Deni Dietz

I recently ran into a friend who said, "I read your book, Chain a Lamb Chop to the Bed, and I loved it."

Thank you," I said, turning bright red [I always turn bright red when someone says she/he loves my books].

"But," she said.

Uh-oh, I thought, the dreaded but.

"I got it at the library," she said.

I gave her a bone-crushing hug.

For the record, I was a "library kid." Picture a plump Shirley Temple with red curls, emerging from the Bayside [N.Y.] library…hands cradled around books…so many books…so many adventures to share…the top book anchored by my chin.

Now, if you’re an author [published or non], repeat after me: "Librarians are our friends. Despite their hectic schedules, librarians read books. Librarians recommend books. Libraries buy books."

And what’s more, librarians do their best to order a book requested by a patron. It’s true. If everyone who reads this blog requests…oh, say, Chain a Lamb Chop to the Bed, librarians will try and get it for you.

I dedicated Eye of Newt to librarians.

When I saw my first published book in a bookstore, I was thrilled. When I saw it in the library, I lost my breath.  Literally.  Finding my breath, running up and down the aisles, I shouted, "Come! Come! Come! Come!"  As if I were the Pied Piper, people followed me back to the New Book Section.  "Me!" I said, pointing.  "Me! Me! Me!"

And the people smiled.

‘Tis the merry month of May and, as promised [and rib-nudged], Bea will start her serialized suspense story today.  In fact, she’s pushing me aside and reaching for the keyboard right now…

GOLDIE AND THE THREE BEERS
by Beatrice Brooks

Twenty-six-year-old Goldie Locke, named for Goldie Hawn—her mother was watching Private Benjamin when her [expletive deleted] water broke — heard heavy footsteps rounding the [expletive deleted] curve behind her.  The dense, dark forest was deserted, as dense, dark forests usually are in the middle of the night.  Which led to the question: If a Mime fell in the
forest, would anyone hear? Even more importantly, would anyone care?

That very question kept running through Goldie’s head, reverberating like a kettle drum [or, in Goldie’s case, cymbals], as, frightened out of her [expletive deleted] wits, she began shedding stuff in order to make herself lighter.  And faster.  Her [expletive deleted] wallet, her [expletive deleted]
keys, her maxed-out credit cards, her laptop computer, three library books, and, finally, her [expletive deleted] clothes.

Naked, bosom bouncing, Goldie ran as if her life depended on it…

Tune in next week for the second installment.

Over and out,
Deni

Jeffrey Cohen
I have, over the years, interviewed quite a number of writers, both in the mystery biz and not. (Don’t worry, Elaine, I have NO intention of invading your turf here!) They have ranged in subject matter from Harley Jane Kozak (of Dating Dead Men and Dating Is Murder) to Budd Schulberg (who wrote the screenplay for On the Waterfront and the novel What Makes Sammy Run?, but as far as I know, nothing with the word “Dating” in the title), from Janet Evanovich to Spike Lee, from Phoebe Snow (hey, songwriting is writing) to Mindy Starns Clark.

Every writer, one learns, brings his/her own perspective to the task, which is what makes this a creative process and not an assembly line activity. Each one has a point of view, each one attacks the issue in a different way, and each one knows the awful feeling of staring at blankness and yearning to fill it up.

But let’s face it, some of them (not a single one I named above) are a little full of themselves.

Writing is a calling, a professional, an avocation, an art form. It’s also a job. And like any other job, its parameters are deceptively simple. When Lucy and Ethel looked at the candy conveyor belt before it starting moving, that looked like a really easy job. When the belt started to turn, not so much. Writing is like that: all you really have to do is manipulate 26 letters into the proper order, and you have written Moby-Dick. Or Macbeth. Or, for that matter, the latest episode of The War At Home. Whatever floats your boat.

Naturally, it’s not that easy. Choosing the right words, pacing the story, choosing the right story and building characters–none of these is a simple task. Creating something meaningful out of absolutely nothing at all? One of the least simple things on the planet.

But let’s be real. Some writers want you to believe that this is a mystical, paranormal process that involves communing with muses, standing in just the right spot, burning the proper incense, playing exactly the right music (which ranges from Rachmaninoff to the YeahYeahYeahs) and having exactly the proper tools. I know writers who order exactly the proper pens from Office Depot by the gross, and then write novels on a computer. Go figure.

