Author Archives: Murderati Members

In Which I Get You Guys to Do All the Work

Monday night I typed those glorious words “The End” on the first draft of my WIP. Now, I’ll admit, this is a true first draft, meaning that, as it stands now, my new opus blows like a tranny hooker during Fleet Week. But I can already see ways to make it better. I can even see ways that it might even achieve awesomeness, if I can pull it off.

For the moment, however, I’m taking Our Alex’s advice to put it aside for at least a week, after which I’m going to print out her blog post on re-writing, tape it up above my desk, and get back to work.

In the meantime I see that it’s my Wednesday to blog here at Murderati. Only problem is, my brain is burned. All the bearings on the magnificent machine that is my mind are smoking and squealing like the brakes on an 18 wheeler headed down out of the Rockies. I’ve also been so buried in this book, not to mention life and the day job, that once I surfaced, I felt like I’d been asleep for the last month or so. I’m having a hard time even figuring out what’s been happening, much less commenting on it. So I’m asking our loyal readership to fill me in on what’s going on, discuss it, and, not to put too fine a point on it, write this post for me.

Ready? Let’s begin:

Why are people mad at Jonathan Franzen this time?
Apparently, the Wylie Agency and Random House have “struck a truce”. I didn’t even know they were at war. Can someone fill me in on this? Who should I have been pulling for?
So, this new Kindle. Why is it only 139 bucks? Is it because you can only download stuff if you’re in a WiFi hotspot? This wouldn’t really be a problem for me, even living in the sticks like I do, but is there some other feature that you give up for that price that I need to know about? In your opinion, is 139 dollars the tipping point that will make the Kindle 3 as ubiquitous as the Mp3 player?
A six year old got a multi-book contract? WTF?

Lay some wisdom on me, cats n’ kittens.

Bonus question: Was the movie version of WINTER’S BONE freakin’ awesome, or what? I mean, if Jennifer Stewart and John Hawke don’t get Oscar nominations, there is something seriously wrong with the process, am I right?

Warning!

By Louise Ure

I’ve long been a fan of unexpectedly funny warning labels. Like the one on the chainsaw, telling you which end of the saw to hold.

Or this one, for a set of small screwdrivers.

Euuwwww. Where do they get the idea they need to tell us something like this?

I’m even more appreciative of the sly warnings like this one from a U.S. clothing manufacturer in 2006.

A blogger in England recently decided that warning labels also needed to be applied to newspapers and magazines, lest the reader be taken in by a product that did not perform as expected. His suggestions included:

I’ve taken his idea of warning readers a step further: I think we need warning labels on books. Come on … you know the vast majority of Americans don’t read the depth and breadth of fiction we do. They only know the names of the books on the front table at Barnes & Noble, or the title of a book that’s been made into a movie.

We could provide a list of resources and suggestions for them, sure. But wouldn’t it be more fun to warn them away from a purchase they won’t be happy with?

In the spirit of providing this community service, I’ve prepared a set of templates you can print out in the privacy of your own home (Avery labels 5162 in the U.S. and L7651 in the U.K.) and take down to your local book palace for use.

Slap this one on any of my books, or on Karen Olson’s first series. Those half dozen readers who complained so vocally to us would have appreciated it.

Or how about this one on any of the Stieg Larsson books:

I’m personally going to stick this one on the remnant copy of a certain book when the Warner Brothers movie comes out.

And I know a small army of people who would like to print out pages of this one:

This warning label belongs on most “literary fiction”:

And I think Fran at the Seattle Mystery Bookshop might agree with me that either the Angst label or this one should be affixed to the newest James Ellroy oeuvre:

My personal favorite though, is this one: a warning to prevent heaving books across a room:

TSTL is, of course, “too stupid to live”: a character trait found all too often in amateur detective crime novels.

So go ahead. Let me know which pdfs you want. Take ‘em to the bookstore. Future readers will thank you for your work today. But I can’t promise that booksellers or librarians will.

So what about you guys? What warning labels would you like to slap across a book? I’m at the ready to make the labels for you.

Which of Your Books Should I Read First?

by Alafair Burke

I am a better writer today than I was in 1999 when I started my first book, Judgment Calls.

I make that observation neither to apologize for my debut novel nor to boast about my current abilities. In my humble and biased opinion, Judgment Calls is a good book. I’d say PW and Booklist were probably about right in describing it “a solid first effort” and a “promising debut,” respectively. (Proving that reviews can be scattered, The Rocky Mountain News may have been overly generous in comparing it to the “best of the genre,” while The UK’s Guardian was undoubtedly harsh in dubbing it their “Turkey of the Year.”) And though I say I’m a better writer now than I was when I wrote that book, I know I can still develop further in my craft.

