By JT Ellison

I love taking a real vacation – away from home, work and the responsibilities of a schedule. Vacation is the time of year I allow myself to be a total slob – drop clothes on the floor, don’t make the bed, stay up too late and sleep the morning away, tipple in the afternoons – all things I would never, ever do at home.

But the best part of vacation is unrestricted reading time. I managed a few books during my week away, and enjoyed all of them. I focused mainly on new to me authors, with an old faithful tucked in for surety. Here’s what I read, with attendant thoughts.

What I Read:

THE GHOST – Robert Harris

This was a phenomenal book. I knew the narrator was unreliable from the start, but the story swept me in immediately with an excellent opening line – “The moment I heard how McAra died, I should have walked away.” You know something dreadful is going to happen, and you can’t wait to find out what it is. This was my first Harris book, but it certainly won’t be my last.

THE GRAVEYARD BOOK – Neil Gaiman

My first foray into Gaiman’s world wasn’t a disappointment. I was so touched by the story, the setting, the lovely notion that there are lives to be lead whether you’re alive or dead. It was a morality tale, but more – an exploration into the mind of a creative genius. I can’t wait to move on to his adult work.

SILVER FALLS – Anne Stuart

Stuart is an author with my house, a classic romantic suspense specialist. Though I wanted to slap the heroine for being rather too trusting and too committed to a bad course of action, the premise of the story – even serial killers have families – was intriguing, and the sex was rompalicious.

BABY SHARK’S JUGGLERS AT THE BORDER – Robert Fate

Full disclosure, Bob is a friend of mine. But his Baby Shark books are some of the finest on the market today. The latest installment was a true pleasure to read – I felt like I was right there in late 50’s Texas, a cannon strapped to my arm and a blade down my pant leg. Otis Millett was in his finest form ever, and the story crackled along at a breakneck pace. And Henry makes a welcome reappearance in this book too, lending his usual poignancy to Kristin’s life. I absolutely loved it, and I can’t wait for the next one. Bob, I hope you’re writing faster!

CONFESSIONS OF A SHOPAHOLIC – Sophie Kinsella

Silly, fun and an easy read, I had a good time while reading this. My own confession, I’m still reading it, which is more my problem than the author’s ability to keep my head in the story. A definite beach read.

WORD FREAK – Stefan Fatsis

This exposé into the word of professional Scrabble reads like an anagrammatic dictionary, full of unfamiliar words and quirky characters. But it’s rekindled my love of the game, and I promptly downloaded Scrabble for my iPhone and have been using the tips and tricks laid out in the book to further my own scores. I still suck, but at least I’m looking at the board in a whole new way. It also served to remind me that while I think I have an extensive vocabulary, I really don’t.

THE ACCIDENTAL BUDDHIST – Dinty Moore

I saved the best for last. This was my favorite of all the books I read. Surprised me too. Jeff Abbott suggested I give this a read, and I enjoyed every minute. It’s in turns funny, enlightening and inspirational. I’ve documented my path to finding some sort of Zen in my daily life on this blog, and this book affirmed much of what I’ve been thinking. I’ve realized that many of my “methods” are firmly rooted in Buddhism, which surprised me. But I loved the idea of dedicating yourself to a project like Moore has, and the realization he makes: the more you search for something, the further away it gets. When you allow peace and happiness to find you, then you can achieve enlightenment. That’s true in all things, I think. Highly recommend this book for everyone, whether you’re on a journey of personal growth or just want a little more peace in your life.

What I’m Reading Right Now:

ECLIPSE – Stephenie Meyers

After a big jag like this, I often turn to familiar, comfort reads to help me get settled back into my routine. Seeing the New Moon trailer the other night sparked a reunion with my old friends Jacob, Edward and Bella. I’ve read this series twice before, but this time it feels different for me. I have more compassion with Jacob than I have in the past, feel his pain more keenly. Trying to choose between two men is difficult for anyone, but for the first time I felt myself lean a bit toward Team Jacob. I wonder how the movie will turn out, and if I’m simply responding to Taylor Lautner in the role of Jacob. Regardless, these books are the perfect segue back to my real world of writing.

What I’m Reading Next:

This weekend, I’m starting Dan Brown’s THE LOST SYMBOL. I can’t wait. It’s sitting next to me, taunting me. I enjoyed THE DAVINCI CODE, and I’m sure I’m going to enjoy this as well. I’m not down on Dan Brown like so many others – hell, he’s done for adults what JK Rowling and Stephenie Meyers did for teenagers – got them reading. I will never fault an author who draws a huge audience. Brown strikes a chord in many people. I know he struck one in me when I first read THE DAVINCI CODE. So, love him or hate him, I choose to enjoy the ride and can’t wait to crack the covers. My grandfather was a Mason, and I hope to learn something about him, too.