You want to know my writing process? I get an idea–that’s the tricky part, and you can’t rush it. It ususally happens when you’re thinking about something–anything–else, often in the shower, trying to fall asleep (not at the same time) or cooking dinner. I get ideas for stories when I’m doing something that requires virtually no thought whatsoever–like the work that pays my bills.

Once there is an idea, the work doesn’t necessarily get easier, but it becomes controllable. A story idea can be built upon when you decide to think about it and you can do the actual writing at a time that makes sense for you. For me, it’s mostly after three in the afternoon, as I have to get as much real work out of the way as possible before I start trying to be creative.

It’s not that I CAN’T write before three, and it’s not that I CAN’T write whenever there is time. It’s more natural when I do it at a particular time, but it’s not impossible any other time. When I get near the end of a novel, believe me, I can write at any time of the day or night.

And I don’t believe in writer’s block. I don’t think there is such a thing–I think it’s writers who are doing what we do best–procrastinating–by claiming there’s a special writer’s disease that only they understand. I’m a freelance writer. If someone is paying me for an article, and it has to be handed in on Thursday, believe me, it gets written by Thursday. I’d love to tell one of my editors at a newspaper or magazine that I’d like to give them their articles, but I have writer’s block. No doubt my phone would be ringing off the hook with offers after that, no?

Here are some of the things you hear from writers in interviews that make me grind my teeth:

1. All the really successful ones will tell you they get up at four or five in the morning and write all morning. Uh-huh. Yeah, writers don’t need sleep. I’d like to stake out one of these writers’ homes at four in the morning and turn on all the lights when they don’t get up that early. I’d do it, too, but there’s no way I’M getting out of bed that early. The only difference is, I’ll admit it.

2. One of my favorites: “I really write it all out on a legal pad in longhand.” I’ve had successful mystery writers, screenwriters and novelists tell me this one. Sure, they do. In the age of computers, in which you can revise your sentence immediately without re-typing, Wite-Out or ripping pages to shreds, they work on legal pads. You hear this more from REALLY successful writers, mostly because they can then add the part about “then I get my assistant to type it out for me; honestly without (him/her), I don’t know how I’d get by.” This not only manages to preserve the “mystical process” myth of writing, it also lets you know that they can afford an assistant, and you can’t.

3. “I can only write when classical music is playing.” The converse of this myth, which is purported by those writers hoping for a younger audience, is “I can only write when (insert name of extremely loud and atonal rock band) is playing.” Neither is true. Writers can write with music, without music, in an attic, in a basement, with the ballgame on the TV in the next room (I’ve done some of these), with food, without food, in the middle of a hurricane (assuming they have a self-powered legal pad) or on the beach of a Caribbean island. Although why you’d want to waste a day on the beach of a Caribbean island writing is beyond me. Music may give you something to think about while you’re trying to procrastinate, but it’s not necessary to the writing process. If it is, what do SONGWRITERS have on when they’re writing? Audiobooks of novels?

4. “I don’t know where the ideas come from.” Oh, please. Of course you do. Characters, while they are impish creatures who do things unexpected even to their creators, do not live in an alternative universe. They’re not sitting in a giant character Holding Area waiting for the proper writer to wake up one morning and say, “hey… what about a sea captain who’s really an international jewel thief named Ramondo?” “Number 18273658! Ramondo! You’re up!”

5. “It came to me in a dream.” So did acid reflux. Dreams, once again puncturing a popular myth, take place in your MIND. That’s a physical space inside your head. If you dream about something, odds are you were thinking about a topic at least tangentially related to it. Deities did not send a story idea to you while you were sleeping, and I wouldn’t count on elves repairing your shoes while you’re taking the nightly nap, either. Maybe you got a PIECE of an idea in a dream, if you’re one of those odd souls who can remember their dreams, but trust me, a whole novel? How long were you asleep?

Writing is a noble profession, historically elevated to an art form by alcoholics. It is, indeed a calling, and people who aren’t going to do it no matter what shouldn’t attempt to do it for a living. But it’s a job. It is, in my mind, anyway, a better job than most, and the only thing I know how to do well, other than watch baseball games (I’m great at that). I’d be a sub-average guitarist, a run-of-the-mill lawyer, and for all I know a competent upholsterer, but writing is what I’ve always wanted, and people have told me I’m good at it. Enough people that, so far, I’ve been able to make my living–such as it is–at this pursuit. Luckily, my wife has a steady job.

