Unlike movies, books aren’t advertised on TV and radio, except on rare occasions.  So the responsibility for advertising my books falls on my shoulders.  Although an engineering student, I studied advertising and media at college.  I learned about the all-important “opportunities to view.”  Essentially, for an advertisement to work, it must be seen several times before the viewer remembers the product and this excludes all the times the viewer misses the advertisement.  So the ad has to be run dozens of times before it has an effect.  That’s a lot of advertising dollars that I’m not willing (or able) to foot, but that doesn’t mean I don’t advertise my work and myself. 

My short stories and articles are my advertisements and they work in two ways.  First, these stories and articles work for me as a calling card.  They remind people that I exist and I’m still doing that writing thing.  If they read one of my previous books, then maybe it’s time to check out another.  Second, my stories and articles operate like a “try before you buy program.”  People can sample my work without laying out a penny.  This is an important consideration if the reader is going to invest their money in a writer they’ve never tried before.  People get to read my work and if they like it, hopefully, they’ll go out and get my books.

This isn’t to say that my primary reason for writing stories and articles is mercenary.  The fact that they work as calling cards is an added benefit.  I write what I write because I want to.  The stories and articles flex my writing muscles.  The workouts they provide keep me trim.

There’s an added benefit of writing and selling articles instead of paying for advertising, too.  The magazines are paying me for my work.  They are paying me to advertise my current book or next book.  I couldn’t ask for more.  J

Now, writing short stories and articles doesn’t work for every writer.  Personally, I find it easy to write them, but I know a lot of novelists who find it impossible.  But every writer needs a calling card to help promote his or her work.  Mine is stories and articles.  What’s yours?

Simon Wood

For those who live in the States HAPPY INDEPENDENCE DAY

This week my Quibble is called:

THAT DIRTY WORD

No, no, not that word. I’m talking about

PROLOGUES

Some readers hate ’em [or say they do].

My dictionary defines prologue as "the preface or introduction to a literary work." Does that mean that if/when I write a prologue I’ve written a literary work? Cool.

Another definition is: "An introductory or preceding event or development."

And that, my friends, is what I believe a good prologue should be . . . and most of the time they are. But, somehow, the prologue has gotten a bad rap. It’s a dirty word.

What I hear – a lot:

"I skip prologues."
"I don’t think you need ’em."
"Why can’t it be Chapter One?"
"I read a prologue that had nothing to do with the book."

That last quote is valid, IF a prologue has "nothing to do with the book." But I can’t believe a professional author sets out to write a prologue that has nothing to do with his/her book [or a book that has nothing to do with his/her prologue]. So WHY does the prologue have a bad rep?

I pulled a few books – at random and I didn’t cheat – from my bookshelf.

John Grisham’s The Firm doesn’t have a prologue.

Clive Cussler’s Raise TheTitanic has one, except he calls it a "Prelude."

Pat Conroy’s The Prince of Tides has a Prologue that ends thusly:
I will tell you my story.
Nothing is missing.
I promise you.

Tess Geritsen’s Body Double has a Prologue. Skip it and you’ve missed an important part of the book.

Harlan Coben’s Tell No One has no prologue. But it’s not Chapter One, either (that starts on page 11). The prologue that isn’t a prologue isn’t headed by any title. Clever Harlan.

And last but not least, Gordon Aalborg’s The Specialist. No Prologue, but Chapter One has a subtitle that reads:
Tasmania                                           
[Where there be devils]
Clever Gordon!

Once upon a fairly long time ago, I wrote a Prologue for FOOTPRINTS IN THE BUTTER. The Prologue took place at a high school reunion dance. Shortly thereafter, one of the reunionites gets thunked over the head with a miniature reproduction of "The Thinker." Chapter Two has Ingrid [my sleuth] discussing the murder with her friend Cee-Cee [who at age 60+ is still sleeping with her ex-husband, a cop – that way I can bring the cops in without bringing the cops in :::grin:::]. Ingrid talks about the people at the reunion dance and their motives and Cee-Cee responds. My agent asked if Cee-Cee "knew these people." My answer: "She does if she read my prologue."

