Author Archives: Murderati

Day After Day After Day

I know you’ve gotten used to seeing Stephen and Alex on Fridays, and let me start with a thank you to them, for allowing me back to my old spot to say hello, and farewell.

Back in October 2011, I made the unbelievably difficult decision to step away from Murderati. Difficult doesn’t describe it, really, because my leaving was more than another author taking off for greener pastures. I built this site. And by built it, I mean I was the physical architect behind Pari’s idea to start a group blog.

Way back when, none of us knew much about websites. None of us knew anything about blogs. And while we ironed out the name (mad props to my husband Randy who came up with Murderati), the lineup, the topics, the way we wanted to portray ourselves, we tried to figure out how to make it all happen.

I’ve always been a curious lass. I started playing around with Typepad, then the preeminent blogging platform. And I made an offer to the group – instead of hiring a web designer, which none of us could afford, I’d build us a website.

From the mouths of babes…

But once the offer was out there, and accepted, I had to follow through. I learned how to code, how to run a website, how to design. Randy helped with the banner, the old header, and anything else I got myself in over my head with. And pretty soon, we had a website. It had flaws. Typepad wasn’t easy to work with. Eventually, we migrated to Squarespace, which was much easier to work with, but had its own problems.

We blogged and blogged and blogged. And behind the scenes, all sorts of shit went down.

Let’s be real, here. We started with seven artists and ultimately built to fourteen. Over seven years, there were… issues. Of course there were. It’s only natural: when you have a group of people, all of them strong-willed and wildly creative, there will be issues. Over the years, people came and went. Friends were made and lost. Battle lines were sometimes drawn, and wars were fought. Joys and successes and opportunities were celebrated. Advice was freely given. Tears were shed. We were always our best when we were supporting each other.

In other words – family. Murderati has always been a family. A big fat happy family, with brothers and sisters who loved each other to death, squabbled with the best of them, beat up bullies who dared mess with our kin, and always, always, made our curfew.

Day in and day out, no matter what was happening behind the scenes, a fresh blog would go up. And we would put aside our petty differences and excited celebrations to pay homage to the author of the day.

It was our daily miracle.

With our daily miracles came forgiveness. Humor. Sadness. Anger. Cheering. Crying. We wrenched every emotion from ourselves, shared it on this blog, all to wrench it out of you.

Day in and day out, when we posted a fresh blog, you were there.

You made our blog what it was. We wrote. God, did we write. We struggled with being fresh, with not saying things that had been said before. We taught, and we learned. We strived to be authentic, to be real. To share our lives, our stories, our world, with strangers.

But you weren’t strangers for long.

You commented. You weren’t shy, not once you did it for the first time, not at all. You chose sides. You learned. You taught. You were the reason we kept coming back day after day. You were the reason we worked so damn hard to be unique, exciting, fresh. You told us when we were being silly, and cheered us on when we succeeded. You made us laugh, and you made us cry. You held us up when we needed a boost. You stood in awe when one of us created something close to genius.

You were the reason we started this blog. You were the reason we continued on.

But you aren’t the reason we’re closing.

Yes, the numbers began to sag when Facebook and Twitter became so very important to our writerly lives. But that’s natural. We lost readers when several of us left all at once in 2011, then steadied, and maintained. We still have a big following here. The numbers are not the reason we chose this route.

The daily miracle, which we managed for seven years, finally became too much to bear. 2555 blogs. Millions of visits. Thousands of comments. An industry that’s changed, a society that’s changed. Too many soapboxes, too little time. When 14 authors spoke, people listened. When 14,000 speak, there’s too much noise to be heard clearly.

Focus has changed. Long-form writing is very time consuming. Many, many of the authors from Murderati chose the independent publishing route, and there must be work product at the end of the day, and new books released — at a punishing pace — for success. The ones of us who stayed traditional are also facing challenges. With PR and marketing budgets slashed, self-marketing became not just a tasteless endeavor, but a necessary evil. The more authors are expected to handle on their own, the more authors choose to handle on their own, the more long-form blogging went by the wayside. It had to.

Because let’s be honest – at the end of the day, we’re writers. You want us to be writing books, right? Not blogs about how to write books. Right? Right?

(I keep telling myself that. One day I may even start believing it.)

When we started Murderati, I had an agent, but hadn’t sold my first book. I’ve now written twelve novels, sold fourteen novels and published nine, with the tenth coming in September, have a new Samantha Owens underway, a standalone I’m editing, a non-fiction I’m writing, have indie pubbed two short story collaborations with NYT bestsellers Alex Kava and Erica Spindler and have started writing with the esteemed #1 NYT bestseller Catherine Coulter. A lot of work, these past few years. It’s easy to understand why I don’t long-form blog much anymore.

Murderati played a huge part in all this, and I will be forever grateful for the massive leg up.

When we started Murderati, I used to agonize for a week over my post, and wouldn’t put it up until Randy had read it and promised me I didn’t sound like a dork. Now I write long form non-fiction for money, and Randy doesn’t see it until it’s actually done and ready for print.

When we started Murderati, I was unbelievably concerned with how I came across to the world. I hated sharing even the tiniest parts of me, a person I saw as boring and uninteresting, chose to stick solely to writing topics. I kept me apart from that JT Ellison girl.

Eventually, through this blog, I came to accept myself. All the parts of me. Even the parts I didn’t want to share with the world. Especially those.

When we started Murderati, I was in the beginning stages of trying to have children. Sadly, seven years later, I’ll share this – it wasn’t meant to be. The grief I experienced after multiple miscarriages, failed IVFs, all that nastiness, was what drove me away from this blog in the first place. I was a walking hormonal wreck. I couldn’t process my emotions in public. Hell, I couldn’t process my emotions in private. And then, when things were starting to form a scab, we lost Jade, Thrillercat, who you all know was my jinn. I went right back into that hole. Ah, it makes me cry, even now, thinking about all of this.

I could have let it consume me. God knows I wanted it to.

But I had a deadline.

I put my head down and wrote three novels in a row (WHERE ALL THE DEAD LIE, A DEEPER DARKNESS and EDGE OF BLACK – even the titles scream what was happening to me) that dealt with loss. Loss, and pain, and horror. And it got me through. It got me through. Pouring my soul into those books… it got me through.

