by JT Ellison

It’s been a serious week. For me, at least. I’ve been fretting, something I’m not prone to do. My new book is kicking my butt. I realized that I have no outside life — that writing and reading have become my end all, be all. Not that this is such a bad thing, but exclusivity in any endeavor can sometimes lead to ruts. Ruts don’t equal fresh, exciting writing. Sometimes it hits me that I don’t have the life experience of so many other writers I admire, and I wonder if it reflects in my work. (Yes, I’m reading John Connolly. I always dive into massive introspection when I surrender to his art.)

And then, a beautiful thing happened. Thank the good Lord above, LAST COMIC STANDING showed up in my Tivo list. Hubby and I have been watching the preliminary rounds, the auditions from across the country. My goodness, there are some seriously funny people out there. And some who have absolutely no business trying. Watching this combination of entertainment and train wreck has drastically improved my mood, and led me to this post.

Open call to all you funny writers out there — how do you do it?

I read blog entries, stories and books that are wicked funny, have me bowling over laughing. Obviously, comedians write their material and the talented ones can turn it into true comic nirvana. But I can’t, for the life of me, write funny.

It’s more than just not being able to translate my sense of humor to the page. I’m certainly not a comedienne, but I’ve got a pretty good sense of humor. I do voices, can cut up with the best of them. I don’t get offended at dirty jokes. I love to laugh. It’s an RX that I prescribe for any happy relationship, actually. People ask how our marriage works so well, and I tell them we have at least one huge belly laugh together a day. Laughter really is the best medicine. (Oh no, I used the word "really." Ever since Eisler joined the crusades against "like" and "really" I assiduously avoid using the word in print, but it fits here. Sorry, Barry!)

See what I mean? That makes me laugh, but it doesn’t translate. I’m just not funny on paper.

I used to be good at telling long intricate jokes. Now, not so much. I only know one really good joke and it’s absolutely filthy, plus, to make it work well, you have to act it out. If I ever tell it in public, I warn you in advance I have been completely over-served and you should haul me off to bed (mine, not yours.) It’s THAT filthy.

So what’s a girl to do? I want to be suave and amusing in print. I want to make people grasp their sides and have tears roll down their faces. In person, I can be dry, and droll, and bitingly sarcastic, and do it in Donald Duck’s point of view. But the second my fingers touch a keyboard, the loquaciousness is gone. I want to be like my good friend Kristy Kiernan. That girl puts words to the page and I start rolling in the aisles. Jeff Cohen always makes me laugh. Randall Hicks slays DorothyL with good humor. Bill Cameron has the most brilliant way of using irony to self-deprecate and make me laugh. Toni Causey and our own Pari can make me giggle with their eyes closed and one hand tied behind their backs.

So I beseech you, funny writers. Share your wealth with a poor, misguided girl.

HOW DO YOU DO IT?????????

And for our readers, who makes you laugh, every time??????

I need amusement today, folks. Double, triple extra special bonus points for anyone who writes a short short about this poor cat.

Wine of the Week: Morellino di Scansano

————–

PS — I’m thrilled to have the opportunity to host debut author Michelle Gagnon here next Friday. Stop by and get to know this dynamic new talent.

by JT Ellison

I hate to pose questions in my blog titles, much prefering to find some fun tidbit to infer the topic, but this one is too important to play games with. Can voice save a story???

By JT Ellison

How many times have we heard the old adage writers are solitary creatures? And how many times, upon hearing this statement, have you nodded your head in agreement? That’s what I was worried about. This statement has begun to define our existence as writers. Yes, we work in our own heads the vast majority of the time. Yes, we’re so busy creating that in our real lives, jobs, family, kids, we don’t have time for anything else. Yes, it’s very easy to nod and agree when people say writing is a solitary venture.

Guess what. It’s not.

Stephen King’s glorious book ON WRITING tells of a somewhat supernatural contract between writer and reader, a kind of ESP that exists because the writer puts the words on paper and the reader ultimately, well, reads said words and a psychic connection is formed between the two entities. Cool, huh? He writes in one time and space, and the reader is able to read his mind regardless of their plane of existence, simply by reading the words.

But what happens in between the writer putting the words on the paper and the reader reading them? A LOT.

Outlines, synopses, rough drafts, final drafts, revisions galore, agent reads, editor reads, revisions galore again, copy edits, galleys. Then ARC’s, reviews, sales to bookstores, inside sales, book tours, marketing and promotion dollars, conferences… okay, you’re getting the idea. I don’t disagree for a moment that there’s a psychic connection between writer and reader. There’s just a butt load that goes on in between those steps to make it happen.

And your editor and agent are a vital part of everything that happens with your book.

I’ve always said how lucky I am to have actually laid eyes on both my editor and my agent. Now I’m starting to realize that this is a must. I know, I’ve heard the stories too, of authors who’ve never met their editors or agents even after a forty year relationship. They’ve talked on the phone, they’ve emailed, sure. But they’ve never met face to face.

I don’t know if this scenario is good for the writer. There are ample opportunities on the genre calendar to find a way to meet up with your editor and agent. They don’t go to conferences? They don’t travel to symposiums? Well, go to them.

