both in perfect view of one another. I couldn’t tell if we were all celebrating America’s independence, mourning Steve’s death, or what.

They’d removed the bodies by this point, and the rumor mill was churning in full gear. The first news broke that he’d been found in an alley and it was a murder/suicide, both those reports were quickly backed away from. It took ages for the media to report that the bodies were inside the house and that Steve did own the property. As a matter of fact, after the very first presser our Public Information Officer Don Aaron did, there was nearly a four-hour lag until the media got anything new. And let me tell you, four hours of not talking to the media in this town is probably a new record.

Some of the early gossip had Steve’s wife, Mechelle McNair, as the shooter, having found her husband in flagrante delicto with a younger woman. There was also talk of his new business venture, a restaurant he’d opened earlier in the week, and some of the folks he may have gotten involved with there being responsible.

The fascinating thing is, this investigation is playing out in the news just like the damn books I write, step by step, unraveling the pieces day by day. The police are doing a stellar job of not jumping to conclusions. They are being methodical. They are using state of the art forensics, managing the media, keeping everyone at arms length and staying away from classifying this as what it seems too quickly. They are doing one hell of an investigation, and I applaud them. Because there are plenty of what ifs and pieces that aren’t adding up just right.

Some of the what ifs:

• What about the woman who threatened Steve at the bar? Where is she and where is her boyfriend?
• Why is Sahel’s ex-boyfriend Keith Norfleet so convinced she was leaving Steve to reunite with him?
• Why don’t the police consider him a suspect, especially in light of this?
• Why did Sahel tell her sister Steve was getting a divorce that would be final in two weeks? (There are no divorce filings on record.)
• Why did she up and put her furniture for sale?
• Was the mistress pregnant? Why won’t the police say yes or no definitively?
• Why did she suddenly buy a gun of her own? (Steve was arrested for a DUI years ago and had a firearm in his possession, we know he had guns.)
• Was Steve having yet another affair, one which Sahel found out about?
• Why did Steve leave Sahel in the back of a police car when she was asking for him to come talk to her? (Here’s video of the arrest.)
• Why didn’t Steve’s friend call the police immediately upon finding the body? And why did he move the shell casings at the scene?
• Why would a girl who was head over heels in love with a very, very rich man suddenly snap and decide to kill him?
• How many people had keys to the condo where the bodies were found?
• What really happened between 2 a.m. and 10 a.m.?

These are just a few of the unanswered questions floating around town right now. I have to think like the mystery writer I am with this – it’s not easy to stage a suicide well, but it has been done. The methodical shots to Steve’s body seem off to me: shoot him in the head, then step around the body and shoot him twice in the chest, then administer the coup de grace to the opposite temple up close? Does that sound like the grouping of a 20 year old in love?

As you can imagine, the murder of one of our own, of possibly the biggest sports star we have, has shaken a lot of people. We’re in the spotlight, and so far, I think Metro has shown themselves to be competent and capable. As of Wednesday afternoon, this was ruled an official murder/suicide. The case is closed pending final toxicology reports.

My prayers go to Mechelle and the McNair kids. I hope that someday, they’ll be able to separate the man they thought Steve was from the man he showed himself to be in the end.

So what do you think happened? Is this a classic locked-room murder/suicide, or is there something more sinister afoot? I mean really, we are crime fiction lovers…

Wine of the Week: 2006 Bivio Italia Tuscan Red   Bivio means “fork in the road” in Italian, so I couldn’t resist using it here today. Maybe if Steve had taken a different road, he’d still be with us. Regardless, the wine is luscious!

by JT Ellison

Ah, nerves.

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

Of course I’m talking about speaking in public.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And strangely enough, it worked.

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

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

“Well, no,” I answered.

“Then what’s the big deal?”

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

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

Aren’t they?

Not so fast.

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

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

Terribly sick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wine of the Week: 2006 Cellar No. 8 Merlot

by JT Ellison

Space… the Final Frontier. These are the voyages of the starship Enterprise. Its five-year mission: to explore strange new worlds; to seek out new life and new civilizations; to boldly go where no man has gone before.

Cue soundtrack.

I had some dental work done this week. Don’t you spare me a moment’s thought of sympathy, though–it was elective, cost a bajillion dollars and made me feel pretty. And I benefitted, in large ways and in small. Why? I got to spend the better part of an afternoon under the lovely sedative grooves of Nitrous Oxide.

I wrote a post a couple of years ago (click here to read it) about the joys of nitrous. Nitrous and I get along well. It’s a creative booster shot, allowing me to get into a completely different frame of mind. I don’t use drugs, but after an hour with the nitrous, I get a glimmer of understanding about why some people might. Chasing the high, I think they call it, what drives most addicts into their addictions in the first place.

Anyway, because this procedure was going to take a while, they suggested I listen to my iPod.

So I queued up something I knew would take my mind off of things. The soundtrack to Star Trek, by the most brilliant Michael Giacchino. Giacchino does a lot of work with JJ Abrams, most notable the themes for ALIAS, LOST, and of course, STAR TREK.

I’m a huge Trekkie. So I was concerned about the re-energization of the franchise. Sometimes that can fall flat on its face, but Abrams did a masterful job. I can’t say enough good things about this movie – it moved me, made me cheer, captured my imagination, allowed my Dad and I to both indulge in our fascination with all things chaos and quantum, started me down a new avenue of research for a possible future book, and entertained me to the point that I saw it twice in the theater and I’m still hankering to see it again.

Part of the mastery of the movie is the script – so brilliantly rendered by Roberto Orci and Alex Kurtzman that I have to single them out – their interpretation and masterful devices allowed the series to be regenerated into films for the modern era, and for that I salute them. The casting is incredible – I adored Chris Pine and Zachary Quinto, as well as everyone else.

But another aspect of the movie that not a lot of people are talking about is the score by Giacchino. It is so subtle, so powerful, and so perfectly matched to the story that I honestly really didn’t even hear it the first time I saw the movie. Oh, it was there, and there were moments when I heard it, but for the most part, it did its job. Scores aren’t meant to be flashy and in your face. They are a compliment, the eggs that bind the batter so it can be made into a cake, the tray that holds the ice as its being frozen into cubes. In other words, absolutely necessary: the lynchpin of a good movie, the tent pole. Seen but unseen, heard but unheard.

Unless you’ve seen the movie, then downloaded the soundtrack, this may sound silly, but through the music, I can recreate every single moment of that film in my imagination. It’s so successful as a score that it becomes an immediate rewind button. Remarkable. That doesn’t happen to me very often. I’ve had soundtracks that I love, of course (Dances with Wolves, Harry Potter) but rarely am I so moved by the music that I can relive the movie, moment by glorious moment.

Giacchino’s score is wonderful – sweeping, poignant, visceral in spots; playful, sexual and seductive in others. There’s no question which music belongs to the heroes and which belongs to the villain. Nero, the Romulan mining ship captain and driving evil force in the movie, benefits from an especially powerful and ominous theme.

Listening to it under the influence of the nitrous, I wondered if Giacchino was influenced at all by Prokofiev – for some reason, I hear the three horns of the Wolf (from Peter and the Wolf) in the notes to signify Nero’s ship. We all know wolves are bad, bad, bad, and Nero qualifies as a wolf – a threat to the Federation of primary importance. (For those of you who are familiar with this, listen to the Andante molto and tell me what you think.)

