Author Archives: Murderati Members


Writers and the New Year

by Alafair Burke

It’s another Monday, but today we kick off not just another week, but a new year in a new decade.  I thought it would be fun to check in with some writer friends to see what was on their minds as we said goodbye to 2010.

Lee Child, author of Worth Dying For:

Well, I kind of share Reacher’s super-pedantic nature and feel that every day is the start of a new year.  Calendar?  We don’t need no stinkin’ calendar!  And because I’m a generally contented guy I often feel … kind of gloomy about Jan 1, not because I’m down, but because usually the old year was so great I can’t see how the new one can be anything other than worse.  It usually isn’t, of course, which merely reinforces the cycle twelve months later.

I’ll be up late, probably watching NBC, and I’ll get into the moment.  But then I’ll go – 2011?? WTF?? How old am I now???  I’ll take the day off on the 1st, and then be back at work on the 2nd, laying bricks, trying to get the new book done.

Lisa Unger, author of Fragile

Since Ocean was born five years ago, we’ve spent our New Year’s Eve at home. When she entered the scene, focus really shifted to our domestic life.  The idea of partying as the clock strikes midnight has somewhat lost its appeal.  Last year we had a sitter scheduled. But Ocean got sick, so we stayed home with her and made marshmallow s’mores in our chiminea. Then Jeffrey and I celebrated with cosmos by the pool after she went to sleep. It was probably one of the best New Year’s celebrations ever.  This year, our long-time sitter is sort of on call.  She knows we might go out after Ocean goes to sleep for a little while, just to say we had a date night on New Year’s Eve.  But we’ll likely be home way before midnight.  I am married to my best friend, and our home is my favorite place in the world.  So it’s hard to imagine a better place to start the new year!  Chances are that’s where you’ll find us when the ball drops.

Karin Slaughter, author of Broken

Okay, well, I am pretty boring.  I always have a book due at the end of the year, so I spend the week between Christmas and New Years polishing the hell out of it so I can have it in my editors’ inboxes when they get back to work.  This is to say that I am so exhausted by the time the new year rolls around that I am generally in bed by ten.  Hey, it’ll still be next year when I get up.

Jonathon King, author of Midnight Guardians

My New Year’s will be grand celebrating in Ocean City, NJ and this year will start off with a new job at 8 am in the warm city of Pompano Beach, FL. Back to the world of paid employ, the writing may slow but never stop. Let us all be optimistic in 2011 and let a storm of reading break out everywhere!

Laura Lippman, author of The Girl in the Green Raincoat (to be published Jan. 18). And, fingers crossed, Unnamed Lippman #16, slated for August and now staggering toward completion.

For several years now, I’ve been doing the one-word resolution challenge at my website. This year, I chose “be,” recognizing that I am destined to fail. I think writers, by temperament, suck at being in the moment. They’re always rewriting the encounter that just happened (“I SHOULD have said”) or thinking about the work ahead. It’s a crazy way to be. Or not be, I guess.

But for personal reasons that you’ll understand even if I don’t want to broadcast them to Murderati readers — because I am trying very hard to have a hard, bright line between my personal and public lives — I’m trying to find some moments to be in the moments. It is, as the Zen masters promise, pretty great. Still, I suck at it.

And here’s a story I haven’t told: A few weeks before David Thompson died, I had a very brisk IM conversation with him via Facebook. I was working, I have so little margin for error in how I spend my time now that I am often forced to be brisk. Polite, but brisk. That turned out to be my last contact with him. I know I am supposed to turn this into an object lesson about how we never know and I should feel awful about the fact that I didn’t put down my work that morning and have a long, chatty conversation with David. Except, the great thing about David is that he totally understood that I was working and couldn’t do that. He understood what writers’ days were like, he understood why I was having trouble deciding whether I could come to the store in October. He was understanding personified. So instead of beating myself up for not stopping work that morning, I celebrate the fact that I knew someone like David.

I lost two friends and my father-in-law this year. I have never had a year of such extreme highs and lows, and I wonder if it has to be that way. And if it does have to be that way, what would I choose — a year of highs and lows, or a muddle through the middle? I honestly can’t decide. So I’m just going to try to be and roll with what comes. Almost every novel I write centers on one basic idea: Anything can happen to anyone at any time. I control nothing. Maybe that’s why I became a writer, where I get to enjoy the illusion of control over my pages and my characters.

Val McDermid, author of Trick of the Dark (UK) and most recently in the US, Fever of the Bone

I will be celebrating Hogmanay in traditional Scottish fashion. I’ll be up in my home town in Fife at my mother’s house, where we start the evening with one of the finest fish and chip suppers in the world. We’ll sit around and blether (that would be “chat” to you…) then when it gets close to midnight, we’ll charge our glasses — whisky for me and my mum, Diet Coke for the American teetotal wife, and apple juice for the kid — listen to the bells ring out on the TV, get tearful and drink our toast to the New Year. We’ll make some phone calls and texts to friends and family, then my mum and the kid head for bed while the wife and I go out to party. (She still feels bewildered at the notion of leaving the house to start partying after midnight. I guess they don’t do that in Michigan)

The party we go to is the same party I have been attending for 35 years. So, lots of auld acquaintance, whisky, Scottish country dancing and general catching up. We usually make it to bed these days by five or so. I guess I just don’t have it in me any more to stay up drinking whisky all night then end up at my friend Donald’s house to eat bacon and eggs around nine. Later that day we’ll visit friends and family. Next day is the traditional football (ie soccer) match. It’s always a local derby and we will sit in the director’s box (a very posh word for a little enclosure in the main stands, open to the elements and in line with the prevailing wind…) and freeze as we cheer on Raith Rovers to victory. It’s what we always do. On the rare occasions I’ve missed out (mostly because of seasonal illness) I’ve felt out of kilter all year. So I guess it’s a very important ritual for me.

