Author Archives: Murderati

Raptured

By Alex

What? What are all of you doing here? Don’t you know the world is ending at 6 pm tonight? You East Coasters better get a move on.

Actually, one of the things I love about the Rapture is that there’s really nothing to do about it. It’s all already decided, you’re either in, or you’re out. The thing I really love about the idea of the Rapture is that everybody wins. We would finally get rid of all those people (they are taking Rush Limbaugh and Glenn Beck with them, right?), and they would finally get rid of us.

No, there’s more than that to love about the Rapture. The idea that all of these people would just disappear, literally, at the same time, poof!   Or rise up to heaven like balloons. That’s great science fiction, total eye candy for a writer.   In fact I read a great version of that kind of thing, kind of, when I was a kid, when one day the world suddenly just divided itself into male and female. All the men continued to exist in one universe, and all the women continued to exist in another, and they had to rebuild their societies completely without the other sex, and the author was comparing and contrasting the societies that emerged. Great idea, and disturbing, too.

In this case, I don’t think the world that remained would change much with the Raptured people gone. Since I don’t really believe they’d be taking Limbaugh and Beck, we’d still be stuck with the noisiest. And their side of things – I’m not all that interested in imagining what they think they’re going off to. But if people literally disappeared at 6 pm today, what a great disaster movie that would be, right? I mean, Hollywood will never make it because the town is so weirdly paranoid about offending fundamentalists, but it would beat hell out of the recent 2012, for example.

I guess I’m fixating on all this because – well, the question is, who isn’t fixated on it? I think it’s fascinating that this particular prediction of the Rapture went viral – it was the most-Googled thing on the planet yesterday. It makes me think that I’m doing something wrong – in a marketing sense, that is.

Why are we so in love with Doomsday? Besides the fact that it means we can take the day off, I get that part. Or maybe that’s most of what there is to it. But maybe what we’re missing is that riotous celebration of death that primitive cultures used to indulge in. Maybe we’re just enjoying the surreal and potentially spectacular quality of this – concept? Obsession?

Or is it more about self-punishment? Do we pay the attention we pay to this Rapture thing in some small part because we actually believe in a punishing Universe?   Or God, if you will?

Personally, I don’t believe in a punishing God. But when I get really honest I have to admit that I still fear random punishment, which is a spiritual belief, or spiritual choice. Not from God – certainly not from a God of the Bible – but from the Universe. I don’t believe that rationally or even consciously most of the time, but I have realized that I believe it in expectation. That sooner or later, something bad is going to happen.
And that’s one of those self-defeating illusions that you can be totally unaware that you have, until you really examine what you’re thinking, what you believe, what you expect.

When writers or artists are blocked, I think it’s usually more about that kind of thing than anything to do with the difficulty of the current project. It’s more a time bomb of self- sabotage that was set long, long ago that’s suddenly gone off.   “I’m not good enough.” “Making art is selfish.” “You don’t get paid for doing something you love.” “I don’t deserve to be successful.”

Sound familiar? Seems like we’ve been talking about things like that here for at least a couple of weeks, now.

I’m beginning to realize how important it is to do periodic sweeps for these subconscious landmines. If you’re not aware that you believe these things, they will eventually blow up in your face. Self-sabotage can take all kinds of forms, some spectacular, some insidious, but all equally devastating. But I think – I think – they might all come down to the idea that there is something OUT THERE preventing us from getting our heart’s desires – when really the only thing preventing us is INSIDE. And generally planted a long, long time ago.

I’ve heard it said that the family is the cradle of theology.   I love that – it seems so exactly true. We believe we will get from the Universe what we did from our families. And psychologists generally agree that our core traumas have been inflicted by the time we’re five years old, which means we don’t even usually REMEMBER what those traumas are.

So it’s not an easy thing we’re talking about here – finding the roots of our own Doomsday beliefs and defusing those bombs before they blow up (or at least cleaning up effectively after they do.)

But that’s what I wish for all of you on this, the last day of the world – that you let the Rapture take away all those demons – just send them on up there with Limbaugh and Beck – and start your fresh new lives.

Six o’clock p.m, and counting.

And if you aren’t out there stocking up on water and propane, how are you spending your last day? What do you think it is about this Rapture thing?

– Alex

Owning Your Creative Past

by JT Ellison

Shame isn’t something I’m generally accustomed to feeling. But the other day, entirely by accident, one of my dear friends, Alethea Kontis, shamed me. It sounds rather silly, to be honest, but it’s true.

