Author Archives: Murderati

How do you know what’s the right book?

My question today is – “How do we choose what we write next?” And I really, really want to know.

When on panels or at events, I have been asked, “How do you decide what book you should write?” I have not so facetiously answered: “I write the book that someone writes me a check for.”

That’s maybe a screenwriter thing to say, and I don’t mean that in a good way, but it’s true, isn’t it?

Anything that you aren’t getting a check for you’re going to have to scramble to write, steal time for – it’s just harder. That doesn’t mean it’s not worth doing, or that it doesn’t produce great work, but it’s harder.
As a professional writer, you’re also constricted to a certain degree by your genre, and even more so by your brand. St. Martin’s isn’t going to pay me for my next book if I turn in a chick lit story, or a flat-out gruesome horrorfest, or probably a spy story, either. My agent wouldn’t be too thrilled about it, either. Once you’ve published you are a certain commodity.

You’re even more restricted if you are writing a series – a kind of restriction I haven’t wanted to take on, myself. You have a certain amount of freedom about your situation and plot but – you’re going to have to write the same characters, and if your characters live in a certain place, you’re also constricted by place, so I’m really interested in hearing our series authors talk about how THEY decide on the next story they write.

I don’t let a lot of time go by between when I turn in a project and start the next one.

Part of this is mental illness. I know that. My SO sighs and shakes his head. Perhaps one of these days he’ll leave me over it; it’s not out of the realm of possibility.

And maybe I would be a better writer if I took more time to decide. actually. It’s an interesting question.

But I need to know what I’m working on. For me it’s better than Xanax. I’m not a very pleasant person when I’m floundering in the gaps between projects.

It’s a huge commitment, to decide on a book to write. That’s a minimum of six months of your life just getting it written, not even factoring in revisions and promotion. You live in that world for a long, long time.

But how does that decision process happen?

If you’ve been working at writing for a while you have a lot of stories swirling around in your head at any given moment, and even more in that story warehouse in the back of your mind – some much more baked than others. But I find it’s not necessarily the most complete idea that draws you.

Sometimes, maybe often, you need to do something different from what you’ve just done. THE HARROWING was about college students so I wanted to do something more adult. THE PRICE turned out to be maybe TOO adult – it was a very emotionally grueling book to write for me; I had to go to even darker places than usual, so instead of going on to write another book that I had completely outlined already, but was equally dark, I jumped in to a story that I only had the vaguest premise line for. THE UNSEEN has turned out to be much more of a romp than my previous two books, insomuch as a supernatural thriller can be a romp. It’s lighter, more romantic, and more overtly sexual than the other two (that last really was because when I stayed in the haunted estate that I used for the haunted estate in the book, there was a distinctly sexual imprint on the house, and it influenced the story. I had nothing to do with it. Really.)

For my new book, I knew I wanted to do something around water, because bluntly, I want to spend more time at the ocean this year, and research is one of the job perks. You take them where you can.

But again, once I’d turned in THE UNSEEN, the ocean story that I had been working on for a while already was not the one that pulled at me. I wanted to do the beach desperately, but I wasn’t feeling excited about that story, and it finally occurred to me that it was about a character who was very isolated, and a lot of the book would be about what was going on in her head, and I was just balking at the idea of having to write that. I really wanted to do something structurally more like THE HARROWING, more of an ensemble piece, with a lot of dialogue and one-upmanship among the characters. And suddenly it hit me that I did have a story idea about a group of people that also had a lot to do with the beach and the water, which I won’t say much about because I just don’t talk about it at this early stage. But I started piecing that one together and it just started to fly – the kind of can’t-write-fast-enough-to-get-the-ideas-down writing that we all live for.

And that brings me sort of to my point.

The way I really know what to write is when the entire world around me is giving me clues. Like when I keep getting into random conversations with strangers that turn out to be exactly what my book is about. Like when I am writing a scene about rum on the plane and I walk off the plane and the first thing I see on the causeway is a rum bar (I didn’t even know there was such a thing as a rum bar). Like when I meet a person on the street or see someone on television and realize THAT’S one of my main characters that I had been struggling to define.

Synchronicities.

In other words, it doesn’t feel like working – I’m in the flow. When you’re in the flow, your book comes alive around you and all you have to do is write it down. It’s being in love – an altered state in which everything feels ecstatic and RIGHT.

And you can feel the whole shape of the book in your head – it’s almost like being able to pick the story up in your hands and heft it and say – “Yeah, everything’s there. I can do this one.”

That may not make any sense, but it’s a really palpable feeling for me, physical, visceral. And such a relief to finally get there, I can’t even tell you.

So how do YOU know?

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Brett, Naomi and I will be among the hundreds of authors speaking and signing at the West Hollywood Book Fair tomorrow, Sunday, in West Hollywood Park. If you’re in the LA area, hope you can come by!

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ETA: Devastated to report that Paul Newman has died.

A Virtual Montparnasse (Part Two)

by J.T. Ellison

This is the second entry in an on-going occasional series I’ve dubbed "A Virtual Montparnasse." Click here to read the first installment.

The Internet is a devious little succubus, isn’t it?

By all accounts, it is a useful tool that enhances our daily lives. We have instant communication, instant access to our friends, co-workers and teachers. College courses are heavily Internet dependent now — hell, a lot of elementary schools have homework on the web.

And we writers know what an awesome tool the Internet is for research.

But it’s also a force of evil, a direct intravenous line into the procrastination vein.

Can’t write? Check your Facebook page and update your status. Be sure to spend at least ten minutes dealing with your notifications. Return good karma, play a move in WordScraper, read your other friend’s procrastination, I mean status, updates. Throw a sheep for good measure and get back to work.

Tappity Tappity Tap Tap. Tappity Tap. Tap. Tap… tap…

Still can’t write? Do it all again, only this time toss in a few emails, read the Wall Street Journal, run through Crimespot and RedRoom. Check your MySpace. See if Sarah Weinman has updated her blog.

I mean really, if you aren’t doing anything, millions of other people aren’t either. You can prove it to yourself in myriad ways. And there’s great comfort in that.

But is this particular aspect of our Virtual Montparnasse good for us? Is the Internet enhancing our creativity?

I’ll postulate the answer to that is a resounding NO! And I’m not the only one. There’s been a spate of writers addressing the issue lately. I read this article and smiled to myself — I NEED someone to trick me like this. And then my friend Jeff Abbott wrote about his own desire to be Internet free. I agree wholeheartedly with them both. We writers are over-utilizing our online time. It seems like something so simple, so easy. Just turn off your wireless and go. But it doesn’t ever seem to work that way, does it?