The Prologue became Chapter Three — what I fondly called my "flashback  Chapter." And yes, I had to rewrite the Ingrid/Cee-Cee scene. [To your left is the large-print edition – Trade paperback in the US, hardcover in the UK,]

Today I’m schizy about putting Prologues in my books. As a mid-list author, I can’t afford to lose one potential reader, so I tend to write my prologues under the guise of an introduction.

Here’s a [short] intro to my next book, THE LANDLORD’S BLACK-EYED DAUGHTER, a "paranormal history-mystery romance."

                        6, April, 1766

            Seated beside the open coffin, the watchers waited. They waited
to see whether Barbara Wyndham’s body moved. They watched intently while
mourners trailed past. Blind belief said that if Barbara’s body began to
bleed, ‘twould identify her murderer.
            There was some question as to whether Barbara had suffered a
seizure of the heart and fallen and hit her head on a rock. Or had she been
struck by some unknown hand?
            Seven-year-old Elizabeth Wyndham watched with the watchers, but
her mother remained motionless.
            "Mama," Elizabeth whispered, "are ye sleeping?"
            "Your mother sleeps evermore, my Bess," said Lawrence Wyndham,
lifting his daughter up into his arms.
            Elizabeth pressed her tear-streaked face against his shoulder.
At the same time she wondered with a twinge of fear how it would feel to
sleep evermore.

Is that a prologue? Sure it is. It’s a "preceding event" — a thread that runs throughout the book. But I "cheat" by heading it with a date [rather than "that dirty word"].

The other day I found an interesting prologue. It’s on my pillow. It says: "Do not remove tag under penalty of law."

It’s a very successful prologue because I want to know more. Like, why?

Over and Out,
Deni

Pari Noskin Taichert

It’s vacation time for many people in the U.S. this week. I’m going to take a little break too. Rather than contemplate heady concepts about marketing, writing, or the mystery community, I thought it’d be nice to show you some pictures from our three-day family vacation to Ruidoso, NM. Okay, there was a little work there; I had a book signing in that small mountain town, but the bulk of our time was spent exploring South Central NM.

I had difficult time getting all the photos to line up with my narrative captions in this entry. Please pardon any of the confusion. When I tried to move them, it didn’t work and I decided to get this post up before the entire day passed. If you can’t figure anything out, just post a comment and I’ll explain it.

Here goes . . .

Acomilla rest stop is about 60 miles south of Albuquerque. It’s one of my favorites because of its spectacular setting. As you can see, it’s built on stilts. I assume that’s to keep some of the dust out when the wind sweeps this landscape. 

The photo to the right shows a bit of the view from the rest stop.

Heading into Carizozo, you come upon an unlikely landscape of black lava rock. Here, in the distance, you can see El Capitan, the volcano that erupted to produce this particular anamoly.

The picture to the right is at the beginning of the Valley of Fires State Park. 

The following are two photos from Bonita Lake a few miles outside of Ruidoso. They show both the landscape and the fact that the lake is far below its normal level due to the drought. The picture on the right is exposed lake bed.

Ah, here we get to the business of the trip. On the left are Becky and Myk Ewing of Books, Etc. This couple is an example of the best in booksellers. They live in a fairly conservative town and make a point of bringing as much variety to their bookstore as possible. Notice Myk’s tee-shirt.

So many of New Mexico’s
museums are located in improbable places. To the left is the "Cube," the interior of the NM Museum of Space History. We arrived too late to enter, but it didn’t matter. Outside there is a park with space and military objects.

It’s an astounding site. To the right is a anti-aricraft missile aimed right at the town of Alamogordo. I’ve also included one more picture of the location because it was so odd and gorgeous.

Southwest of Alamogordo is one of the most marvelous national parks in our country. White Sands is a place you mustn’t miss. In the summer, the park is open until 10 pm most evenings. On full moon nights, it stays open until midnight. People come to have dinner — as we did — and then play on the dunes until it gets too dark to see.  The sand here is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. It embraces you in fine warmth. My husband, who eschews most "spiritual" references said that he felt healed after spending time in the park.