I was reading her blog (a worthwhile past time on any day, but especially those when you need to be uplifted) and Alethea had done an interview about her brand new novel that’s about to come out.

As is typical in these interviews, they asked about her background. Now, I know this particular friend has written her whole life. But there was one line that truly blew my mind.

Between the ages of eight and twenty-five, I was a poet.

I read, and reread the line, all the while saying of course you were. Of course you were.

So was I.

So why have I never said that? Why have I never taken pride in my creativity?

Here’s Alethea’s full answer to the question:

I have always written. Between the ages of eight and twenty-five, I was a poet. I started my first novel in the seventh grade. I wrote short stories all through high school and college. I was filling up journals long before anyone conceived of the word “blog.” I wrote to entertain myself and my friends, and I dreamed about having a novel published one day based on the fairy tales I’d loved as a child.

Now she and I were different, because it wasn’t until I was in college that I even thought about writing for actual publication, and that’s when my professors were kind enough to saddle me with these two bon mots: “The style is too informed by B-Grade detective fiction” and “You’re not good enough to be published.”

No wonder I stopped writing for ten years.

And I mean that. I really did stop writing. College sapped the creative right out of me. Yes, I dreamed about it, thought about it, and once, after being laid off, made an abortive attempt at writing a novel a la Patricia Cornwell. But that was back in 97, and three chapters in I recognized it was such sheer, unadulterated crap that I stopped.

But the bug was back under my skin, even though it took until 2000 or so for me to entertain the thought, back surgery to force me into reading crime fiction, and 2002 for me to try putting pen to page again.

Here’s what I normally say when asked if I’ve always been a writer. I’ve said this so many times I can hear my own voice in my head as I write it down.

I’ve always written. I did the obligatory horrible poetry and some short stories in elementary through high school, all of which should be burned.

{{{Cringe}}}

Self-destructive language there. It’s almost as if I’ve been taking pride in the negative parts of my writing past, rather than openly acknowledge that I’ve been a poet since I was a child.

What I should be saying is I’ve been a poet since I could hold a pencil. Which is the truth.

Why am I embarrassed to admit that I’ve always been a scribbler? Because the work doesn’t meet my standards? Because it won’t meet yours? Because if someone were to read something I wrote before I was a “legitimate” writer, they may think less of me, or not buy my new book? Will they hold it against me?

I was ten when I won my first writing contest, and had a poem printed in the county newspaper. Trust me, this was a VERY BIG DEAL. And yet… have you ever heard me talk about it? Because I have, just not in the way I just phrased it above. Instead, tell me if you recognize this line:

I received my first rejection at the age of ten.

Yes, that’s me, talking about the same poem that won all these huge accolades. The poem happens to be about slavery, which we had been studying it at school, and I’d read and watched Roots with that kind of childish awe that is monumental. It was my first taste of injustice, and it really spoke to me. After the poem was published in the newspaper, my GranMary took it upon herself to submit it – to True Confessions magazine. I rode the squee high of being published until I received that little piece of paper that said Dear JT, this isn’t right for us.

A crushing blow. (Not really. Even as a ten-year-old, I had a keen sense of market, and knew this wasn’t exactly the right place for my poem.)

But. I’ve spent the past several years, since I became a writer …. See, there I go again. I can’t even see myself as a writer until I was “accepted” and “legitimized” by writing a novel that I was paid for.

That’s just wrong, damn it. I’ve always been a writer. It’s just that now I write for publication.

Alethea’s interview was ironic timing, since just the week before I’d been speaking at a library event, and was asked and answered the ‘have you always been a writer’ question with my usual, what I thought was self-deprecating humor, and my husband made one of his thoughtful comments afterward, when we were in the car on the way home and I asked him how I did. He said, “You know, you probably shouldn’t talk down about your earlier writing.”

We talked a little about it, but it wasn’t until I saw Alethea’s interview, and thought about how she’s owned her creative streak from day one, and how excited and happy that makes her, and in turn makes me, because if you know Alethea at all, you will find her enthusiasm is more than catching, that I realized that I need to stop worrying about hiding my past as a closet poet. Just because the name on the paper changed, it doesn’t negate everything I wrote prior to signing those contracts.