The minute I finish THE LOST SYMBOL, I’ll move on to Diana Gabaldon’s long awaited AN ECHO IN THE BONE. Gabaldon’s books are a lifeline for me, a series of books that truly transcend description. We all have those books that just speak to us, the characters who climb into our brains and reside there. Gabaldon is an author who evokes such strong imagery and setting that I feel like I’m living the story as one of the unseen cast. I’ll admit, I’ve had a wicked crush on Jaime Fraser for a very, very long time.

And to cap off my week, I get to see Ms. Gabaldon here in Nashville this coming Thursday. She’s at Davis Kidd September 24, 7:00 p.m. Be there or be square!

So, my ‘Rati friends, how about you? Tell me the last book you read, the book you’re reading now, and the book you’re planning to read next. Ready? GO!

Wine of the Week: 2006 Chateau la Rose Tour Blanche Bordeaux

by JT Ellison

I know I’m not unique in the idea of a theme song for each novel. We all use music to drive us, some more than others. I know many authors who have to have music blaring to write, others who need silence.

But I’m always looking back to the very moment when I decided to be a writer. And I have to admit, even before I read John Sandford and decided to try it for myself, long ago in a land I’d rather forget, I heard a song that got under my skin.

It’s called “Disarm” by Smashing Pumpkins. There is a line in the song that goes:

 

The killer in me is the killer in you

That line mesmerized me. I listened to the song over, and over, and over. That line got under my skin, into my brain. Hubby and I watched a lot of Profiler and Millennium in those days, and I was beginning a true fascination with forensics, profiling and police work. The song felt like it was speaking to me, telling me something. It stayed with me for years, niggling at the back of my brain. I never did anything with it, just let it sit back there, all gargoyle-ly, gathering moss and rot and black mold.  

It was a sign of things to come, though I had absolutely no idea at the time.

It happened again when I was writing my first attempt at a novel. The song was “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails. It’s rough, and rude, and violent – and my villain worshipped the song. Worshipped the lyrics. They drove him to his ultimate purpose – to hurt, violate and kill.

You can imagine how I might have been a little worried about this whole getting inspired by music thing.

Now that I’ve harnessed my bizarre little fascination, channeled it into writing novels about good and evil and all the places in between, you’d think I would be better at understanding the why behind the stories. But I don’t. The ideas come when I least expect them. They make themselves known, perching on windowsills, scratching at the glass, each one stumbling over the next in a vain attempt to get inside, vying desperately for my attention.

I love them. Truly, I do.

Sometimes the ideas come from nowhere. Other times, they come from snippets of songs. I’ve learned to take them as they come, write them down, and let them ferment. Sometimes, they actually grow into something worthwhile.

There have been other songs that speak to me. If it weren’t for Evanescence, I might never have finished THE COLD ROOM. I was on a flight to Denver, and I’d been struggling, really struggling, with the book. I couldn’t get myself from point A to point B, much less from A to Z, which is where I needed to go. I had my laptop open, trying to work, and it just wasn’t coming. Frustrated, I turned on my iPod, put it on shuffle and shut my eyes. Evanescence was the first song that popped on. It was “Bring Me to Life.”

As I listened to the song, a spark began in my chest. When it finished, I played it again. And again, and again. And suddenly, all those stupid lost threads fell into place with a bang.

I flipped the laptop back open and wrote the scene toward the end of the book where Memphis and Taylor are talking. I won’t share about what, but it’s a major, significant scene, both for the book, for Taylor’s character, and for the series story arc. Hugely important. And if I hadn’t gotten frustrated and given up, if even for a few moments, I wouldn’t have made the leap. Yes, I might have gotten there another way, but it wouldn’t have been nearly as rich and satisfying to the story.

Now I know my MO. Each book has to have its own song. There’s always a classical piece that’s the daily go to (THE COLD ROOM plays heavily on Dvořák’s New World Symphony) but more and more I’m using songs with lyrics to inspire me. THE IMMORTALS theme song was “Ariadne” by The Cruxshadows. I already had a character named Ariadne, so when I stumbled over the song, it fit so perfectly I couldn’t help myself.

I’m working on a new book. It’s had fits and starts. It keeps getting interrupted to deal with earlier titles, the way this time of year always plays out. But at long last, THE PRETENDER has a song too, one that’s terribly melancholy and sad, but uplifting, in its way. It’s “Angel” by Sarah McLachlan. It’s perfect for the tone of the book, the setting, the topic, everything. Every day when I sit down to work, I listen to the song and read the lyrics, and it puts me in the right, well, mood is the best word for it. I usually listen three or four times, letting the words wash over me as I think back to what I wrote the day before, and where I want to go. Then I can write.

Bizarre, these little idiosyncrasies we writers have.

So writers, do you have a special song that has meaning you and you along comprehend? And readers, do you use a theme song in your daily life?

Wine of the Week: Frozen Strawberry Margaritas

Which explains why I’m not as attendant as I’d like today, so please forgive me. I’ll check in as often as I can.

by JT Ellison

You want to hear some hard truth? Do you promise not to get mad at me? Promise?