But I haven’t ever thought of my job as a mystical event, a miracle or a message from another dimension. I’m good at making up stories, and better at telling them. That’s all it is.

I’ll never be a bestselling author.  It was never my intention.  Seriously, it wasn’t.  I just wanted to be published and published well (and hopefully earn a few schekles along the way to keep me stocked in Walnut Whips).  But I can dream.  One day it would be cool to think that my name will be a household word and sycophants will hang on my every utterance—but that won’t happen, because I’ll never reach bestsellerdom.  And it has nothing to do with talent or lucky breaks.  It’s because I’m just not big enough to be a bestseller. Physically, I’m mean.  At 5’ 4” (actually I’m 5’ 4 1/2”, but my wife, Julie, laughs because I toss in the 1/2”), I’m not a tall guy and short guys don’t make it to the NY Times bestseller list.

You’re probably laughing at me (that’s if you can see me down here amongst the grass blades), but you can’t ignore the facts.  Stephen King floats around six-three.  Harlan Coben is in that realm, as is Steve Hamilton.  Two of the biggest selling authors are two of the biggest people in publishing.  Michael Crichton is six-seven or something and they have to divert air traffic around John Grisham wherever he goes.  That’s why you don’t see him out promoting his books too much these days.  The FAA hates when he leaves a fixed position.

Having attended a number of mystery conventions, I’ve gotten to see these literary and physical giants wandering around the convention halls banging into ceiling lights with their heads while I had to have someone lift me up to reach the elevator button.  I used to cast a glance their way and think, wouldn’t it great to be like them.  Then I realized, I can’t.  I’m not a member of the big guy club.  I’m just not big enough to get on their ride.  No wonder I’m in the small press.  It’s for little people only.

Personally, I think it’s a conspiracy of big people.  First they get their own “big and tall” stores, now they all want to be best selling authors.  How long will it be before agents start asking for previous publishing credits and height details?  Not long, my short-legged friends.

Personally, I think it has to stop.  A short guy needs to make it to the NY Times bestseller list to bust open this discrimination—and I think that short guy should be me.  What I need you all to do is buy at least five copies of my next book, Working Stiffs, and tell friends and family to do the same.  It’s available from Barnes and Noble and all good independent bookstores.  Together, we can make a short guy stand on the shoulders of giants.

Just in case you’re wondering if this is a shallow attempt to get you to buy my next book, I’d like to quote Francis Urquhart, “You might think so.  I couldn’t possibly comment.”

Simon Wood

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           Pari Noskin Taichert

Sorry for the late post today; I’ve been trying to catch up on life since returning from Malice Domestic late last night.

Rather than recap the convention, I thought I’d offer my own little primer on an important etiquette question that seems to have escaped many a manner maven.

What do you say to someone who has been nominated for a national award . . . but, alas, loses?

Since I’ve begun to refer to myself as the Susan Lucci of the Agathas (of course . . . I should be so lucky), I’ve built a sturdy, big soapbox upon which to stand.

Before I get too distracted, let me just say one thing:

IT’S AN HONOR TO BE NOMINATED.

YES. IT REALLY IS. And, I hear winning is pretty nice, too.

For many, talking to an author who has lost an award can be a disconcerting experience. I mean, how do you offer condolences for something as nebulous as a “coulda, shoulda, woulda?”

First, let me get the negative stuff out of the way. Some people feel compelled to say something to nominees after the winner is announced.

The following are a few unpleasantries uttered to me that didn’t sit quite right . . . 

(Remember . . . If you want to avoid embarrassment, you can always run from the finalist, or duck into a bathroom close by, rather than commit these gaffs.)

1. “I couldn’t find your book anywhere.”

Oh, pluhleeez. With all the mystery bookstores, chain outlets and online resources available today . . . no nominated book is that difficult to find.

2. “What was your name?”

3. “Oh? You were a nominee?”

4. “Why would anyone nominate YOU?”