Perhaps this is all just a symptom of the fact that I do use a pseudonym, and as such, I focus all my promotional efforts on “J.T. Ellison” rather than little old me. I used to be able to keep the two halves of my persona separate, suspended above the gorge, pulling from each world depending on what situation I’m in. That’s not working for me anymore. And I think it’s time to allow the creative part of my earlier life into my current world. Or at least acknowledge that I’ve been doing this for a while now.

Hello. I’m J.T. Ellison, and I’m a writer. Always have been. Always will be.

And to prove it, here it is, in all its humble, unedited, ten-year-old dream glory, the poem that launched a thousand ships.

ALONE

Out of my wilderness,

I was taken

I was so scared

My knees were shakin’

Then they threw me on

That dirty old boat

Without a cover

Or a coat

I was sent to the new land

Across the sea

When suddenly it dawned on me

My mama and papa

They left back there

`Cause they were old of bone

And white of hair

No longer a princess

I would be

A slave of

Some cruel family

My mama and papa

They taught me

To be the best

That I could be

I knew someday

That I’d be free

But that day came

Without a family

I struggled through

But when I finished

The world had a look

Almost too bad to see

I learned to write

As you can see

But please preserve

The life of me

And here I lay

In the cold dark ground

I died in the year 1787

But memories of me

Are still being made

When the artifacts of me

Have been found again

Preserve my life

I’m in heaven.

JT Ellison – 1979

Do you have something to share from your archives today? Have you ever been embarrassed to admit you’re a writer?

In Vino Veritas…

Wine of the Week: 2009 Poet’s Leap Reisling

P.S. In a nice bit of serendipity, Word Nerd was my very first ever interview, way back in November 2006, a full year before my first book was ever published…

Reprise (or Reprieve)

By Louise Ure

Oh, man, this has never happened to me before. Here it is, my Tuesday, and I got nothing for you. In 117 separate blog postings, I’ve never been so empty of ideas. Maybe it’s because I just had dinner tonight with Pulitzer prize winner and US Poet Laureate, Kay Ryan, and a small group of truly creative, curious and gregarious friends of hers. It only lasted a couple of hours; we had to hurry to the Herbst Theater where she was to be interviewed for NPR’s City Arts & Lectures series.

Ryan is a self-deprecating wit … a woman in love with cadence and word sounds, but whose work is closer to Robert Frost than Emily Dickinson. “I love reading murder mysteries,” Ryan told me with a wink. “They generate such an empty mind.”

It’s nice to know that there are still fascinating, witty and kind people out there. It’s just that today I’m not one of them.

On the other hand, I crossed a busy street today without noticing the red light and almost got run down. I couldn’t answer the guy who asked me what time it was because I had forgotten that iPhones have the time on them as well as everything else. And I slid the deposit envelope in at the bank before realizing I hadn’t put any checks in it. Just spacy, I guess.

In recognition of that (and the fact that it’s already midnight and I don’t have a blog post for you) I’m reprising a post from four years ago that meant a lot to me. Hope there are some newbies here who haven’t seen it yet.

My First Dead Body

I came across my first dead body when I was sixteen. I don’t remember his name and I’m sorry about that. Especially because I had so much to do with killing him.

I was cheerleader-fit that summer, and as callous and superficial as only a teenage girl can be. My mind was on high dives and bikini lines. Kevin and Eldon and Keith. Not on the job at hand.

I was the rent collector at my mother’s rooming house and I wasn’t happy about it.

The boarding house had a proud past and a dissolute future. It was built in 1888 to house the engineers, conductors and brakemen from the new transcontinental railroad that had just reached territorial Arizona, and was both the first-built and the last-standing two-story adobe building in Tucson.

By 1967, the time of my story, its decline was complete. The two-foot thick adobe walls were crumbling. Mice and mosquitoes used the sliced screen doors as grand promenades. There were only three hallway bathrooms left to service the twenty-eight guest rooms.

The clientele was in similar decline. We now catered only to the drunk, the sad, and the desperate. Sometimes they were the same person.

Friday was always a good day for collections. I took in thirty-five one-dollar bills from the Indian in room fourteen, keeping a wary eye on the knife handle sticking out from under his mattress. Lucy, my longest guest-in-residence in number twenty-three, wore only a polyester slip and painted on eyebrows. She had an open bottle of vodka on the bedside table. No glass in sight.

The character in room seven was my biggest problem. A thin, wild-eyed Latino, he’d arrived only two weeks before but was already behind on the rent.