(Ed. note: I love Val’s Scottish-isms but thank her kind soul for translations.  I grew up in Kansas!)

Jan Burke, author of The Messenger

On New Year’s Eve, we’ll happily spend time with friends. Then I become a curmudgeon, because the evening is a finalist for Least Favorite Holiday, one during which too many people try too hard to have fun — especially one of neighbors, who will probably make her annual attempt set someone’s roof on fire with a bottle rocket. I treat that evening — Amateur Drinkers’ Night — as if an announcement has gone out declaring that zombies will be migrating through my neighborhood: I stay inside after sundown.

Michael Koryta, author of The Cypress House

I have little excitement and less wit on New Year’s Day, it seems. Beyond making a resolution to get in better shape and then promptly falling asleep on the couch with a beer in my hand, my only consistent ritual is in totaling up the number of books read and words written. This year’s totals are disappointing: 76 books read versus the 103 I finished in 2009 (including a riveting thriller titled 212) and 228,037 words written. I topped 400,000 words in 2009, so that’s a big drop, and, since the vast majority of them end up on the cutting room floor, it’s a little alarming. I’ll try to find someone to blame immediately. Or maybe I should just get back to work…

(Ed. note: 228K words is disappointing? Good thing he snuck in that plug for my book, or I would really hate this guy.)

Jonathan Hayes, author of A Hard Death

My life – as a New Yorker, as a forensic pathologist, as a writer – always feels like it’s teetering on the brink of total collapse. I try to use New Year’s as an annual brake, as an opportunity to slow down, to actually concentrate on something. I like the tradition of a clean slate for the coming year, but my best resolutions have involved working on mindfulness, or developing a skill.
 
For example, when I was a contributing editor at Martha Stewart Living, I decided to work on my sense of smell. I kicked off the fresh year with a collection of beautiful essential oils, and a stack of books on scent and perfumery. The benefits – a more focused palate, a greater awareness of the olfactory world around me, a richer sensuality in my writing – have been long lasting.
 
This year, I’ve decided to learn about magic – street magic, not stage or fantasy magic. I’ve bought some decks of cards, a book and an instructional DVD; I expect I’ll be crap at it, but the discipline of reading, trying and practicing will be good for me. At one level, this is about becoming conscious of my hands again, about the mechanical pleasures of touch and proprioception. At another, it’s about trying to understand how illusions work – the art of managing expectation, of direction and misdirection. Mostly, though, it’s about sheer goofy fun.

Lawrence Block, author of A Drop of the Hard Stuff (coming in May) and 40 (Ed. note: Damn him!) backlist ebooks just out from Open Road.

Lynne and I will have a wonderful time New Year’s Eve, thanks to the Power of Diminished Expectations. A nice early dinner at the bistro around the corner, then a little time in front of the TV, capped by some network’s annual necrology, an irresistible combination of sweet sadness and delight at still being here. And so to bed.

Then the New Year begins with a January trip to Taipei and Beijing to meet readers and publishers, and from then on I’ve got a book to revise and another to write, and pub dates in May and September, and more ebooks coming out, including a pair of e-riginals in the spring, and I’ll tell you, I’ve got too much on my plate to leave room for any New Year’s resolutions. Except one, which I expect to keep, and commend to you all—to do as Warren Zevon advised, i.e. to enjoy every sandwich.

SJ Rozan, author of On the Line

I kicked off the new year as I have for over a decade now: a very long walk.  This year, 7 miles, through lower Manhattan.  I get up early, no matter when I went to bed, and just wander.  At first the streets are empty except for people still staggering home; then they come alive.  I do this every year, wherever I am.  (One of my favorite New Year’s Day walks was through Queens.)  It sort of reboots my head for the year to come.

Rosemary Harris, author of Dead Head

Like the Marx Brothers I’ll be kicking off the new year with a night at the opera – La Traviata at the Met, then a late dinner at Gabriel’s and a trek to the roof to watch the fireworks in Central Park. My husband claims that this year he’ll let me drag him to Marie’s Crisis Cafe to sing show tunes with the boys until the sun comes up but it hasn’t happened yet. Will keep you posted.

Megan Abbott, author of The End of Everything

I spent my youth determined to make every New Year’s Eve unforgettable–and while I remember none of them now, I’m sure they were memorable at the time. In more recent years, I’ve spent my New Year’s Eves hammering out resolutions–and while I remember none of them now, I’m sure I carried them out and they changed my life in critical ways. This year, I’ve decided to take the pressure off entirely. And I’m hoping what that means is not what I fear it means: trawling TruTV while savoring some fine Trader Joe’s prosecco. … Happy 2011!

Michael Connelly, author of The Reversal

I only have two real goals in the new year. Break a hundred on the golf course and write the best Harry Bosch book so far. I think at least one of these is attainable.

(Ed. note: I have seen this man golf, so the next Bosch must be a real doozie.)

 

And finally, moi:

At midnight, 1/1/11, my husband and I celebrated our anniversary at the same party where, five year earlier, we quietly exchanged vows and rings by ourselves in the basement at midnight.  We made it legal the next day with paperwork, a witness, and a “nondenominational minister” we found on the internet, but our non-wedding is still the thing we celebrate.  I rang in the new year grateful that my husband is still my best friend, thankful for having two pretty kickass jobs as a law professor and writer, and blessed with generous, talented friends who helped make this post special.