I’m not kidding. I always said that if I got a deal, the first thing I was going to do was fly to New York to sign the contracts. (Of course, this was back in my silly naive days when I thought that contracts happened in an overnight kind of time frame — I didn’t realize just how long everything takes in the industry.) Instead, right after I got that fateful phone call I learned that my editor was going to be attending Thrillerfest. Well, that took care of that. I met Linda in Phoenix, we broke bread, laughed, found lots of things in common we’d already touched upon on the phone, and started what I believe will be a long and fruitful relationship. And blessings on top of blessings, the MIRA team was at Thrillerfest to promote THRILLER, ITW’s great anthology, so I got to meet the bosses too.

When deadlines got in the way of my plans to go to Bouchercon in Madison so I could meet my agent, I made different plans. I went to New York instead. Scott, Linda and I had lunch, I reaffirmed that he is, in fact, quite a great guy who doesn’t bite, and all three of us were able to sit down together and discuss some of the plans for the series. THAT is worth its weight in gold, my friends.

I know this isn’t the cheapest proposition in the world. It’s expensive to go to conferences. It’s worse to take a two day trip in the name of research, trust me. But I wouldn’t trade actually meeting both of them face to face for the world. It’s an investment in my career. And it should be the same for you.

Name one business that doesn’t have meetings between clients and principles. Industries and businesses in this country and abroad still rely on that face to face meeting. Think about how many historic deals were done with just a handshake? A man’s word was his bond, spit in the palm, clasp hands, and Bob’s your uncle. Even now, with technology allowing instant access between a corporations offices, clients, etc., they’ve perfected the video conference. I think there’s something about human nature that tells us if we can look into another person’s eyes, we can judge whether we’re being sold a bridge or not.

Why should writers be any different from any other business person? Short answer. We aren’t, and we shouldn’t.

Go forth and mingle, friends. Meet the people who are helping you make that psychic connection. If you don’t have a deal yet, get thee to a conference where you can pitch. Make a good impression. Try. We don’t have to be solitary little creatures. The industry as a whole will be better for our active involvement in OUR futures.                           

"A most moving and pulse-stirring honor–the heartfelt grope of the hand, and the welcome that does not descend from the pale, gray matter of the brain but rushes up with the red blood of the heart."

–Mark Twain – The Begum of Bengal speech, 1907

Wine of the Week: Marques de Caceres 2003 Rioja Crianza 

By JT Ellison

Now, don’t blush or turn away based on the title of this blog. We’ve all had a first time. It’s that special moment in our life which will always, always be with us. It changes us, alters our perspective. We feel more beautiful, taller, thinner, wittier, more glamorous. I’m talking, of course, about my first… book signing.

I’m not a huge fan about talking about myself on this blog. My post theme is “A Newbie’s Perspective” and I oftentimes feel like that’s a misnomer, because in order to share the experience of being a newbie, I have to talk about myself in terms of career. This may not make sense to you. This blog is always about me, in some way or another. My feelings on books that influence me, or situations that make me write the things I do. But I’ve steered clear of what can only be termed BSP, the dreaded blatant self promotion, because that’s not what this blog has ever been about. But to tell the story of my first time, I’m going to have to go there a bit, so please forgive me in advance.

I was thrilled to receive that phone call a couple of months ago inviting me to come to BEA to sign galleys of ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS. My publisher has started a very cool promotion called THE DEADLY SEVEN, and ATPG was chosen to be a part of the program. They decided to do a Deadly Seven hour at BEA in the Harlequin booth, thus the glee inducing phone call. This promotion is so exciting because they are coupling several debut authors — myself, Jason Pinter and Michelle Gagnon — with the more established authors — MJ Rose, Alex Kava, Chris Jordan and Paul Johnston. Smart, smart, smart, those Mira folks. The signing was arranged, with MJ, Alex, Jason, Michelle and me all confirmed.

I should have been nervous. I should have been petrified. Instead, the closer we got to the date, the more excited I became. I didn’t tell a ton of folks, just my intimate circle, and they were their usual super-supportive selves. Only one little problem. I woke up Tuesday last with the most vicious head cold you can imagine. All I knew was in two days, I had to fly to New York for the most important moment of my young career. I stopped moving entirely, invested in industrial strength boxes of Musinex, Comtrex and Advil sinus, went on a Z-pak, drank orange juice, put Zicam up my nose every three hours, and drank Airborne twice a day. By Thursday morning, I still couldn’t breath, but I was alive. I packed the drugs in my bag along with a box of tissues, crossed myself, praying for adrenaline, and off we went.

We met up with my fantastic editor Linda McFall Thursday night for a quick dinner before she left town for the weekend, then headed to our lovely hotel/motel for the night, getting in around 1 a.m. Went right to bed and got up at a leisurely 9 a.m. to shower, curl, primp and dress for the trip to the Javits Center. Clothing in place, hair not doing what I wanted it to but livable, cute shoes on, we headed out.

Cue nerves.

You know that train is leaving the station, you can’t turn back now sort of feeling you get right before something major is about to happen? Yeah. That feeling flooded through me as we sat in horrendous Manhattan traffic. But the strangest thing happened. Hubby pointed out the window, to my right. We were stuck in traffic directly in front of the Church of St. Francis of Assisi on West 31st Street. If that wasn’t a sign, I don’t know what would be. The nerves vanished.