The little pod-like structures are small picnic shelters. It’s wonderful to be in this frozen tundra landscape and to feel such warmth. Of course, you can see 40-60 miles in any direction as well — but that’s common in NM.

Many people bring sleds to slide down the dunes. We brought old aluminum snow dishes–but they were too sticky for the gypsum sand. It didn’t matter one iota.

The last day of our trip, we drove from Ruidoso to Cloudcroft in the heart of the Sacramento Mountains. Much of this land is owned by the Mescalero Apache tribe. While many Native Americans ended up with horrid, waterless reservations when they dealt with the U.S. Government, the Mescaleros had the opposite experience. They own some of the most gorgeous and fertile acres in our state. The pictures below show a bit of the mountains and, distressingly, evidence of poaching.

  While taking a short hike,
in the area to the left, we found two elk carcasses. Both had been left just off of the path — and both had been killed for their antlers which had been sawed off. It was sad to see these mighty animals so wasted. The hunters didn’t even bother to harvest the meat. I’d say this was the only low point of our trip.

  On the drive down the mountain from Cloudcroft, on the left side of the road, is the remnant of an old logging bridge. Can you imagine cross that thing — even when it was new?

Finally, I’m going to end this little travelogue with pictures from another one of my favorite places in the world. Three Rivers Petroglyphs Park is located between Tularosa and Carizozo. Nearly 20 years ago, I went there with some friends. At the time, these petroglyphs weren’t protected. I’m grateful they now are. The thing that shocked me then, and still does, is that visitors can walk among them — they can leave the path and climb over rocks to see as many as they want. Granted, they might find a rattlesnake or two — but that’s kind of cool, too.

To the left is the path that now leads to the hundreds of petroglyphs. The photo to the
right gives you a small idea of the splendor of the location of Three Rivers in the Tularosa Basin.

On the left is a butterfly. I could have taken — and inserted many more pictures of Three Rivers, but just wanted to give you a small feel of the place. The last photo in this missive is, to me, one of the most precious.

When I came to this site nearly 20 years ago, I found this face and stopped dead in my walk. Most of you don’t know that my mom collected Asian art and I got my undergrad degree in Asian Studies. One particular interest of mine was Tibetan art.  This face looked so Tibetan to me, I never forgot it. It also convinces me that many of the "primitive" cultures of the U.S. came from Asia. What do you think?

Well, thank you for indulging me. I hope all of you have a safe 4th of July — if you celebrate it — and if you don’t.

This trip through a small part of New Mexico gives you an idea of how large my homestate is. I hope it also gives you an inkling of why I adore my home so very much.

Cheers.

Jeffrey Cohen

When Lawrence Block sold the rights to his Bernie Rhodenbarr novels to Hollywood, do you think he expected the part to be played by… Whoopi Goldberg?

Now, don’t get me wrong. I think Whoopi Goldberg can be a terrific actress (watch The Color Purple sometime, and you’ll see what I mean), and I have no sexist predisposition toward keeping a character the same gender, if there’s something to be gained by changing said gender. But did you see Burglar? What were those people smoking?

The minute a writer finishes typing “THE END” at the bottom of a page, s/he starts thinking about who should play the featured character in the story when it (inevitably, in the author’s mind) becomes a movie. Sometimes, we think about it before writing the novel, to let you in on a trade secret. And that’s fine. People will often ask me who I think should play Aaron Tucker on TV or in the movies, and my standard answer is “oh, that is so far off in the distance. I don’t think about that.”

Yeah, right.

The fact is, the day I sold the first Aaron novel, the publisher himself asked me who I thought would be right for a film version of For Whom the Minivan Rolls. And the question did not catch me off-guard by any means; I’d given it plenty of thought already. Since enough people already thought I’d modeled the character after myself, I decided to suggest people who weren’t astonishingly handsome, just so I wouldn’t seem egotistical. Then I realized there are only four people in Hollywood who aren’t astonishingly handsome, and three of them are over 70, and probably wrong for the part. Debbie Reynolds, for example (and no disrespect: she was darned attractive in 1956). I don’t think she’d be good as Aaron.