I started yoga the week after I stopped writing for you. I took all the time I spent on Murderati and channeled it into my practice. Into healing. Into finding myself again. Every day, when I get on my mat, I set my intention. Four words. The things I want for myself.

Calm. Graceful. Kind. Focused.

It worked. It’s still working.

Now, when I come back to the page to bid you adieu, I do so as a strong, healthy woman who takes herself a lot less seriously than she used to, who is dedicated to her family and friends, to her health, to her work. I’m writing with joy again, with laughter, with humility and excitement. I blog over on my own website, a place I call the Tao of JT. I have a decent-sized Facebook page, and we have a ball. I’m on Twitter, as @thrillerchick. I send out a monthly newsletter, and if you’re not signed up, please do.

I don’t have Murderati anymore.

But if I’m lucky, I still have you.

I dedicate this blog to all the writers of Murderati. All of the friends of Murderati. All those who’ve come and gone.

And all of you.

Thank you for letting me come into your homes for seven years. Thank you for cheering me on, for making me cry, and for understanding. Thank you for making me the writer — the woman — I am today. Thank you, from the bottom of my soul.

I won’t say goodbye. I’ll just say… See you around.

xoxo,

(Stop by this weekend for two more goodbye posts – from our own Allison Brennan and Toni McGee Causey!)

Calling All Comments

by Hoke Smart on behalf of Murderati

Hello everyone. For those of you expecting another fantastic insight into the life of Pari Noskin Taichert, I am sorry to disappoint. However, today’s post is a pressing matter that means a great deal to the Murderati family.

My name is Hoke Smart, and I am the support guy behind Murderati. I’ve been working with the group for almost a year now keeping things running smoothly on this site and through our social media outlets. As many of you are currently aware, there have been a litany of issues related to posting comments in response to the threads published by your ‘Rati Authors.

First, I want to apologize for the troubles many of you have had making comments. I know I speak for the entire group when I say that we enjoy reading the variety of comments and feedback each of you makes on a post. It livens the discussion and helps promote future ideas for posts. As a group, we have discussed at length the recent issues and I’ve been charged with trying to resolve this once and for all.

Second, I want to discuss the moderation mechanism for comments. Most blog engines, including the one that is used by Murderati, employ some sort of moderation script. This is to prevent an overdose of SPAM comments on blog entries by and large but these scripts sometimes filter out proper comments that are relative to the topic. In our case, these comments get put in a hold state until I approve them from the backend of the site. I am working on a better way for this moderation structure to work, but we need your help.

The point of today’s post is rather simple. If you read this post, leave a comment, please. The subject matter of your comment doesn’t really matter for this purpose. Post a link to a favorite author’s site. Provide a new home cooking recipe for us to attempt. Offer a good wine selection for your favorite meal. Today, the comments are the star of this post.

If you receive a notification that your comment is being held for approval, then I should find it when I access the backend of the site. My goal is to collaborate with our blog engine provider to identify exactly why certain comments are moderated. If your comment does not post for some reason or you receive any sort of error message, I would like to ask you to take an additional step. Please send me an e-mail explaining what your comment was and what time you attempted to post. Our provider can better assist us with this if they know when these issues occur and can review the logs to figure out what prevented a comment from publishing.

My e-mail address is smartacusLLc at gmail dot com and I’ll reply to let you know that I received the notice.

Once again, I apologize on behalf of Murderati for the recent issues and I encourage you to post whatever comment comes to mind so that we can hopefully remedy this problem on a more permanent basis.

Comments will remain open on this post through Sunday, June 17th. Thanks in advance for participating and we appreciate you visiting Murderati.

Hoke Smart

Hello, Goodbye

By Allison Brennan

I couldn’t leave Murderati without one last post, and Pari graciously gave me the first “Expect the Unexpected” Tuesday in the new configuration of this great blog.

I enjoy blogging, but as all of you know, and all the writers out there know, blogging takes time away from writing and family. I had to make a choice, and blogging weekly (twice a month here, twice a month at Murder She Writes) in addition to guest blogs here and there and all the other social media things on my author to-do list was kind of stressing me out. Everything was taking away from my writing time and my kids. Something had to give, and unfortunately, it was this blog.

But I’m sure I’ll pop up on occasion, if the gang will have me as a visitor. 🙂

I’ve thought a lot about social media over the past year or two, and what is expected from authors. To be accessible, to share our thoughts, to answer questions.

Blogging is only part of it. (And, to be honest, when I founded Murder She Writes with four other authors six years ago, we did it partly because we thought it would be good promotion, and partly because we liked each other and enjoyed chatting with others through the blog about family, writing, entertainment.) But there’s also Twitter, and Facebook, and LinkedIn, and Google+, and a dozen other social media avenues that “they” say you have to be part of in order to survive in this New World of publishing.

There are many, many authors who aren’t part of the on-line community. And many, many authors who are. The only way it truly works is if the author builds a rapport, which means talking about things OTHER than their books. And that means, they should enjoy the community they’re in. Otherwise, it’s a chore, a hated chore, like cleaning grout. And people pick up on that.

Social media works primarily if the author can create a following of readers who will sincerely talk up their books and spread the word of mouth that is essential to the success of any book. In fact, if you ask most publicists and marketing folks, they’ll tell you that word of mouth is the single most effective tool to create a bestseller–but there’s no one way and no guaranteed way to generate it.

Let’s pretend there are ten equally “good” books out on a given day. A lot of things factor into making a potential bestseller — cover, co-op, reviews, author (if it’s a known author), endorsements, cover copy, placement — and some work for some readers, some for others. But the way to make a title move higher is for people to recommend the book (or the author) to others. To talk about the book on blogs. And Twitter. And Facebook. But no one knows how to create that world of mouth–on the Internet or face-to-face–each and every time. They try everything, but what works for one book or author might not work for another equally good book or author.

But we sometimes forget because we spend so much time at our computers writing (and participating on blogs and twitter and facebook) that more than half the readers are still not reading electronic books (22% of my books are sold as e-books) and many readers still rely on the recommendation from their colleague or sister or best friend.

What this practically means for authors is that we have more to do with less time and resources. We can’t neglect the online communities, nor can we forget that there are “offline” communities who read just as much.