Now that I’ve got that out of my system here are some great phrases to use. Any one of them will work with most authors:

BEFORE THE WINNER IS ANNOUNCED

1. “Congratulations.”

2. “I voted for you.” (This works even if you’re lying.)

(Another nice line is: “You deserve it” which implies that the nomination wasn’t simply a miscalculation. Believe me, we writers are an insecure group. Ask me what I said to the Awards chair when she called to tell me about the honor in the first place.)

3. “I love your books. When’s the next one coming out?”

4. “I can get you on OPRAH/CHARLIE ROSE/THE TODAY SHOW”

(This one works for any major media outlet.)

TEN SECONDS – TEN MINUTES AFTER THE WINNER IS ANNOUNCED

1. “Oh, I wish you’d won.”

2. “I love your books. When’s the next one coming out?”

3. “What an incredible honor to be nominated.” (Note the lack of the word “Just” as in “What an incredible honor JUST to be nominated.” Somehow that little word can negate the phrase to an author who’s licking her ego-wounds a tad.)

4. “The vote was fixed.”

5. “I’ve got a call in to my friend at the OPRAH/CHARLIE ROSE/THE TODAY SHOW.” 

THE NIGHT OF THE LOSS

1. “Oh, I wish you’d won.”

2. “I love your books. When’s the next one coming out?”

3. “What an incredible honor to be nominated.”

4. “Would you like a drink?”

5. “Let me buy you a drink.”

6. “You should have won.”

7. “Wow. Is your glass empty already? Let me buy you a drink.”

8. “My friend at the OPRAH/CHARLIE ROSE/THE TODAY SHOW wants to talk to you tomorrow.” 

THE DAY, WEEK, MONTH, YEAR, DECADE AFTER THE LOSS

The thing here is to avoid pity. The finalist has now – probably – come to terms with the loss. Still, a bit of ego massaging and friendly support never hurts.

1. “Congratulations.”

This remains an elegant and simple response.

2. “You should’ve won.” “I voted for you.”

I’m sorry, but these will never stop feeling good – and they in no way imply that the winner didn’t deserve the award.

3. “I buy all of your books as soon as they come out.”

4. “I hope you liked the box of chocolates (or bottle of Glenlivet) I sent.”

5. “Oprah still says you were the best interviewee she ever had.”

THANK YOU

Since I didn’t get to say it on stage . . . I want to take a moment to thank everyone who nominated and voted for me at Malice last year and this year. It was – and remains – and incredible honor.

I hope to give you many more reasons to feel my writing deserves your accolades in the future.

Cheers,

Pari

Jeffrey Cohen
“Because they laugh at (comedians), I don’t think people understand how essential we are to their sanity.”–Groucho Marx
ARLINGTON, VA–The Malice Domestic mystery conference, which is held once a year in celebration of mayhem, murder, sleuthing and, apparently, hats, is always a pleasure to behold. Rarely does one get a chance to visit with actual readers (book signings don’t count, especially since in my case, nobody ever shows up) and find out what they like about your work, and other things. Especially wonderful this year were the generous comments about Murderati. I’m glad you’re out there reading it. Don’t ever stop letting us know what you think.

But that’s not what I’m posting about today. You didn’t think I’d stay gracious for a whole post, did you?

Saturday morning, I participated in a panel entitled (if memory serves): The Role of Humor in Mystery. There was a subtitle about Mirth Among the Murders or something like that, but I don’t pay attention to such things, as the subtitles to my non-fiction books will attest. They’re each about 400 words long, and in some cases, longer than the first chapter of the book.

But I digress.

One of the topics raised at the panel (which was a hoot, by the way, and you should have been there), addressed by the likes of Karl Fieldhouse, Jeff Marks, the lovely and talented Parnell Hall, Barbara Workinger, our very own Ms. Denise Dietz (who moderated beautifully) and Sheri Cobb South–who isn’t fooling anyone with that accent; we know she’s from Britain–was:

Why isn’t humor recognized with awards? Why is humor considered a less prestigious sub-genre? Why, indeed, are some authors advised not to even mention the word “funny” in relation to their work?

Those of us who traffic in humor will tell you: we’re the Rodney Dangerfields of literature. I’ll tell ya, we don’t get no respect. No respect at all. (You can imagine me pulling manically on my tie, if I wore ties: I consider it one of the perks of being a freelance writer that I virtually never have to wear a tie.)