But the objective fact remains that I am better today than I was then. So, therefore, are my books. In fact, after just finishing my seventh novel, I can say (and I think my readers would agree) that each novel — without exception — has improved upon its predecessors. I chalk the advancements up to hard work and confidence. I try to write every single day, challenging myself to be better with each session. And with each book, I have been more willing to trust my instincts, experiment with form, and follow my characters on their journey.

It turns out I am not the only writer who believes she has improved with age.

Last night, I had the pleasure of attending a Q&A with Lisa Unger at The Mysterious Bookshop in Manhattan about her new book, Fragile. I asked her whether she viewed her earlier books, published before she was married under her maiden name Lisa Miscione, as part of the same body of work, or whether she preferred the later Lisa Unger novels to be treated as works by a different author.

I found her response to be such a wonderful description of how many of us might feel about our development as artists. She expressed a sincere pride in her early books and made clear that she was not one of those writers who seek to distance themselves from certain books through the use of another name. But she also noted that she started her first book, Angel Fire, when she was nineteen years old. She tries to become a better writer everyday (I obviously liked that part). And, interestingly, she said that readers who picked up Angel Fire and Fragile would not recognize them as having been written by the same person because she was not the same as she was as a nineteen-year-old.

Harlan Coben recently found a different way of expressing a similar observation about his own work. When his first novel, Play Dead, was re-released, he wrote the following note for the front of the book:

If you ever doubted Harlan’s ability to be humble and funny, you probably don’t anymore.

The writers I most admire aren’t the ones who shoot out of the gate with a shattering debut that subsequent books just never quite measure up to. They’re the ones — like Lisa and Harlan and Laura Lippman and Michael Connelly and Dennis Lehane and Lee Child and Karin Slaughter– who keep rolling out bigger and better books, delving deeping into their own souls to find fresh material year after year after year.

But there’s one question that I’m asked multiple times a week that must give pause to any writer who believes she’s improved with every book: Which of your books should I read first?

In some ways, there’s really no better question to find waiting in your e-mail or on your Facebook page. It means a new reader has found you. Someone has heard about you from a friend or has finally seen your name enough times to be interested in your work. Woot!

The downside to the question is you’ve got to answer it. And what’s the right answer, particularly if you write a series? No matter how hard you’ve tried (as I do) to make each book work as a standalone, most genre readers like to proceed in order. On the other hand, if you’ve become a better writer with each book, you might know (as I do) that, as proud as you are of that first novel, it’s not as good as the last. So, for me at least, there is no short answer.

What I want to tell people is to read in order, but to expect each book to get better and better, and to stick with me through the end. But that sounds simultaneously boastful and apologetic. It also assumes a new reader is going to devote herself to your entire oeuvre. So instead I say each book can be read alone, referring readers to the chronological list on my website.

I have to admit that when asked that impossible question, I wonder whether it would be better to be one of those people who torpedoed out of the gate only to come to a slow limp in later books. And when I say “better,” obviously I don’t mean better. I guess I mean something like luckier. No, I mean easier.

To explain what I mean, let me invoke some television shows as examples, since I love me some TV. I absolutely loved Desperate Housewives and Ugly Betty at the get-go. Great characters. Great hook. Pulled me right in. And then, you know, stuff happened. Silly stuff. Lame stuff. But I was already invested, so I didn’t stop watching. Other shows — shows like Friday Night Lights and, as I’ve been told at least, True Blood and Mad Men — had impressive enough starts but then blossomed into some of the best series on the tube.

Creatively, of course you’d rather be the creator of the higher quality material. But commercially? An early peak can be pretty sticky as far as an audience is concerned. If my first book had been my best, it would be so easy to tell new readers to start there. Start with that first, awesome book, fall in love with the characters, and then stick with me even as I phone it in. See how easy that would be?

But I don’t want writing to be easy. I don’t want to phone it in. I’m incredibly proud of the fact — yes, fact — that I’ve written seven books in about a decade, each being better than the previous. I hope to write twenty more in the next two decades and be able to say I’m still a better writer every day.

But, my God, that trajectory sure does make it difficult to answer that damn question: Which of your books should I read first?

So what do y’all think? If I writer’s early books are good but not as great as the later ones, how do you hook a new reader in? How do you talk about your body of work without apologizing for or distancing yourself from those early books?