Okay then. Here it is. Your social networking habit? It might be hurting you.

Yes, I know it’s fun. Meeting new people, reconnecting with old friends, discussing the price of tea in china with strangers, staffing up your mafia, finding out your Princess personality, etcetera, etcetera. But every minute you spend on Facebook and Twitter (I’m not even going to try and list the gajillion other social networking sites available) is another minute you aren’t writing, or reading. Nurturing your creative spirit.

The Muse is a delicate flower, a fickle Goddess. She must be treated with respect and dignity. She must be nurtured, given the proper nutrients: water, sunlight, fertilizer, a touch of love. If properly taken care of, she will reward you with great things: a bountiful garden of words, a cornucopia of ideas. But if you neglect her, she will forsake you.

And none of us want to be forsaken.

I read an essay last week that broke my heart. It was one writer’s honest, true assessment of her burgeoning Twitter addiction. She openly admitted compromising her family time so she could spend hours a night talking to strangers on Twitter. Her online world became more important that her real one. And I get it. I see how easily that happens. Especially when you’re a new writer, and networking is so vital to your future success. (I am so thankful Facebook and Twitter came along after I was already published.) A little encouragement—that tweet that gets retweeted, the blog entry that starts people talking, that link you sent that helps someone else—it’s heady stuff. A classic, undeniable ego stroke, and for a lot of us, that’s just plain intoxicating. (Yes, some of us not so new writers fall into the Twitter trap too…)

But when does it become a problem?

I can’t answer that question for you. You may want to ask yourself some hard questions though. Namely, how much time are you really spending online? Can’t answer that offhand? Spend a week keeping a log of all your online activity. Not just Twitter and Facebook and Goodreads and Shelfari. Track your email consumption, your blogging, your blog reading, your Yahoo groups, your aimless surfing and your necessary research. Be honest. Don’t cheat. Add that time up at the end of the week and take a candid, truthful look at the results. I guarantee you’ll be surprised at how much time the Internet takes.

Then ask yourself these questions:

Is the Internet as a whole compromising my writing time? Am I reading less because I’m spending more time online? Why am I doing this? Am I reaching out to strangers because I’m not feeling the same sort of support at home? Am I lonely? Blocked? Frustrated?

Because here’s the heart of the matter. Writers? Our job is to write. And I don’t mean pithy status updates and 140 character gems that astonish the world. I mean create. I mean writing stories. I mean taking all that energy and time you’re spending online playing and refocusing it into your work.

You know why it’s so easy to say that and so hard to back it up with results? Because Twitter and Facebook are FUN! And you’re talking to other writers, so you can sort of kind of tell yourself that this is really just research, background. You’re learning, right? You’re connecting with your fans, with your readers, with your heros. Very, very cool stuff.

Listen, if you get inspired by social networking, if watching successful authors launch successful campaigns helps spur you on to greatness, fabulous. I have been greatly inspired by some posts, links and attitudes on Twitter. I think it’s so important to try and have a positive experience out there in the world, and I follow people who exude positivity, who are following the path I want to follow.

But if you’re forsaking your Muse, taking the easy way out, then you have to do a bit of self-examination and decide if it’s really worth it. I am “friends” with people who are online every single time I open my computer and go to the sites. And I can’t help but wonder – when are they working? When are they feeding the Muse?

An editor is going to be impressed with your finished manuscript, submitted on time. The jury is still out on whether they’re impressed that you can Tweet effectively or that you’ve rekindled that friendship with the cheerleader who always dissed you in school.  

The thing about social networking is a little goes a long way. I love Twitter. It’s my number one news source. I follow interesting people, I’ve made new friends, and more importantly, I’ve gained new readers. It’s a tremendous tool for me. But I’ve also (hopefully) mastered the art of Twitter and Facebook. I can glance at my Tweetdeck, see what I need to see, read what I need to read, then move along.

Facebook, on the other hand, became a problem for me last year, so I gave it up for Lent. I spent six weeks only checking it on Tuesdays and Fridays. The first two weeks were hell. I was missing out! Everyone was on there having fun except me.

And then it got better. At the end of the six weeks, I added things up. I wrote 60,000 words during my enforced Facebook vacation. That was enough of an indicator to me that it was taking time away from my job, which is to write.

Now Facebook is a breeze. I’ve separated out my friends, the people I actually interact with daily, so I can pop in one or twice a day, check on them, then keep on trucking. I’ve set my preferences so I’m not alerted to every tic and twitch of the people I’m friends with. I don’t take quizzes or accept hugs. Ignore All has become my new best friend. Because really, as fun as it is to find out that I’m really the Goddess Athena, that aspect isn’t enriching my life.

I read Steven Pressfield’s THE WAR OF ART recently and was so struck by his thesis, that artists fight resistance every moment of every day, and the ones who are published (or sell their work, etc.) are the ones who beat the resistance back. Twitter, Facebook, the Internet in general, that’s resistance. (And to clarify, resistance and procrastination aren’t one and the same. Read the book. It’s brilliant.)