Why not? When the literary world looks down upon genre authors, and some genre readers look down on mystery, why is the humorous mystery considered even more inconsequential?

The best comedy seems natural, spontaneous and worst of all, effortless. When it’s done right, comedy is something that doesn’t seem to be forced, that happens as an organic outgrowth of the situation and the character involved. If you can see the sweat and tears that went into its creation, it probably doesn’t work. This leads to a number of popular misconceptions, not the least of which is that comedy is EASY.

Um, no, it’s really not.

If I were to write a serious mystery that didn’t hit the mark, it might be reviewed as a less-than-stellar effort, something that doesn’t “transcend the genre,” (as if the genre needed transcending), an interesting misfire.

In other words, a mediocre drama can still be seen as something with at least potential value. An interesting failure; a noble effort. But if one attempts to do comedy and everything doesn’t work right, it dies. A horrible death. There is nothing louder than silence where laughter is intended.

But when comedy is done well, when the seams don’t show and the actors seem to be making up their dialogue as they go, it is still considered in some way a lesser art form. Name the last comedy to win an Academy Award for best picture (okay, it was SHAKESPEARE IN LOVE (1998), but that’s beside the point). Now, think about how long it was before that. (ANNIE HALL, 1977.) So once every 20 years someone makes a really good comedy?

This is not a plea for awards. I don’t think that because my books make (some) people laugh, that they should automatically be given an Edgar, an Agatha, or a Morris, for that matter. But the idea of awarding something that works at being funny shouldn’t be outlandish. Left Coast Crime has an award for the funniest mystery of the year, and that’s great. But is it too much to ask that comedy should be on equal footing with drama? Is it somehow inferior, and therefore in need of separation in order to be noticed? Is We’ll Always Have Parrots really a worse book than The DaVinci Code?

Here at Malice (you knew I’d get back to Malice, didn’t you?) the book reviewer Maureen Corrigan, who writes for the Washington Post and reviews on NPR, spoke on the great elements of mystery writing, and I asked her why “humorous” mysteries (I HATE that word!) don’t get no respect. She said–am I’m paraphrasing–that sometimes authors get so caught up in being funny that the humor sits down on the plot, or seems contrived. I agree. That’s BAD comedy writing. Corrigan said, refreshingly, that she thinks it’s very difficult to write humor well, and she appreciates it when it is a function of character and when, in other words, the writer is good at it.

So maybe we get a little respect. But not that much.

By the way, in the introduction to the Humor in Mystery panel, Ms. Dietz said (with my approval, so I’m not complaining) that “Jeffrey Cohen is the author of the Stephanie Plum series, and a multimillionaire. In order to keep his adoring fans at bay, he has created the pseudonym Janet Evanovich.”

All I’d like to say is, we were just kidding, Janet. Honest.

A usual bone of contention amongst authors is with their book covers.  The publisher’s vision is never that of the author’s and why don’t the publishers listen?  There are some great books out there with appalling jacket covers. 

The cover of my first book, Accidents Waiting To Happen, came out okay.  It was respectable, but no one saw the knockdown, drag out fight that I had with the publisher over what they proposed.  I won’t go into details, but I would have been embarrassed to see it on the shelves.  Our discussions got so heated that the publisher ignored my requests to see the final artwork, which left me to live on my nerves for a number of weeks while I waited to see if the publisher had listened to me.  To my relief, they had.

Things changed for my second book, Dragged Into Darkness.  I was with a different publisher and they listened to me.  I got the author’s dream ticket when it came to cover design.  They let me pick my artist and the artist liked my concept for the cover.  It was great to work with an artist.  I got to see him experiment with my idea and develop his own vision from that.  Needless to say, I was very happy with the end result.

Working Stiffs is around the corner now and I love the stylized cover Blue Cubicle came up with.  The best part was that I didn’t have a damn thing to do with it.  The publisher has a distinct concept for the cover and they pursued it, but the publisher had no intention of sharing it with me.  It was to be a surprise.  I should have been nervous, but I wasn’t, mainly because I trusted the publisher.  They’d been great to work with (and I’m not brownnosing here) and I believed in them.  And to my delight, the surprise was a good one.  I don’t think I could have envisioned anything better.

