J.T. Ellison

It’s been one of those weeks, so let me beg your forgiveness up front.

I’ve been nestled in my chair, hard at work, moving only to cut nibbles off a block of Parmesan cheese and brew copious pots of tea. Never distracted, that ‘s me. I WISH!!!

I’ve realized that I’m much too caught up in "current events." Current Events was one of those items you’re graded on in elementary school, then morphs into a class in junior high. I excelled at Current Events. Excelled. I’m a news junkie as a result, and now I realize I’m a media whore as well. The death of one of my favorite actors, Heath Ledger, stunned me into immobility on Tuesday. I sat and stared at the television, stared at my laptop screen, stared into space. I "experienced" the moment, along with millions of others. It sucked.

And it’s funny, because I’ve broken myself of the habit of having my television on all day tuned to the news stations. I never turn the TV on during the day anymore. My Mom called to tell me Thompson had pulled out of the Presidential race, so I skimmed the web news sites that I frequent. The Breaking News about Ledger came up, so I turned on the TV, in shock. Something in me kept waiting for them to say it was all a mistake. I waited, and watched…

Three hours later, hubby arrived home. My laptop was burning hot in my lap, I had four windows open that I was refreshing every few seconds, the TV was blaring, and I was still in total shock. Just then, they broke in to show Ledger’s body being wheeled from the apartment building. I thought I might just throw up. I kept going back to TMZ (TMZ, y’all. I was in a bad way) to see what tidbits they had uncovered. They got most of it wrong, as did all the news services, but little bits of truth scampered out. I resisted the urge to email a friend who works in the ME’s office in New York, just to say if he saw the body to say a prayer over it for me.

Hubby, not greeted at the door with the customary slippers and a martini, wandered into the living room looking lost. I assume he looked lost, that is, because I didn’t look up from the computer screen. I was much too busy refreshing, replaying the stretcher rolling, imagining  Ledger’s gorgeous body in there and all the people who loved him being subjected to this insane treatment of his last day on earth. Imagining how I’d feel if I DID know the lump in black. Throwing up was again an option.

Hubby broke the spell. He frowned and said, "I see the copyedits are going well."

Oh, yeah. Did I mention, I’m doing copyedits??? Sandwiched in between two out-of-town appearances on back-to-back weekends, leading into the Killer Year signing next week. No excuse, but still…

I had given up for the night anyway. Something about this kid dying just rocked me. I don’t know him. I’ve never seen him in person. I’ve never met anyone who knows him. Yet as I watched the coverage, I knew deep in my heart that he wouldn’t be happy with all the fuss. An intensely private media person, Ledger was being publicly dissected, and I was furious for him.

That’s when I realized I’d fallen into the black hole myself. I hate the idea of this kind of media frenzy. yet I watched, pointed and clicked with bated breath all afternoon. Shame on me.

Shame on all of us. Why do we let these vultures, the paparazzi and the media, perpetuate this insane culture of excess, celebrating, CELEBRATING, when kids go down the wrong path. If you’ve got money and fame, by God we’re going to hear about your escapades. When you die as a result, well, that’s ratings gold.

Sigh.

I dragged myself back to the page on Wednesday. It’s late Thursday now, and I’m nearly done. I’ve been lost in Taylor’s world for two days, and am starting to feel that incessant curiosity about the real world leave me.

So how do copyedits and Heath Ledger combine into a cohesive blog post? Well, they don’t, really. This has to be the first week in a long while that I just didn’t know what to write about. I’m a bit burned out on the blogging front, I’m afraid. It’s one of those weird moments when you realize you just don’t have anything to say.

So let me share what I’ve learned this week.

1. Don’t take anything for granted. In life, in art, in our hopes and dreams. It seems more and more that you need to be tortured to be an artist. I vote for less torture and more art. Try to live life to the fullest, because it is a frail beast.

2. When you’re copyediting a current book, you need to make sure that the changes being addressed are consistent with your last book. I imagine the further into the process you are, the worse this phenomenon gets.

3. I have zero grasp of the plural possessive. I lay the blame squarely at the feet of Mrs. Grasso, who made me read Animal Farm instead of teaching me how to use a damn apostrophe.

4. No matter what, Fate will make sure that there are four or five tree-trimmers in your neighborhood running chain saws and wood chippers whilst you try to copyedit. Gaaahhhh!

And now, some announcements.

Kim Alexander from XM radio’s Fiction Nation kindly interviewed me about All the Pretty Girls, Killer Year, and life in general. That was a fun phone call, let me tell you. Her review is up on the Fiction Nation website, and the interview can be heard on Take Five, XM 155 on Saturday January 26th at 6pm and Sunday January
27th at 10:00am and 8:00pm, and on Monday January 28th at 12:00
midnight and 3:00am. You can also hear Fiction Nation on Sonic Theater,
XM 163 on Thursday January 31st at 3:00 pm. All times EST.

I’m guest blogging for Tasha Alexander this week and next while she gallivants in Istanbul. We’re having a cocktail party just for her, so stop by and say hi.

Patry Francis’s THE LIAR’S DIARY comes out in paperback Tuesday. Please give it a try — it’s a brilliant book. Honestly, if it doesn’t make Oprah’s pick this month I’ll be shocked.

Marcus Sakey’s second novel, AT THE CITY’S EDGE, came out on Tuesday. He’s written another wonderful book, and I highly recommend you give it a try.

And of course, our labor of love, KILLER YEAR: Stories to Die For, dropped on Tuesday as well. Guaranteed to make you sit up and take notice, the stories from both debut and experienced writer’s are stellar, and the essays by Lee Child and Laura Lippman are worth the price of admission.

Thanks for putting up with me this week. I promise a stellar column to make up for it.

Wine of the Week: Copious amounts of whatever red is close to hand.

KIDDING! How about a yummy Spanish — 2004 Ostatu Crianza

P.S. As I was putting this column to bed last night I received some terrible news. My English teacher from high school, the one I’ve mentioned here was my inspiration for becoming a writer, lost his oldest son Dave in Iraq last week. I have a few boys over there, and I pray for them constantly, but this one is a real blow. Dave Sharrett was a hero, a young man who joined up in 2006 because he knew it was the right thing to do. He was a sweet kid, one I remember as Bean. I can’t believe he’s gone, and this whole post now feels eerily prophetic. I debated long and hard about deleting it entirely, but that wouldn’t change anything. Please keep the Sharretts in your prayers today. 

by J.T. Ellison

I have a framed print in my office. It sits on the shelf, looming over me. It’s an image from the I Ching.