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Editors

By Allison Brennan

I’m on a tight deadline and haven’t been online as much as usual, so apologies to my Murderati gang! It’s been . . . hectic. In addition to a book due in three weeks, school started for my kids, and four of the five are in fall sports. Volleyball, Cross Country, Football and Soccer. (Just fall sports are this hectic—fortunately, only one has a winter sport and one has a spring sport, so once we get through Thanksgiving, my schedule will be much, much easier!)

I want to sing the praises of editors today. Good editors. I’ve heard the horror stories from some of my friends about editors who don’t edit, or editors who over-edit, or editors who have a different vision. I’ve been extremely lucky to have the same editors for all my books—#15 is in production and #16 is due in three weeks.

First, the caveat—editors are like agents. Sometimes, a good editor (or agent) and a good writer just don’t click. That doesn’t make the editor bad, or the author, it makes the relationship troublesome. I’ve seen this happen when an author is assigned a different editor for whatever reason (a maternity leave that became permanent, terminations, leaving employment, etc) and the new editor, though terrific, doesn’t “get” the orphaned author, or doesn’t particularly like the author’s style.

Remember, when an editor acquires a book they need to love it. Yes, they want it to sell, and yes they may be viewing it commercially (and since I write commercial fiction, I would expect this!) but they also have to love the book and the author’s voice. They will be reading the book multiple times, they represent the author at the editorial board table, the cover art meetings, sales and marketing, liaison with publicity, juggle schedules, and stand up for the author in-house. An editor is a crucial piece of the publication puzzle because they do so much more than simply edit the manuscript.

But it’s the editing of the manuscript I want to talk about now.

A good editor will not mess with your voice. They won’t demand major story changes because of a whim or rewrite all your sentences.

A good editor will strengthen your voice, will teach you through their edits how to be a stronger storyteller, and ask questions that make you dig deeper into your story and characters.

For example, I had to send in the excerpt from my March book (the one I’m writing now) to be included as a teaser in my January book. I sent the opening chapter (I have a prologue, but I don’t like to put prologues as teasers) which I thought was good. And it was—but my editor made it shine. Minor things, but ended up making my prose stronger. To illustrate, here are the opening two paragraphs of what I sent in, and what I got back with edits.

As the cold wind whipped around her, FBI Agent Suzanne Madeaux lifted the corner of the yellow crime scene tarp covering the dead girl and swore under her breath.

Jane Doe was between the ages of sixteen and nineteen with blonde hair streaked with pink highlights. The teenager wore a pink party dress, and Suzanne absently wondered if she changed her highlights to match her outfit. There was no outward sign of sexual assault or cause of death, but there was no doubt she was the victim of the killer Suzanne had been chasing through the five boroughs of New York City.

Jane Doe wore only one shoe.

Now, the opening paragraphs with editorial line edits:

As the cold wind whipped around her, FBI Agent Suzanne Madeaux lifted the corner of the yellow crime scene tarp covering the dead girl and swore under her breath.

Jane Doe was somewhere between sixteen and nineteen, her blonde hair streaked with pink highlights. The teenager’s party dress was also pink, and Suzanne absently wondered if she changed her highlights to match her outfit. There was no outward sign of sexual assault or an apparent cause of death. Still, there was no doubt this was another victim of the killer Suzanne had been chasing through the five boroughs of New York City.

Jane Doe wore only one shoe.

I’m very happy with this new beginning, and only a few words were added and deleted. The changes streamlined the opening paragraphs and made them stronger without changing the tone or style or story.

But line edits are only one part of editing.

Here are just a few of the questions and comments my editor had in the margins of the original LOVE ME TO DEATH manuscript (some verbiage has been changed to avoid spoilers!)

Too many coincidences with this (specific plot point.)
Can this scene be cut down a bit? I’m concerned that it draws too much attention to itself and readers will be left wondering why they’re learning so much about (character.)
This (section) is too clinical somehow. Revise?
I think this scene works. But you need to be careful with the tenses. You are switching between past and present in a few places. I like having a real villian who is scary and threatening! But I definitely agree with you that his POV should be introduced earlier.
This seems too obvious to state.
Would love to know Lucy’s thought process here? Why is she looking into the prison records? What is her hunch? What is she looking for or thinks she’ll find?
I feel like her rational for doing the research could be stronger. Feels a little flimsy.
Need to make (this plot point) clearer when they make the connection. What they think is going on…
I feel like we are missing a scene where Sean and Lucy exchange information. For instance when does she learn about (this situation)?

And because editors know that writers need praise, there were positive comments sprinkled throughout so I don’t think the entire book is complete garbage!