So tell us: How’d you ring in 2011?  And what author do you plan to read this year for the first time? 

 

 

Intentional New Year

by Alexandra Sokoloff

Rabbit rabbit – to JT and everyone else.  (Click through if you have no idea what I’m talking about.  And please think about starting off the year virtuously by donating to Wikipedia while you’re over there – they’re asking for just $5).

Hmm, wow, I get to blog on New Year’s Day.  That’s a lot of pressure!  Or not.  Maybe everyone will love me if I just speak very softly and in words of fewer than two syllables.

First of all, can I just say (for more than just myself, I know) –

THANK GOD IT’S 2011.

I wish everyone here at Murderati, and all our families and friends – and while I’m at it every sentient being on the planet – a joyful, ecstatically fulfilling, and transcendent year.

Okay, so the timing of this clearly means I was actually meant to do some actual resolutions.   But let’s say intentions, instead, because that word is more focusing for me and doesn’t remind me so much of dieting. 

What – (that is suitable for public posting) – do I really desire for this year, in the obvious main areas of my life?

– Living:  Be more conscious. 

Of everything – but what I mean by conscious is paying attention to what my life is telling me, and the Universe is telling me.   On good days I believe that the Universe is speaking to us all the time, even or especially on the bad days, and that the most fulfilling way of living is to listen for that guidance and be as much in the flow as we can be.  Unfortunately, most days I forget all that entirely as I get caught up in all the stuff, you know, the STUFF, and if you forget it too many days in a row you tend to start not believing it.   So I will pay attention to the synchronicities, and those small, insistent pushes, and those overtly symbolic dreams that scream at you in multileveled Technicolor  Stay away from that one you idiot or if you live you will regret it every day of the rest of your life  – and do my best to live every day as if I really have a purpose in life and even more importantly – that life has a purpose for me.

– Relationships:  Hmm, all right, without going into detail…

Love everyone more – but with better boundaries.  Look to recognize the god/dess in everyone.   As for the rest, sorry, but I did say only what was fit to post publicly.

– Dancing:  Dance more.  Period. 

I’m just a better person when I dance every day.  It makes everything better.

– Teaching:  Keep growing as a teacher, finding new ways to inspire people to tell the best stories they can.

But also, be more integrated about living my writing in my teaching and my teaching in my writing.  I think what I mean by this is – there’s no reason to compartmentalize.  It’s all part of the same process.   You only really teach by doing.

– Writing…

Hmm.  

Yes, this is my living, but I’ve got to say it’s terrifying to think of how many books I’ve committed to write this year.  Scary doesn’t begin to describe it – I must have been insane.   Actually, I think we’ve already established this.   But it’s too late to panic, now – I am just going to have to take it one day at a time, and learn how to not fight the process. Writing is always going to be exhausting: I like how Joe Landsdale puts it:  “You never really rest; the synapses are firing all the time.”  But I am starting – starting – to believe I can be more gentle with myself about it and get just as much done, probably more.  Or better.   I have an inner slave driver that needs to get over itself.  I’m going to be more aware of when that self-punishing impulse in me starts to take over and just not let that happen.  I hope.

My writing intention is to write better books. 

Right – but how?  I think it has to do with committing even more to each story and the process – to recognize fear when it comes up and instead of pulling back and doing things to distract myself, treat the fear as a signpost that I’m on to something important and treat it as an opportunity to go deeper.   Again, this seems to be about being more conscious.

– Career:   Well, not like you can separate this from writing, but –

At Bouchercon in San Francisco this – I mean last! – year, I was in the bar – I mean lobby – bitching to Our Rob and Marcus Sakey:  “I need to do something DIFFERENT.”  And Marcus said, “Honey, we’re all there.”

Hearing him say that was a huge reality check, because I realized he’s right in every way.  In fact, that’s always going to be the state of a writer’s career, or any artist’s.  We are always going to feel like we need to do something different – which means not just different, but also doing it differently.  And in fact we HAVE to always be doing something different, and differently.   It’s a good thing.

What I want to keep for every day of this year was the total inspiration I felt at Bouchercon – my sense of awe and pride about being able to live and work in the incredible worldwide community of mystery and thriller writers, to be constantly inspired and encouraged and often blown away by the creative risks my colleagues are taking, and to learn from their skill and commitment and passion to bring more depth and power to my own stories.   Lee Child says: “As crime writers we are all constantly building the genre with the work we do.”   My intention is to be more conscious that I am helping to build the genre, and to do my part with the work I do this year.   I think if I stay focused on that, the career will take care of itself.

I wish everyone here whatever is that inspiration for you.

So, um, anyone conscious out there who wants to share some intentions? 

– Alex

Oh, almost forgot – starting kind of today, but really more like Monday, I’m doing a New Year jump-start online writing workshop, 2 weeks for just $15 (we’re running 2 days over to accommodate hangovers.  I mean, the holiday.)   Come get motivated!  

Details and registration here.

IMPATIENCE

By Stephen Jay Schwartz

I’m not a marathon man.  I’m a short-distance runner, a sprinter.

When I was a kid I was in AYSO and I always played center halfback, the hard position, the running position.  It wasn’t the glamour spot—I rarely made goals.  The forwards got the glory.  But the team knew they lived or died by the strength of their halfbacks.  The entire field was mine and at any given moment I might be supporting the fullbacks defending our goal then sprinting up-field to help the forwards penetrate our opponent’s defense.  It was a fast-run position and I was fast.

