by J.T. Ellison

The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible.
                                         -Vladimir Nabokov

Ah, the joys of writing proposals.

Just me and my encyclopedia of serial killers, drinking copious amounts of Starbucks, deciding where to go next.

I have an admission. I’m going 100% batshit crazy not having a book to work on. I am driving the people around me batshit crazy. I have the cleanest closets in the southeast, my cat is brushed to a high gloss, I’ve dropped five pounds because I’m actually exercising instead of sitting in my chair drooling, staring at the laptop. In short, I’m miserable.

This is the first time I’ve written "proposals", per se. I’ve verbally
pitched a book (my next, 14) then followed up with a summary synopsis.
I wrote a huge, 13 page comprehensive synopsis for my third book (Judas
Kiss) because I wanted to make sure everyone was on board with my idea.
But this is the first time I’ve written out plans for books that aren’t
already in the works. It’s a fascinating exercise, actually.

I know I want the plots of my next books to be. I’ve got titles for them all — I can’t start on a book if it isn’t named. I’ve got a great idea for a stand alone that’s not necessarily a mystery, and it’s not a Taylor Jackson book. So that’s five "thoughts" that I’ve been laying out. It’s like planning a cocktail party, trying to decide exactly what hors d’oeuvres and drinks might entice your guests. Are they going to want Beluga and egg salad on toast points, or pigs in a blanket? Dom Perignon, or Heineken. Hell, Heineken or Milwaukee’s Best?

There are two questions I’m focused on. Where do I want to go with Taylor and Baldwin, and just how many serial killers can Nashville realistically have? Which means I have to think through the plots first, then worry about how Taylor and Baldwin coexist within them. Thankfully, coming up with plots isn’t exactly a problem for me. Tap into any set of nightmares I’ve had in the past week and there’s a plethora of work. Deciding where the relationship is going, that’s a whole different can of worms. And what does that say about me that I’d rather develop the maim and kill parts than face the love story?

It’s a difficulty in any series, I think, that is set in one locale and has a "relationship." I’ve created an immediate limitation by choosing to make my main character a homicide lieutenant. She has a job. In Nashville. Which precludes rushing all over the country to track serial killers. Which is the reason I got her involved with Baldwin in the first place. He is an FBI profiler, which gives him the freedom to travel wherever the case takes him. It’s a delicate balancing act, and one that I find difficult to manage at times. Especially when deciding how many times a serial murderer can strike in a single town without straining all credulity.

And truth be told, I don’t need to know the answer to that right this very second. But want and need are two different beasts, aren’t they?

You may have picked up on the fact that I’m the teeniest bit obsessive, especially when it comes to my books. I’m also incredibly impatient. As a Taurus (yes, I’m going to blame all this on my astrological sign, sue me) I hate change, have a difficult time not knowing my path, but I’ve always been impetuous, impulsive, even reckless when it comes to decision making. I call that being decisive. The people around me, not so much. Slow down, they say. You have plenty of time to make these decisions. How in the world can you think that far in advance?

And what if you’re wrong? What if you make the wrong decision?

Ha. The wrong decision. I think I make the wrong decision at least 5 times out of 10.
I’m batting .500. Not too bad, considering I’m a flibbertigibbet
writer. I guess it’s just that I’m not afraid to make the wrong
decision, know that as long as it’s not life and death, anything can be
redone.

What’s amusing about all of this is I didn’t used to be able to think in advance. At all. There was a time, not more than two years past, where I told my critique group leader no way in hell when she suggested I write a short story. I do believe that was a direct quote. How in the world would I have room enough in my head for a book and a short story? Shortsighted and naive of me, I know. Then I got a deal and had to think about it. I had no idea where I wanted to go with my characters, could only see the story as it was unfolding in the current book. I saw an interview with one of my idols, Allison Brennan, and she
talked of plotting an 8 book series. Or was it 12? Either way, the whole concept freaked me out. And I thought, WTF? Who could
possibly think that far in advance? When I got my deal, I was actually a bit panicked, realizing I would have to make these decisions, and quickly.

Here I am, 18 months later, books two and three done, and I’m writing out my ideas for, God willing, future books? As my wonder twin points out regularly, I’ve come a long way. At least it’s keeping me busy and away from the cat. Poor thing won’t have any hair left if I don’t start working on something new soon. Even the fact that I’m out on tour hasn’t deterred this . . . obsessive need to write. I guess that’s a good sign.

I’m curious about the rest of you. Do you plan things out? Do you think three, fours years into the future? Do you wait until a contract is secured to think about your next steps? What do you do when you’re in between books?

Wine of the Week — We need port, for proper rumination. Graham’s Vintage Port, 1994, actually.

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P.S.  Y’all would have been proud of me. Not only did I do my first radio interview Wednesday, I also shared the stage (a STAGE, people) with excellent Florida mystery writer and good friend Frank Foster and our brilliant moderator, Dr. Robert Tate (Florida Southern College). The event at the Historic Polk Theater in Lakeland, Florida was well attended and a total blast. Thanks to everyone in Lakeland, especially Bill Chase and Jim Weeks, for sponsoring the event and inviting me. Pictures up on the site next week after I get home. And if you’re in Daytona Beach Saturday, come out to Barnes and Noble at 2:00 pm and say hi!

by J.T. Ellison

When you launch a book, something strange happens. A little bitty minuscule part of you dies.

What? JT, you’re out of your mind. You should be celebrating, not feeling like your cells are disappearing, one by one!