One problem I have in writing is that I become so absorbed in the story, I write and rewrite it so many times, that sometimes I think I put in a scene but deleted it in a rewrite because I erroneously thought it repeated information. An editor sees the story several times, but the first pass through—where she’s seeing the story all there for the first time—she’ll catch things that get missed in all the writing and rewriting. I am so close to the story, so immersed, that I think I write things because I thought of it. It’s one reason why no one should be the final proofreader of their own work. I’ll “read” a word that isn’t there because my mind fills in the word that “should” be there. Same goes with storytelling as a whole.

One of the things I always forget is describing my characters. I usually don’t do this until I revise, and sometimes I forget and my editor catches it. I know exactly what my characters look like. So when I re-read, I think my mind fills in the description without it actually being on the paper :/

I would love to believe that whatever I write is brilliant and without the need for editing. But when I think I don’t need an editor, my career is over. I’m a far better writer today than I was sixteen books ago. Line edits are lighter because I’ve absorbed the unspoken lessons I learned by analyzing why certain changes were made. Yet, I need a good editor to continue to help me grow as a storyteller. I still have a long way to go. It might take a hundred books before I don’t need help . . . naw. I’ll need an editor then, too.

Who’s someone who made you a better person/writer/professional? Who made you stronger than you thought you could be?

Drawing the dark

by Alexandra Sokoloff

I have a dilemma. I want to see The Last Exorcism this weekend but am too afraid to go alone.

(Where is my brother when I need him?)

This is the kind of movie that separates my friends from… my weird friends. While I know all of you – most of you – would happily jaunt off to this movie with me, all in a day’s work, after all – there are other people who don’t see this kind of movie because they just don’t want that stuff in their heads. I get these people at booksignings a lot. “I want to read your books but I’m too scared.” Fair enough – I’d never force anyone to open that door.

And because I’m very much into recovery these days, I have a lot of people around me who don’t want that kind of thing in their heads. Hence not so many people right at hand who would go see The Last Exorcism with me.

I actually love going to movies alone – it feels decadent and I don’t have to pretend to make conversation when actually I’m there to take notes for my blog. But this one – well, I’m not exactly expecting a masterpiece (did it have to be a Southern preacher?), but I’ve got a pretty good imagination and possession can take me all kinds of places that the movie isn’t really going, if you see what I mean.

In fact I had one of my – actually quite infrequent – but life-changingly intense nightmares last week, on this very subject. So I am now dying to see this movie (and seeing it alone might be exactly what I need to do) but also a little worried about what it’s going to do to my psyche. Of course I WILL go see it because the whole point is to fling open those doors in my psyche so I will have more nightmares so I can write about them – I’ve already got a book in mind from that last dream.

But – just hypothetically, you understand – what are we really doing to ourselves when we constantly, deliberately open those doors?

You may be beginning to see that this post is actually just an extension of Stephen’s post from yesterday, in which most of us were reveling in our comfort level with violence above sex, or violent sex. Well, the dark is our job. I don’t have to ask any of you why you write about these things. I know why I write about these things. Because they’re THERE. Ever since I was a child, and I mean like a child of four, I have been stunned and outraged that people walk around pretending these things, like for example, evil, don’t exist. I write it with a supernatural edge, because it’s hard for me to deal with evil without getting across that feeling of something supernaturally powerful at work, but it’s really human evil that I’m talking about. I think if you don’t acknowledge it’s there, THAT’S when it can really get to work and do some major damage.

But there’s another aspect to my attraction to the dark, which is that I have an attraction to the dark.

A writer friend of mine just sent me a book with a perfect discussion of this, that asks among other things: “Do you want to watch Andy Griffith or The Last Picture Show? Do you want to hear Pat Boone or Little Richard?” (it gets progressively more graphic, but I’ll need to ask him to quote him and anyway, you get the drift.)

Would you rather watch Eat Pray Love or The Last Exorcism?

A year ago I wouldn’t have had the slightest problem answering that last, but today, I am experiencing some discomfort with my answer.

I don’t think there’s any doubt that writing is a no-boundaries kind of profession and mindspace. Most of us here have openly admitted that half the time we don’t even remember what we write and quite often are blown away by what we read when we pick up our mss for those rewrites.

Now, I know for a fact that I started writing what I do because I saw it in my life, and my friends’ lives, and my school life, and life life. No doubt which came first, there. But you know how they say, “Life imitates art”?

Well, does that thought ever bother anyone else?

Writing is a powerful thing. It manifests. No one can tell me otherwise.