But put me on a paved track and tell me to run for an hour and I’m done for.  I just don’t have the stamina.

And yet, what is a novel if not the longest marathon a writer ever faces?  A single thought sustained over an entire year.  Bits and pieces of ideas coming together over many months, interrupted daily by the millions of thoughts and actions required to keep us living our lives.

What really drove this home was a recent thought I had for the climactic conversation between my protagonist and antagonist set to take place in the final, climactic scene of a book I’ve barely started.  I realized I’m going to have to tuck that conversation away for a long, long time.  Put it in a drawer.  Think of it from time to time, build moments towards it as I write what precedes it.  Foreshadow.  That’s stamina stuff and it drives me crazy.  I’m a “now” kind of guy.  It makes me crazy that I can’t execute an idea as soon as I’ve conceived it.  I’d make a terrible scientist.  If I spent half my life figuring out how to get to the moon, there’s no way I’m spending the other half waiting for the materials to be built to accomplish the task.  I have zero patience. 

And yet…somehow I’ve managed.  Against all odds.  I’ve managed to hold and sustain a thought over many months, even years.  I’ve managed to place the pieces of the puzzle into their spots despite the terrible lag in time. 

I think the trick is that I see a novel as a series of sprints.  Each time I sit down to write, whether it’s for two hours or eight, I’m sprinting.  I put all my energy into one powerful burst of writing and, when I’m done, I crash.  There’s no passing the baton.  I cross the finish line and fall over.  And then, the next opportunity I have to write, I pick up from where I left off, a new race, a new sprint. 

Occasionally I need the relief of writing a short story.  Or a poem.  A blog post.  I never blogged before Murderati and, although it can be maddening having to find a worthy subject every other week, it’s also refreshing to start something and finish it in a few days’ time.  Getting immediate feedback is validating.  I’m sure that’s the reason film actors slip away to do Broadway every now and then.  I know, I’ve done some theater and there’s nothing better than feeling the vibe of the audience, hearing the laughter or holding the tenor of a silent pause in the palm of your hand.  And then there’s music performance, playing with others, communicating musically, sax to guitar to piano to drums.  Cause and effect.  Instantaneous connection.  Try dragging that song out over a year, see how fun that is.  Try writing a symphony.  Long-term shit again.  That’s what we’re in for when we write novels.  We take a good concept and, over the course of months, sometimes years, we bury the thing in more gobblygook than we knew we could muster and after a while we don’t know if it’s gold or if it’s crap and the only guideposts we get are the comments of friends or family or an editor if we’re lucky.  It is torture and don’t let anyone say it ain’t so.

And yet, God what a neat thing it is to sprint through a passage.  Just one passage.  A perfect three pages.  Surrounded by weeds, a patch of green.  It might be crabgrass, but it grows, and it’s green, and it’s…pretty.

I’m never really happy with my work until the third pass or so.  That’s when I take the story I’ve written and tighten it down to the thing I really wanted to say, from the start, with great attention placed on the placement of words, and movement, and punctuation.  And if it takes nine months to get to that third pass…that’s nine months of not really being happy with my work.  Who lives this way?  Why do we do this?  Maybe it’s that big financial pay-off waiting at the end.  That was definitely a motivator when I wrote my first book.  It even teased me through the second. 

Now that I’m not so goddamn naïve I realize there’s another reason I put myself through it all.  I do it because it must be done.  I do it because, when you get right down to it, I LOVE IT.  I love being a writer and I love writing and I’ll do it as long as I live whether there’s a chance of financial success or not.  Because if I added up all the money I’ve made as a writer I’d have enough to buy a car and a year’s worth of gas.  Or maybe six months of health insurance for my entire family (the premiums only, not the deductibles).  The point is, it’s not about the money.  I’m sure that, once I start getting paid a lot of money it’ll be more about the money, but the truth, the godawful truth, is that I’d write whether I got paid for it or not.  Hell, half of us would pay for the opportunity and I bet, in one way or another, all of us have.

So, let it take a year.  It takes as long as it takes.  I’ll be pushing myself in 2011 anyway – tackling a screenplay and two novels.  But it will be easier than ever before, because I won’t be balancing it with a day job.  But that’s a blog for another day.

All writing, all the time.  Sprinting every day.  Before I know it I’ll have run a marathon.  (Or two).

I want to thank Brett and Rob for recommending William Goldman’s “Marathon Man,” which I tore through in two days.  Ah, the lessons I’ve learned!

And, oh, I think there’s a holiday coming up.  Happy New Year to All!

 

 

 

I Wish, I Wish, I Wish

By Brett Battles

 

You’ll excuse, I hope, if I keep this brief. The New Year is nearly upon us, and I’m spending the week with family.

I have tons of goals for 2011 which will involve more hours than I want to think about right now sitting in front of my laptop. So instead of talking about those, I thought I’d share something I wrote for AOL News that is up this week.

I was asked to write about my wishes for the New Year…(not goals, but wishes)…please forgive me for asking you to click on the link, but I do hope you will read it, then come back here and share your wishes for 2011 with all of us.

My Wish for 2011 

 

Happy New Year, everyone! I hope 2011 is even better than you expect.

The Best of Times, The Worst of Times

by J.D. Rhoades

“Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to retake History 11 in summer school.”

-Graffitti on the wall of a Chapel Hll, NC library rest room.

  

 In Roman mythology, Janus is the god of gates, doorways, beginnings and endings. He’s most often depicted as having two faces, one facing forward, the other looking back. His most obvious influence on our culture is in the name of the upcoming month, after the New Year begins at midnight Friday.