It’s a game we all play. I have my preferences in the fantasy version of my movie. I won’t actually say who I’d prefer for Aaron, since I don’t want Tom Cruise to feel he’s out of the running (Tom, I lost your number–give us a call). Aaron is rather noticeably height-impaired, but I imagine that if they wanted to buy my book, I’d be tickled if we could get it going with Kareem Abdul-Jabbar in the lead.

That’s the point: we authors need to understand that our books are many things, but one of those is a property. If we choose to sell the rights to that property, we really can’t complain if someone makes changes to it of which we don’t approve. We opted to sell. We could have opted not to sell, and then they wouldn’t have been able to make the changes.

If you own a car, and you decide to sell it so you can buy a new car, you place an ad in the newspaper or on the Internet, and you find interested buyers. After negotiating, you come to an agreement with one, and that person gives you the amount of money (or chickens, or Oreo cookies, whatever) you have agreed is fair. You give him the car, or more specifically, the title to the car.

Suppose the next day that guy decides to take his new car and paint it orange. With pink polka dots. And chartreuse flames on the front fenders. And maybe rip out the Corinthian leather seats that you insisted on at the dealership and put in some with zebra upholstery. And then he takes out your state-of-the-art stereo system and replaces it with a radar detector and two tin cans with a string.

You could decry the bad (in your opinion) taste the new owner is exhibiting. You might feel betrayed, duped, appalled. Sure. But you can’t tell him what he can do because it’s his car now. You want to express an opinion? Go ahead. You want to tell your friends about the concrete-brained imbecile who bought your baby and turned it into a junkheap on purpose? Feel free.

But the bottom line is, it’s his car, and he can do what he wants with it.

The same principle, alas, pertains to those of us who are fortunate enough to attract some interest in our books from those who produce television, movies, radio and for all I know, educational filmstrips. We solicit (sometimes through our agents) their interest. We welcome their offers. And then, if we’re supremely lucky and especially persistent, we get some of their money in exchange for the right to produce entertainment based on our original ideas. And that’s where it ends.

If you cash the check, you have sold your right to the material. The purchaser, who now owns it, can do with it as s/he likes. If they want to take your 19th Century Anglican bishop and turn him into a talking llama, they can do it. You cashed the check.

The only way to have control over what happens to your story once it hits a screen of any size is to use your own money to produce the film, and then write the screenplay and direct it yourself. And even then, because filmmaking is a creative process, you will have to collaborate with actors, cinematographers, editors and a host of other technicians and creative artists who have more experience doing this than you do.

Deal with it.

I have not yet had one of my novels torn to shreds by Hollywood, but I’m certainly open to it. If the day comes that I am lucky and persistent, and someone from the land of disposable entertainment feels moved to hand me a chunk of cash in exchange for the right to completely obliterate what I slaved over and fretted about for months before handing it over to a publisher, I will weigh my options.

And then I’ll take the money. Believe it. I have two kids to put through college and I’m a freelance writer. How much do you think I have saved?

Once that check is cashed, I may become appalled at how my precious ideas are discarded, defaced and otherwise mashed into something I’d be ashamed to call my own. It’s possible. Maybe given the way things go, it’s probable. I hope I’m lucky enough to find out.

But you won’t hear me complaining publicly about it (maybe to friends and family, but not out in the world). Not once.

After all, I will have cashed the check.

I suppose it’s because of the times we live in—we can get anything we want and fast.  Technology has placed the world in our hands.  It’s just as easy for me to communicate with my friends and family back in England as with my friends in this country.  We can get everything in an instant—coffee, movies, music, mac ‘n’ cheese.  This godsend has a tendency to make us impatient. 

I’m guilty of this.  If I see more than two cars lined up in the drive-thru or people standing in front of the ATM, then screw it, I’m going elsewhere.  Time and Simon wait for no man.