I had that possession dream. So one option is that I could take it as the obvious sign it is that there is a toxicity in a dynamic I have with someone that is actually dangerous and frightening to me… cut off the relationship, and continue to heal myself.

Or I could fling that door open wide, run through it, and inhabit the dream for the next year as my next book.

Maybe it’s not an either/or question. I think any one of us could make the argument that inhabiting the book would be healing. Could be healing, I mean. But is that a true argument? If there is healing in writing a book, it seems to me a happy byproduct of the main purpose of writing a book, which is to bring a story to life. If I approached it as a healing exercise… would that make a better story or no story at all? If I used the healing part as the protagonist’s character arc, would that just be a clever rationalization for dwelling in the dark?

I honestly don’t know.

So I wondered today if you all ever wondered or worried about what dwelling in the dark does to you, on a long-term basis. Do you think you’d be a happier person if you wrote lighter books? Do you care? Do you think dwelling in the dark draws the dark?

And – if you feel like telling us – Why do YOU write what you do?

(PS: Realistically, if I went to see Eat Pray Love this weekend – I might enjoy it, but I’d still come home thinking about when I could get off to see The Last Exorcism. )

DYSFUNCTIONAL SEX

By Stephen Jay Schwartz

I did a signing event at a Borders last week and my good friend Tim Hallinan (The Queen of Patpong) asked a really great question: What kind of scenes are difficult for you to write?

An interesting inquiry coming from Tim, whose brilliant Poke Rafferty series depicts some shockingly difficult scenes, some involving sex abuse and torture. And he’s read Boulevard, which presents its own cadre of distorted sexual encounters and includes a variety of horrific murder scenes. So I think the crowd was expecting me to pick out a gruesome massacre and go to town.

But what came to mind, the most natural response I had to Tim’s question, was something quite different.

“The most difficult scenes for me to write are the normal, healthy, romantic love scenes.”

First of all, the person who can even find a normal, healthy, romantic love scene in Boulevard deserves a prize. My love scenes come right out of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders.

The one that was really hard to write appears in Beat. You’ll know it when you see it. It’s as close to romance writing as you’ll ever get from me. And, still, even as sexy and romantic and, can I say—fucking hot—it gets, there is still an awkwardness, a sense of unexpected discovery, a fear of the unknown. For a protagonist who is a sex addict, anything that looks like healthy sex is going to be awkward and unsettling, even as he recognizes that this is how the rest of the world experiences it.

Christa Faust (Money Shot) made an interesting comment about the sex in Boulevard, saying that it was “ugly sex,” and that she loved it. Not because the sex was ugly, but because the sex was revealing. It revealed character. She said she can’t stand the “obligatory sex scene,” which often feels like authors throw them in to satisfy readers who expect to see characters having sex at specific, predictable intervals throughout the story.

The awkwardness of a sexual encounter, even between long-time lovers, even between a husband and wife, reveals volumes about the characters’ state of mind, their back-stories, religious beliefs, morality, societal influences. The sex scene is an opportunity to take the character arcs up a notch, or to reveal things that were previously unknown.

I don’t have much trouble writing the dysfunctional sex scene. But the “ooohs” and “ahhhs” of romantic sex embarrass me. I don’t want to go there. I force myself, though, pretending it’s the easiest stuff in the world to write, all the time cringing and blushing.

You’d think I’d find it tougher to write the gory details of a murder scene, right? Wrong. I really enjoy writing the gore, because I know that it’s fiction. I see it in my mind as fiction, as a movie, as a special effect. I look at the challenge of writing the crime scene in a way that amps up its potential for poetic imagery.

Here’s a scene of gore in Boulevard that I had a great deal of fun composing:

The walls were dripping mostly with the bits and pieces of what #4 shot took when blasted through flesh and bone. Brain matter, bone splinters, chunks of muscle tissue, bits of fingernail, a mosaic of nerve patterns like macabre snowflakes, strands of hair. Blood dripped and trailed over lamp shades and wooden chairs.

Doesn’t freak me out at all. It’s so over-the-top that it feels like opera—in fact, I can imagine classical music playing over the images.

Like the scene in the Peter Weir film Fearless (from the novel by Rafael Yglesias), where the airplane crashes in slow motion, and we’re inside the plane where all the terror is seen and felt, and the only sound we hear is classical music.

It’s probably the most intense cinematic scene I’ve ever encountered. It could have easily been over-done with sound effects—the screams of passengers, the tearing of metal, the wind, the flames. Instead, it’s poetry.

