Author Archives: Murderati

Eyes Full of Tinsel and Fire

Here it is, the famous Night before Christmas, or for our Jewish brethren and sistern, the fourth night of Hannukah (someone correct me if I’m wrong on that).

It hardly seems appropriate at this juncture to be talking about death and violence and mayhem or the craft of writing about same. I’ll save the post I’ve been thinking of, the one about the crossover between horror and crime fiction, for a more appropriate time.

Instead, how about a little music? This is one of my favorite Christmas songs, balanced as it is between memory, cynicism and, in the end, some hope and good wishes. Plus, I always get a kick out of the impossibly young Greg Lake singing to the Wise Men and their camels:

This is a good season for all of us, whatever our faith or lack of same, to reflect on the blessings and the good things in our lives. For instance, aren’t you glad you don’t live next to this guy?

Well, okay, maybe a just little violence and mayhem…a song paying tribute to two of my favorite Christmas movies (NSFW):

And so, as Mr. Lake says in our first selection:

I wish you a hopeful Christmas
I wish you a brave New Year
All anguish pain and sadness
Leave your heart and let your road be clear.

Yippie ki yay!
Happy Holidays, y’all.

Fits and starts: My struggles to find the best beginning

by Pari

The phone call wasn't what I'd hoped for. My agent didn't like the direction I'd taken my rewrite. We talked for an hour, analyzing what worked and what didn't. After the conversation, I thought about my options:

Quit writing
Abandon this manuscript
Eat three pounds of chocolate in one sitting
Abandon the new series
Find a new agent
Pout
Drink some of that new scotch I'd bought for special occasions
Beat the crap out of the punching bag in my back yard
Throw myself into yet another rewrite
Rework the beginning to make the entire book more solid

Since I'm writing this particular blog with bloodied and sticky fingers, you can probably guess which choices I made.

In my Sasha Solomon series, I've prided myself on big first lines — the kind that make an impression — that get the laugh. While these fit Sasha's personality, I think I made deeper assumptions about first lines that were naive.

I was thinking too small.

A first line does not a book make.

Perhaps that's obvious to you; it took me five years to figure out.

Many of us were raised with the adage that "first impressions last a lifetime." I still think this is true. But there's squiggle room in a first impression; it doesn't happen all at once. In writing, there is the first line and then some . . .

The first sentence begins the set up and influences how the reader will settle into the book. It brings with it the power to affect every perception that reader has about the ensuing story.

But it doesn't need to scream.

Ever since my conversation with my agent, I've been studying the first few paragraphs of books I like. What I've decided is that these initial introductions are promises. They set the stage and they'd better set it right.

Sasha is a smart aleck. So the first line of The Socorro Blast is spot on for her: "If Hell exists, it's filled with old boyfriends . . . and a cat."

With Darnda Jones, I've had to pull back. My new protagonist is a strong and witty character too, but she's far more secure in her life and world view. She knows herself better; she's mature. She also has a really weird job.

My first first line for Darnda was: "My name is Darnda Jones and I look like Cher should."

It's a great intro, but Darnda doesn't really care what she looks like. Vanity isn't a priority for her. So the lede is misleading. It's also bawdier than my character is. The promise here has a Janet Evanovich-y tone that I don't think I could or would want to sustain.

One of my next attempts was: "The palmetto bug limped, slowly making all the wrong decisions, as if suicide was on its tiny mind."

Another good beginning. It was also closer because of Darnda's work. However, it required too much up front explanation and slowed down the action. And I wasn't sure how many readers would sympathize with a giant cockroach.

For now I've settled on this version: "When you work as a psychic, you bump up against a lot of attitude. I didn't mind. With millions of lives at stake, snide comments were the least of my concerns."

This intro doesn't have the "sexy" punch of my others — it'd never work in a Sasha book — but it absolutely sets the scene and gives insights into the character right away. Darnda is on a mission. It's an important point and gets to the heart of what motivates her in her work.

I don't know if I'll stick with this newest beginning. Right now it's helping me ground the first few chapters. I have a feeling that if I put more of a foundation in those, the rest of the manuscript will make more sense.

At least that's what I'm hoping . . .

–What do you think about the role of first lines in a book/story?
–Do you have favorite firsts? Can you explain why they work alone or within context?
–Authors: Do you struggle with first lines. Do they come easily?
–Readers: Do you pay attention to those intros or are you committed to read more than that when you start a new book?

benediction

by Toni McGee Causey

"Can I help you, sir?" she asked from behind the counter.

He pushed his deposit slip forward with his check. The last check he'd be depositing. They'd let everyone go today. It was his fourth layoff. He kept being hired; the companies kept going under. He'd been making half what he used to, and he was out of answers.

He shoved his hands into his jeans, rolling his shoulders beneath his too-thin coat. Blizzard conditions expected. Near white-out warnings. Not that he cared. He wouldn't be out in it.

Everything was done. This was the last of it.

He watched her hands as she slid the check along the counter, ran it and then the deposit slip through the machine. He didn't normally bank at this branch, though it had been convenient today, at the end of his errands. She finished her work and fished off the receipt, tucking it into an envelope and asked, "Anything else I can do for you?" as she handed it over.

"Nothing," he shrugged and headed for the door across the big marble floor of the lobby. This building had been built nearly a century ago, back when everyone knew their customers, knew their daily lives, the ins and outs of things, could call them by name. He was invisible here, now.

Later, they would see he'd been here, see the deposit. Wonder what he was thinking. And all he'd been able to think about was being invisible.