For professional writers, the social networks are a necessary evil, and as such, they must be managed, just like every other distraction in our lives. I still have my days when I find myself aimlessly surfing Twitter and Facebook, looking at what people are doing. Getting into conversations, playing. But I am much, much better at feeding my Muse. I allot time in my day to look at my social networks, but I allot much more time in my day to read. And most importantly, I have that sacred four hour stretch—twelve to four, five days a week—that is dedicated to nothing but putting words on paper.

There’s another phenomenon happening. The social networks are eating into our reading time. Readers have their own resistance, their own challenges managing their online time.

Yes, there are plenty of readers who don’t have Facebook or Twitter accounts, who may read this and laugh. But many of us do, and if we’re being honest with ourselves, every minute spent conversing online is another minute we aren’t reading. I can’t help but wonder if this is what will ultimately drive the trend toward ebooks, since one out of every three readers prefer to read electronically now. One in three, folks. That’s a large chunk of the market.

So how do you turn it off? How do you discipline yourself, walk away from the fun?

It’s hard. But what’s more important? Writing the very best book you can possibly write, or taking a quiz about which Goddess you are? Reading the top book on your teetering TBR stack, or reading what other people think about said book?

For writers, you have to set your priority, and every time your fingers touch the keyboard, that priority really should be writing. The rest will fall into place. I hypothesize that while the Internet is taking a chunk of reading time, most readers still read a great deal. Which means we need to keep up the machine to feed them, right?

Does this post sound like you? Are you easily distracted? Frustrated because you can’t seem to get a grip on things? There are a bunch of great tools out there to help you refocus your creative life. Here’s a list of the websites and blogs that I’ve used over the past year to help me refocus mine.

Websites:

MinimalMac

43 Folders

Zen Habits

Bloggity

The Art of Non-Conformity

Books:

The War of Art – Steven Pressfield

The Creative Habit – Twyla Tharp

Rapt: Attention and the Focused Life – Winifred Gallagher

Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience – Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi 

Take fifteen minutes a day off your social networking and read one of these. I promise it will help you reprioritize your day.

Because really, what’s the point in being a writer if you don’t write?

What do you think, ‘Rati? Are you overdoing the online time? Any tips for making the best out of your Internet experience? How do you find the balance?

Wine of the Week: 2008 Quattro Mani Montepulciano d’Abruzzo

by JT Ellison

The indefatigable Sarah Weinman did a Dark Passages column for the LA Times a couple of weeks ago about female characters with dark histories. She cited some great examples of authors who use their female protagonists to tread into the traditionally male territory of overwhelming violence: Karin Slaughter, Mo Hayder, Gillian Flynn.

There is a common denominator in all of these fabulous authors’ characters: the woman has a tortured past. They are damaged goods. Abused, debased, yet, like the phoenix from the ashes, rising above their beginnings to become strong, compassionate female leads who step in where even males fear to tread.

But here’s my question.

Why does a strong female lead have to have a tortured background? Can a female protagonist make it in the fiction world if she’s not been broken first?

I daresay the answer is no. Because it just wouldn’t be ladylike for the female lead to have an unrequited bloodlust, now would it?

I know this isn’t a female-centric phenomena – it’s a crime fiction phenomena. There are plenty of male characters who are driven by a tortured past. John Connolly’s Charlie Parker comes to mind: if Parker’s wife and daughter hadn’t been brutally murdered, would he have ever become the man he is today? Of course not. But, and here’s a big but, for the most part, the male characters who are driven by despair didn’t have the violence done to them. To those around them, yes. To their loved one, (who many would argue are an extension of ourselves, and as such, what you do to them, you do to me.) The reality is, though, there aren’t a lot of male characters in crime fiction who’ve been raped or tortured, then struck out to find vengeance by becoming a cop, or a PI, or a spy.

To me, this ultimately harkens back to the archetypal female mythos – the soul eater, the strong woman who devours men because of our magical abilities – we bleed and don’t die. Therefore, we must have some inherent evil and that evil must be contained. Generations have tried to tamp down the Lilith that resides in all of us, just waiting to be freed.

So it seems goes the strong female lead in fiction. If, and only if, she has been raped or beaten or otherwise horribly misused, has lost a sibling or a parent to violence, will she be allowed to acknowledge her bloodlust. The violence done to her unlocks the deep-seated resentment, and society understands—not condones, mind you, but understands—because of what she’s been through.

In other words, society has conditioned us to tamp down our feminine wiles, to stow away our power, to hide behind our men and only emerge once we’ve been raked over the coals through some unspeakable violence.

Bullshit.

Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.

What in the hell is that all about???