Do we need the Internet? Yes, it’s a brilliant research tool. Yes, we can keep up with our friends, blog, check our Amazon numbers. But do we really NEED the Internet?

If you answer yes, I can’t help you. If you answered no, but don’t know how to break free, keep reading.

There is an underlying problem here. It will take a bit of self examination to see why you’re using the Internet as a procrastination tool. And that WHY is going to vary wildly from author to author.

I’ve come to realize that I have an Internet addiction. No, I’m not addicted to porn, or online gambling. I just find myself almost unconsciously surfing, going to bookmarked site to bookmarked site, checking things out. There are times that I realize I’ve reread the same blog entry multiple times, just because there isn’t anything new out there.

I decided to undertake a candid examination of my problem. I’m not kidding when I say I think it is a real addiction. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve been sitting in my chair, utterly frustrated and stressed because I have a ton of writing to be done and a ton of reading to be done and thank you notes to write and, and, and… yet I’ll notice that I’ve left whatever I’m supposed to be working on and am on my laptop, surfing.

After some serious soul searching over the past few weeks, I’ve found my WHY.

Don’t laugh, but after a true and honest reflection I’ve realized that I’m substituting the Internet for cigarettes. I quit a couple of years ago, and still ache for the soothing, relaxing, take-a-break nature of cigarettes. I used to smoke a pack a day. Twenty cigarettes. Twenty little breaks. Twenty times a day when I consciously or unconsciously reached for that cigarette and used it to help me focus, to relax, to de-stress.

Twenty times a day… if I kept count, I daresay I’m probably on the Internet twenty times a day as well. I shared my great epiphany with a psychiatrist friend of mine. She laughed and said the Internet is much healthier than the cigarettes, and to give myself a break. Which I appreciated to no end, but I was left with a nagging feeling that there was something more that I could do. Something to lead me away from this. If I had the willpower to quit smoking after twenty years on the sticks, I can beat this too.

I don’t know about you, but I set millions of little intermediary goals for myself during the day. Finish this sentence and you can make a cup of tea. It’s been an hour, you can go ahead and check your email. No Internet after 5… 6… 7… 8… 9… No Internet when Randy is home. No Facebook before 4 in the afternoon, or after 10 in the morning. It’s the same way I quit smoking, in stages, little permissions here and there to make me think I had control over the situation.

None of that really works. It’s all well and good to say these things, but acting on them isn’t my strong suit. It’s like exercise or dieting for me. I can set all the goals I want, but I’ll quickly become bored with the "rules" and slip. I’ve stuck to some of my initiatives, like limiting my listserves (I’m down to two) and making sure I return email in a timely fashion. I stopped reading most of my blogs long ago – relying on Crimespot to alert me when something that might be of interest pops up.

It used to be we didn’t have wireless, so my laptop was a safe zone. I would work on business upstairs on the desktop, and when I was ready to be creative, shut that one off and come downstairs to work on the laptop. That system worked very well for me. But we’re tech geeks, so we got a wireless router, and my new laptop is built for it, so no matter what, I can plug in seamlessly from anywhere in the house. Great, right?

(Let me add, for the record, that all this shilly-shallying generally comes when I’m between books. When I’m working on a new manuscript, I have a much different focus level than when I’m in between. I made a decision that I needed to take a month off between books, and I’ll stick to that, but it’s these down times when I waste the most time. I could be really relaxing and refreshing my mind, catching up on reading, doing research, and instead I’m throwing sheep. Hmm.)

I don’t know how many of you clicked through on the link that Jeff Abbott had in his post, so let me put it here for you to look at. Kirk McElhearn has a wonderful idea for Mac users. There’s also a cool program for the Mac called Freedom. Just one problem. I’m on a PC, and I can’t find anything like this in PC land.

So I decided to use Kirk’s guidelines and figure out a way to make this happen on my laptop. It’s just as simple as setting up a new user account (in this case, Taylor Jackson) setting the parental controls so Firefox and IE aren’t allowed, and poof. Instant "Freedom." I took Kirk’s idea a step further as well — I don’t like moving files back and forth using a jump drive — I lost a major book synopsis that way. One of my many redundancies for my ongoing manuscripts is through email. So instead of moving files on the jump drive, in the new Taylor Jackson account, I opened an email for her with Windows Mail, and opened a gmail account in her name. I reset the parental controls to accept the gmail url, and activated the pop mail account dedicated to Taylor Jackson. Voila. When I’m done for the day, I email my file to my regular email address. Works like a charm.

I tried this new method on Tuesday. I was shocked to find myself working for three hours straight. No interruptions. No chimes to let me know a new email had come in (just a note, you have to log off your regular account to make that happen. And in the new user account, don’t get fancy trying to change icons around, etc — I nearly deleted my entire iTunes library accidentally.)

This may be second nature for some of you sophisticated techies, but I felt like I’d accomplished something major. I have freed myself from my Internet connection, albeit briefly. It’s such a pain to log off the new account, log in to the main account, etc., that I really did stay focused and productive.

I refuse to let the Internet compromise my creativity. I deleted my unused Twitter account Wednesday. I’ve unbookmarked Facebook so I recognize when I’m going there. I stopped accepted apps on Facebook ages ago, so that’s not a problem. If these steps aren’t enough, I’ll get more drastic. I hope that doesn’t happen though, cause we all know how much fun I have throwing sheep ; )

Will our Virtual Montparnasse be the death of us all? What’s your trick to avoid Internet procrastination?

And do you think there’s a way around the Internet sapping our creativity?

Wine of the Week: 2005 Chateau La Rame Bordeaux — simply delicious.

I’m Free

By Brett Battles

As most of you know, my last post left off with me about to take the plunge into writing full time. I had one more week at the day job, then…bam…I would no longer be answering to anyone but myself on a daily basis.

Well, I’m here to report my last week at work was great. Lots of folks came by to say goodbye, a few even bringing books to sign. A great party on Wednesday afternoon that was supposed to be a surprise, but…well…it’s hard to surprise me. Then two more days of finishing things up. Had lunch with the people I worked closest with on Friday, and then had something they call an exit interview. It sounds painful, but it wasn’t. A few questions, some paper work, and the all important final check. And then…I was done.