Imagine being able to capture that experience in words alone.

I don’t think I could ever write a truly graphic scene about a child in pain. I just don’t want to even think of that. Kids are magical and innocent and adorable in every way and, even though I know kids are suffering in this world, and I want to bring this to the attention of people who can relieve their suffering, I just don’t want to write the details. Same thing with animals. I’ve been a vegetarian almost all my life, but I can’t watch those PETA films.

So a love scene should be easy, right? But when I try, I get all queasy inside. Maybe it just doesn’t ring true to me. I mean, most of our characters have just met during the course of our stories, right? Boy meets girl. At some point, boy and girl consummate the relationship. Now, in real life, ninety-nine times out of a hundred that situation is going to be real awkward. It ain’t gonna be the way it’s portrayed in the movies. Or the romance novels. Or the porn films of Jenna Jameson. New lovers don’t always know where to put their hands, or how hard is too hard, or when it’s appropriate to scream out, or when to assume their partner is done.

One of the best sex scenes I’ve seen on film comes from Steven Soderbergh’s Out of Sight, from the Elmore Leonard novel.

Again, the right music fills in the spaces. And the editing is extraordinary. It sure makes sex look easy. Can I accomplish the same in words alone?

On the other hand, I think I do a pretty decent job with awkward, ugly sex.

Like this excerpt from Boulevard:

He was having trouble getting hard. She noticed. She tried to force it.

“Not so hard,” he said.

He didn’t want to think of her this way.

He pulled away, closed his eyes, pressed the palm of his hand to his forehead. There was that hard, dull pressure that circled his head like a lead cowboy hat. She reached out and drew him back. He tried not to think of her as a colleague. He tried to think of her as a whore.

He grabbed her thighs hard. He saw her skin turn white where his fingers dug in. He felt his cock stiffening. His eyes remained closed as he bent over her, biting her nipples with his teeth. Her breathing grew deep and husky. She pulled him into her, enveloped him, sank her fingernails into his shoulders and back. He pushed hard and she pushed back, thrusting quickly, tightening around him.

His cell phone rang. He didn’t hear it, he was already coming. He collapsed on top of her. She lay there on the desk, her legs spread in the air, half wrapped around his waist. She was still in the moment. Waiting for something.

He lifted himself off, pulled up his pants. The office was quiet. His cum drained from between her legs. Her hand found a box of Kleenex tissues. She wiped, pulled her shirt over her breasts, found her panties and skirt discarded on the floor.

“God, it’s all about you,” she said at last.

He heard the shame in her voice. The shame of acting out. It must’ve been a new feeling for her.

“What did you expect?” he said.

“I don’t know, I thought I’d be different.”

In the meetings he was told that an addict could spot an addict. That an addict sent out a certain kind of signal and other addicts responded. It was true like that in crime, too. A pickpocket saw every other pickpocket in a crowd. The junkie knew another junkie with a look. Sex addicts sought each other out. Kennedy was drawn to him because she recognized herself in him.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Don’t be sorry.”

“It’s shameful.”

“Yes, it is,” she agreed.

“Fuck you, it didn’t have to be that way.”

“So why was it?”

* * *

It’s probably more uncomfortable for people to read than it is for me to write. Hmmm…I wonder if I should be worried about that…

What about the rest of you? Is it difficult writing sex? What scenes are most difficult to write? What scenes are uncomfortable to read?

A RECOMMENDATION OR TWO (OR 3) IF YOU’LL PERMIT ME

by Brett Battles

I’m not very good at writing reviews, mainly because I find it impossible to recap a story. Not because I can’t, but because I’m always afraid of telling too much, and I really want others to go into a book or a film with as little foreknowledge as possible.

That said…

Boy do I have a film recommendation for you. It’s a Swedish film that you can stream on Netflix right now. And though THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATOO is Swedish, and available to stream on Netflix (and also highly recommended by me), that’s not the film I’m talking about.

The film I have in mind is a thriller, but not the typical kind of thriller I would usually see. In fact, it’s actually the kind of film I would usually avoid. Why?

Because it’s a vampire film.

Yep, a vampire film. And no, we’re not talking a vampire film in the vein of the Twilight Series (and just to be up front, I’m not making a judgment about those one way or other as I haven’t seen them.) In fact it’s been a while since I’ve seen any vampire film, but there was a time… That said, of the vampire films I have seen over the years, LET THE RIGHT ONE IN is one of the best of the genre I have ever watched.