Why can’t a woman be strong because she’s strong? I know we’re talking about fiction here, and we need to have a weakness that’s apparent in order to “relate” to the characters, but I’m always amazed at just how many female lead characters fall prey to this. Mind you, and this is an important caveat, there are instances of this that mold the character into who they become that won’t work any other way.

Karin Slaughter’s Sara Linton is a perfect example. She is so touched by the evil that’s done to her that it’s now imprinted itself on her psyche, and we know that evil begets evil. They can smell it hopping around in the veins, whispering the siren’s call filth vile exremous hate that emanates from the very cells of the blood they’ve permeated. She has no choice but to go forth and battle evil, because it follows her everywhere she goes, sensing her weakness, and her strength.

Our Zoë Sharp’s Charlie Fox is another that can be cited here as an appropriate product of an unspeakable violence. Zoë’s books work for me because there’s an unanswered question that rides through the series. On the surface, Charlie becomes a monster, a killer, because she has been forced to become one through the monstrous act that’s done to her. But did she? Or was there latent evil in her system? Would she be who she is despite the despicable actions of her teammates? There are many people who don’t turn into a killer after violence is done to them. I think there resides a small possibility that Charlie would have ended up exactly where she was regardless of her rape. Charlie is my favorite kind of character, the moral person who does immoral things. Her struggles with her new reality are some of the most nuanced in modern fiction today.

But many, many writers take this path—the tortured backstory—as a shortcut to give their women depth, and it can fall flat.

On the surface, it’s a psychological windfall. We cheer because it’s the underdog syndrome, the need to root for a character who has glimpsed the depths of hell and can come back to tell us all about it. Don’t get me wrong, some of my favorite books have female characters who’ve had some roughness in their past. I’m not saying this is wrong, or bad, or you shouldn’t do it. It’s just a phenomenon that I find fascinating, a trend that I’m not sure is a good one.

Why?

Because we’re victimizing our heroines to make them appear more heroic.

When I was first writing Taylor, something was very one-dimensional about her. Looking back, I understand now that she was too perfect. I asked an old English professor for advice and she said something vitally important: she needs to have a weakness. That was an a-ha moment for me. Oh, I thought. She needs to have a weakness. Okay. I can do that. Now what would that be????

You can see how easy it would be, at this particular point in time, to insert an unspeakable evil into her past that makes her what she is. Weakness, though, bespoke weak to me, and that was exactly the opposite effect that I wanted. My girl wasn’t going to be weak. She was going to be kick ass, and not because she was driven by a demon, it’s just who she was. So in the first book, Taylor smokes. That’s her weakness, her humanizing factor. And it works for me. She doesn’t have a big secret in her closet, a tragedy that drove her to become a cop. She chose that route because it was the right thing to do. Many might find her boring because she is a moral person doing moral things because of an overarching desire to rid the world of evil. I don’t know.

Just for the record, I am not a feminist, by any means. I’m happy in my role in life, being the wife, being the nurturer. I do hate that women aren’t paid equally for their work, and I will become highly annoyed if you suggest to me where my place is or neglect to treat me like a lady. But I’ve worked in male dominated environments before, and I learned very early on that there were two ways to get a leg up. One, sleep your way there. Two, earn the respect of your team. Guess which route I took?

And I’ll tell you, earning the respect of your team means showing absolutely no weakness. So when it came time to write my female character in a male world, there was no chance she’d be showing any either. I just don’t know how to program that way.

So. Am I completely off base here? Would you rather see the damaged soul find redemption? Or is it okay for women to finally come into their own in crime fiction? Look at the double standard that exists when it comes to sex: I know if there was a female lead who acted like the men, we’d all get into trouble. It’s not ladylike to have desires and act on them – that makes you a slut. But a male character can screw his way through the book and no one bats an eyelash.

How is this any different?

Wine of the Week: 2007 Feudo Arancio Nero d’Avola Sambuca di Sicilia  paired with a hearty puttanesca sauce.

(Oh come on, you knew that was coming….)

by JT Ellison

“Where do you get your ideas?”

It has to be the most frequently asked question in fiction. I can’t remember a single event that I’ve done that it hasn’t come up. And the answer, of course, if everywhere. We’re writers. There is little that escapes our notice. Our job is to observe, synthesize and report back our findings in new and different ways. The magic of that process can’t be quantified – give fourteen mystery writers the same newspaper article and instruct them to write a story about the topic, and you’ll get fourteen different stories.

The question that readers should be asking us is: “How in the world do you keep all the billions of ideas you have on any given day in any semblance of order?”

I’m no different from any other writer. I never know what will trigger my imagination. It could be something as simple and natural as an exceptionally fluffy white cloud passing overhead in a crisp blue fall sky, or as complex as the murder of a young pregnant mother. There are times that I seek out new inspirations, and other times that something odd catches my eye and I think, hmmm, that might be an interesting story.

I also subscribe to the belief that if a story idea is solid, it will stay with you, growing and fermenting over time, without too many influences or excess research. Which can be difficult to deal with when you’re first starting out, because you’re juggling about 1,000 different ideas about how to make your story better, and the thought of one of them slipping away is tantamount to inspiration genocide.