Talk about evoking emotions with a classical piece – I can recreate the voice-over to Peter and The Wolf just by listening to the album. The fear, the joy. Ah, Disney at its finest (with the attendant happy ending for Sonia the Duck, too.)

It wouldn’t be the first time a composer has been influenced by an old master – the John William’s distinctive two-note heartbeat JAWS theme is suspiciously similar to the Allegro of Antonín Dvořák’s Symphony #9 in E minor (aka The New World Symphony.) Strangely enough, if you meld the Prokofiev and the Dvořák, it really evokes Nero’s theme in Star Trek. Hmm…

While most of you know my passion for wine, few of you know my undying addiction to classical music. I’ve been using classical for years – to drive me, to tell stories, to layer into my books for effect, as themes for each of my books, to get drunk to, to make love to. I played clarinet for years, with brief forays into flute and saxophone, and shared my first kiss with a trumpet player, so I’m kind of partial to orchestral music. Opera works the same way for me, I adore it. It changes me, alters me, if only for a moment. I’ve always loved the line from PRETTY WOMAN, where Richard Gere explains the obsession with opera:

People’s reactions to opera the first time they see it is very dramatic; they either love it or they hate it. If they love it, they will always love it. If they don’t, they may learn to appreciate it, but it will never become part of their soul.

I couldn’t agree more. I adore the stories told through the music – the emotions it evokes, the fact that just the right note can make or break a piece. It’s what I love about a perfectly pitched scored, like the Star Trek soundtrack. It becomes a part of my soul.

And somehow, I managed to remember this line of thought whilst under the influence of some serious drugs. I must admit, listening to the score under the influence was eye-opening. Mind-expanding, if you will. I felt the music in a completely different way than before. The closest I can remember coming to this was a long time ago, under the manipulative control of Grand Marnier (which is like absinthe to me) and listening to Phantom of the Opera over and over until I was in some sort of wicked trance.

I highly recommend you see the movie, download the score, and have a bit of your favorite non-inhibitor and experience this for yourself. It’s truly something to behold. Kind of like space.

Or maybe I was just stoned out of my gourd.

So how about you, ‘Rati faithful? Favorite movie scores? Favorite operas and classical pieces? And did you like the new Star Trek film?

Wine of the Week: De Toren Fusion V – A South African entry recommended by a dear friend. It’s a bordeaux blend that’s been compared to the finest Chateau Latour wines. Can’t wait to try this one!

(Said dear friend also turned me on to the Kurtzman-Orci interview, so many thanks for both recommendations!)

by JT Ellison

Randy and I went to a concert a couple of Saturdays ago, one I’d been looking forward to for weeks. Months! Billy Joel, with Elton John.

Now, for the record, I adore Billy Joel. Adore the music, the stories, the way he engages the audience. I’ve seen him in concert before, and it was one of the best shows I’ve ever seen. It was at the Cap Center (now US Airways Arena) in Landover, Maryland. I was in high school, which meant a limited allowance, so I could only afford to purchase the cheap seats. Obstructed view. Behind the stage. I was a little bummed, but figured I’d be able to hear, even if I couldn’t see.

Boy, was I surprised. Billy Joel set up his stage with pianos on all four corners, and made a point of playing to every section of the crowd. Even though my seats were “obstructed,” I had a great view, and for a quarter of the concert, Billy sang directly to me. He was funny, self-effacing and charming. The music was outstanding. I went home feeling like I’d been a part of something special, something unique. He’d touched me, without ever having set eyes on me, or knowing I was there. Now that’s power.

Fast forward to current day. We can afford better seats now, though through a timing error we ended up in the nosebleeds. My vertigo and I enjoyed that. Thankfully, the lights went down quickly, and out came Billy and Elton. They played two songs in duet, then Billy exited the stage and Elton took over.

And I mean it when I say Elton took over. The lights. The flash. The pure, unadulterated rock. The individual songs that went on (and on, and on) for fifteen to twenty minutes. And after each song (finally) finished, Elton ran around the stage, banging himself on the chest and inciting the crowd for applause. If I had a microphone near his mind, it would have very clearly screamed LOOK AT ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Yawn.

We slipped out, took a break, got a drink, walked around, and still he played. Now, don’t get me wrong, there’s a lot of Elton John that I like. But this was a full-on Wembley Stadium show sandwiched into the Sommet Center. And there was this crazy thing that was also supposed to be going on….. Oh, right. Billy Joel.

Elton played for an hour and a half, and after every single song, he paraded around, basking in the adulation. It just felt so forced, so unnecessary. And in contrast, when Billy Joel finally was allowed to take the stage, he started a conversation with the crowd. He apologized to the people with the crappy seats. He told jokes. He talked about his love for, and connection to, Nashville. He took a moment after each song to introduce a band mate. He made it about us, and them, and not about him.

He had the crowd eating out of his hand in two seconds, simply because he seemed to grasp something Elton John didn’t. Billy was there for us. He was playing for us. Elton, sadly, played at us. Elton was a performer, but Billy was an entertainer.

We’ve all met those kinds of people, the ones who ask you how you are, then immediately launch into a recitation of how they are. The people who self-aggrandize, who bang their chests and do everything to get people to notice them. The people who are desperate for any kind of attention, and will do whatever it takes to make sure they’re at the center of it all.

There’s a lesson to be taken away from this. We authors, for better or for worse, are public figures. There are expectations, and challenges, along the way. It’s a heady, heady experience to have people read your work and appreciate it, to gain fans, to entertain strangers. And it’s very easy to fall into the “me” mentality: to think your life, your work, your stories are more important, more entertaining, and more appreciated than anyone else’s at the table. To let your ego take over and run away with your reputation.

I just hope that no one ever comes away from a conference, or a panel, or a signing that I’ve participated in and think that I’ve pulled an Elton John. Give me Billy Joel any day.

And speaking of Mr. Joel, I am most definitely in a New York state of mind. Literally, and figuratively. As you read this, I’m traipsing the streets of Manhattan, one of my favorites cities in the whole world. Lots of events on the plate: meetings galore, signings, and hopefully, a night to ourselves to have a quiet meal and some good wine. I’d like to squeeze in an afternoon at MOMA, a trip up the Empire State Building, and if my ankle holds up, a walk through Central Park. So please don’t hold it against me if I don’t comment in a timely fashion.

Your questions for today –

What’s the best concert you’ve ever seen? Why?

And what’s your favorite city in the whole wide world???

Wine of the Week: Chateau Ross 2005 Big Bitch Red

by JT Ellison

Before I start the second installment of the Napa Valley travelogue, I have an announcement to make. Starting next Friday, we are welcoming a new member to Murderati. Stephen Jay Schwartz, a brilliant debut novelist, is going to join me on alternate Fridays. Stephen’s first novel, BOULEVARD, releases in September, and I was proud to offer an endorsement – it’s going to shake the fabric of the crime genre.

After more than three years, the rigors of weekly blogging have taken their toll, and I’m so grateful Stephen has agreed to share the load. He’ll be bringing the newbie’s perspective, and his column is aptly titled “The Newcomer.” You can learn more about Stephen’s world on our About page. Suffice it to say he’s a perfect addition to our merry band of bloggers. I hope you’ll show him all the great kindness that you’ve showed me over the past years.

Now, on to the wine. Here is the link to last week’s In Vino Veritas.

NAPA VALLEY – DAY THREE

Happy Birthday to me… We called this one the unbirthday.