He was almost to the door when her hand was on his arm and her brown eyes smiled at him. She'd been calling his name and he hadn't heard, and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from yanking his arm from her and pushing on through the door. She was breathless for the short run, and expectant. It was one more minute, and one more minute didn't really matter.

"I remember you," she was saying. "Over on Stempley." He must've given her a look as blank as he felt inside, and she smiled, and squeezed his arm a little. He hadn't realized she hadn't dropped her hand away. "The flat tire. Weather almost as bad as today. You saved my mom's life."

"You have the wrong man," he said. Gruff, probably. Didn't matter. He just wanted to get out of there.

She laughed. "No, no, I don't mean there, on Stempley. You stopped and changed my tire. And then my battery was dead because I was stupid and left the headlights on that whole time I'd been waiting for the tow truck, so you had to jump off my car."

Ah, yeah. He remembered. The collage girl. He'd thought she looked like a nearly drowned puppy when he'd seen her, shivering, trying to change the tire. The lug nuts had been put on by some idiot with an impact wrench and were too tight for her to loosen. The tow truck still hadn't come by the time he'd finished.

"I lost your name," she said. "I got home to my mom's–that's where I was going that night–and when I got there, she'd fallen. She'd had a heart attack, and if you hadn't stopped, I'd have been an hour or more later. The paramedic said she wouldn't have made it." She stood on her tip toes and threw her arms around him. "Thank you. I have wanted to say thank you for so long. You have no idea how much you mean to me."

He stood dumbly with her arms around him and everyone in the lobby stared, wondering what this was all about, and the warmth of her pressed against his coat. She wasn't about to let go, this enthusiastic half-grown puppy, and he patted her on the head, and cleared his throat.

She eased back and looked up at him and beamed. "I'd like to buy you coffee. Next week sometime? I'll be here, every day."

He nodded. He wouldn't be there, but it would be too much trouble to make up a reason. "Sure. Coffee. Next week." Then he pushed on out the door.

I sat across from him at the little table, some twenty years later. I had only known him this way, old and creased, hair silvered to a sheen, blue eyes dancing. He smiled often and well, a warm event that pulled you in.

"I went home," he said, finishing his story, his thumb running across the rim of his coffee cup, his eyes grown distant. "And thought. A lot of thinking. Poured the Jack down the drain. Unloaded the gun. Threw the bullets out in the ditch, so I wouldn't change my mind. I could get another job. Another house. And I did."

Be the gift, he was fond of saying, and I heard that echo when I stood a few years later at the back of the church. It was a packed place, many mourners, and I had to press through the crowd to work my way to the front to pay my respects to his wife. I could see the warm brown eyes he'd described, the brown hair gone gray. He'd gone back for coffee that next week, he'd told me. His daughter had his eyes.

I told her he'd read my writing when no one else had, and had smiled, and said, "You can do this."

Be the gift.

~*~

Tell me, please, about any random kindness you've seen this holiday season, and help me pass it on.

Joyeux Noir

By Cornelia Read

Ah, it’s that time of year again… when I wonder whether I should just throw in the shopping towel, wander up Telegraph Avenue here in Berkeley, and settle for buying a random three dozen tie-dyed shirts for those on my gift list and call it a day.

If you, like me, have waited far too long to get your consumerial butt in gear, and/or if you have a darkly snarky sense of the holiday spirit (and/or/or are buying for those who do), I have the following suggestions to offer.

Granted, not all of these are gettable in time for Chanukah, Kwanzaa, Ramadan and that other holiday with the tree and everything, but you can either consider them New Year’s gifts or get a head-start on next year, mmmkay? (click on prices for ordering info links)

To begin with, my top choice for a holiday gift myself, in case you’re feeling generous:

Yes, from Glamguns.com–the people who brought you the custom pink “Hello Kitty” AK-47–it’s the “Motha T,” a Mother-Theresa-themed rocket-propelled-grenade launcher. The item bears a genuine photographic portrait of the lady herself, and a relevant quotation from her body of work:

“Be faithful in small things, because it is in them that your strength lies.

Amen to that… for just $3670.95

For the bowler in your life, here’s a great way to let them say, “Die, you moth#%$^&@ing last pin in the spare, DIE!”

Yes, a clear Lucite bowling ball with a skull inside. Doesn’t that just scream “holiday cheer”? I thought so.

Cranium tribal skull bowling ball, a mere $129.99

Continuing with the skull theme, here’s another one I’d really like to find in my own shopping, since I have decided my New Year’s resolution is to become a Somali pirate and take over a tanker filled with ice cold Veuve Clicquot–Yo heau heau!:

Three-by-five foot pirate flag, suitable for flying from the yardarm of my imaginary boat, La Pol Roger Jolie $11.95 (CHEAP!)

For the person who does NOT believe it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas, thank you very much:

Nihilist mints. These are the Omar-from-The Wire– Bad-asses of the mint world, and they have no flavor, because we nihilists don’t need no steeking flavor, you feel me?

Set of two sleek, black boxes of angst-ridden candy, a mere $4.95

And if you feel like you’re being a little skimpy, only throwing unflavored mints in somebody’s stocking, add a box of these:

Gummy maggots. What’s not to like? If you get bored you can always pretend you’re eating palm grubs, like the Tasaday. Set of two $4.95

For the serious crime writer in your life, I offer this ineffable desktop reference companion:

I’ve found it an invaluable writing resource, and reading it’s also a great way to get a whole row of seats to yourself on just about any subway car in the world, especially if you have a companion copy of Practical Sexual Homicide Investigation resting in your lap to boot.