Some people recommned that we spend  New Years Eve and Day as a time for reflection on the year just past and resolutions for the year ahead. But let’s face it, those particular days are often pretty hectic, and the ony real resolution a lot of us can make on January 1st is “Well, I’m certainly never going to drink THAT again.” So I generally use the other days in the dead zone between Christmas and New Year’s for that purpose.

Looking back at the year gone by…well, it’s been a hell of a year for us here at Murderati,  in both the good and bad senses for that word. Some of us lost loved ones, some of us had career setbacks. Some of us saw things that looked like they were going to be awesome turn out to be…not so much. But some of us had things happen to us that WERE pretty awesome.

For instance, I saw a book I’d really put a lot of myself into, the book I’d been thinking about doing for a long time and finally got up the nerve to write, get passed on by just about everyone, always with that infuriating “This is a really good book, but…” response. It shook me, I confess. The recession continued to hammer my business hard, just as I’m sure it did many of you.

On the other hand, I saw my son graduate from high school, get into the college he wanted, and overcome his own serious anxieties and fears to the point where he’s thriving, and (if I may be permitted a little bragging) he nailed a 4.0 average.

And…I wrote another book, which as I mentioned a couple of weeks ago, is out on submission. To quote Steve McQueen in the movie Papillon: “I’m still here, you bastards.” 

2010 was, like every year, the best of times and the worst of times.  So ‘Rati, share with us, if you feel so inclined: what  were your best and worst times of  2010?

 

Imprisoned by your fans

by Tess Gerritsen

The amazingly multi-talented Steve Martin (actor/writer/comedian/musician) doesn’t need me to leap to his defense.  But that’s what I felt like doing, claws bared, when I read this article in the New York Times a few weeks ago:

In the history of intellectual chatter, the events of Nov. 29, 2010, at the 92nd Street Y will be archived under disaster. Or comedy.

That night, a conversation betweenSteve Martin, the writer and actor, and Deborah Solomon, who writes a weekly interview column for The New York Times Magazine, resulted in the Y’s sending out a next-day apology, along with a promise of a refund.

Mr. Martin, in Miami for a book event, said in an e-mail on Wednesday that Ms. Solomon “is an outstanding interviewer,” adding that “we have appeared together before in Washington, D.C., in a similar circumstance to great success.”

But Sol Adler, the Y’s executive director, saw it differently. “We acknowledge that last night’s event with Steve Martin did not meet the standard of excellence that you have come to expect from 92nd St. Y,” he wrote in an e-mail to ticket holders. “We planned for a more comprehensive discussion and we, too, were disappointed with the evening. We will be mailing you a $50 certificate for each ticket you purchased to last night’s event. The gift certificate can be used toward future 92Y events, pending availability.”

 What was Steve’s big mistake that night?  What terrible misbehavior did he engage in to so enrage his fans? Simply this: he had the audacity to be himself and talk about his latest book — which is about art.  The audience came expecting to hear the wild and crazy guy they knew from his film and TV career.  They wanted to hear tales of glitz and glamor and movie stars. They wanted their trained monkey.  They didn’t want the Steve Martin who talks about art, which is what he is clearly passionate about, and what his book is about.  

When he didn’t deliver exactly what they expected, this audience was so disappointed, so incensed, that they pitched a tantrum worthy of spoiled brats and demanded their money back.

Now, if this were an audience who paid big bucks to hear Lady Gaga sing in concert, and instead had to watch her read the Manhattan phone book in a monotone, I could understand their disappointment.  When you pay for music, you expect music.  When you pay for dinner, you expect food.

This audience came to hear an interview with Steve Martin, and they got an interview.  But the man is known to have many facets; he is not just a wild and crazy guy, but an author who wanted to talk about his latest book.  A book about a serious topic.  Over the years, through his comedic movies, Steve Martin has been branded as a funny guy.  But that branding has locked him into such a tight cage that if he dares step one foot out of that cage, the public cracks their bullwhip to drive the prisoner back to where he belongs.  In the cage for wild and crazy movie stars.   

This, fellow authors, is the downside of branding.  Every time you write a book that reinforces your brand, you have welded in another bar of your cage.  Once that cage is locked and sealed, you’re going to have a hard time getting out of the thing again.  

Only a few authors have been able to do it successfully.  John Grisham has managed the feat, occasionally releasing a sentimental novel between his usual legal thrillers.  Stephen King has escaped branding, too, partly because he has regularly produced non-horror, literary fiction throughout his career.  

For most of us, though — writers who aren’t as prolific as King, or who don’t wield the clout of Grisham — a large part of our success is tied up in branding ourselves.  We start off wanting readers to think of us as the crime thriller or romance go-to gal.  It’s only later, when we get a hankering to try something else, or when our chosen genre starts to lose its audience, that we realize that being branded isn’t always such a good thing.

My own brand has skittered around through my career.  First I wrote romantic thrillers, then medical thrillers, then science thrillers, then crime thrillers.  With an historical thriller thrown in.  The one part of the brand that’s stayed constant is the “thriller” part, and that’s allowed me a bit of leeway.  Readers will forgive you for moving between sub-genres.  But try making a really big leap — say, from serial killer novel to sweet sentimental novel — and your audience is going to howl. The way they howled at Steve Martin.

If you truly want to slip out of that cage, you may have to do it in disguise with a pseudonym. Which means starting over again as a newbie writer trying to find your first audience.  Or you’ll have to find an understanding publisher.  Or you’ll have to publish it yourself as an E-book, an option that more and more authors seem to be leaning toward.