We started with a drive up the 128 to Mumm Napa. What better way to start an unbirthday than with champagne? (And yes, I know this is really sparkling wine, real champagne only comes from the French champagne region.) We took a seat on the Oak Terrace, Mumm’s gorgeous new outdoor tasting deck, settling into the comfy red wicker, and were served our tasting flutes. Though since we were on the Oak Terrace, we were tasting from the Library Collection, and the flutes were full : )

We started with the 2001 Blanc De Blanc. It was a classic brut sparkling wine, crisp and jasminy, with a lemon finish. I moved on to the 2000 DVX Rosé, which was redolent of red apples, and Randy tried the 2005 Pinot Noir. In order to make rosé, you need red grapes as well as white, so the pinots add just the right amount of pink to the glass. But I never knew Mumm’s bottles a pinot out of each season’s growth. That was the second excellent pinot of the trip – smooth and clean with strawberry, peach and tobacco notes.

Me being a complete lightweight, I was a wee bit happy at this point, (nothing like catching a buzz before noon – sheesh) so we had a small plate of crudités that included a divine chocolate covered strawberry and fresh strawberries. Outstanding.

We headed off toward Cakebread then, but accidentally stumbled upon the Rubicon Estate. We’d been planning to hit Rubicon last, but since it appeared on our right, we decided to hit it first. Rubicon is the former Inglenook Estate and is owned by Francis Ford Coppola. You’ve seen me suggest the Coppola wines before, but this is the special place, the vineyard that houses the estate wines. Estate wines are generally older, more established vines that produce less fruit and subsequently, fewer bottles, which means they are more expensive.

This was by far the most expensive stop, $25 per person for the tasting. They give you a passport, with the history of the estate and fun facts about the vineyard, and plenty of space for tasting notes. And the tasting – oh, my, the tasting.

We started with the 2007 Captain’s Reserve Chardonnay. Though neither of us are big white wine fans, this was very good, tropical and fruity. Then we moved to the 2006 Captain’s Reserve Pinot Noir. That was not what I’d call a very challenging wine. It was good, smooth, actually almost too smooth, and perfectly balanced, and tasted of raspberries and rose petals. The next was the 2005 Captain’s Reserve Shiraz. Now this got our attention. It was deeply purple, with boysenberry, black licorice, blueberries and sandalwood. It had a lovely nose and had fun tidbits – the grapes are only hand-harvested in the early morning hours, then cold-soaked for 48 hours to ensure the rich, ripe color.

Next was the 2005 Cask Cabernet Sauvignon. This was a monumental vintage for the Cask, and the wine was rich with blueberries, cherries, plum, vanilla and cocoa, and was very bold and spicy. Really excellent wine (we bought some to take home!) We tried the 2005 Rubicon too, a heavy cabernet with loads of pepper, raspberry and smoky wood notes. Just fantastic.

The last wine at the Rubicon was an add-on from our server, who was a delight – knowledgeable, pleasant and willing to share some insider secrets. We talked of the Nardi estate in Italy (my family name is Nardi, remember) and that Mr. Coppola had visited their wine-making operation. She suggested we write Mr. Coppola a note, which we did. (The funny thing was, I’m writing a note to one of the greatest filmmakers of all time and all I’m thinking about is how to express my deep gratitude for his endeavors into wine making. Should’ve slipped a card in, but I really didn’t think of it until we left. Oh well.) The wine is a homage to his grandmother’s side of the family and is called Edizione Pennino. We tried the 2006. This is an organically farmed wine, a Zinfandel varietal, soft and full, with white pepper, smoke, blackberries, blueberries and raspberry notes. We took some of this home too, it was lovely. And it was nice to have the opportunity to taste such a special wine, a wine that’s dear to the winemaker’s heart. Made us feel right at home.

And then we went to Cakebread. I know the white fans are drooling right now, but the two whites we tasted, 2007 Sauvignon Blanc and the 2007 Chardonnay, while good, didn’t make a lasting impression. I just don’t have a white wine palate, though I was assured by our tasting tour partners that it was a good wine. The tour itself was a bit uninspired too, with this being more focused on just getting some wine in the glass and into your mouth than any real education. I think the group was a bit too big, and a little unsophisticated, so things were kept on the top layer, so to speak. The 2006 North Coast Rubáiyat was very good, a pinot heavy blend. The 2007 Rubáiyat will be a Merlot blend, which I found interesting. The 2005 Red Hills, Lake County Zinfandel was great, lots of dark chocolate and purple fruits, and the 2005 Napa Valley Cabernet Sauvignon had all the elements of a great cab. It’s typical of the cooler parts of Napa, and was our favorite of the lot.

We had just enough time to hit one more, and let me tell you – choosing which vineyards to go to can be a bit daunting. There are hundreds to choose from. But the wonderful Preiser Key was a Godsend. It breaks the vineyards into appellations, so we could look for vineyards that did our kind of wine. We wanted to taste a California Sangiovesi (the grape that’s used in Chianti,) so we headed to Castello di Amorosa.

And boy, did we get a fun surprise! What no one mentioned was the name of this vineyard was quite literal – the estate is a castle. A 101,000 square foot medieval castle. Cue enchantment!

We scoured the castle, then went to the tasting. This was one of the estates with a wine club. We wanted to join a couple of clubs, but didn’t want anything that we could buy in stores. Castello di Amorosa is exclusive to their wine club members. Intrigued, we asked for a special tasting that would allow us to determine if this vineyard could be a contender. They didn’t disappoint. The 2005 Diamond Mountain Sangiovese was great – black fruits, supple oak, and vanilla notes. The 2005 Merlot was good too, but needed to breath to let out the spicy, peppery finish. We loved “Il Brigante”, a 2002 Cabernet Merlot blend, cherries, light oak, spices. It’s very dry, which we love. And the name means Little Thief – how can you not love it? The 2004 Cabernet Sauvignon was lovely – rich and fruity, then we moved off the regular tasting list and into the big dogs. “Il Barone”, a reserve cab, was excellent, but what sold us was the 2005 “La Castellana” Reserve. This is a beautiful Super Tuscan wine, absolutely outstanding. We signed up for the club and took bottles of Il Brigante and La Castanella home with us.

And now it was time for the dinner. We had reservations at a restaurant in Napa, so we hurried home, changed and set out for our fine meal. We were sorely disappointed: despite our 8:00 reservation, we weren’t seated until 8:30, and then it took another fifteen minutes for the waitress to take our drink order. It was noisy and crowded, not at all what we were looking for in an intimate birthday celebration. I won’t name the restaurant because I’m sure it’s normally great, they just looked incredibly understaffed, and that never speaks to a good experience.

So we walked. We knew UVA was right around the corner, and we headed there. It was a chilly walk, but well worth it. The meal we had goes down in my top five best meals I’ve ever eaten. It was simple, rustic Italian fare made from fresh, local ingrediants – meatballs smothered in tomato sauce and mozzarella as an appetizer (it was their special, and it was fabulous,) chicken and mushroom carbonara, and a phenomenal tiramisu, accompanied by a bottle of L’Uvvagio Barbera, 2005 and homemade limoncello. They even threw in a candle and wrote Happy Birthday on the plate, and comped the desserts. Classy, and guaranteed that we will recommend them highly. Top it all off with another fire and one of my all time favorite movies, FRENCH KISS, and I call that a successful day.