So my opinion is changing when it comes to cover design.  I don’t want to be involved too much and this change isn’t because of how Blue Cubicle treated me.  This has been a gradual change over the last year or so.  Not long after Dragged Into Darkness went into print, I changed my mind about the cover design used.  I had a different idea for the cover and it soured my opinion of the one printed.  Also, I know a couple of cover artists and after seeing some of the amazing work that they’ve created without the interference of the author, I’ve decided that it’s not my place to interfere.  Just because I wrote the novel doesn’t mean I’m the chief consultant on all things on the book.  If I were so damn great, I wouldn’t need editors to tell me where I’ve gone awry. 

The problem is that as a writer, you’re the creator and as such you want total control of your creation.  Well, aren’t we a jumped up little breed?  Don’t let it be said writers don’t have a God complex. 

Wanting to have total control is fine, but I think I’ll drive myself crazy if I keep that up.  So I’m of the mind that I should let people do their jobs.  I’ll do the writing, the publishers can do the publishing and the artists can do the arting.

So from now on, I’m not going to sweat it.  The book cover can be anything.  It’s not my department. 

What’s that?  You want to do what with the next book?  No.  Never.  Over my dead body!  Well, I’d like to see you try that.

Simon Wood

Denise Dietz

It has come to my attention that my friends don’t know if/when I’m blogging. My first hint was when I received several emails that said: "When are you planning to start blogging, Deni?"

I think the confusion is my AKA, Beatrice Brooks. I posted her photo, rather than mine, because Bea is younger, the camera loves Bea, she’s thinner, and when she doesn’t have a potty mouth, she’s funnier.

So, from now on I’ll blog as Deni Dietz and introduce Bea when she posts.

My Quibbles & Bits today is "Pros and Cons."

This Thursday at 4:45 p.m. I’ll be landing at National Airport, then taking the shuttle to the Crystal Gateway Marriott for a mystery conference called Malice Domestic.  Upon arriving, I’ll hug all the authors and fans I haven’t seen since . . . my last conference.

Why attend a conference at all?

For a midlist author it’s not (and I hate this word) "cost-effective."  I sign lots and lots of books at conferences, but my royalties on book sales will barely cover one and a half good meals, much less airfare and hotel . . . so why go?

The answer, for me, is simple.  I want to put my fingers on the pulse of the fans.  Not just my fans, THE fans.  Sure, I can do that on the ‘net, but I’ll tell you something "funny," and, of course, this is just MY opinion, MY theory.  I belong to several mystery loops that aren’t "genre specific."  They aren’t cozy loops or thriller loops or hard-boiled loops, or stick-it-up-your-jumper loops.  I write three series with amateur sleuths.  I call them "amateur slueth mysteries."

Some people call my books traditional mysteries, some call them whodunits, some call them "witty psychological thrillers" (a designation I made up to sell my first series, upon learning that editors don’t like the word "funny"), and some call them cozies.  But what I’ve noticed is that the people who read books titled "Death By Crochet Hook" (or CHAIN A LAMB CHOP TO THE BED) tend to lurk on mystery loops.  And when they do post, for the most part they sound defensive or apologetic.  I wish I had a dollar for every post that begins: "I usually don’t read woo woo (cozies, humor, cat/dog/parrot mysteries) but . . ."

Years ago, a friend said (slurred), "Denise, why don’t you stop writin’ all that crap an’ write the Great American Novel?"  I said, "Define the Great American Novel."

My answer today might be, "Because there are very few conferences for Great American Novelists, and I desperately need my conference fix."

Last Sunday Jeff Cohen wrote a hilarious, albeit perceptive, blog about conference panels, so I won’t go there.  All I’ll say is that, as the moderator for the "Humor in Mysteries" panel, this Saturday at Malice, I don’t plan to ask, "Where do you get your ideas?" or "How long does it take you to write a book?" or even "Why don’t you stop writing all that crap and write the Great American Novel?"

My questions will be more along the lines of: "As humorous crime writers, could you have a future as a stand-up comic?"  Or: "What’s the funniest thing that’s ever happened to you at a booksigning?"

Come to think of it, I have a bazillion answers to that one!

So does Bea.