I can’t help it. Let me try and explain. I can’t promise this will make sense, but hopefully I’m not the only author that’s ever felt this way. Actually, I know I’m not, John Connolly has written about this on his blog, this . . . feeling . . . that even though the book is done, there’s more that could have been done to make it better. I didn’t understand his sentiments at the time.  As I went through the publication process, I truly didn’t understand, because I was so caught up in the first-time-itis of revisions and copy edits, learning the system, that I wasn’t seeing the forest for the trees. A book is never truly finished. Even when it’s being sold, you always feel like you could have done . . .  something . . .  to make it better.

The first time I finished the book and submitted it, I made a joke that if I had a child, I’d liken this moment to sending them off to college. You’ve given your heart and soul to shape them, to help them grow into good people. At some point, you need to let them go, see if they can fly on their own. It’s the same with a book. I just didn’t understand that until now.

I’ve mentioned before that this whole process feels somewhat surreal. I still sometimes pinch myself, making sure I’m awake, trying to prove that this dream isn’t really just a dream. At the book launch last week, these doubts came to a head. We were about 15 minutes until the "official" start time. People were showing up, the band was setting up, Borders had just arrived and had three huge cartons of boxes, a big banner, all the things they’d need. They started setting out the books, the wine seller popped the corks on a few bottles, the food was set out, the band couldn’t find the right plug, Hubby came over to see if I knew where they could grab a microphone lead, the host of the party, Paul Nadeau, came to see if I wanted, something, I don’t even remember now, I received a brilliant phone call from a fan who blew me away with her incredible graciousness to call me at my launch party to tell me good luck (B.G., you made me tear up, with pure joy ; ) ), Tasha was standing there talking to my parents, my brother was looking at me with this hysterical look on his face that made me want to laugh, because I know he was mentally calling me by my childhood nickname which will NOT be repeated here on this blog, and I realized I wasn’t breathing. Actually, I was dizzy. Make that borderline about to faint. For God’s sake, here we go. I KNEW that was going to happen.

Thankfully Tasha recognized the signs of imminent distress and got me to the bathroom, away from the hubbub, and reminded me that breathing is highly underrated as a source of not passing out. Once I got my pulse under control, fluffed my hair, and received a heartening pep talk, I left the bathroom, prepared to launch my darling.

The room was crowded, and the Borders folks got me set up to sign immediately. I sat, uncapped my purple fountain pen, and . . . the next two hours were a total blur. I was shocked at how many people showed up. Friends I hadn’t talked to in years, neighbors, people who’d seen the announcements here and on MySpace, fans who’d written me and I’d thrown out an invite, plus most of the people we’d actually invited. And they were all clutching copies of All the Pretty Girls for me to sign. Pure insanity.                                     

Then I had to give a speech. I needed to say thank you to everyone who’d helped plan this great event. I did just fine until I hit Randy. I’d gotten myself in tears practicing the speech earlier in the day and knew I wouldn’t be able to make it through publicly. I was right. I choked up, but it was still perfect. And what a relief to have that over! The highlight of the night was the raffle. We gave away a compilation CD of Taylor’s favorite music (coming soon to iTunes, hopefully) a Killer Year anthology ARC, and the grand prize, a pair of cowboy boots donated by the Nashville Boot Company, where Taylor buys all her boots. They turned into cowgirl boots when our friend Mandy had the winning ticket.

So why, in the middle of this joy and frivolity (and the band singing Corn Dog) was I so freaked out? This was more than the train leaving the station. This was pure, unadulterated terror. A lot of people have read this book. A lot of people love this book. A few hate it. That’s to be expected. I never thought to have universal support, that’s wholly unrealistic. But these people, theses are my peeps. These are the folks who’ve seen me drunk, who know my secrets, who have been cheering me on for years. They’ve been resources for characters, have been patient while I crawl under my rock and refuse invitations, who bring me food and wine when they sense I’m hitting a rough patch. I just don’t want to disappoint anyone.

So that’s brings me full circle to the corner of my heart that shriveled up and died when I signed that last book, late in the evening. This moment, one planned for months, years, really, was over. I got myself a glass of wine, listened to the band (who were singing some really raunchy tunes at that point — the darlings made me laugh!) accepted praise from the people I care for the most, and felt empty. 

We write because we want to share our stories. We have something to say, couched deep in the constructs of fiction, about the human condition. Little bits of our souls find their way onto every page. That laying bare, opening ourselves to criticism and praise, is dangerous for an artist. Staying grounded in reality, knowing that your work is just that, words on a page that may or may not appeal, and doesn’t define you as a person, is vital. You have to trust the people around you to tell you the truth, to support you when you’re up and when you’re down, to share the load. And you have to know when to say goodbye to your child, when to let them soar away on their own wings, knowing that they may fall, and hope, pray you’ve given them the strength to get back up.

Thanks to everyone who came out to my signings this week to show support and buy the book. I can’t tell you how much it means.

Wine of the Week — A selection from the wonderful wine sellers who sponsored the book launch — Best Brands —2004 Piping Shrike Shiraz

Here’s a link to some of the photos from the launch, plus other tour stops. I’m waiting on the professional snaps, and will post them to this account, so keep checking back if you’re interested in seeing more. And yes, due to the unfortunate fact of being one-handed for 10 weeks, I was forced to cut the hair. I’m finally getting used to it.

UPDATE: Here is the link to all the pictures from the launch. Enjoy!

UPDATE the Second: My First Sale Story has appeared at Dear Author. Come by and say hello!

by J.T. Ellison

We had my launch party last night, and since I want to report on it and post pictures (and there’s no way I’m going to have the time or energy to write it up afterward) I’ll wait until next week to share the details. Instead, in honor of Halloween week and the posts we’ve had here, I thought I’d share my ghost story.