DAY FOUR

We were at a bit of a loss in the morning. Truth be told, we didn’t want to leave. We needed to head to San Francisco later in the day, the forecast called for rain, and we hadn’t gotten ourselves into the heart of the Sonoma Valley yet. So we decided to Trust in Tara – our theme of the week – and put in an address we knew was on the north end of the Sonoma Valley. That way, we could drive, and anything we stumbled upon was fair game.

The drive was beautiful, though we got caught in the downtown district of Sonoma, which I thought was much more “city” than Napa. But when we cleared out of that, we were able to drive for about thirty minutes, gazing at the vineyards, feeling the slow seep of time. We spied a huge mansion in the distance, and the closer we got, the more interesting it looked. They had a sign that said Sangiovese in the front, so we stopped. (We really need a bumper sticker that says “I Brake for Sangiovese”.)

The estate was called Ledson. We’d never heard of it, and soon discovered that this was another wine club-only vineyard. Intrigued, we started the tasting. It was so nice to be inside looking out on the rainy day, to see the mist rolling through the valley, to be warm and dry on such a dreary day. We were in the capable hands of Austin Smith, wine consultant extraordinaire, who entertain as well as educated.

We chose an array of reds for our tasting, and got to work. I say work because it is, in a sense. Anyone can go into a tasting and drink wine. It takes some practice to be able to tell one wine from another, to ferret out your individual tastebuds, to be able to tell French oak from American. And trust me, with a little bit of training, anyone can do this. And to the folks in these vineyards, when they get a true oenophile at the bar, it’s like a light goes on inside them. They want to educate. They’ve got the finer details down, and are willing to share. I have to tell you, the most fun of the whole trip was being surrounded by fellow wine junkies.

We started with the 2005 Diamond Ridge Cabernet Sauvignon – lots of rose petals, blackberry and cherry, vanilla, with cranberries, cloves and toasted oak. YUM! Then were tried the 2005 Knights Valley Cabernet Sauvignon. Another excellent wine, with lots of leather, anise and lilac which tasted of chocolate and black berries. The 2005 Mes Trois Amour is the California version of an Australian GSM – that’s a blend of Grenache, Shiraz and Mourvedre grapes – with cocoa and smoke, rich cherry and smoked molasses. The 2007 Russian River Pinot Noir had the characteristic rose petal, strawberries and cherry nose that we’d come to expect from the pinots, but with a surprising caramel and pepper finish.

The 2006 Knights Valley Sangiovese was dry and spicy, and the 2005 Lodi Old Vine Zinfandel was incredibly jammy, with white pepper and plum and a touch of cinnamon. We had some of the 2005 Kinghts Valley Bellisimo, the gold medal winner in the World Wine Championships, that is a 57% Merlot 43% cab blend – luscious, fruity and spicy, and the 2005 Sonoma County Cèpage, which was smoky, leathery, with toasted oak and plums. Truly an excellent wine. The last one we tried was the 2006 California La Montagne, a 75% cabernet 25% sangiovese with raspberry, pepper, rose and lilac notes. It’s a Super Tuscan wine, and absolutely divine. We were sold. We joined the wine club, and Austin comped our tasting, a very nice touch.

And then we ate. Thankfully, there was the great little Café Citti right down the street, and we munched a pizza and cleansed our palates with salad and lots of water.

Declaring our trip a success, we headed into rainy San Francisco. It was too cool to drive the Golden Gate Bridge into town, but the shock of being in a city was a sharp contrast to the lazy, indolent days we’d spent in the country. We decided on the spot that we are definitely country mice, with the exception of New York.

We drove around San Fran and dined in the rain at Capurro’s on the wharf. I had clam chowder and crab cakes, and a lovely glass of 2005 Clos la Chance Zinfandel. Randy was dabbling in the pesto gnocchi again – I just can’t keep that man away from the gnocchi.

We did a minimum amount of strolling, got lost (Tara wasn’t happy with the heavy fog and kept sending us to the wrong street) so we accidentally ended up on Lombard Street. It was dark, but you can still see the crookedness. We did a run through the red light district (when I visited San Fran last, when I was 8, my dad got lost and ended up on that street. Twice. My mom was having kittens.)

Back at the Grand Hyatt, we had a cappuccino and birra in the lounge, then went back to our room. Looking down into Union Square, we saw a group of people, all dressed in black, looking like they were doing a protest. We found out a few minutes later that we were watching anarchists who’d just cracked windows all over the shopping district, causing thousands of dollars in damage. Um, yeah. Way to make a statement, guys – cracking a window at Neiman Marcus while wearing a ski mask is sure to change the world.

DAY FIVE

We had very special plans today. At noon, we were meeting our dear friend Louise and her sweet hubby Bruce for lunch at the Washington Square Bar and Grill. After we packed and managed to get the multiple bottles of wine we bought along the way shipped home, we headed to Washington Square.

Our dear Louise looked lovely, and kindly gifted me with a San Francisco compass, which I desperately needed. We had a brilliant meal (try the fish and chips, they are croquettes and really yummy) and a plain old fashioned cellar merlot. I was actually a bit wined out, if you can believe it.

After a couple of scintillating hours in our dear friends’ company, it was time to go home. We drove across the Bay Bridge into Oakland, and the fairy tale ended. Alas. But out luck held – even though we were an hour late turning the car in, they didn’t charge us an extra day. Southwest was on time, as always, and we got home safe and sound to a very, very happy kitty.

Bottles of wine have been rolling in, with almost daily visits from UPS. Our cellar restocked, now we’re planning our next outing. Italy? Oregon? Wherever we go, we’re sure to find good food, good wine, and make new friends.

More pics of the trip can be found here and here. Thanks for taking the journey with us. A new decade has begun, and I hope it brings great joy and success to us all.

by J.T. Ellison

Ahhh, vino. Anyone who’s been reading this column for more than a few Fridays knows I am a complete and utter wine junkie. An amateur oenophile. A lover of the dark juice, a disciple of Dionysus, a proponent for good wines and vineyards. When we first started Murderati, and I had nothing to say (odd that we’ve come full circle) I thought I’d give a wine tip every week, just as a sort of value-added incentive to read the columns. I’ve given hundreds of wine tips over those three years, so many that I’m considering hiring someone to go through and list them all out for me so I have a record. Because I don’t have a list of all the wines I’ve recommended.

Does that surprise you? I know you know I’m a complete control freak, borderline OCD about so many things, but keeping track of my wine consumption? I’m terrible at it. I’ve started too many notebooks to count – separating them into varietals, countries, years. I put them into lists and then forget to add to it. I’m a bit hopeless, and that’s not the way a real wine connoisseur acts.

Well, I’m not a real connoisseur. I’m just a thriller chick who likes her grape juice.

So when hubby told me he was taking me to the Napa Valley for my birthday, you can imagine how excited I was. We’ve been to Italy a couple of times, strolled through pour favorite vineyard, Tenute Silvio Nardi – learned about tastings and fermentations and the benefits of French oak from our friend Jeorge, the estate manager. We know Francis Ford Coppola has been there, his wine team spent a few weeks learning from the Nardis. (More on that later) And my family name, for those who are interested, is Nardi. Winemaking, apparently, is in my blood.