Good luck to you.  May you escape the wrath of fans who’ll never forgive you for craving a little variety in your art.   

 

Kinder, gentler resolutions

by Pari

It’s late night, the time when I thank God for the remote. Flipping through the now limited channels of our basic cable . . .  past the evangelists preaching last-minute salvation, the telenovelas with characters that definitely need saving, and the news shows that make me wonder if anything holy exists  . . . I can’t help but notice a change in the timbre of the commercials.

Yes, folks, it’s resolution time. The time when we shake our heads and ask,
“What the hell happened to last year?”
“What do you mean it’s almost 2011?”
and “Hunh?”

Last year, on December 31st, I taped my resolutions to the inside back cover of my daily calendar. Smart, hunh? Well . . . not really. It’s amazing how skillful I became at opening the thing so that I didn’t have to look at them.

I think I’ll take a look now . . .
Why’s this clip here?
What’s that glue for .  . . 

Actually, I’d completely forgotten that I only posted the “writing goals” for 2010 in my working calendar. That was a good idea. No additional emotional trauma about gained weight, missed exercise or being a horrid mother and spouse. I’d have to go to the complete list of resolutions I typed up on the computer for that and, well, I don’t even remember what I filed them under.

Whew!

But let’s look at those writing goals:

1. Write at least two pages of fiction daily.

2. Write and mail at least one short story per month.

3. Write and propose/mail at least two original novels.

4. Reach 10 items in the mail at one time.

Um . . . not bad. Manageable. Humble. Achieved?

Nope.

I have no clue if I’ve been writing anything close to two pages a day, but I’d bet I haven’t. (More on that in a minute.)

I’ve sent/queried maybe six stories this year. Maybe less. Though I’ve written a YA novel and a novella, I haven’t even begun to edit them or to think about potential markets. And, at most, I had four or five items in the mail at one time. So I’m majorly behind on that curve.

Knock, knock.

Who’s there?

Guilt.

Guilt, who?

Guilt that helps you hammer your ego into oblivion, causes paralysis, and makes your inability to write feel totally justified because it feels sooooo good to feel bad.

Um. Gee. Thanks, but I already gave at the office . . .

 

Really. I look at that moderate list of resolutions and I’m not sweating the fact that I didn’t meet those expectations. You know why? It’s because I’m in a better place creatively than I’ve been in in long long time.

And I’m more consistently productive than I’ve been in years.

You know why. No trick. No smoke or mirrors. I’m just writing fiction every day. Anyone who follows my little fan page on FB knows some days I only get to 100 words or so. Other rare days my word count is up in the thousands. But call me “Turtle,” because, baby, those words add up.

So what for the New Year? The same list of resolutions? A shorter one? A more ambitious one since, come on, really, a writer who wants to be read does have to get her work out instead of hording it.

Okay, okay. I think I can do this . . .

Here goes:

1. Write fiction every day.

2. Send a work of fiction I’ve written out into the world to be read. (That gives me great squiggle room; I can post on Smashwords, try to sell someting etc etc etc. Yeah, I like that one almost as much at #1.)

Success breeds success, right?

In that case, I’ll have good news in December 2011.

How about you?

Do you make resolutions?

Want to share one or two with the ’Rati?

——-
Thank you to all the wonderful members of Murderati — the writers and our community here — for a truly beautiful, supportive, and intellectually motivating year. I hope 2011 brings joy, health and success to us all.

Nice Hat, Dude

By Cornelia Read


[I have no excuse, except that nothing says “Christmas Tradition” to me like stoned grownups and a bunch of twinkly lights wrapped around some palm trees…

Yeah, whatever, so it’s a cactus. So sue me.]

It was, like, whoooooa… Christmas, and all through So-Cal*

Not a stoner was surfing, neither Local nor Val**;

Our longboards were leaned up against the garage,

Cause we’d totally scarfed on pâté and fromage;

My best dudes were sacked out all biffed in their beds,

While visions of shred-betties*** danced in their heads;

And my chick in her drug rug****, and me in my Uggs,

Had just smoked a bowl of our taste Maui Bud,

When on the canal there arose such a ruckus,

I rolled out our hammock and said, “dude, what the fuck’s this?”

Cross the lawn I rocked steady, still awesomely cas’****

‘Til I’d unlatched the moon gate and sparked up some hash.

The moon on the breast of the tidewater’s flow

Gave the lustre of mid-day to this fat dude below,

He was riding a gondola, toking off a fat spliff

With all these, like, deer hanging out… um… him with.

He totally smiled up at me, sly and quick,

And I was all, like, “Dude, you’re that awesome St. Nick!”

Then he went, “Cha, kid, you’re onto my trip,”

And I was all stoked to be totally hip.

He had a broad face and a little round belly,

That shook when he laughed like a bowlful of jelly.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly, like, elf,

That I so laughed my ass off, in spite of myself;

He chucked me this zip-loc of mushrooms, way phat,

And I said, “Dude you are awesome, and rockin’ that hat!”

Then I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he rowed out of sight,

“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night.”

 

*Southern California.

**People from “The Valley.” Which, as a pal of my sister Elena’s once pointed out, “is kind of like your best friend’s little sister. Hot, flat, and you don’t want to go there.”

*** Chicks who surf.
****

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**** Short for “casual.” Pronounced cazh.