I love New Orleans. When I was in grad school, my husband and I decided to start a political consulting firm. We signed a candidate in Mobile, and went down over a weekend to meet him. We quickly realized he wasn’t the candidate for us — he kept suggesting ways to get around the FEC filing laws, talked about how he was going to split apart his political donations for home improvements — you get the idea. So we cut the trip short and drove over to New Orleans. Hubby made a reservation at the Maison Dupuy, an utterly charming and highly romantic hotel in the Quarter, and I fell in love. With the city, the people, the vibe, and a little bit deeper with hubby. It’s one of those shining memories, a day and night of pure bliss.

We went into a million clubs, danced and drank too much, wandered through the Quarter all night . . . it was a wonderful twenty-four hours. The only things we didn’t get to do was go to a club known as the Dungeon. Hubby had been there on another trip and wanted to show it to me, but we just ran out of time.

Fast forward a few years. Hubby and I were now married, and decided a three day excursion down to New Orleans might be a fun way to blow off some steam. I had a good sense of the town now, and I wanted to do a ghost tour. I loved our vampiric guide — with his pearly smooth skin, his long fingernails, velvet frock coat, he embodied the New Orleans I’d read about in Anne Rice novels. He told us a lot of great, gruesome tales, but I didn’t "feel" anything.

Now, let me back up and admit that I’ve always been a bit attracted to the paranormal. I’ve had some bizarre, unexplainable situations. Lest you think I’m a bit off, I have this weird six sense about bad things. Especially when I was younger, I would tell my mom something bad was going to happen, and it always did. Supposedly, most of the women in my family have this heightened radar, so it wasn’t a huge deal. The big one was when I woke up and told my mom something horrible was going to happen to President Reagan that day. He was shot six hours later. Ever since, I’ve done my best to tamp down those "hunches." I feel better that way. I’d rather not know.

Okay, so my bonafides are in place. I’m a little sensitive to weirdness. And I loved reading Anne Rice. I’d always been entranced by her New Orleans, and wanted to see it through her eyes. The ghost and vampire tour went a long way toward satisfying that need, but I still felt . . . I don’t know . . .  unfulfilled.

After the tour, the group split off. I was tempted to follow our guide and see what he did next, but he disappeared (probably had a gig to play, or blood to drink, or something.) Hubby really wanted to make sure I got to see the Dungeon this trip, but the doors don’t open until midnight. We decided to kill some time at Pat O’Brien’s. We had a great dinner, and I sampled the infamous hurricane. Just one. Hubby had two. We weren’t drunk. We weren’t even buzzed. Just having a good time in Crescent City.

It was now about a quarter to one, and time to head down to the Tombs. Our waiter had been a ball all night. We were tickled because he looked exactly, and I mean exactly, like Louis Farrakhan. In between giggles, we asked him the shortest path to the Dungeon. He gave us directions, we paid our check and left the restaurant.

If you’ve ever been to New Orleans, you know that it’s just like New York. It never sleeps. There’s always (or at least there were before Katrina) crowds about in the Quarter. We walked up Bourbon Street to Toulouse, turned left and started down until we hit the entrance for the Dungeon.

There’s a wide plank wooden door, with antique hinges, the whole nine yards. Hubby reached for the handle of the door, and it was locked. We pulled on it a few times and were completely puzzled. It was 1 AM. The place was supposed to be open.

That’s when we realized there was no one around. No one. On Toulouse Street, just a block off Bourbon, at 1 in the morning — it was completely empty and silent. We looked at each other and started to feel a little strange. We’re standing there, discussing what to do, whispering to each other because we’re really creeped out. The hair on the back of my neck suddenly rose. We turned to our right, and the waiter from Pat O’Brien’s was standing there. No footsteps, no clatter of shoes on the cobblestones, nothing. He literally appeared.

We looked at him, and said a shaky hello. All of my warning signals were screaming at me. But I couldn’t move. I was frozen to the spot. He shook his head gravely and looked me right in the eye.

"They will eat you alive," he said. "Get back up onto Bourbon Street."

And then he disappeared.

There was no sound, no moment, not even a whisper of a breeze. Silence, and emptiness. He was just gone.

We practically ran up to Bourbon Street. We didn’t look back. We went straight to the hotel and to our room. We locked the door, and stashed a chair under the antique knob for good measure.

Two years ago we went back to New Orleans. Another three day trip. Had a great time, ran around, went to a couple of "private" clubs, got a drink spilled on my shirt and scored a free t-shirt that said "No Beads Necessary." After a long night roaming the streets, we decided to try the Dungeon one more time.

The door was unlocked this time. We crossed through the dingy front, across the moat, into the bar. We walked through, staring at the skulls, debating whether to get something to drink. There are a lot of mirrors on the walls, it’s very dark and freaky — just the kind of place people who like to be scared would hang out. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. The hair on my neck, the shiver down my spine, everything in me screamed Get Out Of Here Now. I told hubby we needed to leave. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. And as I left, I heard the odd strains of deep laughter, ringing in  my ears alone.

I’m going back to New Orleans in December for a signing at the Borders in Metarie. I’m staying in the Quarter. But I won’t be going back to the Dungeon. Something, someone, evil resides there.

Wine of the Week — Vampire Merlot   It’s quite good.

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My very first televised interview was this past Sunday. I was honored to appear on John Seigenthaler’s A Word on Words, a fantastic weekly exposé into the lives and books of authors. Here’s a link to the podcast of our interview — just a warning, it’s thirty minutes. Felt like five. There’s something very, very cool about being interviewed by a legend.

By JT Ellison

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

The time is finally upon us. ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS has gone on sale.