I’m sure some of you have heard of LET THE RIGHT ONE IN. Hollywood sure has. They’re currently making an English language version right now, retitled as LET ME IN. But let me implore you, see the Swedish version first. See it soon. Hell, if you have Netflix on your computer, stream it now! I’m sure the English language version will be fine, but the Swedish version is fantastic.

I don’t know what’s going on in Sweden these days, but they are pumping out some great actors. Just like with Noomi Rapace in DRAGON TATTOO, RIGHT ONE boasts some truly remarkable performances. (And we all know what I thought of Noomi’s work as Lisbeth Slander!) Okay, maybe the performances are not quite to Noomi’s level of awesomeness, but they are excellent nonetheless. This time the standouts are two kids who were probably around 12 when the movie was made. I’m resisting saying anything more about them because, like I said above, I think it’s best you discover their performances along with the film as a whole yourself.

Another aspect of the film that I loved was the cinematography. The movie was shot simply, but beautifully, highlighting the wintery starkness and splendor of the cold, white Swedish winter. Truly amazing.

Bonus: the movie is based on the book by John Ajvide Lindqvist, who also wrote the screenplay.

Yes, LET THE RIGHT ONE IN is disturbing. Yes, it is, at times, violent. Yes, you will see blood. But, surprisingly, I found it also moving, and touching, and, well, brilliant.

As you can see, I can’t recommend this movie enough. Do yourself a favor, see it.

TV Quickie: At the beginning of the month RUBICON premiered on AMC with the first two episodes of the series. Because of other conflicts, I haven’t been able to see any of the episodes since…(which I plan on rectifying)…but I will say those first two episodes really grabbed me. Conspiracies, shadow governments, great writing, excellent cast…lots of upside. Perhaps it’s fallen flat on its face since then, but I’m betting not. And since it’s on AMC, I’m sure they are going to be rerunning older episodes multiple times. It reminds me a bit of THREE DAYS OF THE CONDOR (the book was SIX DAYS OF THE CONDOR), and the BBC version of TINKER, TAILER, SOLIDER, SPY. Worth checking out if that’s your kind of thing.

Graphic Novel Quickie: If you’re into young adult angst, love, and slackerness, like video games and struggling rock bands, and don’t hate Canada, the SCOTT PILGRIM VS. series (6 books, all now out) is a ton of fun. Haven’t seen the movie yet, so don’t know how it compares. But the books were definitely entertaining, if the subject matter works for you.

That’s it on the recommendations for now. So, seen any good movies lately? Or TV shows? Or graphic novels? Or…?

Apologies once again. I’m on a plane today, so I won’t get to the comments until later tonight.

The unplanned career

(I’m traveling abroad at the moment, so will be unable to respond to comments. But I’ll read them when I return!)

When you’re a writer, you get used to hearing criticism from countless quarters. People don’t like your characters or your stories. They don’t like your language or your genre or your politics. But one of the weirdest objections I’ve ever heard came from a TV blogger, who said that “Rizzoli & Isles” was the dumbest name ever for a TV show, and that I, the novelist, should have had the foresight to choose better names when I created the characters ten years ago. I should have planned ahead for the day when they would become a TV show. Because authors have ESP, and of course it’s inevitable our books will be picked up by Hollywood.

D’oh! What kind of idiot was I, not planning ahead for Hollywood?

It boggles the mind how many misconceptions people have about the writing profession. The public probably imagines us as a tweedy set, ensconced in our wainscotted offices, thinking deep thoughts. Or they think we’re hip Manhattanites, scribbling pages at an outdoor cafe while we sip endless cups of espresso. They’d be shocked to learn that some of us us write while hiding in the closet so our kids can’t find us. And that no, most of us don’t plan out every move in our career because baby, in this career, there ain’t a lot of planning you can do.

I certainly never did any planning. Every move I’ve ever made as a writer has been because I had the compulsion to write that book, at that particular time. And sometimes it was against the advice of people I trusted, people with experience in the industry. From romance to medical thrillers, from stand-alones to a crime series, my career path has not been a determined march forward but more of a meander, searching here and there for the idea or the character that would set the next tale in motion.

Even my books aren’t planned out. I meander my way through those as well. It makes the first drafts utterly chaotic, but I don’t know any other way to do it.

And that’s how that crime-fighting team of Rizzoli and Isles came to be. I didn’t know there was going to be any team at all, until suddenly … there they were.

Jane Rizzoli first appeared in THE SURGEON as a secondary character who was supposed to die. Oh yes, that much I had figured out, the location and circumstances of her death. A dark cellar, a slash to the throat. We all know how well that plan turned out. Instead of dying, Jane dusted herself off and came back to star in the next book, THE APPRENTICE.