“I have one room left,” I’d told him. “Top of the stairs at the front of the building.”

My brother and I had used plywood and discarded railroad ties to cobble together another two rooms out of the grand old wooden balcony on the second floor.

The man had no luggage — that wasn’t unusual for my clientele — but when I opened the door to the porch room, he recoiled.

“It’s wood!”

“Yes, and it’s thirty five-dollars a week.”

“But I cannot …”

“You don’t want the room?”

“It’s the splinters.”

He was haunted by splinters from New Mexico, he said. They swarmed around him and prevented him from leaving town. They even kept him from going to see his daughter for help.

“They attack. They jab like knives. They try to blind me.”

“Take it or leave it.”

He’d steeled himself and swallowed hard. I handed him the key, but he was still standing in the hallway when I started back down the stairs.

Crazy fucker.

I did have one other room, but it hadn’t been cleaned and I wasn’t about to do that when it was a hundred and ten degrees out. And what the hell, it had a wooden ceiling too.

He’d paid for the first week, but I hadn’t seen him since. I’d squinted through the screen door when I’d come by on Wednesday. He was asleep on the bed and no amount of pounding or yelling could rouse him.

I wouldn’t go away empty handed today. I was hot and tired and angry about having to be a slumlord-cheerleader. I felt almost justified in having sentenced Mr. Cabeza Loca to a windowless, all-wooden room for the week.

But something was different today. The air was not just hot but fetid. There was a thickness to the smell, something that clung to the back of my throat like sewage.

He was on the bed. Dirty gray boxers and yellow toenails. One hand flung sideways off the mattress.

This time there was no rise and fall of his chest. No thin wheeze of restless sleep.

And his fingers were covered in a dark red tint.

The paramedics didn’t arrive very quickly. It was August, after all, and they had lots of dead bodies to attend to in this heat. When they did get there, I heard one paramedic tell his partner, “Did you see his fingers? He tried to claw his way out of there.”

I do not take death lightly now. Not in life and not in literature.

It is never pretty. It is rarely peaceful. And it can be soul rending to those left behind.

And I can’t read crime fiction that devalues that experience. I don’t care if you’re writing about an amateur sleuth who keeps tripping over bodies or the police detective who has to deal with them every day. Don’t make a joke of it. Or, if you do, show me that humor is the only way the character can deal with the death, because his heart is breaking.

Ken Bruen reminded us several weeks ago about the Bossuet quote:

“One must know oneself,

to the point of being horrified.”

I do, and this nameless man on a Friday in August, 1967, is part of it.

We’re all carrying splinters from New Mexico somewhere in our past.

The Economics of Touring

JT Ellison

I had a bit of a panic two weeks ago when the statement for my business card arrived, and the total was big enough that if I d cared to, I could have bought this instead.

Or this.

Or nearly paid for this.

Needless to say, once I d dragged my jaw off the floor, I sat down with my color-coded Excel spreadsheet and did some soul searching.

The Facts: Touring, promotions, and the like are becoming more and more expensive, with less and less upside. With the advent of social networking, Google Alerts and Facebook ads, you can reach an exponentially greater number of readers than slogging out onto the road. Hotels, rental cars, gas, food, airplanes it all adds up pretty damn quick, and when you can send a tweet that 6,000 people see in one minute or less for free, it becomes less and less attractive.

The Reality: I like traveling. Being a writer helps me fulfill a lifelong dream see the open road, experience new cultures and cities, and have a good time whilst doing it. I adore meeting readers. Adore it. And it s tax deductible, so in the past, I ve let that be the deciding factor. And since I am running a business here, I need to offset income, so business travel is a good way to do that.

But: Where do you draw the line? At what point is the need to tour and promote overshadowing the two other factors time, and money?

I should note that my business card bender this month wasn t just for the initial tour for SO CLOSE THE HAND OF DEATH, though a large chunk of it was. I also booked all my travel for the rest of the year, including the trip I just went on (D.C. for research), two conferences fees and their airfare, an upcoming overseas trip, plus two vacation trips in August that the airfare is the only expense. (Yes, we travel too much. Without kids, it s kind of like a permanent Spring Break around here.) When I look at all that, I calmed down a little, because while it may look indiscriminate and rash, I actually utilized my mad bargain skillz to get the very best deals possible, and several of the trips are of vital importance to me personally. And my usual $1000 average monthly bill will be practically nonexistent for the rest of the year.