Monday brought my first real day as a fulltime author, the weekend having been spent with other pre-planned activities. I got up early, opened all the windows, turned on the ipod, sat down at my kitchen table, and began working on the edits for my third novel. I didn’t stop for another seven hours. Wow. Bliss.

Still, it was early in the day, only 3 p.m., so I went for a hike up one of our local canyons. You see, part of my plan for this new way of life is to get back into shape, something I’ve been neglecting for too long. The hike was great, though exhausting. Even then, after I finished and had dragged myself back into my car, I felt exhilarated.

Tuesday, I did the same, the writing again bliss, but the canyon actually harder the second time. Wednesday, stir and repeat, only this time the canyon was easier. I plan on doing the same again today.

I still have this feeling in the back of my mind that I’m supposed to be at a meeting somewhere, or need to check my messages in case someone needs something. I’m sure that will go away in time. God, I hope so.

But mostly I feel lucky. Lucky that I can spend big chunks of time working on my books instead of shoe horning writing sessions into my schedule in two hour bits here and there. I feel lucky that in the middle of the day I can go for a long walk, or a hike, or can spend hours bs’ing with Rob and Bill Cameron and Tasha Alexander on iChat. (Wait, I used to do that iChat thing even when I had the fulltime job…but you get the idea.)

It’s early yet, and I’m still getting used to things, but what I do know is that I love this. It does mean I need to be on top of keeping a schedule. Thankfully I have a bit of a talent for that.

So that’s where I am right now. Week one almost done and I’m loving it!

I’m not writing this progress report to make those of you who are writing fulltime jealousy or for me to brag. I’m writing this so that you know it’s possible. A few scant years ago I didn’t even have a contract. And when I finally did get one, it almost disappeared because the small press that signed me went out of business. But I kept pushing forward, taking an active part – as much as I could – in keeping my fledging career alive. And now I’m here. So keep the faith, keep moving forward, and keep writing the best damn books you can.

Appearance note. If you’re L.A. this weekend, Sunday brings the West Hollywood Book Festival. I’ll be on a panel:

1:00-2:15 “High Octane Thrillers: How Authors and Screenwriters Fuel the Genre”
Bret Battles, Brent Ghelfi, Heywood Gould, Stephen Hunter, Susan Arnout Smith Moderator: Evan Kilgore

Signing to immediately follow, so come by and say hi!

Song of the day: I’M FREE by The Soup Dragons (not originally, of course, see below)

or if you prefer…by The Rolling Stones

Aural Pleasure

by Rob Gregory Browne

I remember the day vividly. I was riding in the back seat, my father at the wheel, my mother beside him, and we were headed over the Pali to the other side of the island. It was a Friday evening and we were going to Buzz’s Steakhouse in Kailua, our favorite.

About halfway there, my father turned on the radio and something very strange happened. The radio started pumping out TV sound. One of my favorite shows at the time was The Lone Ranger, which was rerun every afternoon on television. And there it was, coming out of the car’s tinny speaker. Hi-yo Silver.

Or was it?

It took me a moment to realize that even though this sort of sounded like the Lone Ranger that I knew and loved, the actor’s voice was different. Deeper and more commanding. And as I listened closer, I realized this wasn’t TV sound at all.

My father must have seen my astonished look in his rearview mirror, because he smiled and said, "This is what we used to listen to when I was a kid. Before we had TV."

I stared at him blankly, not quite believing him, but the more I listened the more I realized he was telling the truth. And, god, it was wonderful.

That, my friends (to borrow a phrase), is how I discovered audio drama.

Okay, okay. I know what you’re thinking. Audio drama? Oh, please. Those old shows with the corny acting and the cheesy organ music?

Yes, I became obsessed with it. And yes, early radio drama WAS pretty freaking corny. But as the years went on and I managed to collect more and more tapes, I realized that there was a real progression in quality over time. The latter years of radio drama, here in the US, offered wonderfully crafted stories with great actors, great music, great sound effects.

But by the early sixties, it had all gone down the crapper. It was a slow, pitiful death, brought on by television, and not all that surprising. Why bother with radio when you can SEE your favorite actors in living black and white?

Which, of course, is why a large portion of the people reading this have only a vague idea of what I’m talking about.

For those of you in the UK and Canada, however, radio drama is still alive and kicking. The CBC still produces it. And every afternoon on BBC4, and all day long on BBC7 and elsewhere you can hear a variety of dramas. In countries other than mine, radio drama is considered a true art form, and many great artists create it.

If you want to hear an amazing example of "movies for the ears," try to track down a copy of Julian Simpson’s THE LISTENER, which recently played on the BBC. A near-future spy story that will keep you in your chair until the last, delicious twist.

Or go right now and listen to INFIDEL, Roger Gregg’s epic audio masterpiece. You will not regret it.

These ain’t your father’s old-time radio shows. They are, quietly simply, beautiful examples of the possibilities of audio. The ability to paint a vivid picture in your mind with a few simple strokes.

Of all the dramatic arts, I think audio drama comes closest to novels, because most of it happens in the listener’s mind. Listeners are required to use their brains, their imaginations, to help the story come alive. Using a handful of words, a few sound effects, and some decent acting, audio dramas can take you anywhere, from beneath the surface of the earth to the farthest reaches of outer space.

I love the medium almost as much as I love fiction.

Which is why I’m a little worried.

Although there now seems to be a minor resurgence of audio drama here in the US, thanks to the iPod, there’s not all that much more interest in it than there was in the early sixties when it died a dusty death.

So why does that worry me? I mean, who gives a damn about a barely remembered art form? Radio shows were quaint, but this is the modern age. We have movies on demand. The Internet. Games at our fingertips. Thousand of songs on our mp3 players.

Why the hell do we need radio shows?

Well, I’m not sure we do. Maybe we’re beyond them. And although the art form has grown up quite a bit, maybe it’s just too late. Too… dated.

But that’s not what worries me. What worries me is that I think a lot of people are beginning to feel the same way about novels.

Tell me I’m wrong, but I believe fewer people are buying books every year. Bookstores are closing. Kids don’t have time for fiction unless it’s written by JK Rowling. A trip to Costco and you’ll find a table full of novels with all the same old names on them and few new authors are being read. Of all the people I know personally, at least half of them don’t even read a book a year. Why read a book when you can, say, shoot a moose?

So I have to wonder, when will it be the early sixties for novelists?