I spend a lot of time looking at this symbol, at the quote below it, thinking about what it means to me. I bought the print because I was attracted to the word. Chaos. It signifies so much. A chaotic mind. A chaotic life. A willingness to let the universe dictate your course. I didn’t know it at the time, but the I Ching explores the dynamic balance of opposites, seeking to ultimately predict the unpredictable. Bringing tranquility to a chaotic world through a mystical yet scientific method of prediction.

My Dad has books on the other spectrum of chaos theory, ones that I read with fascination. Nonlinear dynamics that are influenced by initial conditions, and grow out of their seeming non-reaction. Minute changes in the initial event can cause widespread change. Boggles the mind. It boggles my mind especially, since I’m not all the way down with Quantum Physics. It was the less esoteric term for Chaos Theory — the Butterfly Effect — that gave me a glimpse into this world. A easy way for me to understand the theory of Chaos.

A butterfly flaps it’s delicate wings, and on the other side of the world, a hurricane develops.

I see the correlation between the I Ching’s version of Chaos and the Rocket Scientists. Both seek to tame the untameable, to explain the unexplainable. But the basic thought is that no matter what happens, whether you mean it or not, you are affecting change.

I commented on Toni’s post last week that something odd happened when I watched A WONDERFUL LIFE on Christmas Eve this year. It’s my tradition, a chance to remind myself that there’s a reason for everything. But I’ve never seen myself in George Bailey. Why would I? Outside my friends and family, how have I affected change? I’m not looking to cure cancer, or change the world. I’ve always just been a girl who does her thing.

Watching the movie, I was struck by a crazy thought. This year, I’ve become the butterfly.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not having delusions of grandeur here. But my teaching experience last weekend solidified the feeling. I did affect a change, directly, on a group of students. It may not be a positive change, but it was change nonetheless. You know, I don’t have kids. I’ve never taught. My first book came out two months ago and that’s the first real communication I’ve had with the outside world in years. I’ve never been in a position to affect change. I’ve never thought that I wanted to.   

The class I taught had ten students. The goal for the weekend was for them to walk out of the class with a flash short story, 1,000 words, that had solid characters, a definable setting, and a plot. To help them get to this point, I devised a series of writing exercises that would give them all these items, utilizing pictures I’d found that I felt would cause a reaction — good, bad or indifferent. By the end of the first day, we’d built 5 characters — two men and three women, developed three different settings, and then moved into plot. I thought it would be fun to use the seven basics — Man vs. Man, Nature, Supernatural, God, Self, Technology and Environment. I made up "The Wheel of Plot", each person spun the wheel and had to write their story based on the random plot they landed on.

I had one more exercise at that point, but they’d had enough. I didn’t realize just how taxing the session had been, how far they’d been pushed. Working out of the comfort zone was the point, and man, had I ever pushed them. They’d exited the comfort zone during the very first exercise, and I didn’t realize it. A good lesson for me. I’m a working writer, which means I write daily and don’t think too much about how much I actually output. Some people write in their spare time, and need lubrication. 

I was so thrilled the following morning, when the writers read their work aloud for a group critique session. They’d performed brilliantly. The stories were strong, the characters developed. There was one that could have been submitted on the spot, and I gave an ezine suggestion right there. But the most amazing part was the pride on their faces. They’d pushed themselves, at my request, and created something that wouldn’t have existed if I weren’t there to guide them through it. Wow. That’s a heady feeling.

Harnessing chaos can be intoxicating. I’m still riding the high. I’m starting to realize that I may have affected more change than I originally thought, simply by decide to share my work. Between the books and Killer Year, I shattered the chrysalis. I’ve become a butterfly, and I’ve truly stretched my wings. I seriously doubt that there’s going to be a hurricane as a result, but maybe a stiff breeze will come of it one of these days.

My question for you — have you ever taught? Do you think writers should be writers and teachers should be teachers? We all know how a bad teacher can derail you, that forcing a student to bend to your will is never a good idea. One of the things I repeated a hundred times over the weekend was "You make the rules." Do you think that the modern MFA programs and writers workshops are allowing writers to truly stretch their wings?

Wine of the Week: Barefoot Cabernet Sauvignon, courtesy of my host for the Tennessee Mountain Writers weekend, Sue Orr. Thanks so much for everything, Sue!

————————-

AN ANNOUNCEMENT!

KILLER YEAR: Stories to Die For, goes on sale Tuesday the 22nd of January. This unique anthology is edited by Lee Child, with original stories by all thirteen Killer Year members, original stories by Allison Brennan, Ken Bruen and Duane Swierczynski, an essay from MJ Rose, introductions to all the stories by each member’s ITW mentor, and a fascinating coda by Laura Lippman. This collection is sure to please. It’s one of a kind. Come by Killer Year to read the reviews and pre-order yours today.

J.T. Ellison

I grant thou wert not married to my Muse
And therefore mayst without attaint o’erlook
The dedicated words which writers use
Of their fair subject, blessing every book

                                    Sonnet LXXXII, William Shakespeare

I’ve not had the most auspicious start to my new year. A rather unpleasant allergic reaction meant a trip to the doctor, a shot in the bum, and a prescription for a funny little drug called Atarax, which has well-deserved warning labels — DO NOT DRIVE, DO NOT DRINK, DO NOT PASS GO… okay, I added that last one, but that’s what it felt like. Because when you take one of these puppies, you need to be prepared to leave the planet temporarily.

Grumpy and itchy and feeling like a horse kicked me in the hip, I left the doctor and needed to kill a few moments while I waited for my prescription to be filled. To sooth my wounded ego, I decided to drop by the library and pick up a book I ordered that had just come in. Why not, right? If I’m going to be ill, I may as well enjoy myself.

I parked and started in. A little old woman, and I’m being as literal as possible — she was tiny, shriveled, with suspiciously blue hair and stick legs under too bulky clothes — came charging out of the doors. Clutched in her gnarled, heavily veined hands was THE COMPLETE WORKS OF SHAKESPEARE.

She passed me, and I smiled at her. She gave me an unfathomably severe look and kept on going.

Was she a teacher, perhaps? Had she decided she needed a refresher? Or was she like me, just in love with old Will, and wanted to immerse herself in the glory that is his work? Maybe she’d never read him, and he was on her Bucket List. Doesn’t matter. In the midst of my misery, it made me happy. A moment of grace.

It’s the reading that binds us, you see.

Genre matters not a whit. It’s the revelation that comes from the written word, the visceral reaction to the story, the telepathic communication we have when we discuss a book with our friends. Our love of this hallowed form permits entry into the most elite of all secret societies. Don’t you hear people say "I haven’t ever read a book," or "I haven’t read a book since I was in school?" Don’t you feel sorry for them?

Not to be an elitist, but really, as readers, our lives are simply richer than non-readers. We have the gift of imagination. It is the greatest gift in the world.