Lots of pictures in both. Not for the faint of heart… $99.95

For those concerned about the current direction of the publishing industry:

A compass hip flask. Sure, there’s no needle on the thing, but it comes filled with whisky, and besides which with a hip pocket full of brown liquor, we don’t need no steenking directions. £35.00, so you KNOW it’s fancy

For those who’ve never seen the aforementioned Hello Kitty AK-47 (because I know you’re wondering):

This baby fires 7.62 mm 125 or 150 grain ammunition with a muzzle velocity of approximately 710 meters per second and a maximum effective range of 300 meters. Faster pussy cat! Kill! Kill! $1072.95

For your next MWA pot-luck party, consider the classic Jell-O brain mold:

My sister has this, and she made some brain Jell-O (one package of lime, one of grape–for authentic-looking gray matter) for the disgusting-food competition at a weekend house party near Donner Pass up in the Sierras a few years ago. (She lost out to the couple who brought the meat-loaf baby in mashed-potato diapers, but got an honorable mention). Talk about brain food… $7.89

Here’s an ice-cube tray worthy of all your most shaken-not-stirred libations. Way cool, especially if you freeze them with an ice pick sticking out of the eye socket, ho ho ho.

A bargain at only $6.49

If you want to schmancy up your memento-mori on the rocks, try these silver plated skull swizzle sticks, which come packaged in a handsome black resin presentation box:

Set of four, $195.00

And what will you drink with all those dark accoutrements? How ’bout some absinthe for making the heart grow fonder…

Mythe Absinthe Traditional is distilled with aniseed, hyssop, vervain, badiane, and–of course– wormwood, for that extra-special creative blur. Touted as having “a creamy lemon character which appears on the finish,” you can have a bottle all to yourself for just $59.90

But what does one wear to drink absinthe? I recommend the Micheline dress in red with leopard trim, from the neo-retro Film Noir line at Pinup Couture:

It’s made of stretchy bengaline and leopard chiffon with a ten-inch slit up the back, and comes sized from XS to 2X, for you and all your best gal pals. I mean, damn… you could drink a Shirley Temple in that dress and make it sizzle $89

Complete the look with a kickin’ pair of Envy stiletto peep-toe pump:

Get vampy for the low, low price of $42

And, of course, you can’t forget the hat:

They only have one in stock and it’s vintage, so act fast for $35.00

And for later, why not go all out Barbara Stanwyck?

A vintage forties lace-halter negligee, yours for a mere $64

Is your gender more Sam Spade than Effie Perrine? Go for a nice Stetson fedora, in one of six colors:

Impeccably cool for just $140

And should you need shoes go with, try a sharp pair of spectators:

And don’t forget to wear socks with clocks in them. Feets don’t fail me now… $289.25

Finally, a present I think I’d like even more than the Motha T grenade launcher:

3804_rare_early_french_secret_poison_ring_1-1

It’s an 18k gold antique French poison ring, circa 1814-1830, with a secret compartment for all your nefarious needs–done up with blue enamel and rose-cut diamonds in a sterling floral setting.

Only one problem… It’s not for sale.

Too bad they fingerprinted me that time in Boston, or I might consider taking up my career as a stealthy international jewel thief, at long last.

So what’s the best gift you’ve BOUGHT so far, and who’s it for? Share…

And with that, I wish you all a happy happy merry merry–or, in the immortal words of Jose Feliciano, “Police have my dog.”

Here’s a carol, just for you. Bear with me, it starts getting REALLY good about thirty seconds in:

The Writer’s Life (Part 2)

by J.T. Ellison

Last week, I discussed my realization that my writing system was irretrievably broken. This week I'll show you how I plan to fix it.

We writers are a superstitious lot. We set ourselves up with certain pads of paper, certain pens and pencils, certain books ready at hand. We have specific music playing, or sit at the same table in the coffee shop each day. We need, no, we crave the ritual. Without it, we can't produce.

So the first part of reinventing my process is to reinvent my ritual.

Twyla Tharp, in her spectacular book, THE CREATIVE HABIT, (which you'll see me discuss more in the coming weeks) talks about ritual in a way that makes it seem like magic. Without it, we can't hit the marks, get our daily word count, or otherwise finish the tasks we set out to complete. Her ritual is to drag herself out of bed every morning at 5:30, go downstairs, hail a cab and tell the driver to take her to her gym. What's interesting to me is she doesn't consider the gym, working out, etc., the ritual so much as telling the cabbie to take her. That's the magic, the step that leads you to the next level.

Okay. This is an actionable step toward redefining my process. What is my ritual? Yes, I like to write in my chair in the living room instead of my office. I like to work 12-4. I like to have all my notes in the same place so I can access them easily. But none of that is a ritual. So I dug deeper, and here's what I saw. My ritual is as follows: get out of bed, slink still half-asleep into my office, open my browser, check my email, check Murderati, check Facebook, check the news, then roll back to my bedroom, get dressed, go downstairs, brush the cat, get a drink and do it all over again. Then, and only then, do I start to write.

This, my friends is an example of a very bad ritual. It's backwards. The very first thing I do is clutter my mind with thoughts unrelated to my current work. No wonder it takes me a couple of hours to settle down enough to get into the manuscript.

At 43 Folders, Merlin Mann talks about the writer being assailed
with a constant flow of information that must be dealt with. He
described it thusly – a doorbell hard-wired into your brain. Now that
makes sense to me. Think about the distraction you feel when you're deep in the groove and the phone
rings, when someone knocks on your door, when your email button chimes
forty times an hour, or even once an hour. It yanks you right out of
your work and you're in the now again, the immediate, the what am I
going to make for dinner? and does my husband have clean underwear?
world, which is the last place you need to be when you're creating.