We touched base with friends we know have travelled in the area for recommendations. We quickly discovered that this can be a pricey trip, because most of the vineyards charge for the tastings, anywhere from $10 a person to $25. That can add up quickly. It was recommended to us that we stay in Sonoma, the less trafficked and less commercial part of the wine country. But Sonoma’s expensive, so we decided to go the economical route of a bed and breakfast in Napa proper, taking advantage of the great travel deals (many, many hotels are doing specials now, three nights for the price of two, that kind of thing.) Turns out that was our smartest move. Napa proper? Not so commercial after all. And the B&B was perfectly located at the mouth of Highway 29 and Highway 128, two of the most beautiful stretches of road in the world. Breakfast in bed daily, a spacious, clean and quiet room with a fireplace and DVD player, a comfy bed and oodles of hot water – it was heaven.

The first day we’d arrived at about 3:00 pm local time after a full day of traveling. We were tired and hungry, and poor hubby had a cold (we were hoping it wasn’t hamthrax, we’d stopped at a local store for a jug of hand sanitizer and there were people in masks.) The B&B manager pulled out a map and a slew of tasting coupons (despite the prices, the coupons were along the lines of two for one tastings, etc.)We decided to forego the tastings in favor of a cheeseburger, which we found at the Napa Valley Grille in Yountville. Napa and Sonoma are made up of a multitude of small contiguous charming towns, with vast tracts of vineyards stretched between them. Most picturesque.

Food served, along with buttery focaccia dipped in rosemary, pepper, garlic and sea salt infused olive oil, we ventured into our first wines. Hubby had a Tangley Oaks Merlot, and I tried the Napa Cellars Merlot. Both were excellent, and we had a first moment of fortune – they’d emptied the very last bottle of Tangley Oaks and didn’t have enough for a full glass, so that one was on the house. Just the right way to get the trip started.

As we left, we noticed a tasting room for Verismo Wines. We stopped in for the heck of it and discovered three excellent wines: Stretta (aged in American Oak), Stella (aged in French Oak), and a surprisingly good Malbec, also aged in French Oak. I’ve never been much for the Malbecs, but this was rich and deep, just great.

Back at the B&B, 5-7 is cocktail hour – with lovely crudités, several wines to taste and some elevator Muzak. We retired early with a bottle of Stretta in our room, lit the fire, doped up the hubster and got a great night’s sleep.

DAY TWO

This was the last day of the decade for me. We wanted to see some redwoods, so we rose late, programmed Tara Stella Gypsy (our Garmin Nuvi, named such because Tara is the Buddhist goddess of navigation, Stella for stars, and Gypsie for… yes, GPS) and off we went. Tara has a plethora of cool features, and we trusted her implicitly to get us around.

The Armstrong Redwood Forest was about an hour north and west of Napa, and we weren’t disappointed. HUGE trees. HUGE. Towering to the sky, thousands of years old. Having grown up in a forest, it was especially peaceful and perfect. We shared some cocktail peanuts (thanks, Southwest!) and just spent some time being, astounded at the silence in these woods.

Glancing at the map, we knew we were close to the coast, so we figured what the hell. Tara happily obliged us with a point of interest entry called Goat Rock State Beach. That sounded promising. Driving through the forest, knowing that just around the curve, something glorious awaited us, we were breathless in anticipation. An eagle soared down and got in front of the car as if he were leading us to the rocky cliffs. I couldn’t help myself, I mentally recited some Tennyson.

The forest quickly gave way to flatter land, yellows instead of greens, and suddenly, there it was, this gigantic cliff with the Pacific gleaming beneath us.

We drove down, taking a million pictures, then parked and walked along the soft sand. Goat Rock is one of the most dangerous beaches in California – the water sneaks up on you and there’s a twenty foot drop shelf right at the water’s edge – we nearly got creamed by a wave trying to dip our fingers in the pacific.

That beach was one of the speechless moments. I don’t have them often, but they burn themselves into my memory banks to stay on forever.

We finally dragged ourselves away and headed to Seghesio Vineyards in Healdsburg. There’s definitely a warming process with some of these wine folks – they assume you know nothing, and treat you a bit disdainfully until you say something in the magic code language of Dionysus (something about oak barrels usually suffices.) Then they open to you and treat you well. That irritated my populist heart a bit, but whatever. There’s also a bit of competition between Sonoma and Napa, with the Sonoma folks looking down their noses at the Napa folks, which I had absolutely no time for. All that aside, we tasted several really good wines at Seghesio: the 2006 Cortina Zinfandel, made in the Dry Creek Valley, 2007 Costeria Pinot Noir, which was a bit too new for me, the 2005 Auradou Zinfandel, also from Dry Creek Valley and the stuff the Old Vine Zin I recommended last week is made of. The 2005 Home Ranch Zinfandel had some Sirah in it, making it fruity, and the 2005 Home Ranch Petit Sirah was excellent, very peppery and laced with black fruit. But the standout was the 2005 Venom. Grown on Rattlesnake Hill, it’s their baby Brunello, and it was rich, spicy and very full-bodied, the kind of wine you want to let breathe for at least thirty minutes, then consume with a superior steak.

The purveyor at Seghesio suggested a fine Italian restaurant in Healdsburg, and since it was past 5:00, we decided to break for food. We ate at a great place right in the Healdsburg Square called Scopa. Scopa is run by a young couple who take their food seriously but keep the atmosphere light and friendly. It was also local vintner’s night, where they have local growers and bottlers wait tables and introduce their wines.

This night, the vineyard was Ceritas. Grown on a rocky slope at the Escarpa Vineyard in the Burgundy tradition, their 2007 Sonoma Coast Pinot Noir was outstanding, probably one of the best Pinots I’ve ever tasted. They only get about 70 cases off the land, and they’ve sunk their life savings into this vineyard, but I bet it will pay off for them in spades. The wine will be available in August, 2009.

The lovely waitress at Scopa suggested we drive the 128 back to Napa. It’s a windy road, but the sun was just getting ready to set and the vineyards were sheathed in the gloaming’s glow – it’s always my favorite time of day, but this was especially gorgeous. The drive took nearly an hour, but it was so worth it.

We rolled into Napa wanting to taste one more wine for the day. We found ourselves at UVA, a lovely Italian restaurant (are you seeing a pattern here???) We had glasses of Monticello Sangiovese and desert – a strawberry tiramisu for me, flourless chocolate for Randy. Throw in a decaf cappuccino and it was time to call it a day. We popped KISS THE GIRLS into the DVD player, lit the fire, and crashed.

Just think. On the last day of my third decade, I was in a forest, on a beach, in a vineyard, ate in two Italian restaurants, drank several gorgeous glasses of wine, watched a movie, had a fire, and did all of the above with the man I love. Every favorite thing in my world. It was one of those perfect, special days that couldn’t be planned if you tried. Sometimes, the road less travelled does pay dividends.

Next Week: DAY THREE, the Rubicon Estate, and how I managed to slip Francis Ford Coppola a note.

There are plenty more photos of the trip here and here.

by J.T. Ellison

I read this article in the New York Times a few weeks ago. After I finished giggling, I decided I needed to do a piece on this, because it’s the bane of my existence. I hate having to turn to cell phones to relay information, but it’s become a reality that I can’t seem to get around.

I remember our Rob doing a blog post on his old site about how one of his mentors says you never want to have your characters communicating by phone. I’m sure Rob can chime in here with the exact reference, but that advice has stayed with me for the past few years. I take it to heart. You always want your characters to have face to face interactions, especially in a crime novel. I mean really, is Taylor supposed to call a suspect and ask him if he did the crime, all the while judging his reactions by the amount of heavy breathing and stuttering that ensues? No. Of course not.