So my advice to writers: participate in the communities that you enjoy, don’t self-market all the time, and focus on the writing first. Because none of the social media matters if you don’t have a book to sell.

My advice to readers: share your books with others. Recommend authors you like, either face-to-face or on the Internet. Email the author of a book you enjoyed and tell her.

And a caveat to all: give both, writers and readers, then benefit of the doubt when you hear rumors in cyberspace. Misunderstandings spread instantly in the virtual world, and can damage careers and reputations. People seem to think that they can say anything they want because it’s “anonymous,” but I’d argue that character is judged by what you do when no one is looking–or when no one knows who you are.

I can be found in cyberspace at my website, of course, as well as Facebook, Twitter, and Murder She Writes.

FYI: The third Lucy Kincaid book, IF I SHOULD DIE, will be out two weeks from today, on November 22. So far, the reviews have been positive. Fresh Fiction said, ““Non-stop action, spine-tingling suspense … a wonderful addition to a great series.” And Joyfully Reviewed made DIE a Recommended Read for December. “If I Should Die is a spine-tingling chiller that will wrap you up in its mystery and take you on a heart-pounding race to the breathtaking finale!”

In addition, the novella LOVE IS MURDER is printed in the book as bonus material. You get a full-length book plus a full novella for a single book, mass market price. Cool, eh?

And a sneak peak at the fourth Lucy Kincaid book, SILENCED, and the first with my new publisher, St. Martin’s/Minotaur. They’re taking the series in an exciting new direction, don’t you think? And that’s what I’m doing now — revising this book. I have two weeks. Any wonder why I needed to free up some time?

I’ve very much enjoyed my three-plus years here at Murderati. We had a great little community amongst ourselves, and within our regulars who comment or lurk. Pari and J.T. have really created a fantastic, enduring blog, and I’m glad it’s continuing to exist. Thank you, Murderati gang, for having me back for the day, even if it was just to say good-bye.

Rock On…

by JT Ellison

There comes a time in every writer’s life when they have to take a serious inventory of their career, and make decisions accordingly. Ever since I wrote this blog post a few months back, I’ve been taking inventory. Measuring and analyzing and talking and trying to figure out where my time goes. I’ve been reading books on a variety of topics, trying to expand my consciousness about what’s happening to my mind. I’ve read about what the Internet does to our brains (The Shallows) how we can better unplug (Hamlet’s Blackberry) and how I can find my inner artist and treat her a little better (The Artist’s Way). I’ve even been looking at ways to redecorate my house to make the flow better (Apartment Therapy) and diving back into cooking (Mastering the Art of French Cooking, La Cucina Italiana).

There have been some very, very personal setbacks too, setbacks that have rocked the core of my identity as a woman, and scattered my thoughts about what’s important, and what’s not, to the winds.

I’ve seen the writing on the wall for a while now. With all the traveling and networking and socializing and promoting and, oh, yeah, writing, I’m missing parts of my life. Not just that. Somewhere along the way, I’ve lost me.

Me, who used to read four books a week. Me, who used to cook elaborate meals. Me, who used to look forward to the weekend, because it meant quiet time, family time. Me, who was so disciplined and focused she could write three books a year with her hands tied behind her back. Me, who used to have time to attend meetings in town of my organizations, meet friends for dinner or drinks. Me, who didn’t have to refocus my attention on my husband when he asked a question because I’ve been lost in Internet land. Me, who used to adore writing non-fiction, and now struggles to say something, anything, that hasn’t been said before a thousand times.

I need to find that girl again.

I’ve been incredibly blessed in my career. I’ve been able to write books, get paid for writing them, travel around the world promoting them, meet readers, have adventures, and pull those experiences into my stories. I’ve been blessed to be a part of the finest crime fiction blog on the planet. I’ve been blessed with amazing readers, newfound friends, and deepening relationships with old friends. I’ve pissed a few people off along the way too, but as my darling husband always says, if you’re not pissing some people off, you’re not doing anything. (To those of you who are reading this that I’ve pissed off – I’m sorry. No offense. Truly. I wish you light and love, always.)

Highs, and lows. Joy, and sorrow. This, as you all know, is life.

I’ve come a long way on this blog, from those first tentative, worrisome, nail-biting, took a week to write posts that I made my husband read to make sure I didn’t sound like an idiot, to having the confidence to actually share what I’ve learned about the writing and publishing process.

But I have a workload that has gotten seriously out of hand… Y’all may have heard that my editor left, so there are changes afoot in my novel world. Being orphaned is scary business, but I’ve landed with a fabulous new editor who I’m sure is going to challenge and stretch malleable me into a better writer. I’ve been working on a sekrit project, plus a standalone, plus the new Sam book, plus three short stories and planning a series in a completely different genre… These are the things we writers dream about – too many ideas, and not enough time to work them all in. An embarrassment of riches, to be sure, but time consuming, for all that.

So I’m making a few changes, across all my Internet worlds. The biggest of those is my role in Murderati.

The wonderfully gracious, lovely writers of Murderati, who understand me more than I understand myself sometimes, have granted me a leave of absence. I’m taking the next six months off from the blog. In April, I’ll reassess where I am, and make a decision to either come back or leave permanently.

Because of my selfish desires to regain some more me time—and selfish they are, I admit. I’m really hanging people out on a limb with this decision, and I hate that—there will be more changes to follow. Pari will be going into those on Monday.

I’ll still be out in the world, posting occasionally to Tao of JT, on Facebook and Twitter, but it’s time to hibernate, to pull in, to focus on being as creative as possible for the next several months.

I’m so incredibly grateful to all of you. For the past six years, you’ve cheered me on, held me up, made me laugh, made me bite my tongue, and supported me. The real me. Not just JT the writer. JT the woman. I can’t thank you enough for being here, every Friday, then every other Friday, helping me grow as a writer, a columnist, and a person. I will be forever in your debt.