There is more to the writing life than just writing, unfortunately. But we do need to do business, as well as create. There are conversations with agents, editors, marketing, PR. There are the commitments we make to others, committee work, blogging. The trick is not to over commit, and know that the writing comes first, before the business. If it's an emergency, your team is going to call you. Usually, there's nothing a two hour delay is going to change. The rest of what's going on is procrastination. And yes, we need a little of that. It helps keep us sane. But it's very, very easy for that five -minute internet excursion to turn into a real problem. We've all lost time on the internet. It happens. Your job is to control how much it happens.

I know I'm not the only one who struggles with the business side of
writing versus the creative side of writing. There are things that need
to be done, and since I'm not a multimillionaire, I need to do them
myself. One day, I hope to be able to have an assistant to deal with
many of the day-to-day issues that need addressing – newsletters, list
maintenance, travel arrangements, etc. In other words, I'd like to be
handled. That's why I use an independent publicist in addition to my
house's fantastic publicity team – I want to be free to spend as much
time writing my book instead of worrying if the local paper is running
a review. And I'll tell you, it's been the wisest investment I've made
outside of my laptop.

Balance. It's what we all strive for. Balance allows us to make room for everything we need to get a book done: ritual, meditation, creation and business.

I
started another great book this weekend, one that I actually bought and read in college,
called THE WRITER ON HER WORK. In the introduction, Janet Sternberg
writes a sentence that especially resonates for me:

"The
true writer either retreats and pays the price of isolation from the
human stream or opens the door and pays the price of exposure to too
many diverse currents."

This was written in 1980, long
before email and Facebook became as common as sneezing. It seems the
struggle between being creative and still living a life is one that's
been around longer than I could possible imagine. And now the diverse
currents are multiplied exponentially.

Managing the currents, managing your time, your ritual, your creative juices, that's what's so important.

As strange as it sounds, I do enjoy these moments when I realize change has become necessary. It's fun to think through what works, what doesn't, see how other people manage their time, find new resources and new products that help with this maintenance. I'm hoping that hubby will develop a nice content management system for me that pulls everything I do into a single spot that can be looked at once a day, maintained with little to no energy, and leaves me free to skip out on the things that don't matter. But until that day, I have to work as efficiently as I can with the tools I have.

Let's be honest. When you're starting your writing career, there's a feeling of MUST, MUST, MUST. You MUST say yes to everything and accept every invitation. You MUST be accessible to your fans, and you MUST be open for business at any time of day or night to accommodate the urgent needs of outsiders.

I'll let you in on a little secret, something that I've learned over the past year.

You MUST worry about yourself and no one else. You MUST keep your writing time sacred. You MUST ignore the distractions that look shiny and promising, and you MUST get over your self-importance. Yes, you're on Google. Yes, you have an Amazon ranking. Now get back to work.

Learning to say no was possibly the most valuable lesson I took away from my debut year. No is a very powerful word. Look, you're not WonderAuthor. You can't leap tall buildings in a single bound. So stop trying to pretend you can. Trust me, everyone close to me knows I racked myself a couple of times trying, and it wasn't pleasant.

So you don't think I'm a total hypocrite, I'm taking my own advice. I'm reinventing my process. I'm changing my ritual. I'm restructuring my
world. Redefining my writing life. Admitting that writing IS my life
was the first step. But it's even more than that. It's my passion, my
job, the only thing I've ever felt like I was good at. And because of
this, it needs to come first, and I mean that in a very literal sense.
My writing life is going well. So well that I need to change my great "process" to
adapt to the new and different world I live in.

On the advice of 43 Folders, and a wonderful series of ideas I read about here, here's my new plan.

Instead
of 12-4 daily, which often gets pushed back by other issues and things
on the To Do List, I'm going to get up, brush the cat, get some
breakfast, sit at my table with my Moleskin, and set a goal for the day. You yogis out there call it an intention, something that you do before each yoga session. It doesn't have to be super special, or far-reaching, or specific. It can be something as simple as, "I will be happy with the work I create today."

As soon as that's done, I'm going to start writing immediately, before my head gets cluttered by the
outside world. I'm going to work for at least one hour before I give
myself permission to stop. I can get a LOT done in an uninterrupted
hour. Then I'll let myself check out my email and do a bit of cruising.
I've reworked my Google Reader to only include blogs I really care
about, so I'll check in on the rest of the world. After fifteen
minutes (tracked by setting the timer on my iPhone,) I'm back at it for another hour. Then another 15 minute break.
Then one more hour. If I haven't hit my 1,000 words by then, I'm in
trouble, and no amount of scheduling will save me.

That will
leave me the afternoon, whenever I get to it, guilt free. I'll
turn the phones back on. I can read, research, run errands, do some
yoga, talk on the phone, work on my blog… Whatever. But with my work
done first, hopefully I'll start feeling a little more rounded, and a
little more present in the writer's life.

Doing this daily,
five days a week, allowing myself one full day off with no Internet at
all (that's Sundays from here on out) it will become a new habit. I did
the 12-4 routine for three years, produced one book that first year, then two books a year since. Not bad, but
I think I can do better. I'm curious to see if I feel more productive
this way.

I know I'm perfectly capable of handling a change. I just have to train the people around me to my new schedule.