But technology has made its way into our modern discourse. It’s getting to the point that you must work around the pervasive nature of technology – of cell phones and MacAirs and Eees and instant messaging and texting and twittering and facebooking.

Here’s the reality – cops do use cell phones. I don’t know the rules on usage, whether it’s SOP (standard operating procedure) to do so, but they do. I’ve been there, and witnessed it. They use radios as well, but if they need to reach someone immediately or send a private message, they’ll dial it up. They also have computers in their patrol cars so they can run instant information, be advised of warrants – if you haven’t been in a modern patrol car, you should head down to your local police department and ask for a tour. It like Knight Rider out there.

Simply put, technology, and cell phones in particular, have changed the way we write about crime.

How many people can get kidnapped and put in the trunk of a car anymore? How many get stranded at the side of the road? How many miss their flights and don’t call their friends and spouses so they aren’t waiting at the airport for hours? How many divorce proceeding are based on snooping through cell phone records?

Our cell phones have become an extension of our bodies, a third hand (or second head) that few of us can do without. So the hypothesis is it’s impossible for a modern novel to be considered at all realistic if there aren’t nods to the mod cons. Is this true?

To an extent, yes. But when you’re writing a story, you do need to keep that earlier advice in mind – face to face is always better.

In my upcoming book, I took all of this into account. I wanted to kidnap a girl who was stranded on the side of the road. The scene worked great – she ran out of gas on a semi-deserted stretch of Highway 96; a young, trusting soul who has no reason to believe that the good Samaritan who’s stopped to help is going to betray her. One little problem. What girl in this day and age doesn’t have her cell flipped open to text and call her friends 24/7?

There was a simple solution – the character comes across as a little flighty, but admits she forgot to charge her phone the night before and has no juice. Problem solved, and it actually goes a long way toward describing the character and her ultimate gullibility. She did run out of gas, remember, so she’s not the most responsible type. Forgetting to charge the phone works.

Cell phones can and do get all kinds of mileage in a novel. Phones not on, not charged, fitted with GPS, reworked by Q, satellite phones, encrypted phones. One little problem: We’re teetering on the brink of dating ourselves, because in ten years, the cell phone will be obsolete and everyone reading the book will know immediately that the story was written pre-2012 (or whenever it is that they become obsolete.) And don’t think it won’t happen – look at how far they’ve come in just a few years. Our cells are going to be making us breakfast here before long.

The same issue arose out of 9/11: Every book about New York that was written prior has the twin towers, and all post 9/11 book don’t. The same with movies – I know I still get choked up anytime I see the pre 9/11 skyline. You have to think carefully about when your book is set to make sure these major changes are addressed. And some of us can anticipate the changes before they come, making those books the ultimate cutting edge accessory.

Coda phones became answering machines became voice mail became visual voice mail. Our satellite television has caller ID. Pretty damn soon we’ll have holographic images of people “calling” us that pop up in our living rooms, and then our bedside tables, and then our retinas. Technology moves fast, cutting edge leaps are made every day. For all the books about eco-terrorism now, the nano-tech books are start taking over.

As authors, we’ve always embraced change, adapted to the new and different with relative grace, luddites among us excepted. Many of us are developing the ideas in our novels that will become tomorrow’s technology. Science fiction writers have always been light years ahead with their fanciful ideas (of course, airplanes were a fanciful idea 100 years ago…) Crime fiction is a close second, with all of our spy novels and satellite intercepts and wireless wiretaps.

It’s a brave new world out there.

So what about you? Does it throw you out of the story when you read about a detective making a cell phone call? Do you think there’s a better way? And what’s your prediction for the next wave of technology driven story lines???

Wine of the Week: I hope I’m tromping through their vineyard as you read this: Seghesio Old Vine Zinfandel. I know I’ve recommended it before, but it’s well worth the second mention.

(My apologies for being absent this week. Hubby and I are celebrating my birthday in Sonoma and Napa, California, and I left my laptop at home so I can get a real, live break. We’ve been touring the vineyards, sampling the wines, and I’m hoping to come back with a plethora of new wine suggestions for you. Congrats in advance to all the Edgar winners, and I’ll see you next week with a wine-soaked tourism heavy blog.)

by J.T. Ellison

I was at the bank the other day, which is always a trip, because our bank branch is staffed with characters. There’s the comedian chick, the brooding manager, the upbeat and chipper trainee, and the artist. The artist and I get on well, because he’s a writer. He’s done songs, he’s done poems. But lately, he’s been working on a movie script.

You don’t expect to get enlightened at the bank. If anything, that’s about the last place I’d ever go. But the artist dropped a bomb on me, just a simple term that he used to describe what he was responsible for with the script he’s co-writing.

He’s the world builder.

Now I’m sure all you screenwriters just rolled your eyes and said DUH! but I’ve never done any screenwriting, nor worked in Hollywood, and this termed concept of world building was a new one to me.

Of course, I understand that I already have an intrinsic grasp of world building. I do it every time I sit down, open my laptop and create. Each story, each character, each setting, all goes into the world I’m building. I’m the God of my own land, the High Priestess of the Page.

I make the rules.

Oh, heady day!

Science fiction and fantasy writers do a bang up job of world building. Hobbits become heroes, dragons befriend young slayers, vampires turn vegetarian. Trees can speak and witches float around in soap bubbles. Lions rise from the dead and the labyrinth of our subconscious fears are realized. Good and evil have Janus faces, and nothing is as it seems.

In these alternate realities, there are fairy godmothers, guardian angels, and every possible incarnation of death. In Stephanie Meyer’s TWILIGHT series, the books work not because of the vampires, but because of the underlying story – a teenage girl who is uprooted and ends up in a faraway land where normal rules don’t apply. This transportation into a new world allows for a willing suspension of disbelief – that’s the trick. That’s the key.

It’s the driving force behind our culture’s creativity.

If you build it, they will come.

Historical romances sweep us into a land unknown. As a little girl, I remember getting lost in Karleen Koen’s THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY, only to emerge on the other end with a fascination for all things historical. Diana Gabaldon’s OUTLANDER series is completely transcendent. I am there. I am present. I am so entranced that I can see and smell everything the characters do. I’m not reading a book, or a story, I’m plowing through an alternate universe.

J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter books did that for me also. I still lament that I wasn’t able to attend Hogwarts, with all its bizarre idiosyncrasies and history.

Imagination in the hands of a competent world builder is something to be treasured, read and watched over and over again, striking a resonate chord with all who fall under its spell. It’s just plain bliss.

The mythology behind these grandiose otherworlds are evident. They all have one thing in common: A hero, called to a journey. I’ve been reading Joseph Campbell and Christopher Vogler, (I’ve got a post coming on why I’m mad at Vogler…) and the whole concept of mythos and world building are foremost in my mind as I sit down to write a new Taylor Jackson novel. How am I going to bring Taylor’s world alive for you? What parts of Nashville have I missed in past novels that will give a real flavor to her world? It’s more than character, it’s using setting to define your story. I’ve always said Nashville is a character in my books. I want to show the essence of the city, the piquancy that comprises its hodgepodge cosmopolitan nature.

But I run smack into a brick wall rather quickly. My world? Already built. I’m using real places, real people, real streets and sights and smells. I can’t deviate from what we know this town to be without causing a fervor – and that’s rather limiting.