 

Playing Around With Words

Zoë Sharp

This is my last post of 2010, and as such the more serious themes I was intending to touch on just don’t seem appropriate, somehow. There’s an end-of-term feel about the place at the moment, and emails from a couple of friends – plus a visit to Motorcycle Live at the NEC in Birmingham earlier this month – turned my mind to paraprosdokians.

Confession time. Until recently, I’d never come across a paraprosdokian. No, that’s not entirely true. I’d come across lots of them – I didn’t know that’s what it was, or that there was a word to describe it.

A paraprosdokian come from the Greek and means ‘beyond expectation’. Basically, it’s a figure of speech, in which the latter part of a sentence or phrase is unexpected and causes you to reinterpret the first part.

So, what does a trip to the bike show have to do with any of this?

Simple – booths selling silly T-shirts. I like silly T-shirts – they suit the level of my sense of humour.

 

 

OK, that’s just a nice example of a silly T-shirt from a company called Bad Idea T-shirts and not, strictly speaking, an example of a paraprosdokian. But Groucho Marx was very good at them:

“I’ve had a wonderful evening – but this wasn’t it.”

So was Winston Churchill:

“A modest man, who has much to be modest about.”

Not to mention Dorothy Parker:

“If all the girls who attended the Yale prom were laid end to end, I wouldn’t be in the least surprised.”

I remember a stand-up routine by Emo Phillips years ago which was full of nice examples:

“I like going to the park and watching the children run and scream, because they don’t know I’m using blanks.”

“My family held a wonderful leaving party for me … according to the letter.”

“My father said, ‘I’ll miss you, son,’ because I’d broken the sights off his rifle.”

There are plenty out there, in quote or T-shirt form:

 

Various friends have sent me some great examples, and here’s a whole load of them (some conforming to the correct parameters more than others):

“I asked God for a bike, but I know God doesn’t work that way. So I stole a bike and asked for forgiveness.”
 
“I want to die peacefully in my sleep, like my grandfather. Not screaming and yelling like the passengers in his car.”
 
“Going to church doesn’t make you a Christian any more than standing in a garage makes you a car.”
 
“The last thing I want to do is hurt you … but it’s still on the list.”
 

“Light travels faster than sound – this is why some people appear bright until you hear them speak.” 

“We never really grow up, we only learn how to act in public.”
 
“War does not determine who is right – only who is left.”
 

“Knowledge is knowing a tomato is a fruit; wisdom is not putting it in a fruit salad.”
 
“The early bird might get the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese.” 

“To steal ideas from one person is plagiarism. To steal from many is research.”
 
“A bus station is where a bus stops. A train station is where a train stops. On my desk, I have a work station…”
 
“How is it one careless match can start a forest fire, but it takes a whole box to start a campfire?”
 

“I thought I wanted a career, turns out I just wanted pay checks.”
 
“I didn’t say it was your fault, I said I was blaming you.”
 
“Why does someone believe you when you say there are four billion stars, but check when you say the paint is wet?
 
“Behind every successful man is his woman. Behind the fall of a successful man is usually another woman.”
 

“You do not need a parachute to skydive – you only need a parachute to skydive twice …”
 
“The voices in my head may not be real, but they have some good ideas!”
 
“Always borrow money from a pessimist. He won’t expect it back.”
 

 

“A diplomat is someone who can tell you to go to hell in such a way that you will look forward to the trip.”
 
“Hospitality:  making your guests feel like they’re at home, even if you wish they were.”
 
“Money can’t buy happiness, but it sure makes misery easier to live with.”
 
“I discovered I scream the same way whether I’m about to be devoured by a great white shark or if a piece of seaweed touches my foot.”
 
“Some cause happiness wherever they go. Others, whenever they go.”

“Always take life with a grain of salt, plus a slice of lemon, and a shot of tequila.”
 
“The saying is to fight fire with fire, but remember that the Fire Department usually uses water.”

 

 
“To be sure of hitting the target, shoot first and call whatever you hit the target.”
  
“Some people hear voices. Some see invisible people. Others have no imagination whatsoever.”
  
“If you are supposed to learn from your mistakes, why do some people have more than one child?”
 
“Change is inevitable, except from a vending machine.”
 
“Do not argue with an idiot.  He will drag you down to his level and beat you with experience.”

 

 

Of course, if a paraprosdokian isn’t clever enough for you, there is always a syllepsis instead, also known as a semantic zeugma, which is a zeugma where the clauses disagree in either meaning or grammar, but where the rules of grammar are bent for stylistic effect.

My favourite example of this comes from the wonderful Flanders & Swann song, ‘Have Some Madeira M’Dear’, which goes:

‘And he said as he hastened to put out the cat,

The wine, his cigar and the lamps:

“Have some Madeira, m’dear…”’

 

‘She lowered her standards by raising her glass,

Her courage, her eyes and his hopes.’

 

  

Alanis Morissette also uses a syllepsis in ‘Head over Feet’

 

‘You held your breath and the door for me.’

 

 

Charles Dickens used them, like this one from THE PICKWICK PAPERS:

“She went home in a flood of tears, and a sedan chair.”

So did Mark Twain in THE ADVENTURES OF TOM SAWYER:

“… and covered themselves in dust and glory.”

And it’s not just the literary giants who use them. They seem to be a particular favourite device of entrants to the Lyttle Lytton Contest, in which people are invited to ‘compose the opening sentence to the worst of all possible novels’ such as this belter from 2001:

“Monica had exploded, and I had a mystery, and pieces of her pancreas, on my hands.”

So, ‘Rati, do you have any favourite examples of a paraprosdokian, a syllepsis, a zeugma, or just a silly T-shirt slogan, that you’d like to share?