I
will admit, Murderati takes up a chunk of time. We're nearing the three
year mark, and coming up with new, never-done-before blog topics weekly
is difficult. Two things need to happen for me here. One, please don't
hold it against me if I bring in a few guests bloggers over the next
couple of months while I'm restructuring. And two, I'd like to ask you,
the reader, for some help. I've hit the point where I don't feel like
my angst is getting the job done for you. I'd like to share the creative life with you through this series, talk about what's working and what isn't. But I'd also like to hear what you're interested in reading. I still don't feel like I have a lot of publishing experience, but I
can get creative. I think that's the whole plan, actually…

A little battery recharging, a few New Year's resolutions, and a reworking of the processes. Merry Christmas to me. And may all the blessings of the season be showered upon you. Happy Holidays!!!!!

Wine of the Week: In the spirit of the holidays (and thanks to Grimey's) let's have a little holiday cheer, AKA "Ellison Family Grog Nog." You need a short glass, some ice, one part Sailor Jerry Spiced Navy Rum, and two parts lowfat eggnog, (because we all need to watch our waists, right?) Pour, dash with cinammon, stir, drink. Repeat. But for goodness sake, stay away from the sleighs. This stuff is lethal.

Dear Santa,

I know it’s been a long time since my last letter. If memory serves, President Nixon was in office. (Oh…I recently saw that FROST/NIXON movie. Highly recommended, you know, when you have some time.) Anyway, I know it’s been a while, and I know you probably thought you’d never hear directly from me again, but here I am. And I need your help.

This isn’t about my kids, well, not directly. I’ve got them covered. Thought still not sure they’ll get the iPods they keep asking for despite the fact that “everyone ELSE in my class has one!” And this isn’t about me, or maybe it is…I mean I am kind of a part of this.

What I am writing to ask for is a present. Actually presents.

Here’s the deal, it’s Christmas time…d’uh…and a lot of people will be looking for presents for their families, friends, co-workers, and whoever else they feel like giving something to. And then there’s you.

That first group is pretty big, and even if I had started in January I wouldn't have had time to talk to all of them. But in you, Santa, is someone I can talk to in a single letter who I think can make an impact larger than if I HAD been able to talk to all those others.

I'm asking you to give everyone a book for Christmas. I know, I know, how self-serving can I be? I am an author after all. Out of the million books you give out, some surely would to be mine, right?

(Well, eh, right. I admit it. I would hope some would be mine. But only for the adults, of course. We can negotiate this point later.)

But since you give out a lot of presents, and often you’re giving more than one present to a person, can you possibly make one of the gifts you do give to each of us a book?

I think this is particularly a great idea for children! And again, if memory serves, children are your specialty. Right?

See, for most the love of reading starts when they are young. We need to take advantage of that, and instill the love of the written word while these tiny humans can still be bent to our will…I mean, while it’s still easy for these lovely children to fall in love with reading.

I know, kids have a ton of things to distract them. (Did I mention the iPods my daughters want?) I’m not asking that we take those distractions away. I’m just asking that you add a book to the pile. That’s all you have to do. We, the parents and friends of the children, will take it from there. We'll encourage the kids to read the books, and maybe even read them together.

Is that too much to ask? I hope not. But you let me know.

Oh…and for adults? Books, too, please! They’re the perfect present, really. Not too expense (a bonus in these economic times), and easy to wrap! (Plus I’ve been hearing that many of my book selling friends aren’t doing as well this year, so any help we could send their way would be great.)

I hope I haven’t been out of line writing to you about this. I also hope I’m not too late! You’ll notice that I haven’t asked for anything for me. And that’s fine. If you can make this happen, you don’t have to give me a thing.

One last thing: I’m going to ask my friends who might read this to go ahead and add their wish lists for you in the comments section. That way you have everything in one nice, neat place. I'm all about helping, Santa. All about helping.

Well, that’s about it for me. Hope you have a great Christmas! Stay warm on the sleigh right.

Brett
p.s. here’s one of my favorite Christmas videos to get you in the mood.

Solving the Puzzle

by Rob Gregory Browne

As you might guess, when I have time to read, I generally read crime fiction. It’s a broad genre, of course. Mysteries, thrillers, noir, caper, spy — I love them all.

I also read other things. YA novels. Some literary stuff. The works of James Kirkwood, who was a brilliant novelist.

But crime novels are what I naturally lean toward.

I was recently leafing through a mystery magazine, and in one of the articles, the author made a comment that mysteries of late seem less interested in creating solvable puzzles than they once did. Which, he thought, was unfortunate.

We all know the kind of book he was yearning for. Traditional mysteries. The kind that feature locked rooms, clues planted everywhere, a challenge to the reader to figure out who the killer is before the hero does.

I can understand why he and many other people like these kinds of mysteries, but they don't really interest me all that much. The formal "mystery" of the story rarely does.

I could spend several minutes telling you about Connelly’s Harry Bosch and his pain and his loves and his demons and his enemies, but I’d be hard-pressed to tell you the plot of a single mystery he has solved.

The same goes for T. Jefferson Parker’s Merci Rayborn. I can tell you all about her life, her troubles in the police department, her failure to get the respect she deserves, but I can't for the life of me tell you what crimes she has solved. I can't lay out the clues and show you how she — or Bosch — figured out who the killer was.

These writers' plots are generally wonderful, but, for me, the underlying crimes usually don’t stick. They aren’t what I walk away from the books thinking about.

Because, frankly, it doesn't much matter. Not to me, at least.

My book, WHISPER IN THE DARK, comes out in the U.S. in early February, and it's quite a bit different from my previous book. It’s still a thriller, but this time there’s a mystery involved. A dead body. A detective.

That dead body, however, is merely there to get the story rolling. While who killed the victim will be very important to the people surrounding him, and will, hopefully, have the readers guessing — the mystery itself is not all that important to me.

What matters are the characters themselves. How it all affects them. The characters become the mystery and as you read, you begin to realize that these people may not be who you thought they were. And who killed whom is less important than why.