I started a standalone a few years ago, between my non-published novel and All the Pretty Girls. It’s about a female assassin named Cassiopeia with a chip implanted in her head that can be turned off and on, activating and deactivating her for duty. Sound familiar? Yes, Joss Whedon just released a television show, DOLLHOUSE, with a similar premise. I haven’t watched it because I don’t want to be influenced, because I’m still writing this book. From what I’ve heard, the brain chip is the extent of our similarities, so I’m not worried about finding a market for it once it’s done.

But it’s fun to write, because it expands reality a bit. I’m hoping this book allows me a chance to build a world outside of the careful construct of Nashville. It will take place all over the world, and I have the opportunity to make that world whatever I want it to be. Look at Michael Chabon’s THE YIDDISH POLICEMAN’S UNION. Sitka, Alaska becomes a world unto itself, with its own rules, its own idiosyncrasies. The characters live inside the construct Michael has laid out, and it works because we’re in the hands of a master manipulator, a writer who knows exactly how to twist the world to his own image.

But even the most humble story, if done well, can transport us into another’s life, into their world. We see through the characters eyes, feel their disappointments and frustrations. Whether the setting is as massive as Narnia or as small as a trailer park, if the author has done their job, we can lose ourselves in another world, at least for a time.

So let’s hear it, ‘Rati faithful. Who are you favorite world builders?

Wine of the Week: Sebecka Cabernet Pinotage An absolutely luscious South African wine with the cutest cork (yes, I said cutest cork) It’s cheetah print!

 PS: I have a guest blog up on Criminal Brief today! Come over and show their crew some love too!

Interviewed by J.T. Ellison

For the past two years, we’ve been lucky enough to have publishing guru Neil Nyren join us for an annual glimpse into the inner working of the publishing industry. I was so happy when Neil agreed to come back again, for his third annual State of the Industry interview! Especially now, with publishing in flux, it’s important to get the real skinny on the industry. Links to the past two interviews can be found here (2007) and here (2008). They’re well worth a read.

Neil Nyren is the senior vice president, publisher and editor in chief of G.P. Putnam’s Sons. He’s been involved in the careers of many of today’s leading authors, including Tom Clancy, Clive Cussler, Jack Higgins, W.E.B. Griffin, John Sandford, Dave Barry, Daniel Silva, Ken Follett, Alex Berenson, Randy Wayne White, Carol O’Connell, James O. Born, Patricia Cornwell and Frederick Forsyth. His non-fiction list reads like a who’s who as well: Bob Schieffer, Maureen Dowd, John McEnroe, Linda Ellerbee, Jeff Greenfield, Charles Kuralt, Secretary of State James Baker III, Thomas P.M. Barnett, Sara Nelson, and Generals Fred Franks, Chuck Horner, Carl Stiner, Tony Zinni and Wendy Merrill. And if that’s not enough of an endorsement, he’s just been nominated as Best Editor by Spinetingler Magazine. (You can vote for Neil here.)

I’m always thrilled when Neil comes for a visit, so without further ado, here we go!

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The state of the industry is in flux, and we’re all looking for answers. What can you tell us to calm the incipient waves?

Not surprisingly, because of the economy, I’ve gotten asked this a lot the last few months, because everybody’s read all the bad news: layoffs, restructurings, pay freezes, wobbly sales, etc. And, yup, that’s bad. But I point out a few things.

First, it’s bad for everybody right now – we’re in a recession. Much as we like to think we’re the center of the world, God has not struck publishing and passed over everybody else (you can see I have the season on my mind). I’ve also been around long enough to see several cycles come and go – the lean years and the fat years, when we all staff up and buy books like mad.

And it isn’t as if we aren’t buying books now, because we are. We’re being careful, sure (mostly, though some of the buys recently – well, I’m not going to comment), but a publisher’s got to have books. That’s our business. And it’s not all the tried-and-true or big celebrities (though the latter is what tends to get the ink). I’ve just taken a quick look and at Putnam we bought four first novels in March. Other first novels from four different publishers, including us – The Help, Beat the Reaper, The Piano Teacher, Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet – have made the NYT hardcover list in the first months of this year. That’s pretty encouraging, isn’t it?

All we’re looking for, when it comes to fiction, is a good story. That hasn’t changed, and never will. No matter what happens, the best advice I can give to anybody reading this blog: Just write the best damn book you can.

I know many editors and agents are using Kindles to read submissions. Do you have a Kindle? Outside of the convenience factor, is it the death of the bound book?

Here you start getting into other “in flux” questions, of course. Because we’re not just talking about the Kindle or the Sony Reader, but, all e-reading devices, including smartphones, PDAs, and Dick Tracy’s wrist TV. But I don’t think e-readers are the death of the bound book. It’s still early in the game, and most people aren’t reading e-books yet – Penguin’s income from e-books increased several hundredfold last year from the year before, but that’s still just a teensy-tiny part of our income. However, it is going to keep growing as the apps spread and the physical e-readers improve, and then they’ll simply be one more way to enjoy a book, for those who prefer it (the same way some people like audio books now). But the printed book will always endure. A piece of plastic will never replace the look and feel and smell of paper.

And, no, I don’t have an e-reader, but many of our editors do, not only for books, but, as you say, for submissions. It’s much easier to download a submitted ms and read it that way than to stuff a 500-page ms in your bag. And as I noted on Murderati a while ago, all our sales reps have them, too, so that they’re not afflicted with massive towers of paper teetering around their homes. We have public network folders they can access, and download any ms they want – it gives them a lot more flexibility, and they end up reading more before they sell it than they might have otherwise.

Electronic galleys and catalogs are all the rage – as a cost-saving measure and as an environmental issue. Do you think this is a good trend? Will all publishers move to this model in the near future?

In line with the above, you’ve asked about electronic galleys and catalogues. Harper’s moved to the latter, as have some smaller publishers, and I’m sure there aren’t many publishers who aren’t studying it in some way. I think you’re going to see a lot of it. Printed catalogues are outdated as soon as they roll off the press. Jackets change, publicity and promo details change, plots change, new books are suddenly dropped in – digital catalogues can be constantly refreshed and updated. For me, they just make sense. And they’re short enough so that they’re easy to download for anybody who needs a physical copy.

The future’s a little hazier for electronic galleys, though I think their use will increase. These galleys are meant for reviewers, booksellers, media – a whole host of people – and until all of them have an e-reader, their use is bound to be limited. And even then, a lot of people are likely to want that individual ARC. But – time will tell.

What do you think of the new policy at Thomas Nelson, where they’re making a book, e-book and audio book available for one price? Is this the future of publishing?

I’m not going to comment on Nelson. But here’s one thing I do want to say. There’s a chorus out there that claims publishers should charge next to nothing for e-books, because it cost us next to nothing to produce them. But – and I know I’m going to rile them, but too bad – that’s nonsense. The physical manufacturing of a book is only one small part of a publisher’s costs. It makes no difference if a book is printed or formatted for download, most of the costs are apart from that: the advance (and later royalties), the editing, the copyediting, the proofreading, the design, the marketing, the publicity, all the staff involved in each of those stages. The actual ppb – paper, printing and binding – is not a very big piece. And even when discussing the costs of producing an e-book, there are still plenty involved in formatting for all the different platforms out there, warehousing, and the staff involved in all that.

E-books don’t cost much? Please.