We arrived a little early so I could get the lay of the land and immediately ran into my awesome agent, Scott Miller. In a crowd of 30,000 booksellers, sales people, buyers, and a guy dressed like God, how does that happen? Regardless, in this huge mash of people, there’s Scott, with a big smile that made me feel pretty good. Then I run into our most divine Alex Sokoloff, who kindly came to bear witness on this event so I won’t be alone with no one to sign for. I’m thinking I might get four of five folks, bleed off from the big dogs I’m signing with, so it’s great to have a familiar face there. MJ is there now, the booth starting to fill with fans who’ve come to see her and take a signed copy of one of the biggest buzzed books of BEA, THE REINCARNATIONIST.

Have I mentioned that as I’m getting ready to do the signing, I still have not seen my galley? Ever? That this moment will be the very first time I’ve seen my work as a book? Hubby manages to filch on off the stacks that are being piled up on the table in front of my chair. He hands it to me and I feel this enormous sense of relief. It’s real. It’s a book. All the time and effort and… oh my God my throat is getting a little constricted and I feel the prick of tears… and they say “JT, we’re ready for you,” and I have to turn it off. I look to my right and there are people waiting for me. A line of them.

I signed for forty-five minutes. Straight. Person after person after person. In the middle of signing, I did an interview with a Canadian film crew who were doing dual purpose interviews and podcasts. It went well. I was much more comfortable that I ever imagined I’d be. I met librarians, and readers, and people who were just wandering by and saw a line and got in it because it was a free book. There was a publisher from China and a girl named Taylor. Even a librarian from my mom’s part of Philly. I signed and signed and signed. They kept opening boxes and handing me books, then they told me I was down to the last four. I had to step away from the table so I could keep a couple galleys for myself. It was, in a word, surreal.

That first time I crossed out my typeset name and signed mine underneath I realized that this was exactly where I was supposed to be. I’ve fought hard to get here. I’ve had a lot of rejections. I haven’t exactly suffered, but I’ve stumbled a few times. But the moment I sat down and smiled at the first woman in line, it all just clicked for me. These are going to be my readers. They may love me, they may hate me. But they are going to read me. And I’ll vow right here that no matter what, I will always do my best to provide the most entertaining, well written read I can possibly give you.

The rest of the weekend was a bit of a blur. We threw ourselves into the hands of the Gods of New York, had an amazing dinner at Remi’s, partied, met people from all corners of the world, ran around town until the wee hours of the morning. Saturday we got up and did it all again, capping the weekend with the Harlequin party. The vibe there was incredible, the champagne flowed, and I must tell you, my publishing house is full to the brim with some of the classiest people you can ever hope to meet.

I’m going to be riding this high for a while. I’m working hard on my third book now, trying to get a first draft done by Thrillerfest. I’ve just gotten the Thrillerfest schedule, where I’ll be on two panels, the debut author breakfast on Friday morning, and the 11:00 Sunday morning panel with CJ Lyons, Derek Nikitas, Dave White and Emily Benedek. Trust me, you won’t want to miss it. I’ve got Southern Festival of Books lined up for October, a Lakeland, Florida event and another possible literary festival. The schedule is starting to fill. The website is interactive now, with a newsletter section if you’re interested in learning more about what’s happening in JT land.

The train has truly left the station. Thanks for being a part of my first time.

Let’s talk about first times. If you’re a writer, tell us about your first signing. If you’re a reader, tell us about your first signing. The perspectives should be fascinating.

Wine of the Week: We cheated at Remi’s. The wine list was over thirty pages of the most incredible wines, but we chose a bottle of Tenute Silvio Nardi Rosso di Montalcino to celebrate. Why mess with a good thing, right?

And a P.S. to combat the nausea I’m experiencing from this blog entry being all about me…

1. Look to the links at the right side of Murderati. We’ve added some great new blogs, including the very cool and informative CRIME NEVER PAYS by Irishman Declan Burke (I dig the author’s name, the blog title, and all things Irish this week. It must be that Connolly’s THE UNQUIET is beckoning me and I’m atwitter with anticipation because I’m meeting Mr. Bruen in July.)

2. I’m reading Toni McGee Cauey’s debut novel right now, and I tell you, this girl has not missed a step. BOBBIE FAYE’S VERY (very, very, very) BAD DAY is funny and explosive, full of energy and laugh out loud funny. If you haven’t read it, go get it. Right now. The comments can wait until you get back.

3. Brett Battles and our own Robert Gregory Browne have started a series of podcasts discussing writing, breaking in, and advice on the industry. See the new Battles and Browne website here.

by JT Ellison

I made a BIG mistake this week.

On Monday night, I was innocently watching television when I saw a commercial with a sock monkey. On Tuesday, I was in a local bookstore and turned a corner, coming face to face with… a traditional sock monkey. Even my late night viewing has been corrupted. Phantom of the Opera has been on a never-ending HBO loop, and there’s an antique cymbal playing grinder monkey, one which makes me cringe with distaste because he looks like a sock monkey. Putting aside the delightful Kristy Kiernan’s hallucinations of spider monkeys and my own disinterest in the real beasts, the fake ones always capture my attention. They seem to be making some kind of resurgence. Whether they are on television, made from all natural ingredients or whatever, sock monkeys are suddenly EVERYWHERE I LOOK.