Over and out,
Deni

Pari Noskin Taichert

I have a friend who sold her book for a news-grabbing sum of money. She’s a former reporter and was mortified when her peers misquoted, misrepresented, and even made up things in their articles about her.

Poor dear, she wasn’t thinking like a PR pro at first. Believe me, she is now.

When I’ve written features in the past, I’ve preferred to craft upbeat pieces for publication. I know other journalists with the same aims: to find and write interesting, informative stories. But there’s another beast in the news business: the reporter who believes dirt is more interesting than Ivory Soap. This animal is always looking for the Gotcha! It’s that moment when a reporter smiles, knowing she’s got an unanticipated tidbit to run with, and the interviewee’s guts turn to mush.

Here are some tips when you’re talking with a reporter you don’t know, don’t know to trust, or don’t trust based on his or her previous work:

1.   Know what you want to say. No matter how smart you are, winging it is just stupid.

2.   Be in control. This doesn’t mean you grab the mike from a reporter. Au contraire, know the image you want to convey and then figure out how you want to do it. Otherwise you’re at the mercy of someone who may not have your best interests at heart.

3.      Don’t prattle. The reporter is not your friend.

4.      THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS “OFF THE RECORD.”

5.      You can record a phone conversation or interview if you’re concerned about being misquoted. Just inform the reporter or writer.

6.      Don’t ask to review a story before publication; it’s offensive to the reporter and won’t serve you well.

7.      Develop talking points — two to five items that you always come back to—to keep control of the interview.

8.      Practice and role-play to become accustomed to quick questions and to ensure you don’t say things that can be horribly misinterpreted or make you sound like a dope.

9.      Use your mirror and a practice audience to critique your answers and how you deliver them (extra “ums” and “uhs” are as bad as looking away from the reporter in what could be construed as evasion).

10.  Hire a media trainer or consultant if you’re in a position where you’ll be interviewed on television more than once – or nationally (wouldn’t that be nice?). There are former reporters in most communities that run workshops or consult for a fee. Insist they bring television cameras, lights, a big mike and a bad attitude — to put you through your paces.

I’m not trying to make you paranoid here. Even pros forget some of these rules.

When BELEN came out, I had an interview with a reporter in Belen, NM. I blew off every one of these rules and ended up with a nasty feature article – front page in the paper.

That’s once.

Although the public doesn’t remember many things, a bad news story usually sticks around a lot longer than a good one. Don’t mess up for lack of preparation. Don’t give any reporter the satisfaction of a Gotcha!

With the Malice Domestic conference starting this coming Friday (and please, say hi if you see me there!), perhaps this is the time to discuss the importance of panels. No, not the panels that are hugging the walls of your den, or the ones that apparently wear blue ribbons and tell the government how it can screw up less often, but are never taken seriously. No, I mean the panels that a convention attendee might… attend… to hear a discussion on some aspect of the mystery publishing biz.

These generally have a topic that’s relatively open-ended, like “If Your Sleuth Owns a Cat,” “If Your Sleuth Is A Cat” or “Hard Boiled Vs. Cozy: What’s With the Cats?” A group of (usually) authors (sometimes) editors and (very occasionally) agents discusses the topic at length—for 50 minutes—and then takes questions, assuming there are any.

Panels can be a great deal of fun, can sometimes be informative, and are a swell way to rest your feet after traipsing around the convention all day. They’re great for authors, because we get to hawk our work ruthlessly (without any ruth at all) and hopefully introduce ourselves to readers who might not have heard of us before.

Authors love being on panels, and try very hard to get a good spot at the convention. There is much talk among authors about what time of day, which day and in what room each one’s panel might be held. The one thing you can count on is that no matter which day, time or room the author has been assigned, they will believe it to be a lousy one.

(I hasten to add here that the panel I’ll be on at Malice, with my blogmate Denise Deitz acting as moderator, is exactly the one I’ve always hoped I’d be on, the time is swell and I have no idea what the room looks like, aside from the fact that it’ll have four walls and some chairs. It’s called The Role of Humor in Mysteries, it will take place at 10 a.m. Saturday with my fellow panelists Parnell Hall, Karl Fieldhouse, Jeffrey Marks, Sheri Cobb South and Barbara Workinger, and I sincerely hope that if you’re in the area, you’ll drop by. Every word in this paragraph is sincere.)