I spent drop day (Tuesday) visiting ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS in bookstores
around the Nashville area. I talked with my favorite CRMs at Borders
and Barnes and Noble, signed some stock, got a few surprises…(click here for the pictures) but the
entire time I was floating above myself, feeling completely detached.
It didn’t feel real, seeing my book on the shelves. It still doesn’t
feel real. I wonder if that’s because of the pseudonym? Well, that’s a
topic for another blog. Suffice it to say, it’s damn cool to walk into
a bookstore and see your book on the new release table. Blew me away.

I’d like to take my time today to say thank you to all of the amazing people who have helped me, cheered for me, criticized and complimented, and influenced me in the past couple of years.

THANK YOU!!!!! From the very bottom of my heart.

There are several people who need special recognition, people who have been instrumental in seeing me to this point. In order of their appearance in my writing life:

John Sandford, for inspiring me to try.

Hubby, for letting me try.

My parents, for encouraging me when I decided to try.

Writer’s Digest, for giving me the seeds.

Stuart Woods, for telling me that I made the rules.

John Connolly, for listening to a really terrible elevator pitch and not holding it against me.

Del Tinsley, who I met that same night, who has been a constant inspiration, a shoulder to cry on, an unflagging supporter, and an all around amazing friend.

JB Thompson, my wonder twin, who has edited every word I’ve ever written, thank God!
Amo!

The Bodacious Music City Wordsmiths, (Del, JB, Janet, Peggy, Rai, Cecelia, and Mary) for all the advice. And patience with my inability to use the plural possessive correctly. ; )

The DorothyL Listserve, for letting me know I’m not alone.

Publisher’s Marketplace, for showing me what I wanted and setting the wheels in motion.

Joan Huston, my first independent reader, for liking my work enough to read more.

Scott Miller, for giving me a chance!

Holly Henderson Root, for being a Tennessee girl in the midst of all those New Yorkers ; )

Pari Noskin Taichert, who gave me a shot on this blog and always, always had faith.

Naomi Hirahara, Simon Wood, Elaine Flinn, Denise Dietz, Jeff Cohen, Ken Bruen, Alexandra Sokoloff, Louise Ure, J.D. Rhoades, Mike MacLean, Toni McGee Causey and Paul Guyot for putting up with thousands of group emails and being a constant source of friendship and support.

The readers of Murderati, for allowing me to vent, muse and grow as a writer on a weekly basis.

Barbara Franchi and Sharon Wheeler, the fine editors of Reviewing The Evidence, for giving me my first online job.

Duane Swierczynski, who sent me to Rara-Avis and Demolition.

Bryon Quertermous, who published my very first short story.

Tribe, for letting me flash him.

Linda McFall and the whole crew at Mira Books, for buying the books!

Adam Wilson, for tirelessly answering all my most mundane and naive questions.

Brett Battles, Jason Pinter, Robert Gregory Browne, Toni McGee Causey, Bill Cameron, Gregg Olsen, Patry Francis, Derek Nikitas, Dave White, Marcus Sakey, Sean Chercover, Marc Lecard, Sandra Ruttan, Phil Hawley and CJ Lyons, who made Killer Year an unbelievably rewarding experience.

Sarah Weinman, for teaching me so much about the industry, and being a great writer to boot.

B.J. Bourg, for sending me my first check.

Lee Child, John Connolly, Allison Brennan, MJ Rose, Alexandra Sokoloff, Jim Born, Tasha Alexander, Kristy Kiernan, Julia Spencer-Fleming, Robert Fate, Joe Konrath and Pari Noskin Taichert, for taking the time to read the manuscript of ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS and kindly lending their endorsements. You guys rock!

Another special shout out to a couple of folks:

Tara Kelly, who designed the coolest cover on the planet.

Heather Foy and the marketing team at Mira, for all their amazing work.

Tasha Alexander, for being the ultimate sounding board, teacher, inspiration and procrastination buddy, plus introducing me to Thai food. xo

Tom Robinson, my incredible publicist, for putting in so much time and effort on my behalf.

Lee Child, for being the classiest mentor a girl could have and a true inspiration to my writing.

There are many more people who have helped, encouraged, poked and prodded. Some are in my acknowledgments, some are people I’ve met along the way. Most of all, I want to say thanks to the other writers out there. I am honored to share shelf space with you at last.

And to my future readers: I hope you enjoy. Dear God, I hope you enjoy.

If you’re anywhere near Nashville, we’re having a launch party on November 1st, 7:00 p.m.
Past Perfect, 122 3rd Avenue South  (at the base of the Shelby Street Bridge and the Schermerhorn Symphony Center) We’re having a wine tasting and food, Richard Stooksbury and the
Glaring Mistakes will be playing, and the book will be for sale. Come
and say hello!

Seriously, be there or be square. And if you’d like to receive my quarterly newsletter, go to the newly revamped website and sign up. I’ll also be out and abut promoting ATPG, so check out the tour schedule here.

It all changes today. As of now, I’m a published author. It’s an amazing feeling. It’s also terrifying as hell. This journey has been the most gratifying of my life. I hope I do y’all proud over the upcoming years.

Wine of the Week: Since this is a special occasion, I’m going to break out a bottle of my favorite, but too nice to drink daily, wine. Might as well honor the heritage yet again — 2002 Tenute Silvio Nardo Brunello

J.T. Ellison

Self-promotion. It has become a dirty word.

We writers are curious beasts. Some of us are hell bent on competition. Some are in constant promotion mode, plugging themselves without a care in the world. Still others spend all their time talking up other authors, celebrating the success of their friends. None of these alternatives are necessarily better, but you have to wonder which path lets you sleep at night. Lao Tzu said: "When you are content to be simply yourself and don’t compare or compete, everybody will respect you." I think this is especially true when it comes to publishing.