After my epiphanous interlude with the blue lady and her Shakespeare, I went into the little building. It was busy. They must have just finished a program — ours has tracks for both seniors and children. The lobby was chock full of people, young and old, milling about, getting books off the shelves, reading magazines. The warmth flowed through my chest again. It is so damn good to see people excited to read. It makes my world complete.

I don’t make resolutions, per se, but for the new year, I did commit to spend more of my time reading and less playing on the computer. To that end, I’ve been stocking up on books. I traded a slew of material in at McKay’s, our used book emporium, and brought home several books by Stephen King and Ursula Le Guin, a few of the ones Alex has been talking about here recently, including the POISONWOOD BIBLE,  the new Richard Russo, a couple of Harlan Coben’s, and THE SHADOW OF THE WIND, which my friend Mary Saums recommended months ago.  Books. BOOKS. Bliss.

You’d think that was enough to hold me for a while, but as I started playing in the library, my arms were suddenly full. I was like a child with a cotton candy machine at my beck and call. "Spin me some more! More! MORE!"

Over the years, I’ve discovered so many writers at the library. After we moved to Tennessee, before I made any friends and started writing myself, it was my refuge. There aren’t a lot of bookstores in my part of town, and I didn’t know my way around well enough to venture out alone. But the library was right down the street. I’d see something that interested me, get the book, read it, and subsequently rush out and buy the rest of the series. Several names came to me because of my library. John Sandford. John Connolly. Lee Child. Laura Lippman. Karin Slaughter. Tess Gerritsen. Barry Eisler. I became a devoted fan for life of all of these incredible writers, all because of a random chance in the stacks.

With the advent of their computerized ordering system, I don’t spend a lot of time browsing in our library anymore. It’s relatively small, and of late, I’ve just ordered the books I need online, then run inside in a hurry to grab the title. Many I simply buy directly from our bookstores, though I’d be homeless if I bought at the rate that I read. After a rough year of deadlines and projects, just twenty minutes in the library stacks felt like coming home.

More than coming home. I felt like me again.

What has given you a moment of grace lately?

Wine of the Week: Woop-Woop Shiraz. and a few extras to boot, to say thanks to the lovely lady from Down Under who made my week. Besides, it fits how I feel after popping one of these little pills. Whoop – whoop!

J.T. Ellison

Have I ever mentioned that I have a truly terrible memory? Well, if I have, forgive me. I’ve obviously forgotten. I kid you not, I am the epitome of the absentminded professor, especially when it comes to remembering books I’ve read and movies I’ve watched. I’ve always admired people who can trot out remembered first lines of books, who can remember everything they read. I mean, I can, sort of, but I generally need some sort of mental prompting to get there.

It’s never been a big deal. Almost a joke really, something hubby can trot out at parties to tease me with. Harmless. J.T. Ellison channels inner ditz, blind squirrel finds nut, news at 11.

But now I find that I can’t remember what I’ve written as well, which can be mighty embarassing. I was at dinner over the holidays with a friend who was reading the book. He told me he was right at the spot where Baldwin goes to Virginia. I stared at him blankly, thinking Huh? Virginia? There’s no murder in Virginia in the book. To prove that I’m a complete imbecile, I proceeded to tell him that. You must mean Georgia, or maybe North Carolina, I said. He looked at me like I’d grown three heads and said, no, pretty sure it’s Virginia. It took me a moment, then it connected. DUH! I set a huge murder scene in Roanoke.

In a flash, all the research I’d done, the scene, the plot, the point, the why all hit me. It wasn’t a minor point in the book, either — dump site, grassy field, helicopters, news vans, interviews, a hotel crime scene, another girl missing… Sheesh. Of course I had a murder in Virginia. Good grief, where is my mind? 

I laughed it off at the time, but this is a serious issue. It happened with the edits of my second book. I got my ed letter and there was a comment about a secondary character — and I thought, who’s that? Ten seconds later it connected again, just like the Virginia thing, but man. How can I not know my own work by heart?

I just know it’s going to happen out on the road, on a panel, at a signing, and I’ll end up looking like a complete fraud because I can’t remember all the details in MY OWN BOOK, the one I rewrote a thousand times. Either I’m going mad, or I have a legitimate memory issue.

The day after my dinner faux pas, I picked up a book I’d bought at the airport. I’ve been salivating over the trailers for ATONEMENT, and was determined to read the book before I saw the film. Christmas frivolity behind me, I curled up with a cup of tea, preparing myself for a journey of the highest order. I neglected to read the back cover . . . okay, I’ll admit it, I rarely read the cover flaps and copy, simply because I like to be surprised. I’ve bought the book, why chance ruining something for myself?

I was two pages in when I felt the oddest sense of familiarity. Predisposed to it, I told myself, having just finished THE NIGHT CLIMBERS, a story redolent of Donna Tartt’s brilliant THE SECRET HISTORY. I kept reading. Five pages in I decided I’ve had just about enough of writers openly copying the form and function of each other. I mean really, how many books can you open in a country estate with the children preparing a play? Seven pages in I stopped, annoyed as hell at myself. I had a sneaking suspicion that I’d read this book before. But how could that be? Surely I’d remember the title of such a book? Onward I pressed, promising myself that if there was a broken . . . damn, there it was.

Grr… Full stop. I checked the copyright, pulled up IMDB, read the movie synopsis, then sat, shaking my head. I’ve read ATONEMENT. I LOVED ATONEMENT. Somehow, I completely blanked the story of ATONEMENT, and I’m so clueless that I have been watching the trailers over and over and never put the two together.

I don’t know whether this is a blessing or a curse. Yes, I can reread books and rewatch movies. Get more bang for the buck, right? What I don’t understand is how some I remember with such clarity, and other I can’t get past the sneaking unease of déjà vu.

So as a test, I tried to remember what my first blog post of 2007 was. Surely I could remember my first foray into my debut year . . .  not. I had to go look it up. What I read was eerie. Downright creepy. I’m repeating my first week of January.

Last year I was upset by the death of Gerald Ford. This year I’m horrified at the assassination of Benazir Bhutto. Last year I was starting a new book. This year, you guessed it, I’m starting a new book. Last year I was examining the art of procrastination and concerned about having to work on multiple projects at once. This year I’m trying to wrap my head around the promotion schedule I’ve set for January (5 events, the teaching gig next week, plus launching the Killer Year anthology, a guest blog stint at Moments in Crime, an essay, an interview and hello, I still have to feed Randy and do laundry. What the heck was I thinking?)   and juggling the down time I need to get started on this book with the errant expectation of people who like to make sure I’m still alive that I ever want to leave my house.