Friends of mine know that when it comes to myself, I can be austere in the extreme. I only ever buy clothes on steep discount. I have no car payment, live in a state that has no state income tax (though our sales tax is 9.4%) and tend to buy wine that s less than $20 a bottle. I spent $600 on my glasses, but I ve worn them every day for the past 4 years, so the amortized rate ends up being about 41 cents a day, and dropping rapidly. I use Starbucks as a treat, not a right. We don t have kids, and Jade s food, while plentifully expensive, doesn t exactly break the bank. I do have a book buying addiction, but that s been curbed with the advent of my Goal for 2011, Depth, which means I m focused on reading what I have instead of buying more. I do trend toward expensive face cream, but if you consider my total makeup expenditure for any given fiscal year might hit $50, and 90% of that is Carmex, I think it offsets. Not too long ago, I went crazy at TJ Maxx, buying a pair of sandals, a pair of jeans, 2 dresses, a purse and a wrap. $189. I honestly called one of my dear girlfriends and bemoaned, and eventually took back the jeans and both dresses. I just didn t NEED them.

But this is business. Making money costs money. I do NEED to find ways to promote my books, and I do NEED to use the money I make on them through advances and royalties to pay the mortgage, my health insurance, and all the expenses accrued throughout the year for touring and promotions. And those expenses seem to be going up. I am blessed that I have the ability to cover these costs, but after this last round, I’m really rethinking my expenditures.

So is touring the most cost effective use of your precious advance dollars?

The answer is no, of course. To cover the cost of one plane ticket, I’d have to sell about 1000 books per event, and while I’m generally not disappointed with turnout, I’m just not at that level. But it has been an invaluable resource for me, and I’m firmly convinced that I wouldn’t be where I am in my career without all the stops I’ve made along the way. There is nothing, NOTHING, better than a bookseller who evangelizes for you, and a reader who you’ve met who tells their friends to read your books. You can get that online, yes, but it doesn’t have the same feel.

And now it all really is changing, and perhaps even becoming irrelevant, as more ebooks flood the market and bookstores go out of business. The venues for touring are dramatically curtailed day after day. My first book tour, back in late 2007-early 2008, covered 13 states. Each book, even while I endeavor to hit different areas of the country each time, that number has decreased. And in the Fall, when my 7th novel comes out, I won t be doing more than 1 or 2 out of town gigs and one of those is Bouchercon St. Louis.

Reed Farrel Coleman wrote a great piece in this month’s Crimespree Magazine that resonated with me. He’s asking that the conference planners do some heavy thinking about where the conferences are held in the future. Bouchercon San Francisco cost him twice what Bouchercon Indianapolis cost. I have to admit, after doing two book tours last year, the idea of dropping another $2000 for BCon in San Francisco was too much for me. I have to have a travel budget, just like everyone else. I agree with Reed that the con organizers need to be looking at less expensive venues, or else they’re going to price themselves out of the market. (Hint: Come to Nashville!)

The economics of touring aside, the time spent on the road is almost more of a consideration for me. I think I have a form of ADD, because for every conference, weekend trip, book release, etc., I basically lose the week after. Yes, I write on the road, but it s little bits here and there, in the hotel, on airplanes, creative bursts shoved into notebooks or written on cocktail napkins. I don t have the facility to focus on too many things at once, so I tend to push the creative to second place when I m on the road. I know some authors who write better when they travel, but I m willing to bet that universally they have kids and familial obligations that eat into their writing time when they re home. I need quiet to concentrate, to allow my creative well to refill daily. Even being off Facebook and Twitter for Lent has allowed me a deeper, stronger focus on my work, and as a consequence, I m getting more done, and it s better quality stuff.

But for all the whining about money and time lost, there s something irreplaceable about touring that I m not sure how I can forego. And that s meeting you. The reader. The person who allows me the indulgence of trying to make these decisions. Every tour, I get home tired and cranky and the bills arrive and I swear I m never going to do it again, and every time those galleys arrive for the next book, I find myself entertaining the idea, and ultimately calling my publicist and saying yes, let s do this.

I can t predict what s going to happen next. All I know is that as an artist, I have to weigh the cost and time associated with the physical book tour and conferences and look at ways to minimize the damage. Whether that s just attending one conference a year, finding new ways to do bookstore appearances virtually, or simply not doing it at all, remains to be seen. Ultimately, I have to do what s going to get the best books into the hands of the readers the quickest way possible, and that means staying home and writing like a good little dooby.