So, a thought to leave you with, because if I go on any longer I’m going to start crying:

Advice From a Mountain

Dear friend,

Reach new heights
Savor life’s peak experiences
There is beauty as far as the eye can see

Stand in the strength of Your True Nature
Be uplifting
Follow the trails of the Wise Ones
Protect and preserve timeless beauty,
silence, solitude, serenity,
flowing rivers,
ancient trees

Rise above it all
Make solid decisions
Climb beyond your limitations
Leave no stone unturned
Never take life for granite

Get to the point
Patience, patience, patience
Life has its ups and downs
Let your troubles vanish into thin air
To summit all up
It’s the journey step by step

Rock on!

~Ilan Shamir

I’ll see you in April. Blessed be and merry part.

xoxo,
JT

Wine of the Week: A recap of most of my favorites, posted here for your viewing pleasure.

Park Bench Conversations

Louise Ure

We’ve all talked about eavesdropping before … about how the richest characters and liveliest dialogue can spring from an overheard conversation on the subway, in a diner, in a movie audience before the lights go down.

But I’m here to tell you about another kind of character and conversation, the kind I indulge in on park benches.

It’s not eavesdropping; it’s participating. It’s asking questions I would never be allowed to ask in the normal course of conversation. And it’s about listening to the answers.

The first of these I can remember happened almost thirty years ago. I was returning to my car after a dental appointment that had left my lips as swollen as a Ubangi. Frustrated by work as a young advertising executive that day, and in pain from the dental surgery, I wiped tears from cheeks as I hurried down the sidewalk.

A middle aged black man sitting on a park bench called out as I walked past, “You know, you’d be a lot prettier if you smiled.” He was clean enough-looking, with a bit of gray at his temples, but the filled shopping cart at his side told the real story. I went off on a rant, as only a privileged, overpaid, San Franciscan can do, yelling about how I’d been in a car accident and my Mercedes convertible had a dent in the door, how the swollen lip made it embarrassing to go back to work, how much I had to do at the office when I returned. “There, there,” he said, pulling a sort of white rag from his shopping cart and offering it to me. “Just sit down here and tell me all about it.”

I did. For about twenty minutes. He listened respectfully, sometimes patting my shoulder and continuing the mantra of “There, there.” It was such a cathartic twenty minutes that I felt like I’d just undergone therapy. I got up to leave and handed him a $20 bill in my thanks.

“Don’t go yet. We’re not done.” He got up and bought two cups of coffee with my $20 then sat back down. “Now, what are we going to do to make you feel better?” He sat with me until I’d drafted a plan on how to get the Mercedes fixed, how to handle the most urgent needs at work, and the advice to suck on a tea bag to help the swelling in my mouth go down.

“See? You’ll live through this. And you really are prettier when you smile,” he said, patting my knee. And he never once mentioned his own circumstances, even when I gave him the opportunity to do so.

I’ve never forgotten him, and now new characters have been added to my park bench pantheon.

Recently, I was smoking on a park bench in Seattle, enjoying the perfect sunshine and the view. A bum about twenty years younger than me approached and asked for a cigarette. I gave him one, in hopes that it would make him go away, but he sat down next to me on the bench to enjoy it. He started the conversation by saying how mad he was that his trip across town to this park had been impeded by protestors and it had taken him so long to get here that he couldn’t use the free laundry provided that day. He did not agree with the protestors, and found a couple of gay members of the group to be particularly hateful.

I asked him what he believed in. Religion? The golden rule? Pull yourself up by your bootstraps? Do unto others? Live and let live? He waffled a bit and was willing to forego most of his stated positions for another cigarette, but finally said, “Look, I’m not a bad guy. I’ve never killed anybody.”

I recoiled. Was this now the lowest common denominator of “a good person? “Don’t tell me what you haven’t done. Tell me what you have done,” I snarled at him. “Have you loved someone? Have you helped someone when you didn’t have to? Have you grown anything? He you fought for a principal not just for a bottle? “

“I used to,” he said. “Now I just try to stay alive.” I nodded. I had forgotten that I had the luxury of seeking dignity as well as life.

On the way home from that Seattle trip, I stopped at a fast food restaurant on I-5. It was too hot to eat in the car and too busy to eat indoors, so I found a bench in the shade outside. A biker pulled up next to my car and went inside to get food. When he came out, he first tried to sit on his bike and eat, but it was clear that the heat and sloppiness of the meal were getting the best of him. “Mind if I share a bench?” he asked. He had a full beard, hanging longer than his chest. His Hell’s Angels’ club patch was the full four-crested version of a senior member, including the death head logo.

We started talking about the weather, and then the reason for our trips. His was to join the annual Hell’s Angels gathering in Idaho, mine to take care of my newly-sonless father-in-law. We talked about bikes, about family, about Bruce dying.

He went back in for two ice creams for us and when he returned, said, “I’m sixty-one. I’m the same age as your husband. And this will be my last year riding to the gathering. I can’t trust myself on a bike anymore.” He held out his hand to show me the tremors.

“What I want to know is: if I’m not a Hell’s Angel, what the hell am I? Who do I become when I can’t be myself anymore?”

I thought about that question for the next three hundred miles, but I was asking it of myself. “If I’m not a writer anymore … if I’m not a wife anymore, what am I? What can I be when I can’t be myself?”

I answer myself the same way I answered the biker. “You’ll be alive.”

So tell me, ‘Rati, do you get into park bench conversations? Airplane conversations? Or do you think I should stop meeting questionable men on park benches across the country this way?

What do you value?

By Allison Brennan

I’m so sorry this blog is late. I had every intention of writing it last night, but best laid plans …

This weekend was homecoming at our high school. Normally, this isn’t something I actively participate in. To me, it’s about the kids, they have fun dressing up for school (pajama day, retro day, spirit day.) But we always go to the homecoming game. Last year, our football team was down 21-0 at the end of the third quarter and won 22-0 at the end. This year, we trounced the opposition 55-6. I know a lot of this kids–my oldest daughter has been at the school for 14 years, since pre-school. I’ve seen them grow up, now they’re all bigger than me, and I’ve seen them mature (well, most of them) and grow into adults. We don’t have a child on the team, but since my daughter’s boyfriend plays I feel like we do (he eats a lot of food at my house!) Our team is also special because we have one of the few female kickers in the country. There’s a long line of female football players, but they are still rare. I’m not surprised–football is a violent sport. But this is the third year we’ve had a female kicker. Our first graduated two years ago, and a freshman took her place. Both are star soccer players. It is fabulous to watch our players rally around her and, when necessary, defend her because not all the other teams think it’s cool to have a star female kicker (ranked 36 in PAT in California this year, 9th last year. She has big shoes to fill–our graduating female kicker was ranked #15.)