Gaaaaaahhhhhhhh…………..Maybe I don’t have a memory issue. Maybe I’m just on sensory overload. Too much work, too little time. I was able to complete and shelve two MAJOR projects that ate into all my free time last year, and now I know what to expect from book launches and sales and all that, so I won’t be utterly preoccupied with that. And to my credit, I did read ATONEMENT when it originally published, while I was still down from back surgery and not all the synapses were firing due to a lengthy run of anesthesia. Not a great excuse, I know, but a legitimate one.

After living almost half my life with a man who has the gift of perfect recall, I have realized that trying to remember is simply the universe’s way of playing a cruel joke on me. I’m much better off in my little dissociative cocoon, happily rereading books I’ve looked forward to for months and forgetting the endings of movies I’ve seen four times. The real world is too scary for me. I will go on making my lists (if it doesn’t get written down, it doesn’t happen, trust me) and spluttering through my imperfect mind.

So, a poll to start the new year:

• Insanity – blessing, or curse?
• Have you ever read a book, gotten to the last page and then realized you’ve already read it?
• Do ginko and crosswords really ward off dementia?
• Should I read ON CHESIL BEACH, which I’ve heard described as a smaller version of ATONEMENT and I’m sure I haven’t already read?

Wine of the Week: Faustino V 1998 Rioja Reserve A brilliant, brilliant wine.

Okay, I’ve just proven to myself that memory is linked to desire. I came up with the name without having to look in my notes. I’ve been excited to share this one since we had it over Christmas, and I fell in love with the heady scent of snapping black cherries and vanilla — a very nice little wine. Hubby said that it was "impetuous, and if it were a baby, I’d spank it." He’s funny like that.

P.S. — With apologies to the amazing Ian McEwan. ATONEMENT was truly wonderful.

by J.T. Ellison

My last post of 2007. What a year it’s been. For me, a year of firsts, of friendship and learning, of discovery and joy. I may go so far as to venture that it’s been the most exhilarating, scary and humbling year of my life. It was certainly the busiest. All the work, all the stress, all the books written, read and recommended, the conferences, the highs and lows, all were influenced by my community. You.

Have you ever seen the movie "We Are Marshall?" If you haven’t, you should. It’s wonderful. There’s a scene in the movie where Red and Jack go to West Virginia University to ask Bobby Bowden if he’d be willing to show them how to run the Veer Option offense. They go to a rival coach at a rival school to ask help for an offensive package that WVU was famous for. And class act Bowden laughs at their audacity, then opens up the film room, offers them anything and everything they might need. When I saw that last night, I was reminded of our world.

I’m in constant awe at the intellectual generosity of the writing community. The comments in blogs that give snippets of praise, the vocal enthusiasm, the notes behind the scenes, the marketing advice, the virtual cheering section that exists among people who have met telepathically through the written word… if you stop to think about it, a true celebration of our cerebral largesse is overdue.

As a community, I think we should take a moment today to thank each other for another wonderful year of  words.

For short stories submitted to the ezines who can’t pay, and for the editors of these magazines for their tireless efforts. For the paying markets, still publishing the cream of the crop. For blogs examining marketing, or writing, or just plain silliness. For the most part, we advise and instruct, share and celebrate, and don’t take ourselves too seriously. There have only been a few attempts to launch the idiomatic World War III, and they always fail. This is a good thing.

Let’s celebrate cooperative efforts between debut authors, and the amazing kindness of established authors who take the time to read and blurb their cohorts. All hail the masters of the genre, who lead by example, who sit on the boards of our writing organizations, who prove that hard work, perseverance and humility equal success. Let us go forth into this new year with their example in mind. 

Three giant cheers for the editors, who labor silently behind the scenes, shaping our books into the novels that can change the world, or at least give a reader hours of pleasure. Who tweak and push, attend conferences, lecture and teach.

Let’s say thank you as well to the overworked agents, who are constantly on the lookout for the freshest voice, the newest story, the dream client who spends their time writing and doesn’t complain about deadlines.

While we’re at it, let’s all focus on becoming that dream client, that dream writer, the one who meets their deadlines with a smile and remembers to say thank you to the people who make it all happen.

Kudos to the art departments, and the marketing departments, the foreign rights departments and the publishing houses, for getting our beautiful books into the stores. Thanks to the film agents, for tirelessly seeking options for our titles.

Let’s send our best wishes and heartfelt good lucks to the not-yet-published authors, the ones laboring where we all were at one point. Trying to land an agent and a deal is stressful, so let’s give them some karmic intervention and advice — keep on writing. We always need new blood.

The list wouldn’t be complete without the booksellers, large and small, indie and corporate, who hand sell our books to the readers, set up our signings, reorder our titles, and make such a difference to our sales.

And of course, we can’t forget the readers. Because without the readers, we don’t have a true intellectual transaction. On behalf of all the writers, thank you for buying the books, posting reviews to Amazon and B&N, or your blog, sending writers notes to tell them their book made a difference to you in some way. 

Why does this bountiful community exist? In addition to the well-oiled machine that is the production side of writing, we have this unbelievable open-source community. There so many writers who are generous with their time, their advice, their words of praise. Have you ever stopped to think about just how much information is out there, ripe for the picking? How many sentences have been written to help another author maximize their sales? Not only is it important to the readers, trust you me, a well-placed word from a writer you respect can do wonders for your writing mind.

So why do we blurb? Why do we teach? Why do we blog? If you think about it, here at Murderati we’ve given you 629 original posts on far-ranging topics, from navel gazing to interviews, with more than a few gems. 89 weeks of free advice, inspiration, heartache, confession, career advice and humor. That number is staggering to see, considering.

Understandably, close friendships have formed. Respect for the medium, for subgenres, for the daily grind all pale in comparison to the fierce camaraderie that we have here, between the authors, the commenters, and the vast invisible readers who silently absorb our words. I know that there’s nothing as rewarding as seeing another writer, on a different blog, quote something we’ve discussed at Murderati.

I know the reason I’m involved here, and it isn’t for the accolades. I think our purpose is to help counteract the solitariness that is inherent to writing.

So, in these last few days before the new year, I urge you to sit back for five minutes and contemplate what an amazing, incredible, compassionate and downright generous industry we work in. Take a moment to send a note of thanks to someone who made a difference for you this year. It might just make their day.

I’m not one for resolutions, but this year, I’m making one or two. There have been people who influenced me, who cheered me, who edited and advised and comforted. I resolve to pay it forward. How about you?

Happy New Year!

Wine of the Week: One of my favorite Christmas presents was a huge coffee table book called The History of Wine. Which means I’ll be able to sample and recommend an infinite amount of vino in the new year. So to get started, a 1998 Domaine la Crau des Papes Chateauneuf-du-Pape. Opened two years too early (such sacrilege) but c’est la vie.

R.I.P. BB

by J.T. Ellison

There comes a time in every author’s life when they have to make a decision.