And, trust me, I don’t worry because of a potential loss of income. This has never been about money for me. But I worry about the loss of a vitally important art form. Just like audio.

And if it can happen to something as wonderful as audio drama — an industry that was filled with stars and had people rushing home every night to listen to their favorite shows — surely it can happen to books.

As Rachel Maddow would say, somebody please talk me down. Convince me that, sometime in the future, I won’t have to fly to the UK or Canada whenever I feel like cracking open a book.

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By the way, they still do hold book festivals, so if you’re in Santa Barbara this Saturday, stop by the SB Courthouse around noonish, where Gayle Lynds and I will be on a panel talking about thrillers and mysteries.

The librarian’s guide to hosting an author visit

by Tess Gerritsen

I love talking to groups in libraries, and I think other authors do as well. Some of my biggest audiences have been in libraries, where I don’t have to talk over the extraneous noise of cappuccino machines and clattering dishes and bookstore customers loudly asking where the SAT guides are. Library patrons love books, and they actually want to hear what you have to say. From an author’s point of view, there’s only one negative to doing a library talk: the precious time it takes away from your writing and your life. You can only fit a limited number of speaking engagements into your schedule, and you need to be choosy about which offers to accept. Authors need time at their desks and they need time with their families. They can’t spend all year driving around to speaking gigs. I try to limit my library gigs to only one a month, and only if it fits easily into my schedule.

If you’re a librarian, and you want to tempt authors to visit your library, here are some guidelines to making your invitation more attractive. And remember, authors speak to other authors, and if one has had a terrific experience at your library, chances are, she’s going to spread the word around.

OFFER A SPEAKING FEE. While this is always a big plus, it’s not absolutely necessary. Some authors are willing to speak if you’ll just reimburse them for transportation and overnight costs. We all know that libraries have limited budgets, and often I’ll waive any fees when the library I visit is particularly small. Or I’ll return the fee to the library as a donation. Please keep in mind, though, that many authors really, really need the money and it’s unreasonable to ask an author to come speak to your group if she has to do it on her own dime. She’s already donating her time for free. Offering a speaking fee may be the incentive she needs to accept.

PROVIDE TRANSPORTATION. If your library is within easy driving distance to the author’s home, then this doesn’t present a problem. But if the author has to come in from out of state, she’ll need her air travel reimbursed. And once the author lands in your town, how’s she going to get to the library? How’s she going to get to the hotel you’ve reserved for her? Make sure there’s a driver to take her where she needs to go. And offer to take her to dinner — the other librarians on staff may enjoy joining the party too!

PUBLICIZE. You want the author to be greeted with a huge turnout. You also want to use her visit as a way to attract new patrons to your library. So send out press releases. Call up your local newspaper and tell the features editor that there’s a hot author coming to town, and maybe they’d want to cover the story. Put up signs in your library announcing the visit, and mention the upcoming visit to every patron who checks out a book similar to the visiting author’s. If the crowd turnout is big, the author will happily recommend your library to other authors.

INTRODUCE THE AUTHOR TO THE AUDIENCE. It’s always nice to be preceded by a glowing introduction letting the audience know a bit about my career.

SELL BOOKS!!! It’s amazing to me how many librarians don’t seem to understand that this is the primary reason an author goes on the road to talk to readers. She wants to sell books. Selling books is how she makes a living, and if there are no books available for readers to buy at the event, then the author may feel her visit was wasted. DON’T ASSUME THE AUTHOR WILL BRING HER OWN BOOKS. Most well-known authors do not keep a supply of their own books, and if the author has a long list of titles, you can’t expect her to lug around multiples copies of her twelve backlist titles. Besides, we authors want the sales to show up on bookstore ledgers; we don’t want to be handling cash and receipts. So you must, must, must arrange for your local bookstore to come in and sell books during the event. Ask the author to provide a list of her available titles so the bookstore has plenty of time to order in copies. Make sure there are enough copies so that every patron who wants to buy one will have a chance to. (And remind the store that any unsold books can be returned to the distributor.) Provide time after the author talk for a book signing.

YOU DON’T HAVE TO BE A HUGE LIBRARY — TAKE A CHANCE AND INVITE AN AUTHOR. I personally love to talk to libraries in small towns, libraries that seldom see authors. I find that in small towns, the audiences tend to be larger and more enthusiastic. I’ve been considering doing a driving tour to small libraries around the country. I’d love to be able to see states I’ve never visited — West Virginia and Louisiana, for instance. I just have to set aside the time to do it one of these days.

Most librarians do a great job of hosting author events, but for those who seldom see an author visit their library, it helps to know what authors need and expect. A little advance work can make the visit a success — and attract many more authors.

Peering into the future

By Pari

Face it, we’re in an iffy business. There are too many factors out of our control. Even if we write the best mystery or thriller, one with brilliant plotting, spectacular pacing and outstanding prose – it still might never get published. Even if it does, it might tank. Critics might pan it. Or, it might never earn back the advance.

I don’t know about any of you, but sometimes I yearn for a good way to predict the future. I want to know, for a fact, that all of these late nights, worries, missed walks on gorgeous fall days, sacrificed cups of coffee with friends, the guilt . . . I want to know that they’re worth it.

Yeah, it’s impossible. But that doesn’t stop me from trying.

A long time ago, I used to go to psychics to see if my life had some greater destiny, if I’d be famous or wealthy or happy or married or if I’d save the world. After spending far too much of my meager waitressing earnings on these visits, I realized that most of what these seers told me sounded like utter bullsh*t. The final straw was the well-known psychic who told me that my soul had originated on Venus.

Sure. Right.

I’ve always been interested in astrology and as the years have passed, I’ve moved away from looking at it as predictive to a more psychological approach. Authors such as Liz Greene and Stephen Arroyo have given me many hours of excellent insights into people in general and myself in particular.

But I still want those glimpses into the future, the yes-no answers.

Will I make it in my chosen profession? Will all the sacrifices I and my family have made end with a good result?

I used to try to use Tarot like that (I love the Mythic Deck), but as I’ve grown as a person, so has my approach to that divinatory method. Liz Greene has influenced me there too – as has the wonderful Juliet Sharman-Burke.

Yet, an urge to know the unknown lingers . . .

The other day, I stumbled on a virtual magic eight ball. There’s no way I could go down my usual philosophical road with that, was there? So, I decided to give it a shot.

My very first question: “Will I become a well known and successful writer during my lifetime?”