I’ve seen this trait for instant gratification amongst writers.  They want to see their book in print the moment the manuscript spills off the printer.  But traditional publishing isn’t like that.  It’s a big machine that moves slowly.  A lot of planning and a lot of people are involved in the book making process.  I had a book release party for Working Stiffs at the weekend and one of my guests asked me how quickly it took from start to finish.

“Nine months,” I said, injecting a healthy dollop of incredulity.

“That slow?” my guest remarked.

They read me all wrong.  Nine months is bloody fast!  I worked my butt off for six months writing it and the publisher busted his hump for three getting the cover done, copy editing and working with the printer, etc.   And this was for a small press book not bogged down by big publishing machinery.

None of this takes into account the process of finding an agent and a publisher.  Take my first book, Accidents Waiting To Happen.  I started it in January ’99, began sending out the manuscript that September, collected a bucket load of rejections, didn’t land a contract until October ’01, and it wasn’t published until July ’02.  That’s three and a half years.  If I hadn’t sold a bunch of my stories in the meantime, I’m not sure I would have stuck with it.  Three and a half years is a long time to wait.

I won’t say I felt hard done by waiting this long, but I felt I’d paid my commitment and patience dues.  My story pales in comparison to some successful writers out there.  I know one mystery writer who waited eight years to sell that first book.  Another wrote ten novels before he sold one to a major publisher.  I can’t imagine writing ten books and getting nowhere.  I would have given up a long time before I sat down to write the tenth book.

Vanity presses and print-on-demand (POD) services make it possible to take a freshly printed manuscript and turn it into a book in a matter of days.  So I can see the appeal to the writer.  Why punish yourself with the waiting game when you can have your dream today?

I won’t condescend and say that just because I waited nearly four years to see my book in print, you should too.  It’s a lame and insulting argument. 

But I will say you’re doing yourself no favors going for instant gratification.  Writing may be an art but it’s also a craft, and crafts have to be honed.  A writer, like any craftsman, needs time to develop his skills.  Traditional publishing is a big machine and not everything it produces is solid gold, but it contains a lot of talented people whether it be writers, agents, editors, etc.  Whether you or I like it, it takes time to be heard.   The cold hard fact of the matter is just because a writer writes doesn’t mean he or she deserves to be published.  Your work may not be ready yet, your subject too controversial or worst of all, you may not be good enough.  Writing is a leap of faith.  A writer’s belief in their work and dedication to the craft can all be for naught.   Every time I commit to writing a story or book, I have no idea whether it will be published.  I have a small yet significant body of work behind me, but I hope and pray it will be good enough for publication when I send it off to the publishers. 

Vanity presses can bring you publication today, but they can’t give you the distribution, advances, marketing, and editing that the developing writer is going to need to become an accomplished writer.  Like I mentioned in my early posts, small press publishers have published my first three books and getting those books seen has been tough.  With POD printing services, those hardships are magnified.  Reviewers tend not to review self-published books and stores tend not to stock them.  For a self-published book to be a success, the writer has to spend the majority of their time selling the book instead of developing their writing skills.

The hardest book to sell will be the first.  It may take years, but it’s worth the battle.  The difference it will make to your sales and ability to build a career is immense.  If you want to see your book published in every store and given every chance for success, then you have to be in it in for the long haul.  There are many ways of getting there, but going for instant gratification isn’t the answer.

Every writer (new and experienced) wants their work published, but publish well, not fast.  It’ll make a world of difference.

Simon Wood

PS: David B. Silva’s Hellnotes reviewed Working Stiffs very favorably, as have Crime Spree and Cemetery Dance.  You can read the Hellnotes review here. 

Deni Dietz

                             BREW HA-HA [no, that’s not a misspelling]
                                    or
                             BREW HOO-BOY

Last week the ITW [International Thriller Writers] Awards raised a lot of dust, eh? Funny thing is, I wouldn’t have even noticed that all the nominees were male, had it not been brought to my attention; had I not been thunked on the ol’ noggin with a blog-mallet. [And this from someone who practically memorized Marlo Thomas’ Free To Be You And Me, whose daughter at age 5 wanted to know why it was called a menu and not a womanu.]