This isn’t our school, but I found this terrific article from Michigan about the homecoming Queen kicking the wining field goal.

This homecoming was particularly special as my daughter was voted Homecoming Queen. Dan and I were beaming 🙂 It was surprise, because she’s never been interested in these type of accolades. She’s an athlete (volleyball) and loves choir. But after 14 years at the school and now senior class representative, everyone knows her. I never got involved in extra-curricular high school activities, and I can’t honestly say why. My 25 year reunion is next year and if it weren’t for Facebook, I’d never have reconnected with any of my classmates. I’m thrilled my own kids–all of them–will have these type of memories.

Last night, a large group of kids came over to my house for dinner before the homecoming dance. Parents came and went to take pictures. And Dan took this one candid shot of Katie that made me teary–it reminds me that she’s growing up. That she’s graduating in May, she’s going to college, that whatever I did right or wrong, the future is now in her hands.

I’ve often said to people that I have no life outside of my kids and writing. Depending on the context, I suppose that it can come off as complaining. But I wouldn’t have it any other way. I love my family, and I love writing. Everything else can wait.

The writer’s life is neither harder or easier than any other life. But most of us are living our dream, at least part of it. We might not be rich and living in a castle on a hill, but we are doing what we love. I truly love telling stories. I love it even when I hate parts of the process. I love creating and revising and polishing.

I’ve told my kids that they can do or be anything they want, but that the most important thing is they find a career that is satisfying. That if they love what they do, they’ll be happy. If that’s a stay-at-home-mom (or dad), a doctor, a teacher, an athlete, an artist, a writer–they need to love it. Because every job has a downside. Every job has heartache. You have to love it–or, if it’s a means to an end, put up with the crappy stuff and not let it destroy your dream.

I’ve had ups and downs in my career; I’ve left one publisher and moved to a next. I have a new editor for the first time–after 17 books. I have a new agent. I’m excited about the possibilities, but a little scared, too. Fear is normal. But even with the uncertainties in this New Publishing Order, even with the ups and downs in the industry, the changes that seem to hit us hard even after we think we understand everything, I still wouldn’t want to do anything else.

Sometimes, it’s hard to remain optimistic in the face of big changes, whether it’s college or career or family issues. Shit happens. Sometimes really bad stuff. Sometimes we want to crawl into a hole and hide, or quit everything and say to hell with it. But there is always hope. I believe it, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to get up in the morning and do all the things that need to be done, for me or my family.

I remember a group book signing (the Levy Bus Tour) where a high school teacher was sending students to buy Chip St. Clair’s memoir (to read for extra credit.) Chip was great, and told the parents that there was a bunch of authors in all genre–thriller, historical fiction, romance, inspirational. One mom said, “Oh, I don’t have time to read.”

I’ve thought about that exchange many times over the years. That mom was telling her two daughter that she didn’t value reading. That everything else in life was more important to her than books.

I don’t want to set that example for my kids. Not just in books, but in life.

I think about the two female football kickers from our school, and what my 8 year old girl soccer player told me. “I want to be the kicker for the football team.” I told her to work hard, do her best always, and don’t give up. And I thank those girls for setting a great example, not only to other young soccer players, but to the boys on the team.

I value many things, and I hope my kids do as well, as they learn by example. I value stories. I value honesty. I value hard-work and sacrifice. I value dreams.

What do you value? What one lesson would you impart to high school seniors today?

On Being A Victim

by JT Ellison

Oh look. It’s a woman. She’s an idiot. We can take advantage of her.

I am full up with men trying to take advantage of me this week. Don’t worry, this isn’t an anti-male screed. I love men. I love my men in particular. My darling husband, my awesome dad, my brothers, my best guy friends. Love them all – and they all get a pass from this. But I am here to lay the truth on you.

Sometimes it absolutely sucks to be a woman.

I mean, really. There are days that I would trade in my girl card in an instant if it meant I would be able to say no without guilt, get an oil change that didn’t involve a laundry list of things that MUST be done to my car to allow it one more moment of life on the open road, get my tires rotated without someone trying to tack on $15 for a “brake test”, have a storm door installed without a huge pitch for rebuilding the doorjamb and buying yet another door, have to carry mace in my purse to defend myself against idiots, cook, clean, do laundry (cook, clean, do laundry, cook, clean, do laundry, cook, clean, do laundry) and in general try to exist in a male-oriented world.

Yeah. It can be hell out there. And it burns my butt to have it happen, because I’m lucky enough to recognize when I’m about to be takne advantage of, and I can call them on it. Men. Sometimes, why, I oughta…..

I know a lot of empowered women who thing God is a she – I must beg to differ. Take one look at the monthly gift. Monthly? Really? Only a devious male could have arranged for us to only be rational twenty-six weeks out of the year.

I’m not even getting into the professional stuff. Not even going there.

I know you’re smiling. I am too. But I’m going to wipe that smile right off your face, because we need to talk about something very serious. Something that happened to me last Saturday that scared the living hell out of me. Something that would never have happened to a man.

Normal Saturday. We were working around the house. Randy needed to power wash the deck. We dropped my truck to get the tires rotated, had a bacon date, stopped at Home Depot, the grocery store, and headed home. I had a bunch of work to do before football prep – we had friends coming over to watch the game and I needed to whip up some football-oriented masterpieces to feed them.

As always happens when you have these kinds of busy days, you forget something. We got home and realized we needed two pots for the mums I’d bought. And I needed to take a few things to Goodwill, and stop at the UPS store. I hopped into the same car we took Saturday morning and headed out. Radio blaring, smile on my face. Distracted.

I was at a stoplight when a man came running up to my driver side window, shouting at me. I could hear his words clearly through the glass.

“Your car is on fire!”

I immediately put the window down. Dark acrid smoke was billowing from my left rear tire. The guy was still talking, about a mile a minute, so I dragged my focus from the tire to him. He had a card in his hand.

“You’re wheel bearing caught on fire. It’s metal to metal back there.”