If you’ve never participated in a mystery convention panel, let me give you a quick look at the process going on inside the author’s head while the panel is going on. It’s less a stream of consciousness than a tidal wave of self-consciousness, but it’s reasonably accurate, give or take some exaggeration:

I wonder why they seated me on the end. It’s because nobody’s ever heard of me; I know. There are at least 50 readers out there, right now, asking themselves who that curly haired guy with the beard on the end is. “Cohen? Jeffrey Cohen? Isn’t that my dentist’s name? Or was that the guy I went to grammar school with, the one who’s an accountant now?” That’s what they’re thinking. It’s because I’m on the end.

Damn. I shouldn’t have worn this jacket. The sleeves are weird—too long, or too short, or something. Stop playing with your cuffs! People are watching you! And now they’re wondering who the curly haired guy with the beard is, and why he won’t stop playing with his cuffs.

The other authors on this panel look a lot more relaxed than I am. Look at them. That guy actually brought six of his books—six! And all his books stand up so well on the dais. People can see the titles and everything. How come my book won’t stand up? Does his publisher use better cover stock than mine?

Smile! People are looking! You don’t want them to think you’re not happy to be here, do you? But don’t smile too much! They’ll think of you as the grinning jack o’ lantern, and the next thing you know, you’re the curly haired bearded guy with the itchy cuffs who looks like a jack o’ lantern.

The moderator’s introducing me. Nod to the audience with a friendly smile. Friendly, not psychopathic! Pretend to be modest about your meager accomplishments. Aw, pshaw. That’s it.

Damn! That other author stole the line I had prepared! Now what am I going to say when they ask me a question? What made me think I could come up here and just wing it?

What? Oh, a question. Speak, but don’t hog the microphone. This isn’t the Jeff Cohen Show, you know (not that it would be such a bad idea… ). Easy, there. You don’t want to come across as egotistical. Hey, this is actually enjoyable. Ask me another question.

Who’s that in the front row? She seems to be smiling in my direction. Is it someone I’m supposed to remember? I’m terrible at faces. I hope she’s wearing a name tag if she comes up after the panel. But then, if I stare at it, she’ll wonder 1) if I’m a pervert and 2) how come I’m looking at her name tag when I should remember who she is. Either way, I’m…

What? Oh, sorry. Another question. They’re asking everyone on the panel for an answer, and I wasn’t listening to the first two! Suppose I say the same thing!

Stop playing with your cuffs!

Oh man: I’ve answered two questions and I haven’t mentioned the name of my book! Nice marketing there, pal. Now, how am I going to work it into a question about the role of cats in mysteries? There are no cats in my book! Wait, though: there is a dog. Two dogs. Maybe I can work it in that way.

Damn! That guy is being funnier than me! I hate that! I’m supposed to be the funny one, right? Who asked him to step in? Okay, so the people who run the convention did, but that’s beside the point! If I’m not the funny one, which one am I?

Oh, yeah: “the curly haired bearded one with the cuffs who grins like a jack o’ lantern and isn’t that funny. And what was the name of his book, again? I don’t think he’s mentioned it. I’d write it down off the cover, but the thing won’t stand up for more than two seconds at a time.”

I’m trying to listen, really! This is actually a very interesting topic, but I’m so caught up in projecting an image that I’m forgetting to be part of the group. It’s time for the audience questions. I hope someone asks one I can answer.

Hmmm, hmmm, hmmm. Yes, I can understand why you’d ask that author a question first. She’s sold tons more books than I have. What am I even doing on a panel with her, anyway? And him, and her, down in the last chair! I’m way outclassed! I should be on a panel about “Authors Who Deservedly Toil in Obscurity.”

What? A question for me? Answer spontaneously—don’t think about it. Hey! I got a laugh! They liked it! This is getting to be fun, now!

What do you mean, it’s over? We were just getting started! Oh, all right. Stand up, shake hands with the other panelists, head toward the signing area, where you can examine the complex workings of a ballpoint pen while the others sign books for the hordes of devoted fans who will show up at their tables. It’s been fun. Say thank you to the moderator, who really did a swell job. Talk to a few audience members.

And stop playing with your cuffs!