People, friends, fellow authors, if you want to get your knickers or tightie whities in a twist, how about tackling "real" issues? I’m against the War, any War. I hate it that funding for libraries is practically non-existent. I hate it when I call with a question about my bank account [or computer] and I speak to someone with too-perfect English who admits he’s pretending to be from Peoria. I hate that people are stealing files with my personal information, or that phone companies can give the government stuff about me, or that the government wants personal stuff about me, and I hate Wal-Mart.

Those are the issues I fret over.

As far as my Awards opinion, it won’t make me very "popular" and I’ll probably never again be short-listed for an awar—oh, wait, I’ve never been short-listed for a major award. So I guess one could say Deni has sour-grape issues (Deni loves talking about herself in third-person), but they’d be wrong. Dead wrong.

People, friends, fellow authors, lend me your ears. Somehow, hard as I try, I can’t envision ITW judges receiving submissions and forming 3 separate piles: Male, female, Initials. And that’s where last week’s brouhaha breaks down. As an author, I must give my characters motivation [otherwise my plots break down]. Where’s the motivation in short-listing a guy author over a woman author? It just doesn’t make any sense.

For want of a better word — and because I’ve racked my brain for a catchy phrase and couldn’t find one, I’ll designate this week’s Quibbles & Bits:

DESIGNATIONS

I hate ’em.

I’ve been told they’re necessary because bookstore personnel need to know where to shelve books. So why, may I ask, did my first mystery novel Throw Darts at a Cheesecake get shelved with the cookbooks? And why did my stand-alone thriller Fifty Cents For Your Soul (which Publishers Weekly called "Horror and Hollywood noir") get placed on the Inspirational shelves?

I’ve been told designations are necessary because agents need buzz words to sell books to editors (and editors need buzz words to satisfy marketing departments).

Agent to Editor: "It’s a thriller. Think Lee Child’s Jack Reacher series, only this has a woman protagonist, her sexagenarian sidekick, and a three-legged dog ."

Editor to Marketing Dept: "It’s a saga. Think: ‘Lonesome Dove’ with sex."

Author to agent/editor: "It’s a cozy. Think P.D. Christie’s ‘The Cat Who Tatted Lace While Brewing Cappuccino and Cutting Hair.’"

And by the way, why the heck don’t we have an award for cat mysteries? We could call it the Pussy Awards — or even better, YELP [Yarns Embodying Lynxlike Personifications].

"Hey, d’ya hear? I was short-listed for a YELP."

When you have designations, you have the following conversations:

"I don’t read cozies."
"What’s a cozy?"
"I’m not sure. I think it has to do with knitting and recipes. And cats. A friend of mine wrote a mystery with a cat and she won a YELP."

I don’t read woo woo."
"What’s woo woo?
"Supernatural shit. I hate it when a sleuth solves a mystery with ESP."
"What book did that happen in?"
"I don’t know. I told you, I don’t read woo woo."

Book Awards have designations: Mystery, Romance, SF/Fantasy, and so on. Skipping the fan [AKA Readers Choice] awards and concentrating on the ones that get judged . . . I was an Awards judge once. I had to read 40 books, and here’s my confession for the world (okay, the 20 or so people who read my blog every week) to hear: [whispering] I didn’t read every page of every book! If the book didn’t grab me by page 50, I skimmed.

I hang my head in shame, but assuming I eat, sleep, and go to the bathroom, it takes me a minimum of 2 days to read a book. You do the math. Forty books = 80 days. I’ve heard judges say they "get over a hundred entries and read every word." At one book every 2 days, that would take ME, at the very least, 200 days.

I’m not saying it can’t be done . . .

By the way, one of my favorite (award-winning) authors is Barry Eisler. His [controversial] June 21st. blog was titled: INDEPENDENTS, CHAINS AND DRIVE BY SIGNINGS
http://www.barryeisler.com.blog

Last week was one hell of a week, eh?