On this penultimate Friday before launch day, I’ve become especially attuned to the vagaries of self-promotion. It doesn’t come naturally to me. I’m much more comfortable talking up other people’s work. Yet if I’m going to be successful, am going to make my mark, I have to do some self promotion. Yuck.

Writer’s Digest had an article in the October issue about a young turk named James Boice who is opposed to doing promotion for his book. Opposed as in he wants to go the Cormac McCarthy J.D. Salinger route — write a damn good book and let it stand on its own merits. No promotion, hell, not even an interview. He finds the concept of standing in front of a group of people discussing his work nightmarish. Boy, can I relate. I read this "interview" with the reluctant author and went "YES!" I want to be him. I want to say to the whole world nope, not gonna play. Not gonna climb out from under my rock.

But I don’t have a choice, do I? Really, let’s be honest. You have to do some promotion of your own work. As distasteful as it may feel, it’s a given in this day and age. The trick is to know when you’ve become an obnoxious bore and the person or people you’re addressing have mastered the illusion of rolling their eyes back into the deepest, darkest recesses of their brains while still maintaining a smiling facade.  Dear God, don’t let that ever happen to me.

So where do you draw the line? For a debut author, how do you know when enough is enough?

I see book promotion as dating. When you go out on a blind date, just how much information do you give your partner? Do you spill your most intimate secrets within five minutes and let them know you’re ready for marriage, 2.5 kids, two yellow labs, a house in the suburbs and a Mercedes for Christmas? Or do you let them get to know you gradually, hold back your true feelings, fears and desires? Do you verbally vomit out of sheer nervousness (I worry this will be me) or do you play coy, let them come to you?

I have to tell you, it’s relatively easy to read people. Body shifting, glancing away, checking the time, looking like they may want to interrupt are all excellent non-verbal clues that you’ve outstayed your welcome. And more often than not, they aren’t really that interested in you. They may be interested in your work, or the topic on which you’re speaking. But have they really approached you after a signing or a panel to hear you talk about yourself? Or are they searching for that nugget of information that they want to glean out of your experience? Or do they just plain want something from you?

I had an . . . interesting conversation with someone recently. Let’s call her Jane. Jane was interested in getting a story out to the public, but was concerned about intellectual property rights. No matter how many times I told Jane that this just wasn’t a likely scenario, that editors and agents are LOOKING for a brilliant story, but don’t want to co-opt it for themselves, she wasn’t hearing me. She kept coming back to the worry. I quickly realized that there was nothing I could say to alleviate this fear. I tried to cut my losses, because at that point Jane had eaten up fifteen minutes of my time with a question I couldn’t answer correctly. Sensing she’d lost me, Jane blurted out the premise of the story. Now, it may or may not be a good idea, but at that point, I’d stopped listening, was smiling politely and looking for a way out.

And I felt terrible, because this person had asked my advice, I wasn’t giving a satisfactory answer, and I probably lost a potential reader because I didn’t know what else to do. I never stopped smiling, never once intimated that I wasn’t interested, but after a certain point, you realize that nothing is going to work and you have to be willing to walk away. And at that point, the idea of saying don’t forget to buy my book becomes entirely reprehensible.

By the way, in case I didn’t spell that out correctly, Jane was WAY over-promoting. Making her story into some mythical experience that the whole world was going to want to snap up wasn’t just unrealistic, it was naive. But I couldn’t tell her that either. Sometimes people need to learn for themselves.

I knew from the first that working one on one was my strong suit, and I love to do this. Talking to people while I’m signing their book is sheer joy for me. And I’m starting to like another aspect of self-promotion — panels. I did my first in New York this summer at Thrillerfest, and was surprised at how comfortable I was. This realization played itself out again this past weekend at Southern Festival. I had a ball on my two panels. With my experience fresh in my mind, I attended Jim Born’s panel with Steven James, and really took the opportunity to learn. If you haven’t been to panel to watch Jim Born speak, shame on you. He gives the best panel ever. He’s funny, and engaging, and self-deprecating, and is a wonderful writer with amazing experiences guiding his work. I learned a lot from Jim this weekend, as well as my fellow panelists, on how to seduce instead of promote. Great lesson.

I know I’m babbling on here, but this is a subject I’ve been fretting about for months. My book comes out next week. I am indescribably proud. The accomplishment has been made into a life changing experience because of all the people out there who have been willing to give me their time and effort, who have patiently guided me through the morass. I know which writers I want to emulate when I’m on the road, or doing a signing, or appearing at a conference. I just hope I can do them proud, and not trip into the dreaded BSP because of my enthusiasm. And a warning, next week, I may do just that. Only once, I promise.

So share with me,`Rati brethren. How much IS too much?

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Alright, enough of the serious stuff. Here are some of my favorite shots from this past weekend at the Southern Festival of Books. A great time was had by all! I have to admit, in a weekend of nothing but huge highs, the highlight was Jim Born showing Kinky Friedman my book, and carrying it around in his back pocket. Now that’s friendship! (BTW, just after that, Kinky called my husband Spartacus. If he only knew…)

After our great panel, Sex and Violence: Is too Much Ever Enough? Tasha, Marcus, Robert Hicks and I hammed it up and did a couple of interviews for the local news. If Al Gore hadn’t won the Nobel, we would have made it to air…

Killer Year takes on Nashville! From left to right — Derek Nikitas, Marcus Sakey, me, Tasha Alexander, and Toni McGee Causey were guests of the Middle Tennessee Chapter of Sisters in Crime. Our panel, Tips and Insider Secrets to Getting Published, was well attended and could have gone on for another couple of hours.