“Is it still on fire?”

“Yeah. Flames. I have a hot rod shop. I can fix that for you.”

Hands me the card.

“I can fix it now if you want. You can come right back to my place and I’ll fix it, or I can come to your house and do it. My shop is just up there.” He pointed vaguely up the road.

My mind was processing too many things at once. Mostly – FIRE.

I’m not a fan of cars on fire. When I was a kid, new to driving, I had a car that caught fire whilst I was crossing a bridge. So this particular situation caused an immediate flashback, and all I wanted to do was get the hell out of the car.

I rolled forward a bit, threw on my hazards and started to get out. The guy, still in my window talking a mile a minute said, “No, no, you have to get it out of the road. Pull it up around the curve.”

That led into a neighborhood. I did what he suggested. He followed in his car, and pulled onto the grass behind me. (Just FYI – I was still in the intersection. I only went twenty feet. I did not leave the original location. I just moved out of the way like you’d do with an accident.)

And suddenly it hit me.

JT, what the HELL are you thinking?

As he approached this time, on the passenger side, my heart rate sped up. I didn’t look at his face, I watched his hands. I was positive he was going to have a gun. I saw every freckle, the shape of his nails. For a so-called mechanic, they were awfully clean.

I told myself I was being silly. But I grabbed my phone and speed-dialed home.

He made a motion for me to put down the window. I left the car in gear, my foot on the accelerator, and put it down halfway. This time I did the talking.

“I’m calling my husband.”

And those were the magic words. He skedaddled. Got in his car, did a three-point turn, and took off.

I got out of the car. No more smoke. No flames. No sign of fire. Nothing.

I had to call a neighbor to get Randy out of the backyard and onto the phone. We both immediately agreed something felt… off.

We made a plan to take the car to Sears immediately and have it looked at. I was to drive, slowly, toward the shop, he would be right behind me.

And still I’m thinking – Jesus, the car is going to burst into flames any second. I was literally coasting.

We got it to the shop and told our mechanic the story. The look on his face said it all.

I had been scammed.

As best we can figure, the guy was behind me at the light, got out of his car, and as he went by, either tossed a smoke bomb under the car, or splashed WD-40 on the rotors. Transmission fluid will create the same illusion of fire, but that would ruin the bearing as well, and they didn’t find any traces of anything. Thank goodness. That would have cost a load.

It took a few more minutes before it all sank in.

I had just been a victim of a scam. A good one. One that if pulled on the right woman, could have resulted in this idiot making some cash.

Or, worse.

Once I really had time to gauge what had happened, my hands started to shake. That didn’t stop for a few hours.

How easy would it have been for him to actually put a gun in my window, get in the car, force me to drive somewhere, and do who knows what?

The moment our mechanic confirmed the wheel bearing was just fine, I called the police.

Because this brilliant criminal mastermind had given me his card.

With his name, email, and a website link. Plus I had his car make and model, a pretty solid description, and since I’d been scared half to death, a perfect recall of every moment of the event.

So after the police filed the report and went to talk to him, I did a little sleuthing of my own. Because there was no way we could know if the card he gave me was actually his.

Took me about fifteen minutes online before I found him.

It WAS the guy on the card.

I was off on his age-he looked younger in the baseball cap he was wearing-but I’d gotten everything else right on the money. Which settled my nerves, because I hardly think a sex offender is going to be running around town planting smoke bombs and telling lone women their car is on fire, then handing them his name and email to follow up.

Then again, anything is possible.

So, today, I want you to pick out the six things I did wrong during my little run-in on Saturday. It was a real eye opener for me, and I’m damn lucky it went the way it did. It could have been much worse. I’m not accustomed to feeling vulnerable in my car. Now that I’ve had a taste, I’m going to overreact, because I never want to have this happen again. Concealed carry permit, here I come.

If you correctly identify the six things I did wrong – I’ll send you a free book. Tonight I’ll post an addendum to this to show what I should have done. And if you’d been a victim, or someone tried to take advantage of you lately, please share so we can learn too.

And please, please, please, take some care out there. We’ve all seen the email chain letters that talk about a man disabling a woman’s car, following her to a remote location, and doing bad things. Snopes always says False, or Hoax, but I’m here to tell you – this happened to me. Me. Miss Paranoid. Miss Mystery Writer. Miss Does Research With The Cops. Trust me, the patrol officer who took the report gave me a piece of his mind, and he was right to do so.

Wine of the Week: I’m going with a comfort wine this week. One of the hallmarks of an excellent bottle of wine is it’s ability to recreate the experience over and over and pver. So today, we go with Smoking Loon Old Vine Zinfandel. Brilliant, every time.

A Face In The Crowd

Louise Ure

Here’s a little something to either make you think our promised personal jet packs are right around the corner, or make you so scared that you want to rush home and pull the drapes closed.

Check out this site right here.

It is absolutely stunning. Zero in on any face in that crowd of more than 10,000 people, double click a few times and watch anonymity morph into a virtual line up.

It’s like the reverse of Pointillism, where the father back you stand, the more the picture makes sense.

With Gigapixels, there is no such thing as far enough back.

Gigapixels are the marriage of photography and Google Earth technology. Their photos are a patchwork of panoramic shots which are taken over a 10 or 15 minute period and then strung together to give you both a panoramic effect and a clarity of small detail. Just plug your old SLR or pocket camera into the Gigapan camera base ($499) and it does all the planning and panning for you.

The Gigapixel photo of that Canadian crowd is made up of 216 individual photos, taken over a 15 minute period, and in its final form is 69,394 X 30,420 pixels.

Jeez, it makes me almost want to wear a burka in public. Well, maybe a hoodie and sunglasses anyway.

Sure, it’s a cool technology, but, combined with advances in facial recognition technology, there’s something pretty “1984-ish” about it, too.

On the other hand, it sure does suggest some interesting plot twists.

How about you all? Is this nirvana? Orwellian? Or just great fictional fodder?

Charitable Contributions

By Allison Brennan

Three weeks ago, I had a new release: ENTANGLED. It’s a digital-only paranormal/urban fantasy anthology.