So I m curious to hear what you think. Be honest. How many times have you blown off an author signing? Are you less likely to attend an event if you’ve been regularly accessing your favorites through FB and Twitter? And will the e-book revolution kill touring once and for all?

Wine of the Week – shared with wonderful new friends in Santa Fe, (which it is the time
to spend good money on good wine) Turley Zinfandel 2005 (Rattlesnake Vineyard)

I the Jury (Not)

By Louise Ure

Today I am not the jury. But that wasn’t the case four weeks ago. At the end of March, I appeared for a jury summons and joined about three hundred of my fellow San Franciscans in a massive effort to lie, cheat or steal our way out of doing our public service.

We were told that this would be a long case — two and a half to four months — and that the only excuses for hardship were:

taking care of a child or elderly relative at home
being a student with a daytime class schedule
having vacation plans in place for which you could show that you already had purchased nonrefundable tickets

About fifty people said they were free to serve and were released for the day and told to return in two weeks. The rest of us — poor schmucks who thought that not being able to make a living for four months was hardship — remained in place to plead our case. The Court Clerk dispensed with our excuses at a dizzying pace. “That’s not a hardship, that’s an inconvenience.” “Sorry, your employer is on record as paying your salary during jury service.” “Taking care of a sick dog at home is not a medical emergency.”

Almost two hundred of us were told to return to the courtroom in two weeks time. I wasn’t worried. What were the odds my name would be called? One in fifteen? And what were the odds that the lawyers would then want a mystery writer on the jury? One in a hundred?

But then the odds all went wobbly. They called my name and for the next four days I was potential juror number five in a cold case murder trial from 1984.

The seats emptied and refilled around me. They got rid of the homeless guy who lived in Golden Gate Park and the San Quentin prison guard. They replaced them with an Asian retiree who spoke English so badly that he just answered “yes” to everything, and an ex-District Attorney. They booted the Catholic priest who said he could never sit in judgement of anyone (huh? I thought that’s what they did for a living) but they kept the mystery writer in the back row.

They had lots of questions for me, of course. “Do your books focus on a particular crime?” the judge asked. “Murders,” I said, sure that that was the super-secret Abracadabra word to get me off the jury. She simply nodded.

“Can you tell the difference between what goes on here in the courtroom and what you write when you go home?” the prosecuting attorney asked. “Can you tell the difference between what you do in the courtroom all day and when you go home to watch Law & Order?” I answered.

They wanted to know how I did research. I told them about field trips and expert advisors and learning about DNA and blood spatters and bullet wounds and fingerprints and police procedures. For some ungodly reason, they still thought I was the ideal juror.

Now, I’m not entirely against jury service. I’ve done it four times before and would do it again, but this time it felt like a big ask. I’m already avoiding writing. Why would I want to take on a four month full time job, pay ten dollars a day for parking and have to buy lunch out — all for the princely sum of $11.66 a day in jury service fees? It felt like an unnecessary delay in getting on with the rest of my life.

But it was truly an interesting case; one I think I would have been pretty good at understanding and evaluating. (I looked up the details online days later.) A 27-year old murder case. Matching DNA and blood data found in 2006. A scandal plagued criminalist who had been given immunity to testify. What’s not to like?

What finally got me off the jury? Jan Burke and the Crime Lab Project.

“Are you a member of any law and order or justice related group?” the judge asked. “The ACLU,” juror number four said. “Neighborhood Watch,” number eleven replied.

“The Crime Lab Project,” I said, telling them about the nonprofit organization dedicated to increasing public awareness of the problems facing public forensic science. We fight for better forensic science — for funding, for education, for responsibility and honor among criminalists. (If you aren’t already a member of CLP, I urge you to join immediately. Not only is it a worthy cause, but Jan’s summary emails with forensic news are the best “idea starters” in the world.)

Now, just imagine that a person who belongs to the Crime Lab Project organization is going to be evaluating a case where a disreputable forensic specialist who was convicted of stealing cocaine was going to testify. It was like clicking my heels three times and saying, “There’s no place like home.” In the blink of an eye, the prosecuting attorney stood and said, “Juror number five is thanked and excused.”

Thank you, Jan!

But my ‘Rati pals … what would you have done? Would you have wanted to be on that jury?