The answer?
“Definitely.”

Cool. Just what I wanted to hear. It must be true.

So, today, I invite you to share what you do to feel better about an unknown future OR go to the eight ball, ask a question, and let me know what it answered.

Question:

“Will this blog inspire an interesting discussion?”

Answer: (Really, this was the answer. Hah!)

“Signs point to yes.”

Why I Love Romantic Suspense

by Allison Brennan

I’m on the road in Michigan, part of the Levy Home Entertainment Read This! Bus Tour. We’ve visited six Meijer stores in the last two days, and we have three more today (Sunday.) There’s a fantastic mix of 27 authors from memoir/true crime (Chip St. Clair) to humorous mysteries (Leslie Langley) to sexy paranormal (Gena Showalter) to historical romance (Kathryn Caskie) to romantic thrillers (Jordan Dane) to thrillers (Tom Grace.) There’s many more, you can go here to see the schedule and author list. So, please forgive me if I neglect responding to posts until I’m dumped at the airport later this evening.

I had considered writing about my experience with United losing my luggage, but decided everyone has a lost luggage story and I did get it, about thirty hours after my plane landed. So I’m going on with my previously scheduled topic: why I write romantic suspense.

Like most writers, I am an avid reader. I started light – Encyclopedia Brown, Trixie Belden, Nancy Drew – but by the time I was eleven, I’d discovered my mom’s vast Agatha Christie and Ed McBain collections.

But two things happened on my way to becoming a mystery writer.

First, I discovered Stephen King. I was thirteen, the book was THE STAND. Two days later, I felt like I’d discovered the world. This was a book that had everything: suspense, mystery, great characters and the highest stakes of all: saving the world.

I devoured every King book I could find, but to this day, THE STAND remains my favorite. The second time I read it while in college (which is a feat for me because I rarely re-read books) I realized that it was more than the suspense and stakes that kept me enthralled, it was the relationships between the characters. Flawed and so real they walked off the page, I discovered that it wasn’t just saving the world that mattered; it was saving the ones your love. The relationship between Stu and Frannie was as important as any other plot point in the book, and without it, the story would have lost that personal connection with readers that takes a good book and makes it great.

It was after dropping out of college that I started reading romance. I came home to visit my mom and pulled a few books off her shelf. Who I discovered was Nora Roberts through her Bantam romantic suspense titles. HOT ICE, CARNAL INNOCENCE, and DIVINE EVIL, among others. I was hooked. These were the books I had been waiting for: romantic suspense. Character driven stories with a crime or suspense component. Books where bad things happened and you turned the pages as fast as you could, but in the end, the good guys always won, and the girl always gets the guy.

I read every romantic suspense or romance novel with even a hint of mystery that I could get my hands on. I also discovered lighter, humorous romances with quirky characters and found them so much fun to read: Jennifer Crusie and Susan Elizabeth Phillips come to mind.

I had fallen in love with romance . . . in danger. To me, romantic thrillers were the best of both worlds. Two people who both come together because of evil, and are almost torn apart by that evil.

I love romance because I want a happy ending. True love should win over adversity if the hero and heroine are worthy. They need to earn it, because nothing easily achieved is truly appreciated. But I also love thrillers because they are physical–fear causes pounding hearts and shaking hands.

Together romance plus suspense is a natural. It gives the satisfaction of seeing two worthy people triumph over a very real evil in order to live happily ever after, with themselves and with each other. In a romantic suspense there will be a happily ever after-that is the story promise-but the danger must be real. There should be doubt. There should be the belief that maybe-just maybe-evil will win. Until the very end, the reader should fear that the hero or heroine may fail. That they could die and the villain will succeed.

Romantic suspense is a vast genre. There’s something for everyone–heavy romance-driven RS to heavy suspense-driven RS and everything in between. You have light and fun mysteries all the way to dark and edgy thrillers; the romance may be a major plot point or a smaller plot point, but the relationship between the hero and heroine is always integral to the story.

If you don’t doubt, cringe, worry, fear, it’s not suspense. Suspense is personal. It could happen to you. When you’re in love, everything matters more. When the life of your loved one is in jeopardy, you will do things you never thought yourself capable of. Because the stakes are higher, the happily-ever-after is all the more sweet.

When I committed myself to pursue a writing career (in March 2002) and actually finish one of the over 100 novels I’d begun, I didn’t even question what I would write. Though I was told by more than one person that the romantic suspense market was "dead" or "difficult," it was all I wanted to write. It took me a couple books to find my voice, which was a lot darker and scarier than I thought. Hmm, perhaps influenced a bit by Stephen King and Dean Koontz . . . but fortunately, the villain gets what’s coming to him, the hero and heroine survive–and are together–at the end of the book, and while bad things happen, justice is always served. Because real life isn’t always so happy.

Okay, now for my news . . . the PLAYING DEAD book trailer is done and on my website–which has a new title page– and it’s also on YouTube. I figured out how to embed it in a blog. Isn’t that cool? Who’da thunk I was that proficient. (Boy, I hope this works . . . . )

Ah, men.

by Alexandra Sokoloff

Maybe it’s that sudden tingle of fall, but I’m just not in the mood to write about craft today. I want something fun.

Here at Murderati we have a Wine of the Week, a Word of the Week, a Song of the Week, each hosted by experts in those fields. And that got me musing about what I might be a connoisseur of, and, well…

Let me say up front that I am happily mated, as are most of us on this here blog. But we can look, can’t we? In fact, isn’t it our JOB to know about these things?

So today I want to talk about men. And you men are perfectly welcome to talk about women, and women are perfectly welcome to talk about women, and men are perfectly welcome to talk about men, and every variation therein. Mix and match, go wild – we only live once.

I like men. I’m pretty generally in favor of them, except of course for the ones who deserve the death penalty, even though I don’t really believe in it.

And as a writer, it’s one of my duties to study men, because, of course, I have to write them and sound like I know what I’m doing.

I study women, too, but not exactly in the same way. Because women are not much of a mystery to me. I enjoy all the varieties of women, I study them, I catalogue them, I collect them, I even obsess over them (I’ve blogged here about my crush on Shane on THE L WORD). But pretty much I know where they’re coming from, because, well, they’re me.

Men are a different story.

I am very often disappointed in the portrayal of men in books. Truly, disappointed.

Because there are so many variations. There are so many factors that go into the character of a man. I can’t possibly begin to cover them all in one post, but let’s just take an obvious thing that I feel authors simply do not take enough time to explore and illuminate.