All proceeds from ENTANGLED will be donated to the Breast Cancer Research Foundation. What makes this amazing is that all eleven authors who contributed to the anthology all donated our time and talent to benefit a cause we believe in. No one tossed out a story thinking it didn’t matter because it was for charity; every author took the time to craft a tale to please their readers, as well as new readers. The stories, the cover art, the formatting, the accounting–all donated.

The women involved are truly amazing in their generosity and enthusiasm for this project. We all know women who have had this dreadful disease. We all know women who have survived. We all know women who haven’t.

I especially want to single out Stacia Kane for her poignant forward. In part:

“What we can do, though, is hope. We can hope that one day our children or our grandchildren will be able to think of breast cancer the way we think of illnesses like typhoid fever, that once killed thousands but are now essentially eradicated and/or curable. There are doctors and scientists and really scarily smart people out there working hard to try to make that so, to re-write our world so “breast cancer” becomes maybe a little more serious than a cold, but with the same prognosis: Yeah, you might feel kind of tired for a couple of days, but you’re totally going to be fine after that.”

Here’s the summary of the anthology:

HALLOWEEN FROST by USA Today bestselling author Jennifer Estep (author of the Mythos Academy, Elemental Assassin, and Bigtime series) — It’s Halloween at Mythos Academy, but Gwen Frost and her friends are in for more tricks than treats when they run into a mythological monster intent on killing them.

THE FAT CAT by Edie Ramer (author of Cattitude, Galaxy Girls) — In a battle for the souls of seven women, a wizard has the god of war on his side; all the witch has is a fat, black cat.

MEDIUM RARE by Nancy Haddock (author of the Oldest City Vampire trilogy) —What’s spooking the spirits of St. Augustine? As the witching hour of Halloween approaches, ghost seer Colleen Cotton must team with a by-the-book paranormal investigator to locate the one ghost who can save the city’s specters. If she fails, her own great grandfather’s spirit may be lost forever.

SWEET DEMON by Misty Evans (author of the Witches Anonymous series) —When Chicago’s vampire king insists Kali Sweet join his empire, the vengeance demon must rely on her ex – the half-human, half-chaos demon who left her at the altar three hundred years ago – in order to escape the vamp’s clutches.

SIAN’S SOLUTION by Dale Mayer (author of the Psychic Visions series) — When a vampire discovers the human man she loves has been captured and hung in a blood farm, she goes against her own kind and risks everything to save him.

A BIT OF BITE by Cynthia Eden (author of NEVER CRY WOLF and ANGEL OF DARKNESS) — A killer is stalking the streets of Crossroads, Mississippi, and it’s up to Sheriff Ava Dushaine to stop him. But when suspicion falls on werewolf alpha Julian Kasey—Ava’s ex-lover and the man who still haunts her dreams—Ava knows that she’ll either have to prove his innocence…or watch the whole town go up in flames.

SINFULLY SWEET by Michelle Miles (author of the Coffee House series) — When Chloe bakes a little magic into her pastries, she attracts the attention of Edward, the sexy half-demon, half-witch, who’s come to warn her those who murdered her sister are now after her.

A NIGHT OF FOREVER by Lori Brighton (author of A Night of Secrets and To Seduce an Earl) — Who is Aidan Callaghan? Mary Ellen James is intent on uncovering the truth about the mysterious man, but as she soon finds out, some things are best left buried in the past.

FEEL THE MAGIC by Liz Kreger (author of the Part of Tomorrow series) — Jenna Carmichael’s magical attempt to rectify Jessica Manfield’s birth identity takes an unexpected turn when the past comes back to haunt her.

BREAKING OUT by Michelle Diener (author of the Tudor-set historical suspense novel In A Treacherous Court) — Imprisoned in a secret facility, powerful telekinetic Kelli Barrack and two other ‘special’ inmates grab a chance to escape, only to confront their worst nightmares on the outside.

GHOSTLY JUSTICE, an all-new Seven Deadly Sins novella by New York Times bestselling author Allison Brennan (author of the Seven Deadly Sins series) — Demon hunters Moira O’Donnell and Rafe Cooper are dragged into the dangerous world of nocturnal predators to find “Ghostly Justice” for a virgin sacrificed to an ancient blood demon.

The reviews have been great … All Things Urban Fantasy said: “Like a great buffet, this anthology gives you the chance to taste a little bit of everything. Short and sweet, these stories did a good job drawing me in, setting the hook, and adding books to my to be read pile.” The Good, The Bad and the Unread gave it an A+. And Smexy Books gave “Ghostly Justice” an “A” calling it “dark and gritty.”

If you like paranormal romance or urban fantasy, you can’t go wrong with ENTANGLED. I’m giving away a digital copy of ENTANGLED to one lucky commenter. If you’d like to check it out, you can buy it for your e-reader or computer at Amazon, BN.com, or Smashwords.

And I wanted to share with you one more really cool thing: my friend Philip Hawley, Jr. has digitally released STIGMA, his debut novel, for $2.99. STIGMA first came out in 2007 and I loved it. Philip is a pediatrician and also is an assistant professor of clinical pediatrics at the University of Southern California School of Medicine. I greatly admire his dedication to his career, as well as his talent as a great storyteller. Trust me: you won’t regret reading this book.

See what others have to say:

“STIGMA pulses with tension and drama. Philip Hawley has written a top-notch thriller!” –Tess Gerritsen, New York Times bestselling author

“STIGMA is an explosive, page-turning thriller with depth and emotional complexity. Hawley is a master storyteller.” –Allison Brennan, New York Times bestselling author

“STIGMA is a blast of a read from start to finish. Phil Hawley is the real deal and the thriller world has an authentic new voice.” –John Lescroart, New York Times bestselling author

“Philip Hawley delivers a rare combination of taut plotting and brilliant writing. Sit back and enjoy. Phil Hawley is for real.” –Ridley Pearson, New York Times bestselling author

“Action-packed . . . rich with authenticity. Philip Hawley tells a great story.” –Jonathan Kellerman, New York Times bestselling author

“Destined to be a classic . . . upon finishing I closed it up and said ‘Perfect!’ ” —Terry Lewis, book critic, The Other View

I’m also giving away a digital copy of STIGMA to one lucky commenter. Check it out at Amazon.