An editorial decision, that is.  A moment when your editor says, "What do you think about this?" and you have to decide one way or another whether you want to listen. It can be very, very hard to hear that a change may be necessary. I imagine there are authors out there who go into a complete tailspin when they receive "input." But good editorial input is like having opposable thumbs, it makes life a whole lot easier. I’ve been blessed so far with the suggestions and critiques I’ve received, and I’m not terribly uptight when it comes to changing aspects of my work. But that has everything to do with being surrounded by the right people.

If you were on Facebook this week, you might have seen a status update from me that said "JT loves her editor." I’m wasn’t trying to suck up. I was telling the truth. I do love my editor. She’s brilliant. And she can play me like a harp. She knows me. She gets me. And she has the vision to strengthen my work with just a few strategically placed plucks.

We’ve just finished working on the second Taylor Jackson novel. Yesterday, to be exact. The book is about to go into production, which means we backed into a hard deadline. As of now, the books is done and has been sent to copyedit, so there is much rejoicing in the Ellison household today. I’ve already received the cover art, a cover so amazing that I’m sitting on it for a few months so we can make a splash at the right time. It’s that good. Talk about people who get me, the Mira Art Department knows my mind better than I do. I give them a couple of nudges toward the direction I want, they come up with sheer genius.

Back to the editorial decision.

I always look forward to my edits. I find the process fascinating. Simply put, I write a book, do three revisions, let other people read it, read it again myself, thinking it’s the best I can possibly write and THEN submit it to my editor.

And that’s where the magic occurs. My editor suggests a tweak here, a change there, more information, less detail, sugar, spice and everything nice. When I was doing the edits for All the Pretty Girls, check that, when I thought my edits were done, my editor came in with a suggestion at the 11th hour. It was a tiny little suggestion. Minor. Minimal. I thought about it, plugged it into the manuscript, and voila! it became a novel. I hate to overuse my cooking analogy, but that’s just what it’s like. You add all the spices, let it cook, and though it tastes wonderful, something you can’t put your finger on is missing. You might even go so far as to serve the dish… then a guest says, hmmm, needs salt, and you’ve got it. Eureka. A dash will do, you taste it again, and it’s perfect. Simple, yet satisfying.

And that moment is pure bliss.

I had one of those transcendent moments Wednesday night. I submitted my revisions, my editor read through them, and she came back with a relatively minor question that rocked my boat. I don’t want to tell what it was because it goes to the crux of the story, and I’d rather not give it away just yet. She asked the question, and I didn’t have the answer. I wrote her back and said I would have to think about it and WHAM! Just as I clicked send, it hit me. The answer was already there, in the manuscript, ripe for the picking. It literally took two lines to make it come to the forefront. Crazy.

That’s what a great editor can do for your book. I made the changes. When I hit send again, I was giddy. I’d found the salt.

The past few weeks have seen several debates regarding self vs. traditional publishing. All arguments aside, I’ll tell you why I would never self-publish. Yes, I’m looking for a mainstream audience. Yes, I love the distribution models, the access to bookstores, all that jazz. But it’s the editing that I would miss.

There’s a symbiotic relationship that grows between a writer and editor. Your agent’s job is not only to place the book you’re trying to sell, it’s to match you with an editor that fits your temperament. I think it’s vital to be paired with an editor who gets you. Who can be as excited, laid-back, cheery or morose as you are. Someone who can be your polar opposite when you’re down, and knows when to reign you in for your own good. Someone who can understand when the time is right to talk to you about making changes, who won’t step on your feelings or your dreams, who knows when to push and when to pull back.

And yes, your relationship with your agent must be harmonious as well. It’s terribly difficult to be at loggerheads with your agent. They are your cheerleader, your priest, your conscience and everything in between, and it’s vital that the lines of communication stay open, that you stay open, and they stay open. This business of being reluctant to contact your agent about an issue because you don’t want to waste their time is nonsense. You need to be a cohesive unit, and that takes communication. But send them cookies. Often. Send your editor some too.

So as I float today, thrilled to pieces that I’ve found that elusive morsel that I didn’t know was missing, I ask you. Do you have any great catches that your editor made for you? I’ll lead it off. Mine once pointed out that cannibals don’t use pixie dust to shrink heads. Talk about mixing metaphors…

Wine of the Week: 2000 ODDERO BAROLO Rocche di Castiglione Falletto     It’s halfway down the page. If anyone can get their hands on this stateside, let me know. The website I’ve linked to is my present to you — a bevy of wonderful, top-notch vino.

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Since I will be disappearing for the week of Christmas, taking a long overdue vacation from the Internet, the writing world, and everything in between, I wish you a Merry Christmas — and if you celebrate something else this season — peace, joy and goodwill for the New Year. See you next Friday, though I’ll be remote.

—-RATI in the Media—

Our own Robert Gregory Browne will be on Kim Alexander’s Fiction Nation, on Take Five, XM 155 on
Saturday December 22nd at 6pm, on Sunday December 23rd at 10:00am, and
on Monday, December 24th at 3:00am, and on Sonic Theater, XM 163 on
Thursday, December 27th at 3:00pm. All times EDT.

Kim Alexander has been doing some amazingly cool interviews. Check out her whole backlist here, there’s plenty of familiar names.
 

by J.T. Ellison

(Oddly enough, I wrote this a few weeks ago, well before the fervor that was unleashed yesterday.)

I had the most fascinating conversation the other day.

A friend’s husband is a scientist and we were discussing the prevalence of genetic blood enhancement in professional cycling. My eideticly enhanced hubby covered the baseball and football bases. Basically, we concluded that pretty much all professional athletes are juiced up in same way, shape or form. Cynical, yes. Realistically, how could they not be? They are performing super human feats of athletic prowess, with almost zero recovery time. Now, I don’t want this to turn into a discussion about the pros and cons of steroids. I have something else in mind.

What would happen if we, writers, were made aware of a drug that would allow us to enhance our writing? Can you imagine? And if there were a writing enhancing drug — not LSD, mind you, what then?

My first instinct, right or wrong, is we would be stabbing people to move ahead in the line.

To get at the heart of the matter, I guess we do have to tap into the steroid argument a bit. Is there something to be taken away from professional athletes who use performance enhancing drugs? If you’ve ever been around someone who  aspires to "professional" status, or even a dedicated amateur, you know that they work beyond normal human endurance at their sport. It’s a gift, I think, that can’t be disguised. The constant desire to be better, to excel, isn’t bred into all of us. Steroids don’t give an athlete the will to train at 4 in the morning before work. They don’t drive the desire to work harder to improve, to fight for every inch in training opportunities and sponsorships, to sacrifice. Because honestly, being a pro at anything is a sacrifice. You have to give up friends, family, free time to pursue your dream. Hmmm… I guess there’s a stronger correlation between writers and athletes than I thought.