The rate of change in technology is becoming quicker every day. In most cases, readers will get to the next new technology before we do. Can we adapt fast enough and what are publishers doing to adapt to the changes?

Unfortunately, tech is not really my area of expertise, and I am eternally grateful that there are phalanxes of people around here whose responsibility it is to think about it every single day. So I can’t answer this in any intelligible way. I’m fascinated, though, by the bits and pieces I do see: the aforementioned apps for any conceivable device, for instance. The experiments in selling – I’ve just read about one test in some stores to get them more involved in e-book selling. They’re selling cards with a book cover on one side and a code on the other – the customer buys the card, has it activated at the register, and downloads the e-book there or at home. Interesting, right?

Then there are the evolving e-book formats – there’s a new one that allows for two-minute videos, and I’ve just read about a thriller on offer containing “two dozen short videos with actors that augment the book’s main mystery.” It’s called a Vook. I know, not exactly mellifluous, but hey.

Everybody’s Twittering – publishers, authors, bookstores. The bookstore use interests me most, because they’re using it to drive people into signings and events. Publishers are doing a lot with e-cards and videos for accounts – I have a new book for which the author created his own video ad, and we’ve made it available for any account who wants it, and we’re also using it as a paid web advertisement on a number of blogs.

And here’s a cool thing that Penguin UK has done – “We Tell Stories,” a site on which six authors wrote six stories over six weeks, with a mysterious “secret” seventh story involved – it recently won a web award from SXSW. (Editor’s Note: SXSW is South by Southwest, an annual music, movie and technology exposition in Austin, Texas.)

In all industries, businesses are looking for the next great market. Are you looking at opportunities in new emerging markets overseas or among new target audiences within existing markets?

Well, I think the next great market might in fact be e-books, once everything’s sorted out – that some of the customers will be people who aren’t regular readers. We’re also always looking for opportunities in non-book venues – for The Friday Night Knitting Club novel, for instance, we held events in yarn stores. We have whole departments dedicated to special sales and gift sales and college adoptions. Overseas, there are offices – even whole divisions – opening in places like China and India, even Dubai!

In every recession, new businesses and firms rise from the ashes. With all of the layoffs in publishing, what type of business would you suggest they start?

I’ve seen a number of people, not surprisingly, become agents and packagers. I think there’ll be a host of digital opportunities, though – just the other week, I saw an item about a former Doubleday editor and a friend who develops mobile phone games teaming up to launch an imprint for new books to be published on mobile platforms. Another editor left on his own accord to start a recipe website from great chefs and cookbooks authors. I’m sure we’re going to see a lot more of that kind of thing (cellphone novels, incidentally, are all the rage in Japan, so much so that traditional publishers are even taking the most successful and putting them into print!).

What do new authors need to know about how to break in to publishing? Has anything changed?

It depends what kind of publishing they want to break into, I suppose. For traditional publishing, very little has changed. Most (though not all) of us still want agented manuscripts, but editors have been reaching out and finding books through blogs, websites, Twitter (and maybe even cellphones!). Some self-published books have done well and then got picked up by mainstream publishers. And as far as really non-traditional publishing goes, well, we’ve been discussing a little bit of that above. I can’t give much advice on that – I’ve no idea! – but, really, who knows?

Finally, for new authors – and for any authors – here’s something I want to say. I was asked at a conference a few months ago what advice I’d give to writers and – boom or recession, print or e-books, fiction or nonfiction – here’s my best shot:

One, if you’re a writer, write. Write every day. Put your butt in that chair. I don’t care how many pages you turn out, just produce something every day. I know one writer who sometimes speaks at writers’ conferences and begins by asking, “How many here are serious about being writers?” Most, of course, raise their hands. “Then what are you doing here? Go back to your rooms, go back to your homes, go write!”

Two, learn the business. As a writer, you are the CEO of your own business. Nobody will care as much as you do. You should make it your job to learn that business. Don’t assume your publisher knows everything. Do you know what one of the most common answers in publishing is, no matter who asks the question? “I don’t know.” The other is, “It depends.” How many copies will the book sell? I don’t know. Will there be a paperback edition? It depends. Will the NYT review it? Gee, I don’t know. Will you spell my name right on the jacket? It depends.

Learn the business. Observe, listen, question. Be flexible. And don’t get hung up on the trivia that sidetracks so many people. Which leads to:

Three, be happy (I’m indebted to Joe Konrath, on whose site I first saw this advice, and which I’ve adapted a little). Do you know what I’m talking about here? Look, you all know people who think like this. I’ll be happy…when I finish my book. I’ll be happy…when I land an agent. I’ll be happy…when I sell that book. I’ll be happy…when I sell three books…when I make 100K a book…when I hit the NYT bestseller list…when I hit #1 on the NYT bestseller list…when I hit #1 for 5 weeks on the NYT bestseller list…when the movie from my book, starring George Clooney, Angelina Jolie and Meryl Streep makes $400 million at the box office and wins best picture….

These people are never happy. Be happy now. Of course, set goals for yourself, then set new goals, move yourself forward. You may never be at perfect peace with this business. All you can do is try your best, learn from failures, and celebrate successes no matter how small. Be happy now.

And for the fun stuff:

You must have more books than you know what to do with. How do you arrange your books on your book shelves – alphabetical, format, subject???

Hahahaha. Arrange, you say? Come, meet my friends, “helter” and “skelter.” Where shall we begin? With the overstuffed bookshelves? The piles on the floor? The stacks on my bedroom window sill and night table?

Best movie you’ve seen in the past six months?

Impossible task #1, but here are three: Tell No One, Happy Go Lucky, Slumdog Millionaire.

Best book you’ve read?

Impossible task #2, but here are two: The Lost City of Z by David Grann. This is nonfiction, about the explorations deep into the Amazon over the last century-plus to find a supposed lost advanced civilization in the jungle. Many men went, and a lot of them never came out again. Grann, a very good journalist, became fascinated with all this, and during the course of his researches, decided…to try it himself. Understand, he describes himself as a guy who lives on the second floor of his building in Brooklyn and, when given the choice, always takes the elevator. But off he went into the jungle himself, and his adventures are intertwined with that of the historical explorers. Good stuff.

And the second is Charlie Huston’s latest The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death. Very dark and funny as hell. There’s no one writing like him.

Thank you so much for joining us today!

Wine of the Week: Here’s a wine tip in Neil’s honor: Chateau de la Negly Coteaux du Lanuedoc. It’s a mature wine, dark and inky, and very rich. Excellent stuff.

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Neil S. Nyren is senior vice president, publisher and editor in chief of G.P. Putnam’s Sons. He came to Putnam in 1984 from Atheneum, where he was Executive Editor. Before that he held editorial positions at Random House and Arbor House. Someof the author’s he’s edited are Tom Clancy, Clive Cussler, Jack Higgins, W.E.B. Griffin, John Sandford, Dave Barry, Daniel Silva, Ken Follett, Alex Berenson, Randy Wayne White, Carol O’Connell, James O. Born, Patricia Cornwell and Frederick Forsyth; and non-fiction by Bob Schieffer, Maureen Dowd, John McEnroe, Linda Ellerbee, Jeff Greenfield, Charles Kuralt, Secretary of State James Baker III, Thomas P.M. Barnett, Sara Nelson, and Generals Fred Franks, Chuck Horner, Carl Stiner, Tony Zinni and Wendy Merrill.