Men vary WILDLY by state, region, country. They’re like different species. But I very, very rarely see an author accurately portray the unique regional qualities of men – or women, and the differences in how men and women interact with each other in a particular city. So the game for today is delineating traits of regional subsets of men, or women. I will give my own examples to encourage participation.

This is research, people – research.

In the book I just turned in I was writing about a California woman transplanted to the South, because the story as it was HAD to be set in North Carolina, as it’s based on real events, but I knew there was no way in hell as a California native I was going to pull off a book from the POV of a Southern character, so I had to make her a transplant, a fish-out-of-water.

Now, one of the things Southerners will say to a Californian right away is – “Aren’t the people so much FRIENDLIER here?”

And my bitten-back and never vocalized response is – “Well, the women are friendly, yes, definitely.”

But I’ll let my character say what I – I mean she – thinks of the men:

They look and look and never crack a smile. At least in California men smile at you when they look you over.

As a woman and a total fish out of water in the South, I have to say, this is my experience. It may be just me… but so far pretty much except for Dusty, who is a total Ted (Ted, like teddy bear – smiles, hugs, lavishes attention) – it’s true.

Of white men.

African-American Southern men, as in California, will beam at me as if I’m the most gorgeous thing they’ve ever seen at this moment in their direct line of vision. Very charming and gratifying.

(Disclaimer re: Southern men – This is all of course exempting my own 2XL Southern alpha male, who I met on a rafting trip on the Colorado River and who not only smiled but proceeded to charm the… well… whatever I was wearing, he got it off me pretty fast.)

Maybe Southern men are different with Southern women, and if so I’d love to hear about it, but as a Californian I am not used to this cool and unrevealing style.

I’ve lived most of my life in Northern California and Southern California and I’m used to a certain thing from California men. Berkeley men and women are sluts. Charming, egalitarian, sluts. Sex is like having a cup of coffee – warm, friendly, casual… and political/artistic chat with expresso or alcohol afterward.

San Francisco men, oh, lovely. A lot of gay men, proportionately, but you don’t have to concern yourself about hooking up with a man who will turn out to be in the closet, because anyone who decides to live in SF is going to be unmistakably OUT. And the straight men are just dolls – you get these beatific smiles, full-body-glow smiles, on the street – think Treat Williams in HAIR – and everyone has great asses and thighs because of all the walking on all those hills. I have often thought that there is some chemical equivalent to Ecstasy in the water or air of San Francisco because the vibe you get from people there is all love.

If I ever feel not so attractive, a quick trip to San Francisco will remind me of the goddess I obviously am.

Men in LA are less beatific – there’s that sweet, spacy distance of surfers. There’s a lot of friendly cruising on the street – you never feel ignored. They’re sort of your instant buddy while they’re getting into your pants, cute without being necessarily overtly sexy. Think BILL AND TED’S EXCELLENT ADVENTURE.

Another great town for men is Chicago. I think all that snow and wind and winter bulks them up in a way I find – uh… warming. Bottom line, they are bears. They’re quick to fight with other men and you really don’t want to cross them, but they’re very protective of their women and cuddly one-on-one.

I LOVE Boston men. They are incorrigible flirts – I have been hit on by boys as young as 10 and men as old as – well, the hills. I think it’s the overwhelmingly Irish influence in that city, crossed with some hot Italian blood. In Ireland Irish men will look at you with oh, such longing and then not act on it unless you initiate, and maybe not even then (and you really don’t want to get me started on Catholic men…) – Boston men have that American can-do initiative and will look at you longingly for just that split second, long enough to trap you, and then close in for the kill. They slay me. I would say the biggest flirts in the US, really.

New York men are so very multicultural that it’s hard to say exactly WHAT they are, but certainly, they’re not shy. They’re not the romantic flirts that Boston men are, but there’s that great intimacy in New York – walking those streets you have dozens of encounters and possibilities per day – it’s a human smorgasboard. Another city to go to instantly if you need to be reminded of how gorgeous you really are.

Outside the US – British men are about the bane of my existence. Dry, cheeky, witty – and that accent, and they KNOW it. They are crazy, and savagely funny, and every one of them knows how to use words in a way that will make a writer’s toes curl, and…

Well, never mind that. Moving on …

– Russian accents do me in every single time, but since I’m Russian myself, I’m on guard, because I know what to be on guard from.

– Frenchmen are great dancers, and I love the language, but they don’t turn me inside out the way British men do.

– Aussie men – nuts and criminals, so naturally I adore them. And again, the accent…

You get the idea. So tell me – what are the men and women from your city/state like? What cities have the best window shopping (or shopping shopping) for you?

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Speaking of great men, writer/director Brad Anderson’s film TRANSSIBERIAN is out this weekend. Run run RUN to see this… Brad (SESSION 9, THE MACHINIST, NEXT STOP WONDERLAND, multiple episodes of THE WIRE) is one of the best suspense filmmakers out there – scary smart, and will scare the pants off you, too, in the best possible way. Just in time for the Halloween season. Can’t wait!!!

A Virtual Montparnasse (Part One)

by J.T. Ellison (with Kaye Barley)

I’ve been talking for some time about our virtual Montparnasse, the various groupings of artists who coexist online: encouraging, sharing, bickering, feuding and cheering for one another. It’s a precious resource, this institutional knowledge, and with the ease of use of the interwebs, we can all interact. The playing field is level when you’re virtual. It’s a world where readers, writers, librarians, booksellers, editors, publishers, agents, screenwriters, movie producers, actors, playwrights, artists, photographers, bloggers, critics and reviewers all float around, bumping into each other like little dust motes in an abandoned room.

And while there are curses to the Internet, something I’ll discuss next week, there are bonuses. Friendships blossom out of these interactions. Strangers become friends, and sometimes become enemies. Relationships bloom and fade, deals are made, books sold. It’s a very, very powerful medium, and as such is open to great abuse as well as scintillating intellectual largesse.

This is the first part in what I hope will be a series of essays about
our Virtual Montparnasse. Some will be by me, some will be by guests
who I think have a unique perspective on the subject, or embody the spirit of the global collective, the artistic social consciousness that I believe has been created by the Internet.

With that in mind, I hope you’ll welcome a dear friend of Murderati, Kaye Barley, while she sits in for me this week and opens the discussion about the Virtual Water Cooler we call our online community.