Shouldn’t we celebrate these people? Or should we treat the ones who take a shortcut with derision?

I was an athlete in high school, a decent shot and discus thrower, a better golfer. I competed at the state level in discus and shot, and was the only girl on the golf team — at the time, there wasn’t a separate system for women golfers. Fine by me, I could play with the best of them at that point. (I remember the final meeting of the district board: "You’ll have to play from the white tees…" Me: "Oooh, scary." Ah, the joys of youth, when Bring It On takes on a whole new meaning.) So I had a full schedule — fall and winter indoor track, spring outdoor track, and golf spring through fall. School was the obvious priority (cough) but all my free time was dedicated to track and the links. Which I loved. And there’s something to be said for that level of desire.

I had to choose between a track scholarship to two different excellent ACC schools or a golf team in Florida at a lesser known college. Daddy threw in the offer to let me put off school for a year and try for the LPGA Q school, which I stupidly turned down. ("I need to get a good education" — notice I’m not using my degrees…) I made the decision to go to school and pursue golf, which in hindsight wasn’t the smartest, but set me on the course that I’m on now, so I can’t complain too much. I played golf and IM volleyball, and had a decent time. I didn’t enjoy the competition at the higher level like I did in high school, probably because the other team’s players made me immediately and knew exactly how to rattle me. I don’t like being touched in competition. You can imagine.

And now that I’ve gotten completely off the subject… my point is I pursued these activities with a vengeance, trying to make myself the best that I could be. Something like what I do with writing.

Back to the writing enhancing drugs. There’s obviously been several legal and illegal means to expand our cerebral muscles. But I’m talking about a hypothetical enhancement that would make us the bionic writer. Better, stronger, faster. 

Competition with writers can be as cutthroat as it gets. I’ve heard some pretty frightening stories about people desperate to climb to the top of the ladder, about egos, bitterness and jealousy wiping out friendships. I’ve also seen some amazing cooperative efforts, seen friendships flourish and grow under tight deadlines and differences of opinion.

Could anything good ever come of literary blood doping? Or would we make some scientists very rich women and men?

Wine of the Week: 2003 Li Veli Passamante Negroamaro, shared with great friends at Dickie Brennan’s Steakhouse in New Orleans last week. Yum, but let it breathe a bit.

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I’ll be appearing on Backstory on the Radio as the guest of River Jordan tomorrow (Saturday) December 15th at 4:15 p.m. Central time. Go to Radio Free Nashville to listen live.

by J.T. Ellison

An advance warning — this may be a bit explicit. No nudity or bad words, just a frank discussion about forensic research and the unsolved murder of a Nashville child. If you have young children, you may wish to steer clear.

As a mystery writer, I spend a lot of time living in an imaginary world, populated with imaginary crimes, imaginary people, imaginary life or death situations, grief, justice and evil. One of the most frequent questions I get revolves around my impetus. "Do you base your stories on real life headlines or cases?"

The answer is yes and no. There’s nothing I can do about the inevitable subconscious co-opting of stories I hear on the news that blossom into plot lines. Every once in a while, I purposefully follow a case to its sad conclusion, or lack thereof, and think about using it as a basis for a story of my own. Great example, the horrific murder of a young mother who was recently killed in North Carolina. I was inexplicably drawn to this story, exploring every detail until I realized I was mentally solving the case. Rewriting the facts. It had become more than a news story; it was the meaning behind the plot of my third book. Okay. I was able to get some perspective after that, analyze the information, pick and choose what I wanted to be influenced by, and write the story my way.

That is actually a rarity for me. I hate to admit that 90% of my stories are purely figments of my imagination. I’ve never fictionalized a live case as a main plot, and as such made some massive adjustments to make it my own. The bones are based in reality for this one, but the reality isn’t real in the novel.

Research, I call this, though in many cases I believe immersion in these evils leave a tiny smudge on my soul. I have days that I don’t ever feel clean, or at peace. I have bad dreams. I get jumpy for no reason. This research is necessary for me to write with empathy and compassion, but inevitably brings it’s own private horrors.

Neither here nor there. There’s plenty of cases that catch my eye, for various and sundry reasons, most of which aren’t even definable. But there’s one case here in Nashville that I’m wary of.

Marcia Trimble.

Anyone in Nashville can tell you about this sunny little girl who disappeared one afternoon out delivering Girl Scout cookies. It is our biggest, baddest, most speculated upon unsolved murder. A cold case to end all cold cases. Now that we’ve got Perry March in jail for the murder of his wife Janet, Marcia Trimble is again Nashville’s outrage.

A quick precis of the case. Marcia was 9 years old. She went to deliver Girl Scout cookies to a neighbor. She was found 33 days later, less than 200 yards from her home. She’d been strangled and sexually assaulted. There were allegedly multiple DNA donations. Celebrated forensic scientist Dr. Bill Bass postulated that she had been dead since the day she went missing.

You can imagine the horror that filled Nashville in 1975. Metro Nashville Police Captain Mickey Miller commented on the case:

In that moment, Nashville lost its innocence. Our city has never
been, and never will be, the same again. Every man, woman and child
knew that if something that horrific could happen to that little girl,
it could happen to anyone.

As you’d expect from an unsolved case, the theories about who murdered Marcia range from rational to otherworldly. And this week, a crazy thing happened. The police announced that there was a possible DNA match to Marcia’s potential killer. And it’s all I’ve been able to think about.

It’s one of those cases that begs to be written about. It’s a wrong that I could right, fictionally. But would that ever be enough? And would my psyche hold up under the pressure?

You know the murdered young mother case I mentioned earlier?  When I said I went and learned everything I could about the case, I glossed over a few things. Like the thirteen page autopsy report. And the fact that I ended up talking with two different medical examiners about the findings before adapting them into my own story, and made sure that I had all the details accurately depicted when I wrote the fictional autopsy.  Made sure the crime scene would support the medical findings. All very clinical and detached, professional discussions among colleagues. Three weeks of nasty work, for three pages of original material. Somehow, I was able to separate myself from the fact that this girl had been bludgeoned to death. That’s not always possible.

When I was doing research a few years back, I went through a cold case file of a co-ed who’d been raped and strangled, and the images from her crime scene seared themselves into my brain. Happily, her case has since been solved, and her killer is being brought to justice. But strangely enough, when I wrote the initial scene of the murdered mother-to-be for this book, those three-year-old images rose to the surface, built like a crashing wave and spilled onto the page so vividly that I might as well have been staring at the photos all over again. I had to go back and tone it down, way down, because there’s just no reason to force people to see what I’ve seen.