And the best photo of the weekend. Hubby shows Marcus his version of The Blade Itself…

To compliment our coverage, more great news!

My dear friend Derek Nikitas launched his incredible debut novel, PYRES, this week. Full disclosure, I loved it so much that I blurbed it. Here’s my opinion:

"Nikitas’€™s story is literary and smart. His effortless prose and genre-melding style is reminiscent of John Connolly, his ability to tap into the
disturbed teenage psyche as masterful as Lisa Carey. PYRES is a must read. I couldn’€™t put it down."

So go out and get this amazing book today!

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Wine of the Week: 2002 Dunham Selection VIII Cabernet Sauvignon

by J.T. Ellison

Last week I talked about tertiary characters, and called them people. I’ll grant you, only a writer can be so self-absorbed that the characters she develops can be considered alive. But there you go. They ARE people. The exist, fully formed in our minds. They live, breathe, cry, eat, feel pain, create mayhem… if they weren’t alive for us, how could they ever be alive for our readers?

I was at my in-laws last week and my MIL asked if Taylor would be getting married. I hemmed and hawed, and while I was busy playing coy, my brother-in-law looks at us both with this incredulous look on his face. "Um, folks?" he said. "They aren’t real."

Oh yes, they are.

I dare any writer to say that their characters haven’t taken on a life of their own in our minds. Haven’t we all been in a situation and wondered how our protagonist would handle it? If you’re me, you wish you could handle life the way Taylor does. She’s stronger than me, less black and white. Things that freak me out don’t affect her in the least. (Except spiders. Spiders freak her out too.)

I bet I’m not the only one. Honestly, if I were Lee Child, and Reacher was my character? Whoo-boy, you can bet I’d be mentally mowing down annoying people left and right.

And of course, since I have a vivid imagination, that train of thought leads me to…

Can you imagine what it would be like to see your favorite literary character with their hair down, at home, so to speak, doing the everyday things we do without threat of murder and mayhem looming over their heads? What do they do when they aren’t on the page? Do they go to concerts? Sporting events? Read a book on a Sunday afternoon? Go to the beach, not get enough suntan lotion on and burn in embarrassing places?

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I need a 4th dimension. In genre fiction, thrillers especially, there’s rarely time to develop the outside interests of a character. Do you honestly think a reader would sit through four quarters of a Titans game with Taylor? Now granted, if Reacher wanted to go to a Yankees game, I’d be all for that, but I’m probably in the minority.

It’s another case of how well the author knows their characters, and how much of that information needs to be shared with the reader. Yes, Harry Bosch has bitchin taste in music. But isn’t that a device like any other that we use, something to set the mood, to warn the reader that Harry’s getting in a funk, is probably going to get drunk, bed his latest love, and get called out on a case at 2 in the morning?

It enriches the experience for the reader, absolutely. Barry Eisler is the master at this, letting us have glimpses into John Rain’s head using music. (Why is jazz so favored among us???) But can you imagine Rain waking up one morning and thinking, hmmm, I’d like to go to a soccer game. Maybe he’s a huge soccer fan and we just don’t know it because that’s all in Barry’s head. Yes, extreme case, but I’m trying to make a point here.

While our characters are alive for us, we can’t let too much of them onto the page. We have to measure, and hold back in order to further the plot along. Taylor spends time at the Exit/In and Mercy Lounge, her favorite places to see bands, but that doesn’t make it into the story, because when there’s a murder case popping and a limited time to solve it before whatever crisis will occur, she doesn’t have time to go play.

I’d love to hear from you guys on this. For the writers — what’s something no one knows about your lead character’s life? And for the readers — what do you imagine your favorite protagonists do in their time off?

Wine of the Week — 2002 Chateau des Jacques Moulin-a-Vent Gamay

An enjoyable French entry from la Maison Louis Jadot, to celebrate… well…
nothing in particular, except every once in a while, I still have
dreams about my high school French lab. This wine is from the
Beaujolais area of Burgundy. Amusez-vous bien et jouir d’une bonne santé. Au revoir!

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I’m at Southern Festival of Books today, where my panel on Sex and Violence, moderated by Robert Hicks and populated with the most talented creatures I know, Tasha Alexander and Marcus Sakey, runs from 12 – 1:30. If you’re in Nashville, come by Legislative Plaza and say hello. Tonight we’re all going to the screening of ELIZABETH: THE GOLDEN AGE, which will be introduced by Tasha, the author of the companion novel to the movie (which is incredible, by the way). Tomorrow is the lunchtime panel slot again with our own Toni McGee Causey, Derek Nikitas, and Marcus Sakey, moderated by the lovely Tasha, on Insider Tips to Getting Published. So I’ll be bopping in and out depending on the wireless capabilities of Legislative Plaza. Play nice!

by J.T. Ellison

Everyone needs a sidekick.

Whether it’s a beautiful woman to flirt with, a partner who covers your back, a best friend to commiserate with, every hero needs some sort of counterpoint who isn’t an antagonist to help further the story along.

But the tertiary characters are the true source of steam in a good novel. They effortlessly carry the water, give information, help set the scene. They provide clues, background, red herrings. I love building tertiary characters. A name, a description, an action, that’s all you need to have them provide whatever element they’re meant to provide. But it’s the development of these characters without over-development that is a true art.

Look at Moneypenny. How much do we know about her? How many non-dedicated Bond fans know her first name is Jane? Do we have any idea where she lives? What her likes and dislikes are, outside of Bond? Where she went to school? What brand of clothing she wears? What she does with her free time? Whether she’s happy? No, none of that is given to us. But every time she’s in a scene, the sparks fly.