But it’s not. I’m here to assure you – those scattered idea that you don’t write down can sometimes be the genesis of something exceptional.

Anyway, I’ve gotten myself off track. What I wanted to talk about today was my idea box.

It started as a few cuttings from the local newspaper, or printouts from websites, that I stashed in a file folder and shoved in my drawer. When something would leap out at me, I’d throw it in the file and leave it alone. As time went on and my repertoire for idea building grew, I started throwing jotted down scraps of ideas into the folder too: lines of dialogue that amused me, amorphous scenes, pictures of kitchens. Imprints, really. Imprints of ideas, of possibility. These aren’t the IDEAS themselves, they are the germs, the bacteria of my mind’s eye. The microscopic beings that find their way under my skin and eventually force me to scratch.

When I get stuck—and yes, that does happen, even though I’m resistant to call it writer’s block because block, I think, is your story’s way of telling you you’re going in the wrong direction and being stuck is something wholly different, more a necessarily evil to the thought process—I clean. I organize. I shuffle, realign, file and trash. I rearrange the furniture, delete long overdue dead files, read, catch up on scheduling issues, sort out my archives, anything that’s not inherently creative in nature. I’ve come to welcome these spurts of agony, because something wonderful always comes out of it in the end.

The last time I was really and truly stuck, I organized my ideas file.

It had grown to an idea drawer while I wasn’t looking. Folded up newspapers lazily shoved into the space where the folder should go, post-it notes stuck to printouts – it was a mess. No rhyme or reason. Just a collection of whimsies, stowed out of sight until I might need them.

But isn’t that what a creative box should be? Isn’t there something magical about knowing it’s there, that you’ve dropped your little bits of inspiration into one secure place to ferment? I liken it to Dumbledore’s penseive – an aggregator of memories swirling around in some sort of transparent fluid. The idea box is just that – the repository for lost ideas.

So I took an afternoon and organized my drawer. I went to Staples and bought a smart looking expandable file folder that has a hard top and sides, and offloaded everything from the file that became a drawer into the box. I cut out the newspaper articles, sectioned the stories out into subject and geographical region, and slipped the cleaned sheets into the box. Then I stashed it right behind my chair, so I can look at it anytime I want. Just knowing it’s there is fine with me. I don’t need to open it and lovingly finger the papers inside. That, I’ll save for the next round of proposals, or when I need a random subplot.

If these thoughts and ideas mature and make it out of the idea box, they will be transferred to their attendant book box. I read Twyla Tharp’s THE CREATIVE HABIT last year and was surprised to find I already used the same organizational method for projects as Tharp: the individual book box.

Every book I write has it’s own plastic, sealable box. Everything related to that book goes in the box as it’s written. That way, I always know where everything is. By the time I’m done with the book, the box is full to the brim: each draft of the manuscript, the copyedits, the author alterations all go in, on top of the research material, notes, music, etc. When I finish a book and it’s gone to ARC, I take all my notes from their yellow legal pads and stash them in there, too. And then I put them away.

I have to say, this is a really good system. I got to test it out with the fourth book in the series, THE COLD ROOM. Because the box had been put away. Stored. Done. Complete. Smiley face on top (okay, no smiley face, but you know what I mean.) And when my editor wanted me to make a change, it was easy to see exactly where I’d been. I pulled out the box, pulled out the notes to refresh my memory on its impetus, scanned through the original CEs, and went from there.

And since I use a Brother touch labeling system, it was simple to print out a new label for the box with the new title. And soon, the box will go away again, nestled deep in the closet with its friends, and I’ll reopen the next box. And the next. And the next.

I’ve been thinking a lot about my process lately, looking for ways to make things even more streamlined. I have tried a number of different methods for idea storage. There are a number of online avenues to do this. Most everything I do is online now – calendar, to do list, email, goals, even ideas, which I clip to Evernote.

But I’m resistant to the idea of doing away with my boxes, simply because I just love those moments when you spill everything out onto the floor in front of you and comb through the mess looking for that one little spark that will help you move along. There must be some chaos to the creative process. I think we can stifle ourselves if we try to do everything to perfection.

So, where do you keep your ideas?

Wine of the Week: Gnarlier Head Old Vine Zinfandel

by JT Ellison

You may be aware of the shot heard round the world that emanated from my backyard this week. Sports legend Steve McNair was shot and killed on the 4th of July. Murdered, in his own home, in his own living room, on his own couch, a stone’s throw away from the house that he built, known officially as LP Field, but still referred to by most Nashvillians as The Coliseum. The place where giants and gladiators stride on any given Sunday for our entertainment.

As far as stories go, it’s sad. Terrible even.

But this is Nashville. Which means there’s more to the story than meets the eye.