And as much as those crime scene photos were stark and unflinching, one of many images that will stick with me forever, they drove home the reason I chose to do this work. Not so I can stare into the abyss, but so I can draw back from it, and hopefully pull people back with me. In my books, I catch the bad guys. Justice is served.

I certainly hope that Marcia’s killer is finally being brought to justice. The whispers are building here in town. Maybe, one day, I’ll find a way to write a story about Marcia that gives her some justice. If you’ve read All The Pretty Girls, you’ll recognize that the opening scene shows Taylor waiting for a death sentence to be carried out for one of her first cases, a little girl named Martha who was raped and murdered and left her DNA in the tears she shed in her killer’s car. That was my first nod to Marcia. I doubt it will be my last.

My prayers go out to her family right now.

I don’t want to bring anyone down with this post. I debated whether or not to even go here today. But this is what happens in the background noise of crime writing.There’s some pretty horrible stuff out there in the real world, stuff that we find ways to deal with with grace and humor and even despair on the page. Our shells have to be thick to assimilate the evil we see and research to make our books real. For some reason, on this particular journey, I didn’t want to be alone. Thank you for indulging me.

Maybe the discussion today could focus on cold cases you’ve been touched by, or a research topic that’s gotten under your skin. Some sort of assurance that I’m not alone in sometimes feeling overwhelmed by the reality in our fiction.

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Apologies in advance, I’m traveling this morning and won’t be able to comment until later. If you’re in New Orleans, come visit with me tonight at 7 at the Borders in Metairie. I’ll be in Jackson, Mississippi tomorrow at 2 (the Borders in Flowood) and on Sunday in Memphis, again at 2, at the Borders in Germantown. And then I’ll fall over.

Also, in much happier and exciting news, www.JTEllison.com has been nominated for a Black Quill Award for Best Author Website by the incredibly cool Dark Scribe Magazine, an honor that I’m pleased as hell to hand over to my wonderful husband, who designed and maintains my site. Click here for the list of all the Black Quill nominees, you’ll see I’m in some seriously good company. Take careful note of the book trailer category. Congratulations, Alex!!!!!!

Wine of the Week: Honestly? I’m thinking scotch. But let’s do a 2005 La Tonnellerie Du Chateau de Segonzac , on special at Geerlings & Wade. Ask for Mark, and tell him I sent you.

by J.T. Ellison

Earlier in the week, I was seriously considering committing Facebook suicide. Can you believe that there’s such a morbid term applied to the decision to stop playing for hours on a social networking site?

I don’t know about you, but Facebook was losing it’s charm for me. MySpace never held any charm for me, it was a necessary evil that I sucked up to early on. I always feel vaguely dirty after having a series of communications there. But Facebook, the more "adult" version, is downright silly. It’s fun. Yes, I’ve found some old friends. Yes, I’ve added a 1,000 applications that have absolutely no bearing on my day-to-day work life. Yes, I’ve been guilty of throwing sheep, taking shots, drunk-dialing, and more various and sundry diversions from SuperPoke.

But is it furthering my goals to be the best writer that I can be? Is it helping me get my work done? Is it doing anything for me at all outside of wasting my time, and being able to openly spy on other people wasting their time, in turn wasting even MORE of my time? I’m exhausted even thinking about that, and I’ve only got a fraction of "friends" that some of my other "friends" have. I can’t imagine how they keep up with this social platform and still complete their work.

I read a great article a few weeks back about the Facebook suicide phenomenon. Granted, this woman’s experience is completely opposite of mine. I’ve only have fun on Facebook, and for the most part, on MySpace as well. Yes, I’ve had old beaus contact me. Thankfully, my husband is an exceptionally confident man and when I tell him (and I always tell him) he doesn’t have a freak out. And none of them are proposing that we get back together or asking me to meet them in dark alleyways, it’s all been nice and aboveboard — see you’ve written a book, good for you, I’m married/divorced/partnered now (yes, the last one gave me a moment of pause…Really? I always thought there was something — sorry, I’m getting off track.)

Crimespace I abandoned early on because I could see that it was going
to be a huge time suck — there’s just too much good information there,
but the spam was starting to get to me. Daniel Hatadi does a brilliant job of running that particular show, and I do stop in on
occasion to read what’s happening. I thought for a while there that the
blogs were going to bite the dust and Crimespace’s virtual bar was
going to supersede all of this, but that didn’t shake out the way I
expected — as is wont to happen, a few people were exceptionally strong-voiced and that took the communal joy out of it for me.

I can’t seem to abandon DorothyL; it’s fascination lies in the incessant flame wars that spring up. There’s always one or two people who have opinions about everything under the sun and feel it necessary to share said opinions. After five years there, I recognize the signs early. It’s pretty much guaranteed who is going to jump into a conversation, bite people’s heads off, get sent to review… sometimes it’s just fun to step back and watch the bloodbath. Mostly I learn, and glean, and take away fabulously important information that I use on a daily basis in my writing and my promotion, but sometimes it’s fun to watch the sharks circle the bloody bait. I mean come on already, are prologues so important/not important that it’s worth sacking London over? Apparently so. Jeez, I’m becoming a virtual sadist.

But here’s the point.

Every moment I spend in this online world is a moment that I’m not working on my material. I’m not writing when I’m glancing over friend requests on MySpace to make sure I don’t add some creep. I can’t seem to give up my blogs, but the ones I read religiously have declined in number. I bailed on my online lists months ago — outside of DorothyL, they were becoming much too time-consuming.

It’s all procrastination, really, in the guise of social networking to give it a purpose. We MUST market ourselves, stay on top of the industry, read every ounce of information each and every person has posited about life, liberty, and the pursuit of a 2,000 a day word count. And let’s be honest with ourselves. How many bestselling authors do you see trolling the lists? Not too terribly many. They’re busy writing their incredible books, are WORKING, not playing. They’ve learned the discipline of the Internet, have harnessed the creative juices to the page, rather than finding creative ways to interact or argue with their friends. This is the goal I’m shooting for.

Don’t get me wrong, I do like the communication. I’m starting to understand that I thrive on it. The Internet is our office. Instead of walking down the hall and sticking our head into someone’s cube, we throw sheep. Instead of having lunch or hitting the gym or having a drink after work, we point and click our way into each other’s worlds. It’s no longer a phenomenon, it is our lives. And I’m afraid it’s here to stay.

But I feel that tick, tick, ticking in the back of my head. I’m getting ready to start writing a new book. When I crawl under that rock, I don’t want the lure of outside temptations, the siren call of procrastination, to be there. I want to focus all my time and energy into the new manuscript. The story is a doozy, it’s going to take independent research as well as field research, including an overseas trip. I won’t have time to throw sheep, or watch my hatching egg grow into a kitten (whoever sent me that, it was adorable!), or compare movie tastes or take likeness quizzes, nor will I have time to read the results of everyone else’s activities.