Now before you start thinking I’m just plain crazy, allow me to explain the genesis of this…  well, fear is the only truthful term I can apply here.

When I was a little girl, I read a book called Baleful Beasts and Eerie Creatures, an anthology of short stories edited by Andre Norton and illustrated by the legendary Rod Ruth.

I remember reading this book one night when my parents were out. I had a babysitter. Mistake number one, no parents to turn to in my hour of need. Mistake number two, getting scared to death by the story of the basilisk yet continuing to read the damn thing. Mistake number three, looking at the illustrations. There was no way you couldn’t spend hours staring into the creatures eyes, especially that stupid basilisk. Mistake number four, allowing the book to stay in my room.

Of course I didn’t leave the book in my room. After I finished reading the stories, I took it into the living room and left it on the coffee table. But it ended up back in my room. At the time, I was entirely confident it was that damnable Patchwork Monkey, his nasty little fingers grasping the pages of the book, creeping, creeping up the stairs to my room, depositing himself on my night side table where he could sink those viciously sharp little teeth into my neck whilst I slept, unaware. But since I couldn’t sleep that night, kept drifting in and out, all I could understand was I heard dragging footsteps in the hallway, a hulking monster came to my door, and the book was placed with great care on my bedside table. See that little sucker, just sitting in the tree? Can’t you imagine those stringy red lips opening, those sharp little monkey teeth…

SHUDDER

Man, it still gets me creeped out.

And I know it’s in my old boxes in my parents place, which means Mom is going to be stuck going through them looking for this treasure, which is sadly out of print and sells for $200 on eBay.

Why am I searching for the book? I have an idea for a story that is going to take some research into the Gothic and horror world to make work properly. This is something I avoid at all costs. Why would I spend any time scaring myself more than I already do? It’s bad enough to delve into the mind of serial killers and comb autopsy reports on a daily basis. My imagination is always on overdrive. Toss in the supernatural element and I’m going to be a total basket case for months.

Yet I’m compelled to travel this road, to search for better ways to tell a story, for deeper meaning, for alternate routes into my readers minds. I’ve been trying to get up the nerve to open a couple of Stephen King novels. Or watch a spooky movie. Anything to start the desensitizing process.

I figure this would be a good place to start. It’s a test of sorts. Do the stories that freaked me out as a kid still wig me out? If not, if I can read them as a writer and appreciate their menace, maybe I can move on to bigger and better stories.

What would you suggest? Any books or movies that I can start my research with that won’t leave me jumpy but will give me the essence of the genre? And if you’ve got some good Gothic recommendations, please include them too!

Wine of the Week: 2003 Affentaler Pinot Noir Monkey Wine (Baden)

————————–

If you want to read something exceptionally cool, visit The Rap Sheet blog for J. Kingston Pierce’s one year anniversary celebration. "You’re Still The One" has been a week of fascinating single title mysteries considered under/unappreciated at the time of their initial publication. Many famous, not so famous and familiar writers, bloggers and industry folk’s opinions are represented. My TBR pile will never be the same.

by JT Ellison

I was teasing with a friend the other day, emails flying back and forth, the comments benign but tinged with that frisson that exists between good friends. After one exchange, involving the novel concept I’m sure we are the only two writers in the world to have ever had, about running away to a deserted island with never-ending margaritas and dedicated slaves, he simply said, "Don’t tempt me."

My immediate reaction was, oh, how many times have I thought that? How many times have we all thought that? It’s one of those statements that separate us from animals. We are all tempted, by any number of little and big issues, every day. I daresay some of us do a better job of limiting our temptations than others. Assuming that we are governed by morals and values, that we are able to put the temptations of life aside, the big sins and the little. The big ones: don’t kill, don’t cheat, don’t covet. The medium to big ones: don’t have sex with strangers we find attractive, don’t take that extra drink that will send us over the edge, don’t have that cigarette once you’ve given up, don’t, don’t, don’t… The little ones are trickier, and I’m certainly not going to presume to list them here, my morality and yours may have differences.                   

There are seven deadly sins: Lust, Gluttony, Greed, Sloth, Wrath, Envy, and Pride. Think hard. I’m sure you can find a little of yourself somewhere among these. I know I can. What? You’re a saint? Well, take this quiz. Maybe you aren’t as sweet as you thought.

But I have faith that the vast majority of Murderati’s readers are little white lie types rather than full blown sinners, AKA murdering psychopaths. So what better place to live vicariously than through our characters? I absolutely adore writing bad people. The freedom to allow them to think uncharitable thoughts with impunity, to kill, maim, key cars, lie, cheat and steal… all those things that I’m programmed NOT to do. Does that make me a bad person? Man, I hope not. I just find it enjoyable to explore my darker nature through my antagonists.

So, dear readers, I ask you these three questions.

• When was the last time you muttered "Don’t tempt me" under your breath?
• If you could choose one sin, (only one, mind you,) that you could commit with with the knowledge of immediate absolution, what would it be?
• Who is your favorite evil character?