That’s the book where Maura Isles makes her first appearance. (And to answer the charge of the TV blogger who said that Maura Isles is a poorly thought-out name, it’s actually, um, a real name. Of someone who won the auction to name one of my characters.) Maura was another one of those minor characters who took on a life of her own and grew into a major character. Again, unplanned.

Every book in the series has resulted from spur-of-the moment plotting decisions. I didn’t know who Maura’s mother was until she suddenly showed up in BODY DOUBLE. I didn’t know whether Jane would abort her baby until the actual chapter when she made the choice to keep it. I didn’t know if the baby was a boy or girl until that scene in VANISH when little Regina popped into the world.

It’s a good thing I’m accustomed to this uncontrolled approach to plotting, because it makes me better able to deal with my career, over which I have no control at all. Believing that you have control over your success as a writer will drive you insane. You could write the best book ever written. It could land on a top editor’s desk, be adorned with a wonderful cover, get starred reviews… and end up in the remainders bin a year later. Or you could write a book about a girl with a dragon tattoo, be published by an obscure Scandinavian publishing house, and end up as the best selling author in the world. And, tragically, be dead of a heart attack.

It’s the unpredictability of a writing career that keeps so many plugging away at it, year after year, defeat after defeat. Okay, so your last two books were a disaster in the marketplace. Change your name, change your genre, and try again! Dan Brown’s first few books went nowhere, and then, kaboom! DA VINCI CODE. Your next book could be the next DA VINCI CODE, couldn’t it? Or Hollywood could turn it into a TV series. Unlike actors, whose careers dry up as their wrinkles start to show, even a poor grizzled writer working on his thirtieth book could suddenly find fame and fortune.

That’s the seduction of the business. It could always happen. Without any planning whatsoever.

What is a writer?

by Pari

Is the mere act of “calling” oneself a writer enough? Does someone who journals occasionally merit the appellation? Is publication a requirement? Is a person who composes haiku as worthy of the name as a novelist who can’t manage to tell a story in less than 900 printed pages?

I’ve wondered about this for a long time. It bothers me most during dry periods when the computer screen and a blank piece of paper seem as terrifying as abject poverty.

During the assured and comfortable years when I was writing, editing and concepting my Sasha Solomon mysteries, the issue didn’t unsettle me. I was writing. I was getting publishing. I was valid.

Even when I had days or weeks with no more productivity than penning a grocery list, I still called myself a writer because I was living the life, living the dream . . . and I had street cred because of my three novels and two award nominations.

Then came the decision to discontinue my NM mystery series (at least for now), the life-changing Master Class, the need to start making a predictable income by going back to my PR consulting roots . . .

And, suddenly, I didn’t feel like a writer anymore. I hadn’t published much fiction in a few years. Writing had lost its joy for me. I felt like I had to force every word. Was I a sham? Could I legitimately call myself a writer when I wasn’t telling stories from my heart anymore?

My self identity plummeted. I felt like an imposter whenever I thought about writing and what I was doing with my life. Let me tell you, the world turned gray there for awhile.

In July, I decided to try something different. I promised myself to write fiction every single day. No exceptions. The quality didn’t matter – crap or brilliance – it was all the same. The amount didn’t matter – a sentence or 20 pages – the act was the important thing. In order to feel like a writer, I had to nourish my creativity daily. Period. I had to commit. I had to be consistent.

The first few weeks of the month were difficult. Who knew I could come up with so many excuses to avoid my computer? “Well, then you’ll just have to use pen and paper,” I’d tell myself.

“I only wrote 100 words and they’re all shit,” I complained.
“Cool. Think of them as literary compost for whatever you’ll write next,” I responded.

Slowly I started feeling better, more honest.

This month, I decided to push myself further. I’m noting my daily fiction word count on my FB “fan” page. Without trying, I find myself writing more, getting lost in the story with greater ease and pleasure. I’m having fun.

I feel like a writer again . . .

So what do you think?
What is a writer? Is just calling yourself one enough?
Does consistency matter, writing daily/weekly/monthy?
Is publication a requirement? Once published are you forever a writer — whether you’re writing anymore or not?
Does length matter?

Reasons to be Cheerful, Part 3

By Cornelia Read

This has been kind of a sucky summer, on the home front (suicide, death by cancer, brokeness, WIP reading like MAJOR ass…) but I’ve found some things that have really cheered me up, too. So I am going to share a few right now, in case any of you guys need cheering up too.

1. Ian Dury