Tell us about the a charity you are passionate about, that you’d donate your time, treasure and talent to support. Remember, two free e-books!

Destination Unknown

by JT Ellison

‘A good traveller has no fixed plans, and is not intent on arriving.’ ~Lao Tzu

No.

It’s not a pretty word.

It connotes negativity, refusal, rejection.

It is also the working writer’s best friend.

No doesn’t always have to be negative.

No can be healthy. No can mean you’ve made a measured decision that is in your best interest. No can mean you’ve taken control of your life. No can mean you have a solid understanding of your limitations.

So why is it so hard to say no?

I’m a yes girl. I find it difficult to refuse requests, especially when it means helping someone else out. And that’s not necessarily a good thing. There are times, like now, that I’ve said yes to so many things that nothing is getting its fair due. I’m juggling five projects in addition in to launching a book and touring and all that jazz. Nothing is getting done well, thoroughly, mindfully, because I can’t focus completely on any of them.

No is hardest to say when you’re in the midst of promoting a book. No one wants to miss an opportunity, especially when we don’t know what the secret magic sauce is to reach readers. There’s always that little voice in the back of your head niggling at you, saying “If you say no to the wrong thing, a chance could pass you by.” And that chance might have been the one little thing that tips the scales in your favor.

But wow, that kind of thinking can drive a writer mad.

I had to pull out of a project yesterday. It wasn’t one that was earth shattering, but I told someone I’d do something, and I had to write them and withdraw that promise. I hated to do it. But when the email was sent, and I self-flagellated for a few minutes, I looked at my calendar, and suddenly, I found another six things that I could cut from my schedule. And boy, did it feel good. The pressure lifted off my shoulders.

I’ve always been good at telling other people that they need to find balance. That they should weigh their options and choose what makes the most sense for them.

I really need to start taking my own advice.

I read an interesting article last week by Joshua Millburn of The Minimalists teasing an essay he’s written about living three months with no goals. And of course, I immediately set out to read the attendant articles to see if this is something that I could do.

One of my favorite quotes from one of the articles, from Leo Babauta, who I call a good friend though I’ve never met him and he has no idea I exist, simply because so much of what he’s said over the past few years I’ve tried to emulate, follows:

“What do you do, then? Lay around on the couch all day, sleeping and watching TV and eating Ho-Hos? No, you simply do.”

That complements my all time favorite quote, the one I keep in my email signature line to remind me to stay on the path:

“Do or do not. There is no try.” – Yoda

That’s really a truth worth exploring. I wasn’t surprised to hear it echoed by Steven Pressfield, author of the fabulous The War of Art, this week as well.

The addict is the amateur; the artist is the professional.

At its most basic, all three truths say the same thing. You either do the work, or you don’t.

But can you accomplish all you need, and want, to do, without goals?

The whole concept is intriguing to me. I live for goals. I get a great sense of satisfaction by setting, meeting, and exceeding goals. Hell, I’m the one who will add a forgotten task to a to do list post-completion just so I can cross it off.

No goals?

{{{{HIVES}}}}

So that’s exactly what I’m going to try to do.

I set some seriously unrealistic goals for myself this year – 43 of them. Yes, I just went back to my planner and counted them. Some are realistic – finish book 7, write book 8, start book 9 – done, done, done. Some are amorphous – appreciate more, be open to new experiences, try sushi. Some are more concrete – yoga, running, golf twice a week.

But as I look at my list of goals, and realize it’s the end of September, and there are so, so many that I haven’t accomplished — become fluent in Italian, cut online time in half, carve out ample time to read, write a non-fiction proposal — nor will manage to master by the end of the year, that I start to get upset with myself. I am not meeting my goals.

Joshua’s essay made me realize all I’m doing is saying yes, and I’m not getting anything done.

Yes, I wanted to get better at speaking Italian, and cook at home more, and run three times a week. Yes, I wanted to renovate my kitchen and dining room and lose twenty pounds. And… and… and. But so much of my goals list is just wishful thinking.

And if my wishes aren’t getting fulfilled, even if I’m the one in control of them, something is wrong.

I’m striving.

Lao Tzu taught that:

All straining, all striving are not only vain but counterproductive. One should endeavor to do nothing (wu-wei). But what does this mean? It means not to literally do nothing, but to discern and follow the natural forces — to follow and shape the flow of events and not to pit oneself against the natural order of things. First and foremost to be spontaneous in ones actions.

Just what Leo said, and what Steven said, and what Joshua will say when he posts his essay.

Will mastering my to do list and scratching off the goals I’ve set make me happy? Or will striving to meet so many unattainable goals drive me crazy? I tell you what makes me happy. Writing. When I’m not writing, when I’m so focused on all the things I have to do that aren’t just plain writing, I am not happy.

It’s as simple as that.

The pressure of deadlines, the constant go-go-go that happens when I get online, the striving-all of that is trumped when I sit down to the keyboard and create a new world. When my husband comes home at night and I’m bubbling over with excitement at some random plot twist that happens, and he smiles at my exuberance – that – THAT – makes me happy.

I see now that crossing goals off a list makes me feel like I’ve accomplished something on the days when writing becomes work. My friends and family tell me I work too hard. To that I truly scoff—if I was really working too hard, I’d have six books a year or more under my belt, like many authors I know. I’d be mothering a child. I’d be answering to a boss. Instead, I float in that netherworld of getting my writing done, sandwiched between hours of doing a bunch of things that really don’t matter. I work hard, yes. I won’t discount that. But I’m not working smart. And that is not a good thing.

So instead of striving to meet all these insane goals, I’m going to try something new. No goals. My weapon with be two little letters, a simple word, that holds great power.

No.

Tell me, friends, when’s the last time you took control and said no? And did you feel terribly guilty about it, or was it freeing?

Wine of the week – this one is dedicated to the divine Laura Lippman, who I finally met in St. Louis, and was charmed by, not that I expected anything less, but sometimes it’s really cool to find out your heroes are rocking cool people, and besides, it fits the whole theme of today’s post rather well….. Irony Cabernet

And I would be remiss if I didn’t do a tiny plug – the ebook of WHERE ALL THE DEAD LIE goes on sale tomorrow, so if you’ve been waiting for the digital version, here you are : )

Nook
Kindle
Google Books