Feel free to post anonymously : )

Wine of the Week: An article on celebrated wine consultant Michel Rolland, and  a Château le Bon Pasteur 2003 in his honor.

by JT Ellison

UPDATE: From the Baltimore Sun… Sarah Weinman has reviewed some excellent novels set in Italy. Click here to read the article.

Italy, Part Two

How to explain this title??? I’m going to play at being a Taoist. Suffice it to say we were in the Circus Maximus and there was a long line at the roach coach. The Italians have a true talent for gelato, both the making of and the subsequent eating.

We left Rome by car, driving north into the Tuscan countryside. Within ten minutes, the stress, hubbub and mess of the city gave way to green fields and rolling foothills. I could feel the tension bleeding out of my shoulders as each mile ticked off the odometer. We were en route to Assisi, one of our favorite places in all of Italy. Of course, there was a detour off the A1, so we were forced to go the back roads to Perugia. What a treat! We got off the highway at Trevi, went through Spoleto, Monte Falco, Foligno and Spello — all intricate hill towns with so much character and charm I was disappointed that we couldn’t stop in them all, even for a moment, to see what they were about.

We pushed through to get to Assisi though because we wanted to spend a leisurely afternoon soaking up the atmosphere in this tiny, spiritual town.

We climbed the hill into town, found our wonderful hotel, (our room was two-stories, the bed upstairs in the loft, which was too cool until I needed to go to the bathroom in the dark in the middle of the night. The bruise has faded, thanks for asking) and immediately took up residence in the piazza with some munchies and wine. Unfortunately, they were putting up scaffolding in preparation for a festival the following week, but hey, it’s Assisi. Even with the crowds and the noise, it’s hard to spoil the piazza. (Here’s some shots from another site — the camera with the pics is in France today, about to wing its way home with my parents.)

Forgive me a moment. I’m going to babble.

What’s important here was more than touring the basilica and standing vigil at St. Francis’s tomb, more than communing with my spiritual side, more than absorbing the spectacular views of the Umbrian countryside. There’s something about the whole purpose of Assisi now, a city responsible for one of the most important travel destinations in all of Christendom. Pilgrims of all shapes, sizes, colors and creeds come to pay homage to a saint who told the church hey, you’ve got to get back to the simpler things in life, stop taking all this money for the indulgences, the vulgarities, the flashy shows of wealth. You need to appreciate what God gave in a more natural way. Appreciate that less is more. St. Francis was the original hippie. One can imagine him scoffing at our attempts to be green, flat out saying hey man, quit lying to yourself. You aren’t pure, so quit pretending you are and do something real about it.

I’ve always felt a special affinity with St. Francis. He was a no-nonsense kind of guy. After the amazing hustle and bustle of Rome, the trip to Assisi made me think back to those times when a young patrician’s daughter named Clare decided to eschew her upbringing and become the first female Franciscan. Assisi was in an uproar, but Clare stuck to her guns and joined the order. I love the story. My main character does something of the kind, deciding she doesn’t want to be the precious debutante that her very wealthy parents have raised, instead wants a simpler life as a cop. Taylor would like Clare too.               

Sorry, waxing poetic over here. What I’m trying to say is there’s something very special about Assisi. One can easily imagine tossing aside the material wealth we strive to accumulate and focus instead on existing. In a world obsessed with Paris and Brittany, with Manolos and Laboutin, where People magazine has a massive market share, Assisi is a breath of fresh air, a reminder that these things are just that, things. What car we drive, what jeans we wear, how much collarbone Posh is showing this week, ummm, yeah. I resolved to clear out my closet, at the very least.

The next day we went to a little town on the top of a hill overlooking Lago Trasimeno. The hotel is in a medieval fortress, the town is small and simple, with lots of fun signs of the Knights Templar engraved over the lintels, and out of respect for the fact that hubby and I would like to spend some quality time there, I’m going to forgo the name.

We stared at the lake, breathed in the mountain air, and just were.

The next day we were off to Cortona for a whirlwind tour to buy my birthday present, a lovely painting by Bruno Tinucci in our favorite gallery, Nocchia. Middle, center, bottom. The picture can’t do the colors justice, nor the vivid palette knife strokes that make up the poppies. It’s fabulous. (Thanks, honey!) We scooted out of town and went to the vineyard that shares my family name, Tenute Silvio Nardi.

This is a serious vineyard dedicated to making wine from the grapes and the soil, not from the process in the vaults. Their Brunello is the best I have ever tasted, I’ve recommended it here before. Our friend Joerg gave us another wonderful tour, and we went a little wild during the tasting, breaking out the bread and olive oil, telling stories and getting very happy. There’s just nothing better in Italy than spending some time breaking bread and drinking wine, in the literal sense. You get to know a wine this way, and that’s why we’re so enamored with this particular vineyard. There’s something magical in the soil, I think; a mouthful of these liquid grapes always transports me to another, simpler time. We did the Rosso and the Brunello, and purchased some olive oil, which was truly spectacular.

We went to Florence that afternoon, and that’s where I’ll leave this travelogue. Florence is the greatest town, full of amazing restaurants and cool sights. Florence just plain makes me happy.

Thank you for indulging me. Now I have a record for myself, to make up for my lackadaisical journaling skills. And I’ll tell you, getting back in the groove hasn’t been the easiest thing, so at least I’m getting some blog entries written.