That’s true of the Bosch books, it’s true of the Rayborn books, it’s true of most literate, well-written mysteries these days. The puzzle has taken a back seat to the characters and their motivations.

John Sandford — another favorite crime writer — doesn’t even bother with a mystery in the traditional sense. We already know who the killer is.
And it doesn’t matter. The books are still great — because we LOVE Lucas Davenport.

One of my favorite Davenport stories involves a murder, yes, but the thing I most remember is Davenport’s touching relationship with a young girl whose mother has been killed.

We all have different tastes and we all read for different reasons. I prefer character puzzles over plot puzzles any day of the week.

What about you?

Changing genres to stay alive

by Tess Gerritsen

On the heels of Joe Konrath's excellent blogpost about authors who are no longer being published, I've been thinking about the issue of survival. Like Joe, I can think of quite a few novelists who first appeared in print about the same time I made my debut, but who have since vanished from the publishing landscape. Not that we need to hear any more doom and gloom in these worrisome times, but Joe is right in pointing out that novel-writing is a precarious way to make a living. Even if you are one of the lucky writers who manages to land a publishing contract with a fat advance, there's no guarantee that your editor will offer you a second contract. Maybe your first book is a dud in the marketplace. Maybe your editor gets fired or your publisher goes belly-up. Maybe no one, anywhere, wants to see any more mysteries featuring crime-solving gerbils.

A few unpublished years later, you'll be yet another unfortunate author about whom people ask, "Whatever happened to…?"

There's not a lot we writers can do about ailing publishers or the changing tastes of the public. Even wonderful books can and do flop. Poor timing, an ugly cover, or plain old bad luck can doom a book's release. When all the stars line up against you, you might simply admit defeat and give up the dream of a writing career.

Or you might roll up your sleeves and look for ways to survive. If your last book sold poorly, you could change your pen name to escape that bad sales history. You might look for a new literary agent. You might adopt a different storytelling voice.

Or you might change genres entirely.

I have some experience in this last strategy. My first books were romantic suspense novels, most of them published by Harlequin Intrigue. The editorial guidelines suggested a balance of fifty percent romance and fifty percent suspense, with at least one love scene somewhere around the middle of the book. Foul language was to be avoided, as was overly graphic violence and disturbing topics. My audience was probably 99% female, and as romance readers, they expected happy endings. It's a fun genre to read, but writing those love scenes was an ordeal for me, generating piles of crumpled pages. Writers who denigrate the romance genre should try writing a four-page sex scene, without any purple prose, that manages to be both erotic and deeply emotional. It's the most challenging writing you'll ever do. It makes writing murder scenes seem like a piece of cake.

After writing nine romances, I decided it was time to switch genres. I wanted to be published in hardcover, and I wanted a chance at the bestseller list. I also wanted to pay for my kids' college tuitions. By then it was clear to me that I was a thriller writer at heart, and the thriller market was booming. But changing genres involved more than just tinkering with a familiar recipe, more than just ladling on a bit more gore and cutting out the sex scenes. I wanted to completely remake my career.

To do that, I had to toss out every rule I'd come to accept as a romance author. I had to approach plotting in an entirely different way. In a romance, the primary relationship is between the hero and heroine. In a thriller, it's between the hero and the villain.

As I wrote HARVEST, I was tempted again and again to revert back to my comfortable romance writer mode. It felt strange and even scary not to include a love story. Would my readers feel cheated? Would they be bored with the medical and forensic details? Would they be disturbed by the violence? And what about my bittersweet ending — was that going to get me into trouble? I questioned my choices every step of the way and felt like a newbie struggling to write her very first book. But I had to make HARVEST demonstrate a new phase in my career — which is how the story ended up bloodier and more disturbingly graphic than even I had planned.

Abruptly switching genres worked for my career, but that doesn't mean this is the way every writer should do it. I've attracted a new audience of thriller readers, but I probably lost some of my romance audience along the way, readers who like thrillers but feel a book without a love story is missing something. That romance audience is a huge one, and no writer wants to lose them.

Which is why so many romance authors breaking into the thriller market do it with romantic thrillers. They never quite abandon their romance roots — or their romance audience. Some of them, like Nora Roberts and Sandra Brown, are wildly successful. But straddling both romance and suspense can annoy thriller purists, and if they discover you once wrote romance, they'll let you know it. If you change genres, you might also want to change your pen name, just to avoid confusing readers. I often wish I'd done that; it might have spared me a lot of angry reader emails.

The most important thing you must do, if you hope to survive in this business, is to never stop writing. Change your pen name, change your genre. Keep searching for that special character, that special voice, that will make your next story stand out above the otheres. You might have to write ten or twenty books before you finally discover your niche in the market.

But you'll never find it if you stop writing.

Reading Interruptus: Censorship and Children

by Pari

My parents may have done many things wrong in raising me, but when it came to literacy they were magnificent.The entrance to my childhood home — a grand hallway about 20 feet long — was lined on one side with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

Since I wasn't allowed to watch television during the school week, I'd spend hours looking at the books we owned. In elementary and junior high school, I didn't like reading. However, without alternatives, I defaulted to it most days.

When I was eight, I found a slim volume by George Bernard Shaw titled, My Dear Dorothea: A practical system of moral eduation for females embodied in a letter to a young person of that sex. Written for his five-year-old niece, the book is a fanciful ditty. Now that I'm older, I can see that it's dated, but back then I loved its tongue-in-cheek audacity.

Among the pearls of wisdom therein is this: "If you are told any book is not fit for you to read, get it, read it."