Take it away, Kaye!

____________________________

I am tickled and honored to have been asked to drop in here by JT while she’s off gallivanting. I have no idea what the woman was thinking, do you? I’m no writer and my resume includes exactly one blogging gig besides this one. But, we all love her, and I for one don’t want to disappoint her so what the heck, let’s see where it takes us, and have some fun with it. Being invited places is always nice. But dang – being invited someplace to speak your opinion is just about as cool as it gets.

My one and only other blog gave me the opportunity to write about my experiences and feelings about smoking and quitting. That I was invited by the delightful women at The Stiletto Gang was a kick and I had a lot of fun. After reading what I had written, JT suggested I consider writing my impressions on how the internet compares to the figurative office water cooler. Smoking and quitting was a fairly easy thing for me to write about since it was all direct experience. After thinking about JT’s suggestion for this piece, and fretting about it a little, I realized how the two pieces are actually part of the whole.

The first thing that pops into my mind when I think about the office water cooler is probably the same image that pops into your heads as well. It’s the cartoon we’ve all seen for years – a group of people clustered around the cooler, little paper cones of water in hand, engaged in conversation and looking thoroughly entertained with themselves. We know, of course, they aren’t really there for the water. Nope, this is where everyone knows to come to meet up with co-workers and buddies to exchange a bit of gossip, catch up on office news, talk about last night’s ball game and/or night on the town, and, in some cases, over time, form significant friendships. It’s the place I might have gone for some words of encouragement while I was trying to walk away from my cigarettes.

There’s just not a lot of hanging out around a water cooler these days. Literally or figuratively. Offices that once had plenty of staff to get the necessary work done are now making do with a lot fewer people, which means not nearly as much free time to hang around and visit with co-workers. Not as many co-workers either. With the economy the way it is, and jobs disappearing the way they are – who can afford to be seen goofing off and hanging around the water cooler? Much easier to goof off and visit with friends over the internet. Hooray email, discussion groups, Facebook and blogs! The newest equivalent to that tired old water cooler. And an answer to an introvert’s prayers. Someone who may not have felt comfortable joining these water cooler groups may find their niche in an internet group. (A fun topic for another day, don’t you think?)

Some of us have worked long enough that we can easily remember when the water cooler hangout was a reality. And if, come Monday morning, you didn’t care about discussing football, you knew which office water cooler to avoid. There were days you just didn’t want to listen to that guy tell you why your favorite team lost again. Same deal with internet cruising, but better – no one can force you to listen to their opinion, ‘cause you’re in charge. You can even walk away without hurting anyone’s feelings. You are the master of your browser. Don’t like what that person’s got to say? Ta da – Hit that delete key! Or your scroll key, or, by gum – just leave. You can go anywhere you want to go, and meet a whole lot of people along the way. You can collect a group of like-minded souls to hang out with, and you can leave behind those you don’t want to spend time with. Leave one water cooler and find another. We’ve all managed to find our own special on-line water cooler. We’ve all met friends who may have started out as “virtual” friends, and who may in fact still be “virtual” in that we have not yet met face to face. But their importance in our lives has, in many instances, become every bit as important as the friends we see on a regular basis.

Those of us who hang around the internet a lot have learned that you bump into the same people quite often while you’re cruising around, which makes sense, of course. Those interested in books and reading are going to be hanging out at websites, blogs, and discussion groups that focus on books and reading. Folks who are interested in building treehouses probably run into the same group of people wherever they tramp around on-line. Bumping into the same people at different internet groups brings, at first, name recognition. After awhile you’re able to remember certain little things that go with the name – if they’re smart and funny, or dreary and sarcastic, if they seem kind, or tend to be grumpy and cynical. From this initial awareness, a casual acquaintance might blossom into a friendship. The casual camaraderie we experience over the internet has become a daily part of our lives.

There is, of course, the dark side of this relatively new social networking in the cyber world we’re all a part of, but for today, let’s focus on the positive.
We’ve all met people who have become quite dear, and quite important to us. I’m still a bit amazed and in awe of this phenomenon, and would enjoy hearing from some of you about your experiences with it and feelings regarding it all.

And to the Murderati group – Thanks so much for having me. You’re the best!

(Thanks for being here today, Kaye!)

Wine of the Week: From a Texas winery, in honor of all our friends in Houston and Galveston who are suffering this week – Pheasant Ridge Merlot

Remembering New York

by Zoë Sharp

I make no apologies for this post. It’s something I wrote back in June 2005 after our first visit to New York since 9/11. It was just some jumbled-up impressions, made because the place hit me hard, and I wanted to remember it afterwards. It’s never been published anywhere before. It wasn’t my turn to post last Thursday, on September 11th, but I wanted to mark the date anyway. And when I rediscovered this file on my computer and read what I wrote, three years ago, I thought this seemed fitting.

It’s June 2005 and we’re going to New York. Sounds good, doesn’t it? Sounds better than good. Use up all those useless Air Miles on seven hours crated like a veal calf in a BA 767 with the romantic name of the Chatham Naval Dockyard. Over-fly Central Park and Manhattan on the way in with my nose pressed against the glass, abandoning all attempts at playing it cool.

Rice paper-thin upholstery on worn-out seats on the bus from the airport. When the hell did they put in sleeping policemen on the freeways? Oh … are the roads always this bad? The bus drops us in front of Grand Central Terminal – not Station, if you don’t mind. What happened to door-to-door service to our hotel? "It’s only three blocks down and one over. You walk." Here we go. Big city rip-off starting early. The last time we came here was ’89 and we got stung hard enough to put us off coming back. Same again?

No. The hotel is, indeed, only three blocks in the soggy heat. Judy Bobalik’s there waiting for us on the corner. Big smiles. Big hugs. Maybe this trip’s not going to be a repeat performance, after all. The temperature has a mass all of its own. Why did I bring so many black clothes?

Hotel’s Italian-owned and run. Even I, a professional photographer for seventeen years at this point, can’t work out what kind of lens they used to make the rooms look so much bigger on the website. Damn Photoshop. Still, most of the lights work and, more importantly, so does the air con, even if you can’t hear the TV over the top of it. And who needs that promised view? We’re only going to be sleeping in there, after all.

And it’s central, got to give it that. Midtown Manhattan, squeezed between Lexington and Fifth. Every street sign cues a song. Sometimes literally. We mostly talk Judy out of bursting into chorus. What do we have that’s equal to this? ‘A Foggy Day in London Town’ and ‘A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square’? Give me a break.