Wine of the Week: From the first part of the trip, at Ristorante Amanda in St. Vincent. From the Vallee D’Aoste region, NUS by Le Triolet (Sorry, I can’t find a link to the bottle itself.)

Two housekeeping notes:

CHECK THIS OUT!!! ITW gets down and dirty with this kick-ass video.

And if you haven’t already, drop by the brand new Flash Pan Alley, brainchild of our own Bryon Quertermous and a significant nod to the now defunct Flashing in the Gutters, may it forever rest in peace. FPA is rapidly filling with some cool shorts. I was thrilled to see another venue like the Gutter. It’s the perfect place for whacked out stuff like this. Hope to see you there!

JT Ellison

Part One…

Call me crazy, but I am loving the first day back to work after the big vacation. Catching up on what’s been happening over the past two weeks has brought me nothing but joy today. First I see Naomi won the Edgar (YES!), then I see Rob got a new contract with St. M’s (YES!), Julia Spenser-Fleming won the Gumshoe (YES! — and thanks, Sarah Weinman, for all the fantastic coverage!), all the Killer Year folks have news and reviews galore, my email holds nothing but good news from my editor and publisher… damn, folks, I need to leave town more often!

And there’s that odd sense of dislocation that accompanies international travel — the time change screws my clock royally, so I woke up full of energy at seven this morning and now, at five o’clock, I’m ready for bed. Top it all off with a lovely rainy, thunder-stormy day, and I think I will heed my editor’s advice, who firmly instructed me to lie down. I call that a free pass, and am shutting the computer until tomorrow.

Part Two…

I tried so hard to be good while I was in Italy. I brought along a travel diary and planned to journal the trip, writing daily about what we’d seen, experienced, ate and drank. I’ve established once and for all that I am not a journaling kind of girl. I made it four days. How sad am I??? So instead I have this massive accumulation of business cards, hotel magazines, wine labels, scratched notes, napkins, and notepads to document the trip. There’s so much to talk about and so many pictures, I’m not sure what to include. People keep saying, "Tell me all about your trip! Was it just fantastic? Did you have just so much fun?" And of course I must answer yes, because what sort of ungrateful charlatan could go to Italy for two weeks and NOT have a fabulous time?

Of course we had a fabulous time. So do I admit that there were… issues? That I blew the charger on the camera and it pissed me off, ergo I was crappy to everyone for a day? That I was horribly upset when my favorite pair of glasses broke, literally in half, for no apparent reason? That we were really getting sick and tired of repacking every day and wished we’d gone with plan one, to stay in a bed and breakfast in Tuscany for four nights and day trip instead, knowing that if we HAD, we’d be miserable and bored being stuck in one spot??? Or do you just want the shiny happy version? Regardless, there’s a lot, so I think I may do a two-weeker, allow myself some time to catch up and not bore you too much while I recharge. It will all affect my writing in the long run anyway, so here goes…

Week One:

We started in Pinerolo with the famiglia. (Buongiorno, e grazie mille!)

My father’s Great-Uncle Nando, his lovely wife Alma, and my cousin Daniele were so welcoming. (Yes, there was a couple of generation skips in our family tree) My Italian has certainly improved since the last trip, and Daniele’s English is superb, so we had no trouble at all communicating.

We were staying in our favorite place in all of Italy, the
Tenute la Cassinetta. It’s beautful, we got the same room as last time, the aptly-named Ambrosia Suite. The wisteria was in bloom, Daniele has fabulous taste in wine, and dinner was incredible.

We left early the next day for a trip into the mountains. We checked into the hotel in St. Vincent, a very special place we loved. Then we drove up to see the Matterhorn, in a city called Brueil-Cervina.

It was a stunning day, and they were closing the mountain for skiing, having a laid back party day, which definitely fit our moods. I’ve rediscovered a childhood problem, carsickness at altitude. I hate riding in the backseat, and I did it through several rather large mountains. I don’t know if it’s acrophobia, claustrophobia, or if I’m just a massive control freak (gee, wonder which it is?) but I was happy to get out of the car and breathe the super fresh air. 

After a phenomenal night in St. Vincent, we took to the road again and meandered toward Lago Como.

We stayed in Cernobbio,
and Miss Snark, if you happen across this
column,
please know that I looked for Mr. Clooney everywhere, even here at Harry’s Bar. Hubby was obviously thrilled by the pursuit.

Clooney was MIA, so the next day we moved on to Stresa, on Lago Maggiore. A very cool town. We stayed in the Astoria, and the strip of old motels along the water are reminiscient of the 40’s when the movie starts used to come stay here. The flowers were incredible, the zoo and botanical gardens stunning, and the pizza excellent.

Though all in all, I think I prefer Como.

Despite the sea planes and helicopters buzzing about trying to make us feel like the area was "important," the lake seemed a little more unspoiled, and we stayed up on the mountain, where the views were absolutely fabulous.

We went back to Pinerolo to pick up my brother, then took a cool trip to Sestriere, home of the winter Olympics in 2004. Sestriere is one of those places that lets you feel a little closer to God.                                                   

It’s on the border of Italy and France, snow-capped mountains as far as the eye can see. The mountains were sharp, the air clear and softer than what we’re used to (growing up in Colorado, I’m used to the mind searing clearness of the air at altitude; the Alps are much smaller than the Rockies and the air has more humidity.) Daniele is a ski instructor in Sestriere so we got the special tour. I could write here.