Could there be any better advice?

I thought of that phrase last week when I read about the chairperson of the English Department at New Rochelle High School being ordered to rip pages out of the book Girl, Interrupted by Susanna Kaysen before giving it to students. Apparently the school district received a complaint about some of the content and that was that.

As a parent, I struggle with the issue of censorship daily. My own parents were loosey-goosey about my reading; they didn't seem concerned about it at all. I mean, my first sex education happened when Mom walked into my bedroom and handed me Everything You Wanted to Know About Sex but Were Afraid to Ask and said, "Here. Read this. You might learn something." I was all of ten years old.

I'm less comfortable with tossing any book to my children — especially the one who is in elementary school but reads at a senior-high-school level already. I worry about her hitting certain subjects before she has the emotional maturity to handle them.

Being anti censorship is fine and good in the abstract. But when I'm facing an innocent child who doesn't know about sex or cussing or perverted violence, well I'm less cocky than I was before having kids.

Books for younger readers have changed dramatically from the days of Oliver Twist and The Secret Garden. I know. I just spent the last few months engulfed in YA lit. (I'm not talking Junie B. Jones or Captain Underpants here; my kids graduated from them years ago)

There is an incredible range of language and topics in these novels. I applaud the experimentation and tackling of controversial issues. But do I want my younger child reading some of them? Not yet.

However, I do what I've always done. I talk with my children about their literary choices. I'll tell them if I think the material is too adult for them. (I do the same when young readers ask about my books.) I'm not so much worried about language as I am about emotional violence — rape, incest, mutilation, extremely graphic murder scenes . . .

But I don't censor. That's my decision and I'll accept the consequences. Believe me, I've had some close calls. When my younger child was reading a fairly explicit book about the Holocaust, I was uneasy inwardly. Outwardly, I made sure to check in with her often, to help her understand and to make sure she wasn't having nightmares.

Though it was a difficult read, I can't imagine ripping that book from her hands.

The thought of tearing out the offending pages makes me nauseated. {Did you know there's a term for that? It's bowdlerizing.}

Back to the story at New Rochelle:
It doesn't end with the first article. If you haven't clicked through already, go to this link. Apparently the community — and far beyond — was outraged with the school board's decision. New books were ordered. Ah, a happy ending.

When my parents died, my husband and I took the planks of wood that graced my childhood home and installed them in our own. They're filled with books once again. Our children have the right to look at any volume they want — though I do have some on the highest shelves so that they're more difficult to reach.

I know we've discussed censorship on Murderati before, but I'd like to hear your views when it comes to children who may not have the same ability to stand up for themselves, to judge what may or may not be appropriate.

What were your own childhood reading experiences? What were your parents' attitudes toward reading?
Have you ever taken a book away from your child?
Are there books that are inappropriate for children or am I just too old-fashioned?

I miss Veronica Mars

By Allison Brennan

Last year my young teen daughters and I watched all three
seasons of Veronica Mars on DVD. If you’re not familiar with the short-lived
television series, it’s essentially a smart, modern-day Nancy Drew with wry wit
and sharp dialogue. It’s one of the few shows that appeals to both adults and
teens and the single best series I’ve found to stimulate conversations with my
older kids about the real, everyday dangers they face as young people in the
world today. The cancellation of this show was truly sad-the stories were
fantastic, the acting terrific, and it tightened the generation gap.

From Wikipedia:

“Veronica Mars is . . . a balance of murder mystery,
high school and college drama . . . featur[ing] social commentary with sarcasm
and off-beat humor in a style often compared to film noir. Set in the fictional
town of Neptune, Veronica Mars starred Kristen Bell as the title character, a
student who progressed from high school to college during the series while
moonlighting as a private investigator under the wing of her detective father.
Episodes have a distinct structure: Veronica solves a different “case of
the week” while continually trying to solve a season-long mystery.”

The show didn’t sugarcoat conflict, though humor and
irony were often used. Topics like date rape, cheating, drugs, child
molestation and teen-age drinking were handled in both an entertaining and
thought-provoking way.

For example, part of Veronica’s backstory was that she
was drugged with GHB the year before the show began. She never told anyone
about it, because she didn’t remember anything-except that she was no longer a
virgin. As the story unfolded over the first season, we learned that someone slipped
the drug in her drink and handed it to her. At a big party, you often don’t
know where your drinks are coming from. My oldest daughter was floored, and
said she’d never accept a drink from anyone again-she’d open the can or bottle herself
and not let it out of her sight.

In one episode, Carmen comes to Veronica when her
ex-boyfriend Tad blackmails her with a video he took with his phone of her
sucking a popsicle in a sexually explicit manner. She’s terrified he’ll follow
through with his threats to post the video on the Internet. After watching this
episode, my oldest daughter finally got it. She was nearly 14 at the time, in
8th grade, and didn’t understand why I wouldn’t let her have a MySpace page or
a computer in her bedroom.

It’s not about trusting my daughter-who wants to be a
cop, is a dedicated athlete, and lives by the mantra: “my body is my temple”-it’s
about everyone else in the world. Even your friends. Because all it takes is
one pissed off friend to take an innocuous (or not so-innocuous but ‘fun’)
image or video and send it to everyone’s cell phone, or post it on the
Internet.

As I told her, “Once it’s out there, you can never
get it back.”

They’re kids. We hope that we raise them with enough
common sense and street smarts so that when they’re eighteen they’ll make the
right decisions. They’ll screw up sometimes, but until they’re eighteen parents
need to establish some ground rules because some mistakes have
long-lasting and far-reaching consequences. And today, if it’s caught on camera, everyone in the world will know about it in eight seconds flat.