______________________

Steve McNair was a good guy. As an athlete, he was a glorious God. In a quick glance at his football career en totale, from little Alcorn State in Mississippi to the Houston Oilers to the Tennessee Titans, he is referred to in reverential tones, a tough and humane player who never complained, never shirked his duty, always set the example on the field. He will be remembered well, I think. I’d say there’s better than an 80% chance he will be posthumously inducted into the Football Hall of Fame. And Steve deserves to be in Canton, there’s no doubt about that.

But Steve didn’t make the news this week because of his skills and dedication to the game. Steve made the news this week because he was cheating on his wife with a 20-year-old waitress from Dave & Buster’s, an obviously unstable little girl who racked up a DUI, a semi-automatic purchase and a murder, all in three days.

Steve is in the news because he cheated on his wife with a girl who shot him dead in his own living room, then killed herself.

Sounds pretty straightforward, right? It’s a classic locked-room murder scenario – inside the locked house with no signs of forced entry are two dead bodies, one riddled with bullet holes, some close contact shots, and a second, smaller body, with a contact wound to the right temple, laying on the murder weapon. The two persons involved were in a rather public relationship despite the fact that one of them was married. The two persons involved were not known to have any domestic assaults on record, were law-abiding citizens, and seemed to be in love.

So what really happened in the early morning hours on the 4th of July???

That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out.

______________________

On the surface, this does look like a straightforward murder/suicide. But this is Nashville, and nothing is ever what it seems. Here’s what we know for sure.

• In the wee hours of Thursday morning, July 2, Steve’s mistress, Sahel Kazemi, was pulled over for a DUI. Steve and another unidentified person were in the car with her, but were allowed to leave in a cab. Steve returned and bailed her out in the morning.
• Sometime later that day, Sahel legally purchased a semi-automatic weapon in a private sale.
• On Thursday July 2, Sahel also put her furniture up for sale on Craigslist: “NICE FURNITURE. TV, COUCH, COFFE TABLE AND MORE – $1 (hermitage).”
• On Friday night, July 3^rd, Steve was on his usual rounds, out on the town for the night. A woman approached him in a lakefront bar and accused him of slipping her a roofie last year. She threatened him, saying her boyfriend was going to kill him.
• Friends saw Steve and Sahel talking in the Escalade he’d bought her for her birthday. They didn’t seem to be fighting.
• Steve was sent home by himself in a private car around 1:00-2:00 a.m. Sahel was waiting for him when he arrived.
• Sometime on the morning of July 4^th, Steve’s friend came to the house they shared (this seems to have been a bit of a “bachelor pad” for the boys), unlocked the door, went inside and saw the bodies. Instead of calling the police, he called a third friend. More than 45 minutes elapsed between his arrival and the eventual 911 call.
• Steve was shot four times, twice in the chest and once on each side of the head. The first three shots were from a distance of at least three feet, the last temple shot was at close range.
• Sahel was shot once, a contact shot to the right temple.
• The gun, the same gun Sahel purchased on Thursday evening, was found beneath her body.
• Her hands tested positive for gunshot residue, Steve’s hands had no trace.

______________________

Steve was a big, big supporter of the restaurant and bar industry in Nashville. And it wasn’t exactly a state secret that he played around on his wife. It was something that I couldn’t ever reconcile about him – this was an unbelievably accomplished athlete who had the respect of every single person who’d ever met him – but boy, did he like the ladies. Drove me nuts. Be the same man Saturday night as you are Sunday morning, and you get a lot more respect in my book.

Steve was dear friends with the owner of a few establishments that we frequent, and it was in one of these establishments where we met Steve for the first time. This was several years ago, when he was still Air McNair, the quarterback for the Titans.

We were sitting at the bar, and Steve came in with his driver. He sat next to us. We chatted a bit. He was sweet. I was struck by two things: one, he had a gigantic watch with diamonds the size of tennis balls on the bezel, and two, he was unfailingly polite and good-natured to all of the fans and well-wishers (and even the lone detractor) who came by to shake his hand and wish him luck on Sunday. Despite our proximity for the evening, I didn’t want to ask for an autograph. That’s not how we do it here in Nashville.

Celebrity in Nashville is a business. You can’t shake a stick in this town without running into someone hugely famous. Whether it’s Starbucks or PF Chang’s or Venetian Nails or Magic Mushroom or Joe’s Crab Shack or Whole Foods or Sunset Grill, you’ll see someone. But no one really does anything about it.

You see, Southerners are unfailingly polite. They know how to mind their own business, (which they do exceedingly well on the surface, but fail miserably in reality – how else would we get the good gossip otherwise?) But it wouldn’t be right to accost a famous person while they’re minding their own business. That’s how the likes of Nicole Kidman and Keith Urban and the legions of other celebrities that now call Nashville home can go out to Starbucks on a Sunday morning unannounced and be left alone – we’re too polite to stare and point. Instead, you’re likely to get a nod and a smile, and that’s it. Lovely for them, really.