Had a great dinner that night in a restaurant literally perched on a mountain side. While I’m not a fan of
grappa, the proprietress made her own liqueur which was astounding. Delicately flavored with a local flower, I could have drunk the whole bottle. Maybe that’s an exaggeration, the bottle was a little large.

Now in possession of several days of Italian and increasing fluency, we flew to Rome, which was just as easy as hopping a shuttle between New York and Washington. Security was straightforward, the flight was good, no issues at all.

They say all roads lead to Rome. Thankfully, all roads lead OUT of Rome too. It’s funny. Looking back, the place we liked the least was actually the best part of the trip. Rome is dirty, and smelly, covered in graffiti, trash, pickpockets and thieves shoving roses and whirly plastic fliers in our faces. Within ten minutes, we were groaning that we had to spend two nights.

We took a quick bus tour to get oriented, and the tour guide was very knowledgeable. Dinner the first night was great. Heartened, and despite our dismay at the state of things, we decided to walk the city the next day. The weather was postcard perfect, skies so blue it hurt to look at them for too long. We started in Trevi (wow, the fountain was incredible but the crowds were gross.) We did the Pantheon, the Piazza Navona,(though the fabulous Borromini fountain was under wraps for refurbishment) St. Agnes’s, walked and walked and walked until we hit the Area Sacre. It doesn’t even have a real name on the map, and it’s just been recently rediscovered– during a 1920’s excavation, I believe, in the Largo Argentina. Four divine temples used to sit on this spot. It was a tiny piece of sanity in the midst of the city. Until it started to move.

Cats are protected in Rome. And this sacred place was home to many of them. Sleek and sassy, what seemed to be stones in the grass became frisky kittens, stately mouse catchers, domineering bullies… a veritable commentary on life slipped into a grass-filled ruin. We must have stood there for half and hour watching them play. That was cool.

We then promptly got caught in a protest parade. Skinheads, communists, anarchists — all blaring American music as their protest songs and some Aretha Franklin (go figure). I was captivated by the riot polizia. If you’re going to go to Rome, choose April 25th, Festa Della Liberazione, marking the end of the Nazi occupation and the end of World War II. It was less crowded, and you might get to see irony in action. (pics of this after the second camera returns home…)

The Coliseum managed to exceed expectation. I always assumed it had simply crumbled over time — not so. The Romans cannibalized their treasures to build more buildings. Embarrassment over the excesses of the Roman Empire, what it stood for, what it meant, drove them to destroy what they built. And the conquering hordes contributed their own desecration. It’s astounding that any of the ancient city is still standing. I’d recommend Palatine Hill. There’s something very special about that view on what we used to be.

Next week, I’ll wrap things up with a tour through Umbria and Tuscany. In the meantime, a brilliant Piedmont wine for you.

Wine of the Week, thanks to my dear cousin Daniele… Langhe Nebbolio

A little taste of heaven on earth. Every bottle, from every vineyard, was excellent.

JT Ellison

How do you read?

Are you a gulper, must read in large chunks of time, one book at a time type, or can you be just as happy with a simple sips from several sources, reading several books at once?

Do you read everyday?

Do you stick with a single genre and known commodity authors, or are you seduced by variety?

Why do I ask? Because I’m seeing some interesting trends, or non-trends in the publishing industry, and I’m curious to see how other readers approach their tasks. I’m a gulper. I hate being torn away from a book. Once I’ve committed the time to an author, I want to give them my undivided attention, take the journey with them, see how they "do it," for lack of a better term.

And I’d like to think I’m varied in my choices, though I do have a few authors that I’m faithful to regardless.

For a while there I was having a difficult time enjoying anything I read. It wasn’t that I was reading poor material, on the contrary, I was on a roll with some of the big award winning names. I was analyzing their work. It’s the bane of any writer, the inability to separate your style from the story of others. Oh, I wouldn’t have used that word, or I wouldn’t have given that clue there. If it were mine, I would have. . .

Would of, should of, could of. What??? Egads, what was I thinking? Where did THAT touch of arrogance come from? How in the world could I think like this? That I would do it differently? Then it would be my book. And that wasn’t what I wanted at all. Epiphany time. It didn’t matter what I would do. I needed to respect they way the author had done it. Amazing the freedom that tidbit gave.

Which made me wonder about the pure readers, those who don’t spend half their day writing their own books. How do you read? Are you a deconstructionist, like me, or do you allow the story to unfold, trusting the author to keep you on the right track? What drives you to unparalleled paroxysms of delight?

And here’s where I’m going with all these questions.

I noticed something very interesting the other day at a Steve Berry signing here in Nashville. I go to as many of the signings as I can, especially the big-name authors. I’ve been lucky enough to see John Connolly, Michael Connelly, Steve Berry, Tasha Alexander, Julia Spencer-Fleming, Diana Gabaldon and trust me, the upcoming visit of Lee Child has me in my own paroxysms of delight. But what fascinated me is that the attendees are different for each author. You’d think that people who like Lee Child would like Michael Connelly would like Steve Berry, right? Apparently not in Nashville. Each "name" seems to have their own following, and there are maybe four or five people who cross over into each.