I think a good tertiary character leaves you wanting more of them. They aren’t fully formed, are basically two-dimensional, yet play such an important role in our work.

I admit, in first drafts I have a tendency to throw in people (more on that whole concept of characters are real people next week) without knowing for sure what their role is going to be. I’ve been working on revisions of the third book, and I’ve got two fully blown tertiaries who are integral to the solution of the crime. Jasmine Allons is an Iraqi ex-stripper who is now a massage therapist, the other is Thalia Abbott, a seventeen year old who has quit a secret society of high school porn queens and turned to God.

Now, both these girls were in my head well before they made it to paper. Both are elemental to Taylor solving the case. Chances are neither of them will ever appear again (though Jasmine’s past gives her potential to pop up in later books.) But man, they were fun to write.

I had one in ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS who I thought was fun too — Lurene, the black waitress in a podunk town in Georgia. She and her husband Earl run a diner, and Lurene is all woman. She flirts her way through life with that easy sensuality that comes from being a big woman comfortable in her own skin. Her nurturing in the midst of a bloody crisis center Baldwin’s character. And the scene is just two pages long.

You get the idea. I think those moments outside the lead’s head, away from the usual setting (in my case, the homicide office) lend the story a realistic element. These characters prance across the page, serve their purpose, and disappear. Useful tools. What I love is when an author uses them for more.

Many authors have taken their secondary characters and build stories around them. Perfect example, Robert Crais’ incredibly…  provocative secondary, Joe Pike, Elvis Cole’s sidekick, takes center stage in THE WATCHMAN. But tertiary characters don’t often find themselves with major roles later on.

One author I know has done this is John Sandford. He took one of his repeat tertiary characters, Virgil Flowers ("That fucking Flowers") developed him as a fully blown secondary in his latest Lucas Davenport novel, then wrote an entire book with Flowers as the protagonist (DARK OF THE MOON). And it’s completely believable and successful.

The opposite side of the spectrum is WIDE SARGASSO SEA, by Jean Rhys. She takes the hidden Mrs. Rochester from JANE EYRE and gives her an entire back story — explaining how she met Rochester, their marriage and all the reasons why Rochester is ultimately forced to lock her in the attic. Fascinating book, if you haven’t read it.

The Moneypenny’s of the fiction world drive the story, ad comic relief, drop hints and clues, even unwittingly solve cases. They provide a structure for the protagonist to work within, like the leading edge of a storm, so to speak. Don’t discount the role these characters can play.

I thank Miss Moneypenny, Lois Maxwell, the inspiration for this column.

Question, who are the best tertiary characters you’ve come across? Any other examples of books that came about from a character who was tertiary?

Wine of the Week — Let’s do something worthy of a night out with James Bond: a rare and pricey vintage — 1995 Alvaro Palacios Priorat L’Ermita.   

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Awesome, awesome awesome interview with my darling friend and sometimes sidekick Dave White, author of the recently released WHEN ONE MAN DIES, on Laura Lippman’s site. Check it out, and definitely get yourself a copy of his book. It’s magnificent!

Just because a woman writes it and there’s a relationship, doesn’t make it a romance…

By JT Ellison

Now such a thing happiness, above all else, is held to be; for this we choose always for self and never for the sake of something else, but honour, pleasure, reason, and every virtue we choose indeed for themselves (for if nothing resulted from them we should still choose each of them), but we choose them also for the sake of happiness, judging that by means of them we shall be happy. Happiness, on the other hand, no one chooses for the sake of these, nor, in general, for anything other than itself.

  Aristotle, Nichomachean Ethics (Translated by W. D. Ross)

I was coming out of the grocery store today and the woman carrying my bags asked me how I was. Now, before you start thinking I’m hopelessly lazy or have morphed into Paris Hilton, I was at Publix, it’s part of their service, I still have a half-cast, it was a stunningly gorgeous Tennessee day and she wanted to get outside, I was just an excuse. (Nicely justified, J.T.)

ANYWAY… she asked me how I was, and I said, "Fabulous!" Because I was. Like I mentioned, it was a beautiful day, I’d hit my word count, I’d chosen well for dinner and grocery shopping equals bliss in my mind. To be perfectly honest, I’m a generally satisfied soul, so most days I can answer honestly that I am, indeed, quite well. I mean, truly, how could I not be? I’m pursuing my dream. I’m one of the luckiest women on the planet. I have a spouse who is terrific, my parents and family are a huge support, my friends are lovely, my books are fun to write, I eat well, exercise as often as I can, have a nice roof over my head, am relatively free of defect and am not morally bankrupt. What more does a girl need? Skinny jeans aside, of course.

So my kind grocery carter asks me how I am, I reply in a most chipper manner that I’m fabulous, and she nearly dropped my bags. She actually stopped mid-stride for a moment, then got a huge smile on her face. "I don’t hear that very often," she said. "Usually when I ask people how they are, they tell me about something horrible that’s going on in their life."

Considering a situation not twenty minutes earlier. I had a hard time getting the attention of the young girl behind the bread counter. She was in a complete daze. If she were a writer, I’d know she was plotting a particularly juicy scene, but I can’t make that assumption, not just yet. So I finally got her attention, and she laughed. Not in a humorous way, but with soft, chagrined embarrassment. She apologized. "My mother gives me these ADHD pills and they just put me in a daze. I have some bad thoughts sometimes, and I just get lost in my head trying to sort them out."