But for the athletes, well, if you’re sipping rum and coke in a little suburban bar, you’re probably going to have a few folks stop by to wish you well.

Strangely enough, the night Steve died, he was doing just that.

______________________

Being a mystery writer in Nashville has its ups and downs. We have plenty of crime, more than enough to make my novels realistic. I’ve had two pretty farfetched scenarios that I’ve made up in my twisted little head make the news in real life. Three, now. The opening of my debut novel is, ironically, set on the 4th of July, with my protagonist, Taylor Jackson, sitting at her desk while the fireworks are shot off, wondering what crime scene she’s going to be called to.

Any minute now, she’d be answering the phone, getting the call. Chance told her somewhere in her city, a shooter was escaping into the night. Fireworks were perfect cover for gunfire.

On this 4^th of July, Randy and I had a most surreal night. We were downtown to have dinner and watch the fireworks. There was a storm brewing; one of Nashville’s nasty tornado-inducing thunderstorms was on the way. The city decided to move up the fireworks to 8:10 p.m. so people could take cover as the storms rolled through. Of course, you can’t time out Mother Nature, so the rain started in earnest after the second or third firework. We were standing on 3^rd Avenue, in a restaurant parking lot, under an umbrella, with the fireworks blasting into the sky to our left backlit by lightning, and the whirling lights of police cruisers attending the McNair crime scene to our right, both in perfect view of one another. I couldn’t tell if we were all celebrating America’s independence, mourning Steve’s death, or what.

They’d removed the bodies by this point, and the rumor mill was churning in full gear. The first news broke that he’d been found in an alley and it was a murder/suicide, both those reports were quickly backed away from. It took ages for the media to report that the bodies were inside the house and that Steve did own the property. As a matter of fact, after the very first presser our Public Information Officer Don Aaron did, there was nearly a four-hour lag until the media got anything new. And let me tell you, four hours of not talking to the media in this town is probably a new record.

Some of the early gossip had Steve’s wife, Mechelle McNair, as the shooter, having found her husband in flagrante delicto with a younger woman. There was also talk of his new business venture, a restaurant he’d opened earlier in the week, and some of the folks he may have gotten involved with there being responsible.

The fascinating thing is, this investigation is playing out in the news just like the damn books I write, step by step, unraveling the pieces day by day. The police are doing a stellar job of not jumping to conclusions. They are being methodical. They are using state of the art forensics, managing the media, keeping everyone at arms length and staying away from classifying this as what it seems too quickly. They are doing one hell of an investigation, and I applaud them. Because there are plenty of what ifs and pieces that aren’t adding up just right.

Some of the what ifs:

• What about the woman who threatened Steve at the bar? Where is she and where is her boyfriend?
• Why is Sahel’s ex-boyfriend Keith Norfleet so convinced she was leaving Steve to reunite with him?
• Why don’t the police consider him a suspect, especially in light of this?
• Why did Sahel tell her sister Steve was getting a divorce that would be final in two weeks? (There are no divorce filings on record.)
• Why did she up and put her furniture for sale?
• Was the mistress pregnant? Why won’t the police say yes or no definitively?
• Why did she suddenly buy a gun of her own? (Steve was arrested for a DUI years ago and had a firearm in his possession, we know he had guns.)
• Was Steve having yet another affair, one which Sahel found out about?
• Why did Steve leave Sahel in the back of a police car when she was asking for him to come talk to her? (Here’s video of the arrest.)
• Why didn’t Steve’s friend call the police immediately upon finding the body? And why did he move the shell casings at the scene?
• Why would a girl who was head over heels in love with a very, very rich man suddenly snap and decide to kill him?
• How many people had keys to the condo where the bodies were found?
• What really happened between 2 a.m. and 10 a.m.?

These are just a few of the unanswered questions floating around town right now. I have to think like the mystery writer I am with this – it’s not easy to stage a suicide well, but it has been done. The methodical shots to Steve’s body seem off to me: shoot him in the head, then step around the body and shoot him twice in the chest, then administer the coup de grace to the opposite temple up close? Does that sound like the grouping of a 20 year old in love?

As you can imagine, the murder of one of our own, of possibly the biggest sports star we have, has shaken a lot of people. We’re in the spotlight, and so far, I think Metro has shown themselves to be competent and capable. As of Wednesday afternoon, this was ruled an official murder/suicide. The case is closed pending final toxicology reports.

My prayers go to Mechelle and the McNair kids. I hope that someday, they’ll be able to separate the man they thought Steve was from the man he showed himself to be in the end.

So what do you think happened? Is this a classic locked-room murder/suicide, or is there something more sinister afoot? I mean really, we are crime fiction lovers…

Wine of the Week: 2006 Bivio Italia Tuscan Red   Bivio means “fork in the road” in Italian, so I couldn’t resist using it here today. Maybe if Steve had taken a different road, he’d still be with us. Regardless, the wine is luscious!