Why the disparity? I’d love to know the answer to that. If you have any ideas, please chime in. I guess I’m naive in thinking that mystery readers like thrillers, and thriller readers like mysteries, but perhaps I’m wrong, and never the twain shall meet. Is this phenomenon native to Nashville?

A housekeeping note: I’m going to be gone for the next two Fridays. The lovely and talented Naomi Hirahara will be blogging in my stead while I traipse through Italy. This is the first real vacation I’ve taken since the writing journey began three years ago. I won’t be taking my laptop, will assiduously avoid Internet cafes, and promise to come back with a slew of new wine selections and a renewed sense of verve. I’ll miss you.

In the meantime:

• Please visit the wonderful Julia Spencer-Fleming’s website for  Tales of the Teapot:  Conversations with the 2007 Agatha Best Mystery Nominees. 

"2007 Agatha Nominee Julia Spencer-Fleming (ALL MORTAL FLESH) interviews
fellow nominees Earlene Fowler, Jacqueline Winspear, Nancy Pickard and
L.C. Hayden, discussing their lives, books and craft in a delightful
series of interviews."

• The brilliant, witty and always insightful Tasha Alexander has new fare! Her second novel of historical suspense, A POISONED SEASON, went on sale Tuesday. Get a copy today, you won’t be disappointed!

• And if you missed the announcement, Killer Year 2008 is gearing up. Please visit the new website for more information!

Arrivederci, i miei amici!

Wine of the Week: As the first part of the trip will be in the Piedmont region, I’m going to start with a Barbera, then have a Barolo, and maybe a touch of Asti toward the end of day one and will report back with brand names… I’m going to refuse the homemade lemon grappa this time. Non molto bene.

JT Ellison

It’s hard to imagine that we’ve been blogging here at Murderati for a year. Thank you to all our readers!

I don’t usually make New Year’s resolutions, and I look at September, the beginning of the school year, as the beginning of my year. Now I have an anniversary in April to celebrate. Fitting, really, the rebirth of the season, new life, new hope. I looked back over my blog entries — 49 essays, 45 wine recommendations, and am struck by the amount of work. I’m very grateful for this forum. It has changed me, as a writer, a reader, a group member, a technorati, a leader and a follower. And any exercise that changes you for the better, as I believe Murderati has done for me, if well worth the hard work, don’t you think?

We’ve all had change in the past year. My life has altered so dramatically, I sometimes need a good pinching to remind myself that it’s real.

Allow me a moment to indulge in where I stood as an author this time last year. I had an agent and a book under my belt that hadn’t sold. I’d just written my first couple of short stories. The mere thought of writing a weekly essay on writing scared me to death. How could I expect anyone to take me seriously when I’d never been published, and was surrounded by all these great writers who had?  I knew virtually no one in the industry outside of a few generous souls who were encouraging me behind the scenes. I’d never even been to a conference when I agreed to come on board. I feel like Murderati took a huge chance on me, and I’ll be forever grateful for the opportunity.

I got my book deal 6 weeks after Murderati’s inception. Would I have gotten the deal if I weren’t with the blog???? I don’t know. Murderati didn’t hurt, I’ll tell you that.

It’s funny, really, when I look back over the past year. It hearkens back to my junior high days of glasses and braces, being much too tall for every boy, finding validation on the basketball court, the volleyball court and in class, but never feeling like I fit. Square peg, round hole. Then we moved, I lost the braces, got contacts, and enjoyed high school. I wasn’t the most popular girl, kind of drifted between all the groups, the jocks (I was a track hound — state discus) the brains (G&T classes) the druggies (LOVED Jethro Tull and Pink Floyd), the punks (desperately wanted to die the hair pink but didn’t have the guts, and Anarchy, Baby!) and the geeks (because really, aren’t we all?) I didn’t have a ton of trauma. It was fine.

But I never totally lost that square peg/round hole feeling. Even when I was happy in my other career, I knew something wasn’t right. When I found myself through my books, I finally understood where I was supposed to be in the grand scheme of life. Square pegs finds finely crafted square hole — or as hubby likes to put it — blind squirrel finds nut, News at 11. It is a bit of a "duh" feeling. I’ve never been so happy as I have this past year.

Murderati has given me a gift bigger than any I’ve ever received. As a few of you may have noticed, I tend to do a bit of introspection through this blog. This weekly analysis session is like lying on the psychiatrist’s couch for me. I get to examine my motivations, delve into the why behind my writing, and more importantly, adhere to a writing schedule. I’ve learned new levels of discipline. Days where the fiction isn’t flowing, I can write four or five blog entries and get myself back in the game. I have a new level of comfort with my own writing, and with the explanations therein. I thank you for allowing me to come into your life each week.

While I wish my blog mates past and present a big Happy Birthday, I leave you, the reader, with this thought. Follow your dreams. You just don’t know where they might lead.

xo,  JT

Wine of the Week: As I wrote this post, my absolute favorite Rachmaninoff, the Piano concerto #2, came on. So to honor the karma, let’s do something different.

And some location specific wine to go with it: Francis Ford Coppola Rosso The wine is divine, and the website a work of art.