She went on to wrap up my Tuscan garlic loaf, apologizing again. I told her to stop apologizing, A., and B. write it down. I told her that’s how all great writers start. They get lost in their heads and can’t make head or tails of their thoughts, so they begin writing them down. The thoughts become stories and your head will be less full of bad things. And I saw that my words struck a chord with her. She was thinking about how to do that when I walked away, and I gave her a thumbs-up. I’ll see her again, I’m sure (it is my favorite loaf of bread, after all.) It would be cool to hear that the remedy helped in some microscopic way.

Couple that with the check out girl being surprised at my happiness leaving the store and I realized just how much negativity we’re surrounded by. Day in and day out, people complain. Little things, big things, life altering things, and things that just don’t matter, all build into this verbal stew of complaints. When is the last time someone asked how you were and you said fine, then qualified it with a complaint? It astounds me, truly it does, to hear how dissatisfied so many people are with their lives. I wonder how many are stuck, and how many thrive on dissatisfaction and don’t do anything to change their lives toward happiness.

To hear people tell it, as a writer I should be a morbid depressive, forever unhappy with the state of my life, my writing, my publisher’s treatment of me, my books, my lack of appropriate money, my reviews and channeling this unhappiness onto the page. I just can’t make it work that way. My glass if half to three-quarters full, thank you very much. Sorry. I can’t do anything about that. It’s just me. It’s not that I’m a newbie and haven’t been beaten down by the industry yet. I am genuinely happy to be pursuing a career that I love. I’m a karma girl, big time. Aristotelian. I believe that my attitude and my actions dictate the course of my life. I try to do good things, and when I do something nice for someone else, it makes me feel good. My happiness is gauged not by my accomplishments, but my basic satisfaction with myself and how I treat those around me.

So, with this ideal in mind, did you do something nice for someone else this week?

Wine of the Week — We need a magnum of Dom Perignon today, because…

MAJOR CONGRATULATIONS ARE IN ORDER!!!!

My dear friend Tasha Alexander has made a fantastic two book deal, moving her exceptional Lady Ashton series to St. Martin’s Minotaur in a pre-empt. Nice! I can’t tell you the joy this brings to me and to her fans! Watch out New York Times, your next bestseller is on her way!!!

Tasha is at the Great Lakes Booksellers Association this weekend in Schaumburg, so if you’re attending, go see her speak and read from A POISONED SEASON.

In more fun news, Tasha’s most recent adventure hit the shelves this week!

Elizabeth: The Golden Age is the companion novel to Cate Blanchett’s new movie. Tasha was commissioned to write the novel this past winter, and it is vastly diverting!

Bravo, Tash!!!!

By JT Ellison

Here Be Dragons.

Supposedly, on ancient maps, cartographers labeled sections that were unexplored with these three words. It represents the bogeyman, the deepest darkest corner of the closet, the literary equivalent of Do Not Enter. So I take these mythical words, stretch the meaning a bit, and apply them to today’s post.

I recently came into possession of a magnetic poetry kit. The kind that has a ton of words jumbled up with a magnetic backing so you can write poetry on your refrigerator door. I’ve always had fun with this stuff. At parties, we used to start the night with a single word, and every person who went to the fridge was required to add on. It would start off entirely logical, poetic, meaningful, and by the end of the night, would be nonsensical, string after string on words that were utterly discordant.

At the time, under the influence of mankind’s finest inexpensive beverages, it was a riot. In the light of day, not so funny. There was always the one person who had stayed up later than everyone else, who nursed along a broken heart, or a broken soul, who left the saddest imaginable notes hidden in the jumble.

We’re all poets at heart, aren’t we? I know I am. I’m a terrible, horrible poet. Should burn all but one or two of the idiotic crapola I wrote in college. Yet every once in a while, the spirit moves me, and I try my hand. It’s god awful stuff that I end up deleting.

So I thought it would be fun to have my own little game of poetry on the refrigerator. No pressure, nothing of importance. Just another way to play with words, which is my dearest passion. I break out the kit, tear things apart, careful to keep the three letter words separate from the fours and fives, separate the multiple I’s from the Am’s and Me’s, etc.

Ready, Freddy.

My first foray into this new game pleases me.

Life is a languid symphony of never and always.

Sigh. How pretty. I leave this on the refrigerator and go to bed, a love note of sorts for my husband.

The following morning, I come downstairs, knowing that hubby be playing the game, will have left me a note. Something to compliment my beautiful phraseology perhaps, or an entirely new sentence will have emerged. Maybe it will be romantic, maybe it will be wistful. Maybe it will give me an idea that causes an eruption of like-minded words and similes that will keep me happy for the rest of the day.

I knew he’d leave me a note. And he did. It read, and I quote:

Smell my finger.

Have I ever mentioned hubby was an economics major?

Once I picked myself up off the kitchen floor, wiped the tears from my eyes, called him to compliment his sarcasm and admit he tickled my funny bone, a thought occurred to me.

It’s fitting, really. We can write the purple, flowery prose with a capital P all day long. We can pour our hearts out onto the page, examine and impress ourselves with our imagery, our command of the language. But it’s the short, sweet stuff that makes the most sense, cuts through the bullshit and makes our writing tight and spare.

I’d like to think that I have a literary style to my writing. But I also try to keep the sentences short, punchy, to the point. It is possible to have both. I think. Which is what I mean about here be dragons. As a writer, I feel like I need to get better, to take chances, to work myself to death finding the most sophisticated yet approachable terms and descriptions. I think we all move off into uncharted territory daily, coming up with new, better phrases, finding different ways to relate our thoughts to the reader.

What about you? Are you a slave to metaphor, or do you prefer the slam, bam, thank you ma’am approach? And who does either style the best?

Wine of the Week:
2005 Renato Ratti Torriglione Barbera d’Alba