Sunday morning out in the heat to the Empire State Building just a little way south on Fifth. Even first thing the lines are so long they hand out fans to stop us keeling over. Have your photo taken before you go up? "Next!" snarls the grim-faced woman behind the camera. Er, no thanks, I think we’ll pass.

Express elevator to the 86th floor, funnelled through the gift shop and out onto the viewing balcony. So why do they sell golf balls up here? The fence is big enough to get your head through, big enough for unobstructed pictures. Top of the world, ma. We look south towards the financial district and the hole in the skyscrapers where the Twin Towers used to be.

Greenwich Village. Woody Allen films. A walk through a street market, drenched in heat, past food that you just know smells so much better than it’s going to taste. Call in at Partners & Crime and find they have a first edition of my first book, KILLER INSTINCT, that I can sign for them. Still feels like I’m defacing the title page, not enhancing the value. Watch a street magician entertain the crowd, including us, in Washington Park, all sleight of hand and slick patter. Put a twenty in the hat and don’t feel cheated. Leave before the breakdancers start. Eat in a Tex-Mex and take a yellow cab back to Midtown. The driver’s name is such I can’t tell from the ID card which way round it’s supposed to be. The traffic all seems to communicate by Morse horn.

Monday we get out early to beat the heat. Judy’s organising so we’re in the best hands. Grab a vanilla cappuccino and have breakfast at Tiffany’s. Walk north through the spray of the sidewalks outside the big stores being hosed down for another day.

The Guggenheim Museum, Frank Lloyd-Wright architecture, faded like it’s taken to drink. Central Park’s immense tranquillity, listening to the trees breathe for the city. We stop to study a map and a guy on a bicycle offers instant assistance, demanding only that we take one of his poems in payment. Dog walkers and power walkers and people on powered scooters. Past the Dakota Building by horse-drawn carriage ride, remembering where I was the day John Lennon was shot. ‘Imagine’ in mosaic in Strawberry Fields with a lone candle. Gone but not forgotten.

South to Ground Zero. Don’t know what I was expecting but a raw naked construction site wasn’t it. For a while I’m nonplussed, then a single paper crane tied to the fence sets me off and I can’t even read the heartbreaking graffiti without filling up. Cross the street to Century 21. We’re told it’s the best place to shop for cut-price designer names. Maybe if you like shopping in a scrum, fighting over crumpled clothes that still seem way too expensive. Normally I love to shop in the States, but this time my heart isn’t in it.

Back out on the baking street again. A woman sees us looking at the map and stops to offer advice. Statue of Liberty? Ride the Staten Island ferry. It passes close enough and it’s free. She’s right and we get a stunning view of the skyline from New Jersey, across Manhattan to Brooklyn while we’re at it. "I went to Staten Island, Sharon," sings Joni Mitchell inside my head, "to buy myself a mandolin." All we see of the place is the inside of the ferry terminal building. Maybe next time.

A lift with Reed Farrel Coleman to an Irish bar somewhere on the Upper East Side as the light starts to fade and the neon turns stunning. That twenty-minute window when the light’s perfect. I should have brought a tripod. Another maybe next time. There will be one, I know that now. Sit and drink and talk, watching baseball on the screens until midnight. Even then the streets are crowded. "I want to wake up, in a city that never sleeps …" Way to go, Frank.

Z-shaped fire escapes on brownstones, steaming vents from the street, an eccentric guy in a fur coat and – we initially fear – not much else. The tackiness of Times Square where my father sat eating dinner a lifetime ago when the billboards flashed the news of Martin Luther King’s assassination.

Macy’s. The biggest department store in the world. For the first time I get attitude, a sneer. Maybe that’s just department store staff the world over. Maybe I just look too poor to shop here. We hurry south, unable to find a cab that isn’t taken, for our appointment with SJ Rozan’s ‘If We Don’t Know We Make It Up’ tour of Chinatown. Damn, I hate being late – even if it is only a few minutes.

Cooler now. Winding through fascinating streets looking at the paper goods you can take with you to the other side and unidentifiable food stacked up on sidewalk stalls. Get your shoes mended as you go. Eat dim sum and learn to salute an emperor pouring tea, walk the streets of Lydia Chin and Bill Smith, looking at the spaces where their buildings ought to be. A melting pot of religion and culture, a part-restored synagogue and a Buddhist temple. Eat green tea and wasabi ice cream in Columbus Park.

Every area seems exotic. TriBeCa, Little Italy, East Village, the Lower East Side, Broadway and 42nd Street. Don’t call Sixth the Avenue of the Americas or everyone will know you’re a tourist. Yeah, like the accent doesn’t give it away.

The next day Reed picks us up for his promised tour of Brooklyn and now we’re driving the haunts of Moe Prager. We cross the Brooklyn Bridge and into a beautifully artistic run-down area filled with writers’ bars and Mafiosi pizzerias. Even shabby looks chic.

Who would have thought egg cream would taste so good? And why aren’t there eggs in it? One slice of New York cheesecake shared between four of us and still more than we can handle. Sheepshead Bay and Coney Island. Hot dogs at Nathan’s. "You ever hit a baseball, Andy?" No, he hasn’t. But he does, nine times out of ten. He and Reed ride the elderly Cyclone, gleeful like kids, laughing in the back seat. The Boardwalk in the drizzle, the ghost of the parachute drop in the mist, memories of someone else’s childhood, a dead teddy bear in the street. Cops changing a wheel in the street outside Moe’s old precinct. Stuff of legends. We were there.

Back to Manhattan through one of the tunnels, cruise through the trendy areas. "De Niro has a restaurant here." Eat in the Second Avenue Kosher Deli, served by black-haired Diane, who must be eighty if she’s a day, food I’ve never heard of before and couldn’t have ordered without an expert guide. A whole new experience. Rain, then that light again. I could spend a lifetime photographing this place and never repeat a shot. Better people have already tried.

A last breakfast, trying not to be sad about it, sitting drinking coffee on the steps to the Public Library, watching people trying to snapshoot themselves in front of the lions, then it’s all tight goodbyes on the sidewalk, the bus, the airport, charmless service from the BA staff, a cramped flight with too little water. Home. "Hey, we just got back from New York …"

And yes, it really is as good as it sounds.

I’m travelling this week, so may not be able to reply to comments as quickly as I’d like, but I hope you’ll bear with me.