Pari Noskin Taichert

Every few months in the mystery world there’s a tizzy about this or that nomination list. Blogs buzz about bias. Listservs flare with perceived insults. Accusations fly. In a perverse, gossipy, way this intermittent brouhaha is kind of fun.

The latest flurry of fussing centers on the International Thriller Writers (ITW) list o’ nominees. It turns out there were no women on it. Through the end of last week, fingers pointed, nasty words lobbed to and fro, and calmer voices tried to reason.

Watching the drama play out on this blog and others, I realized our crime-fiction community has the potential for hundreds of these rifts. Frankly, I’m astounded that we’re not at each other’s throats all the time.

I wonder why?

What is this mystery community in which we read, write, market, schmooze, fight, discuss, earn money and live? I haven’t seen it defined in a publication yet. It’s taken for granted . . . like air.

Me? I include:

1. Active mystery readers – – – – People who organize/attend conventions; discuss crime fiction online or in book groups; or identify themselves as avid mystery readers
2. Mystery writers – – – – Traditionally published, self-published, unpublished but trying/dreaming of the day when their work is in the hands of readers
3. Mystery booksellers – – – – Those with physical storefronts or online presences
4. Mystery reviewers – – – – Those that specialize and understand the many hues in this broad genre; print and online
5. Mystery opinion makers – – – – People who print/produce mystery news (magazines, tabloids), popular mystery bloggers, trend spotters/setters
6. Mystery industry – – – – Editors, agents, specific publishers (big and small), marketers/pr folks

How big is this community? Thousands of people? Tens of thousands? I doubt any of us could accurately quantify it.

However, this isn’t a haphazard group; an active sense of purpose binds us together. We care about storytelling, about words and how they’re used. We care about reading and literacy. And, I think, all of us also care about justice — whether we believe it exists in the world or simply yearn for it.

The mystery community reminds me of an extended family consisting of several nuclear families: The Whodunits, the Thrillers, the Gumshoes, the Noirs . . . . Over here, is the cabal of tall, gorgeous blond cousins (you know who you are) whom everyone envies and adores. There, are the guys who always dress in black–the Bad Boys.

Every extended family has its attention-getters — the people who define the larger group for the outer world. Uncle Max is known for his loud, colorful pronouncements that boil everyone’s blood. Cousin Lila writes for one of the country’s most prestigious newspapers. Grandpa Joe is the nicest man anyone could ever meet — beloved by admirers in every country. Aunt Sophie has dedicated her life to ridding the world of social injustice.

Members in families fight, too. It’d be pathological if everyone got along ALL the time.

When I trained as a therapist in grad school, I was particularly intrigued by group behavior and dynamics. The mystery community  — by anyone’s definition — is a big group. When faced with dozens of choices, people naturally look for smaller affinity groups for their daily comfort and communication.  It’s natural.

Affinity is one thing. Trashing family members because they don’t agree with you is another. No one likes the blowhard — no matter how clever — who has to put people down in order to feel good about himself.

In the three years I’ve been an active member of the larger mystery community, I’ve noticed an increasing tendency towards an US vs. THEM mentality within our own ranks. It’s an acid-coated worm etching a poisonous trail of destruction through every layer of our cohesion.

I’m worried.

Like members of an extended family, we come together for reunions — conventions — and have a blast. We keep in touch. My happiest moments at these events — and during the sallow months between them — are when we celebrate our diversity. I love it when we communicate across genres and push our narrow views and definitions of ourselves into wider perspectives.

I hope this recent urge to divide — to condemn THEM in order to feel good about US amid the smaller groups of our mystery community — is only an adolescent aberration.

It’ll break my heart if it becomes the norm.

HAPPY ENDING:
I felt a bit down after writing that last sentence — and needed cheering up. You might, too. Meet Jake Shimabukuro, an outstanding ukulele player from Hawaii. I’ve provided a link to one of his short music videos.

Cheers.