Kids don’t think parents know anything. We obviously know more than they think, but times
do change. When I was a teen, “date rape” was essentially pressuring and manipulating girls
to have sex–not drugging them into forced compliance. Alcohol, marijuana and
occasionally cocaine was the drug of choice in my high school, not heroin and
meth and eXtasy. I never had to walk through a metal detector at school; now more public high schools in major cities–and some in suburbia–have them than don’t. Even many younger grade schools. I had earthquake drills; my kids have lockdown drills.

This is why I miss Veronica Mars. It connected me with my
teens in a way no other television program has done. When we talked about
Carmen being caught on video, my oldest daughter finally understood why I didn’t
want her photos posted online. Why I didn’t want her to send her best friend a
completely innocuous picture on her cell phone of her in three different
bikinis when she couldn’t decide which one to buy. Do you want that picture
sent to every boy in your school? Forwarded to every friend with a cell
phone? Do you want people you’ve never met to see you at the movie theater or a
ballgame and know your name and how you look practically naked?

We have to take charge-parents and the teens of today. The
police have more than enough on their plate to not add to it teens voluntarily
meeting up with predators and being manipulated into sex, raped, murdered, or
trafficked. Honestly, they have to prioritize their cases and focus on the hard
core child pornography–kids under the age of 14 who have been sexually
exploited and abused. Even then, the caseload is staggering: an April 2008
Washington Post article revealed the results of a thirty-month long sting in
Virginia where child pornography-explicit sexual material with minors under the
age of 14-was found on 20,000 private computers. Those computers were
responsible for over 200,000 individual transactions. In one state alone. And only the public files shared with undercover cops. These are a small percentage
of the hard-core child pornography out there being shared by pedophiles and
perverts, estimated at less than 20% in just this one operation. Extrapolate
that to fifty states and you can see there is an epidemic of such huge scope
it’s mind-blowing.

When you add in the sexual harassment of teens online,
the numbers are even more terrifying. Law enforcement can’t take care of it
all. If every cop in the country
worked 24/7 stopping online child pornography, they still wouldn’t be able to solve a
fraction of the hard core cases.

It’s up to parents and teachers and communities and
churches to educate our kids and hope that they get smart. Many of the assaults
that result from online chats or places like MySpace are because a victim
willingly agrees to meet their attacker-thinking that they’ll be safe. We have
to teach them to protect themselves and make smart choices.

The FBI produced two public service announcements. They
don’t have the money to pay for the advertising, so it’s up to individual
television stations to play them as PSAs-which is usually in the wee hours of
the morning. They’re each only 60 seconds. They’re worth watching. They’re worth sharing with your kids. (I posted the links in case I messed up the YouTube embedding thing.)

Everybody Knows Your Name

Bulletin Board

I’m not the strictest parent on the planet, but there are
some unbreakable rules in our house:

1) No computers, tvs or video games in the bedrooms. We
have two computers in the den which the kids can use, plus my computer and my
husband’s computer. It benefits parents to learn technology and learn how to track histories, even when kids learn how to delete history.

2) I get all passwords to all accounts, email or
otherwise. Cell phones are a privilege. Abuse of cell phone texting, i.e.
anything profane or sexually explicit, the phone will be disconnected. I don’t
check daily, but I spot check. Sort of “surprise inspection” time. I have taken away the cell phone before. And my kids know I will do it again.

3) No personal information on line. No chat rooms or IM with anyone they do not personally know from school or sports.

The last is actually the hardest to enforce. Even if your
kids obey, you have no control over what their friends post. This is why
education is so important. Even if your kids are being 100% safe, you can be
assured that either they’ll mess up (deliberately or by accident) or their friends
aren’t being safe. I have no qualms talking about these subjects with my kids’ friends. If their parents have a problem with me discussing it, they’re welcome to call me and I’ll be happy to share statistics and facts of which they’re likely not aware.

One last story . . . my oldest daughter accidentally switched two numbers when texting a friend of hers from school. Someone responded. They went back and forth 2 or 3 times, then she said, “Who’s this?” because she thought something was off. The other person teased back without telling her, so she typed, “I thought you were someone else. Don’t text me again.” He persisted. She ignored him. Then she gets a call from the number and doesn’t answer it. She’s scared. She has a voice message. She listens to the voice mail–it’s a mother yelling at her for texting a nine-year-old boy.

I called that mother. I explained what happened, and that my daughter is a minor in high school and didn’t know she’d typed a number in wrong. At first the mom was upset, then she calmed down. She didn’t cast any blame on her son, however; she was certain that his older step brother was somehow responsible.

I didn’t say what I wanted to say, which was, why does your NINE YEAR OLD have a cell phone with TEXTING??? Okay, maybe I’m being judgmental, but I don’t see the purpose. There are phones that you can program to call only a couple numbers if you’re really concerned about reaching your younger children. But seriously. Nine? And I thought my second grader was exaggerating when he said half the kids in his class had cell phones. Maybe he wasn’t.

Okay, now this really is the last story . . . when I was at the FBI Citizen’s Academy, the SSA in charge of child cybercrime said that if you let your daughter have a webcam on her computer, in less than six months there will be naked pictures of her on the internet. Predators are good at lying, manipulating, and convincing teens to do almost anything in the “privacy” of their own bedroom.

Talk, listen, and enforce. As I tell my kids–take everything you read online as a possible lie–if he says he’s a 17-year-old high school junior from Texas, it’s a 50/50 chance he’s not.

And maybe someday, a show like Veronica Mars will return. But until then, don’t wait to talk about the tough subjects with your teens.