Happy Holidays to everyone, by the way, and wishing you health, luck and happiness for 2011!

 

Holiday Traditions

by Alafair Burke

As we approach Christmas, I’ve been thinking about holiday traditions.  Holidays are probably most exciting for children.  At least for children who celebrate Chirstmas, what could possibly be better than Santa Claus, a reindeer-powered sleigh, surprise toys, and pretty, shiny decorations everywhere? 

But maybe children love Christmas more than adults because they don’t have any responsibility for it.  As a child, Christmas just… happens.  Kids don’t have to schedule vacation.  School just stops.  They don’t have to buy the tree and haul the decorations out from storage.  They don’t have to mail Christmas cards or plan the holiday menu.  Stuff just magically appears.  Like Santa.

But for grown ups, Christmas could simply be a date on a calendar.  Particular for the self-employed, like writers, it could even be just another day at work. 

My husband and I don’t have children.  We both work.  We have our routines.  And it would be so easy — tempting even — to just skip Christmas.

But I refuse.  Maybe it’s the memories of Christmas as a child, but I still need my holiday.  I wish little elves (or maybe some less creepy type of minions) would show up magically under cover of night and make Christmas happen, but it takes effort — and not only from me, but the people around me.  And so many of the efforts we make during the holiday season come from tradition.  Sure, some of these traditions are collective — decorated trees, stockings, and egg nog.  But many are created by families over generations or develop instantaneously because of some memorable moment that we want to continue to recreate.

Here are some of my holiday traditions.

Tree Night

I know.  Most of us who celebrate Christmas have the usual tree.  But my husband and I skipped the tree business for a couple of years because floor space in Manhattan is precious, and setting up a tree is a pain in the ass.  But a few years ago, we had dinner at one of our favorite neighborhood joints, Knickerbocker Bar & Grill, and something about the season hit us.  The restaurant was decorated with traditional white lights and garland.  Diners carried shopping bags filled with wrapped presents.  There was talk of an early snow.  We passed a row of Christmas trees outside the Asian deli next door, and I knew I needed to have a tree at home again.  We paid our cash, each grabbed one end of the tree, and dragged that bad boy up University Drive to our apartment.  Each year since, we always go to the same restaurant and deli for tree night.

 

Christmas Tree 2010

It’s not the best looking tree, but it contains memories.  I bought those red velvet bows at a drug store in Portland when I was too poor in college to buy ornaments but desperately wanted a tree.  That angel came from a landscaping store in Buffalo and was too tacky to ignore.  That sad-looking plastic shrub on the cabinet served as our tree for those two years we skipped the real thing, so still gets a place in the apartment next to its larger, more authentic sister.

Turkey Frying

Before I met my husband, I prided myself on my turkey-roasting abilities.  I stuffed the bird.  I basted every 15 minutes.  I monitored the temperature like a worried mother.  But then I met a boy who was fascinated by turkey friers.  I discovered an electric version that could be used indoors or out.  I bought said boy a turkey frier, a turkey, and 13 Manhattan-grocery-store sized jars of peanut oil for Christmas.  Our apartment smelled like french fries for three days (not that that’s a bad thing).

That boy’s now my husband, and we now have fried turkey at Christmas. 

The Music

I have bad taste in music. Well, I don’t think it’s bad, but I’ve been told by enough people that it’s bad that I’ve come to accept that description.  My bad taste in music is also reflected in my choice of Christmas tunes.  I don’t listen to the classics.  They’re classics to me, mind you, but apparently not to others.  I love Christmas songs by pop stars.  The Pretenders.  U2.  Mariah Carey.  Madonna. The Waitresses (even though I spent years thinking this song was by Bananarama.)  Elton John.  Wham.  Harry Connick, Jr.  John Cougar.  Mellencamp.  Whatever.  Bing Crosby & David Bowie (though I dare anyone to say this isn’t classic, enough so to be spoofed in this version). 

And every Christmas season, I listen to the Band Aid effort, “Do They Know It’s Christmas,” until my husband’s ears bleed.

The Movies

Sure, I’m a sucker for TV’s the Grinch and Charlie Brown’s Christmas, but when it comes to movies, here again, I eschew the classics for more recent and less overtly Christmas-y fare. 

Home Alone. 

The Ref. 

Gremlins. 

I watch these movies every single year at least once.

And every year, I have to watch at least this scene from “Scrooge.”  Thank you very much, Albert Finney.

Texas Grapefruit

My paternal grandmother sent us all the same gift every year: a box of Texas grapefruit and chunk of Havarti cheese.  She passed away at the age of 101 two autumns ago, but to my surprise, that familiar yellow Pittman & Davis box arrived in the mail the following December and showed up again last week.  My parents have been placing the orders, and my hope is that decades from now my nieces and nephews will be exchanging Texas grapefruits and Havarti for reasons they aren’t even sure of.

Christmas Eve

We spend Christmas Eve with my sister-in-law’s family so we can wake up at the crack of dawn to the sound of our eager nieces running down the stairs to discover that Santa did, in fact, arrive.  We open presents in our jammies, and our dog, the Duffer, gets his own stocking.

Speaking of Duffer, he has also become a part of our Christmas card tradition.  We love those photo cards people send out of their children so decided to replicate the effort with our dog, the Duffer.   The pictures were originally intended to be ironic, but I confess to finding intense joy in them now.  This year, his photo is with PetCo Santa Claus.  Neither of them looks very happy to be there.

So what are your holiday traditions?