Couple that with the disconcerting new situation that was bound to happen, the ultimate big brother-esque programming that shares buying habits and demographics with our "friends", and it becomes a slippery slope of privacy invasion. Where do we draw the line?

I don’t know why I’m struggling with this question. After writing this, the answer seems blatantly obvious. Yet I continue to ask, should I commit Facebook suicide? Would the "out of sight, out of mind" adage ring true for me? I certainly don’t want to give up my virtual friendships, I value the opportunity to communicate with each and every one of you. But I don’t seem to have the balance that I want. Writing, reading, Murderati, and promotion. Those are my priorities now. The priorities I should have.

Don’t stop poking me just yet. I’ll admit, every time I see those sheep, I laugh. I had a friend in college who used to read us a book, late at night, under the influence of adult beverages, called "Sheep on a Ship." If you can imagine the inserted lisp… Scheeep on a Schiip… "Scheep sail a schip… on a deeeep sea trip…" and the sheep are pirates… Dear God, I’m in tears thinking about it. So the sheep have a place in my heart.

I’m dying to hear your opinions. Is social networking out of control? Do things like Second Life truly have any bearing on our lives as writers? Are we destined to slog online in an online world, or can we go all hippie, throw out the Internet like giving up a television, trade gigabytes and fast-access DSL for Tess of the d’Urbervilles? And don’t get me wrong, I’m not talking about the new delivery methods for getting books into the hands of readers, I’m simply wondering about our personal mindset.

Wine of the Week — 2003 Truchard Cabernet Sauvignon   A delightful Napa Cab, and no migraine…

P.S. Hubby wants to send me to Facebook rehab, I say, No, No, No!

by J.T. Ellison

Everyone stuffed and complacent today? Good. Let’s have some fun.

I. LOVE. TITLES.

There, I’ve said it. The confession everyone has been waiting with bated breath to hear.

I love looking past the words, wondering what people were thinking when they chose their title. I’ll admit a good title can entice me to buy a book, just as a bad title can influence me NOT to buy, read, or otherwise be predisposed to enjoy what’s within the covers. Don’t judge a book by it’s cover, right?

That’s all well and good, but I do judge a book by its title. Someone, somewhere thought
this was the best possible title for this particular book, and I am fascinated by that decision. There are some titles that I look at and know immediately that the book is not for me. Some draw me in, make me wonder. Some have absolutely nothing to do with the book itself. Some are picked directly from a line in the novel. Some are in your face obvious, and others so delicate and subtle that I gasp in appreciation.

And I love coming up with titles. I can’t for the life of me write anything if it doesn’t have a title first.

In college I used to pick out quotations to open my papers, and I guess that’s led into this need for a fitting masthead. I’m a big fan of brainstorming, have lists of titles that I keep hidden a file that are probably terrible. I haven’t looked at them lately, because I’ve been (so far) fairly inspired in developing my work’s sobriquets.

Books and short story titles are two different beasts to me. Books have to have something weighty. What usually happens is I have a bolt of lightening, it catches my attention, and I write it down. I stare at it long and hard, trying to decide just how it will work. Does it mean what I want it to mean? How will it look on the page? How easy or difficult is it to understand at first glance? Is it literal or metaphorical? Does it trip off the tongue, or trip me up when I say it aloud? And, most importantly, has anyone else thought of it first? If I’m clear on all those points, I type it into Word and look at it in a ton of different fonts. If it still works for me, I allow myself to acknowledge that I have a story brewing that it will fit.

The first book’s title, ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS, was one of those lightning bolts. Both literal and metaphorical, based in part on fairy tales and nursery rhymes, when I first came up with it, it gave me chills. Then came the frantic search through the Internet to see what other books held the title. When I saw that none did, and James Patterson hadn’t already snagged it for his Alex Cross series, I jumped. THIS was my title. I couldn’t bear to think of anything else. And luckily, my wonderful agent and editor agreed. Phew.

The second title, 14, is very literal. The third, JUDAS KISS, is purely metaphorical. Again, both accepted without a problem.

But short story and blog entries are where I have some fun. See the title of this blog post. That’s a line from a James McMurtry song. I find that I am incredibly inspired by the titles and lyrics of other artists, and commonly borrow their ideas for blog titles and short story titles. I have a lot of fun with the freedom this blog gives me, because I have to churn out a new title every week. And shorts are a great place to let my freak flag fly.

It happens all the time, too. I find myself driving along, listening to whatever I’m groovin’ on that day, and titles fairly leap out of the speakers and dance around my head. The title appears and the meat follows, and there I am, driving along… I know I’m supposed to keep a tape recorder or a pad of paper in the car to jot down these thoughts so I don’t lose them. What I do instead is call home and leave myself a message on the answering machine. Which makes for all kinds of fun if hubby gets home first.

I love that my fellow Murderati and crime fiction bloggers across the world spend time and effort to come up with catchy titles each and every day. I admit, I’m drawn to people’s topics based on the title of the piece. Look at Sarah Weinman — every Sunday she has a great new headline twist for her roundups. Declan Burke is a good at this too. Cornelia Read, The Lipstick Chroniclers, and Tasha Alexander are always good for a tempting title. To be honest, most of the crime fiction blogs do have exciting, relevant and catchy titles. I’m a sucker for them all.

Here’s a few of my obvious and not so obvious inspirations.

Blogs:

To Live and Die in Nashville (influence — Wang Chung — To Live and Die in L.A.)

Let’s Do It Like They Do On The Discovery Channel (influence — Bloodhound Gang song)

Money for Nothing and Your Books for Free (influence — Dire Straits song — and isn’t that the best band name ever?)

Changes in Latitude (influence — Jimmy Buffett)

Shorts:

Jacked-Up Charlie (Flashing in the Gutters — influence — an acquaintance with a coke problem)

Prodigal Me (Killer Year Anthology — influence — my thesaurus ; ))

If The Devil is Six (unpublished — influence — The Pixies)

Drive It Like It’s Stolen (Flashing in the Gutters — influence — Sterling Marlin, NASCAR)

Killing Carol Ann (Spinetingler — influence — Richard Stooksbury song)

Where’d You Get That Red Dress (Flashing in the Gutters — influence — James McMurtry song)

This chilly Black Friday, I give thanks for all the great titlists out there.

I’d love it if y’all chimed in with yours. What are your favorite titles, of yours or someone else’s?

Wine of the Week: 2006 Domaine Dupeuble Pere et Fils Beaujolais

We forsook the usual Beaujolais Nouveau in favor of this "remarkable" Beaujolais. Wonderfully paired with turkey this year, and it almost lived up to the praise from my wine store.