A Ken Bruen Tribute to Murderati

By Louise Ure

Last week I received a gloriously sad, thoughtful and marrow-warming note from Ken Bruen. What else would you expect from the Irish King of the Cast Out Angels? It is a love note, of course, to all of us here at Murderati, full of memories from our past years together — an accounting of both our joy and our losses.

He’s given me permission to reprint it here.

Welcome back, my Tuesday friend. I hope the sun in Algeciras is kind to you.

L-

‘TA SE AN RUD IS EH.’
(IT IS WHAT IT IS)

By KEN BRUEN
ALGECIRAS, APRIL 6TH, 2011.
FOR JIM CRUMLEY, LEGEND, FRIEND, ANAM CARA.

Seems a time ago, Le Temps, if not Perdue, at least so mourned.
I was happy then.
Being a member of Murderati, what was not to love?
Pari minding the crew, Dusty extolling on politics in a way that stirred the grand days of TS O’Rourke, being blog buddies with Louise, Alex having me back, always, and icing on the cake, Murderati was nominated for The Anthony. Plus, Toni Causey and Brett, turning out dark gold.
Heady lovely days.
Barack was the real whisper in the wind and hope was tangible.
I wanted this post to mark the best and the brightest then, for me.

I remember Louise’s post on her late brother, one if the most compelling pieces I ever read, cross me bedraggled heart.
My friend Jerry Rodriguez, his death un-ravelled me in ways I didn’t know.
As would so many to come.
Codlamh samh … means ‘sleep well my loved ones.’
Louise’s beloved Bruce
And oh Sweet Jesus, Elaine Flinn
Robert Parker
Ed
Joe Gores
Oh Lord, so many, I can’t name them all.
But didn’t know.
Then.
So wrote as If all were indeed possible
Edgars
Movies
The whole espero-que-si scenario.

I’m sitting on the sea front at Algeciras as I write this tribute to the best and brightest. There is a ship for Algiers at 7.00 in the morning.
Tangiers, that ferry sails at 7.00. I’m seriously uncertain. After my graduation, going to try and find Paul Bowles with Irini.
The web, never take the bollix for granted, I shit thee not, on Amazon, in German, a bio of me and my marriage at 21 to a Greek Millionaire’s daughter.
I would have sworn, Mathair An Dia, ( Mother of God) that would never surface.
Me mother would have killed me.

I don’t know.
Peut-etre?
Remembering my languages but eerily, only the terms of ambiguity.
Photos?
Oh yeah, snapshots of the torn mind.
One of my used-to-be favourites, a beach in Galway.
See, the two stick figures, like Zorba, clearly dancing.
She’s gone now.
My wife took that photo, in days when I think she liked me, a bit anyway.
Or Aine, late to my life, a photo, rare as we had little time,
On that promenade in Spiddal, dancing, again! Me? Like seals who didn’t know predators are attracted to motion, especially happy tide.
Emotional chum in the water, frenzy freely.

One of my favourite books, ‘A Movable Feast’, and Hem talking of his delighted love for Mary, says:
‘There was wood all around, I never touched it.’
I’m sure around me, there all kinds of driftwood, in my ignorance, I didn’t touch it either.

Telling some of these tales to David Thompson, ridiculously young and brilliant. Oh Sweet Mother of God, the most get-go publisher I ever had the grace to know.
On tour with Jason ( Starr) in Germany last Sept, we get the call, he is gone.
No.
No
No
Fuckit-dammit-no.

I was 60 on the third of Jan, finally free I hope, espero que si, of cigs but the rest? Jesus wept.
In the blessed nigh on nine years I’ve been part of The Mystery Family, it’s been bliss. I stop here, un momento and sure enough, a guy approaches, goes:
‘Amigo mio, que passé?’
He truly doesn’t want to know so I give him some dinero, he goes:
‘Hoy, el muy bueno hermano.’
Like fook.
I lost my only brother ten years ago.

In my wallet is a photo, I never, ever look at. She’s there, smiling, shite, I know that and who knows, I might have been too but I forget. Thank Christ. I do know she has an expression of such longing, yearning even, but now, I still wonder, for what?
You believe it?
I never asked.
Swear to the God whom I amuse so highly, I never did, lest she tell me and I couldn’t deliver.
I should have asked.
You think?

My Dad, always (siempre) had a look in his eyes, one that defied:
‘Take your best shot.’
Me, the photos, I look like the best shots were already over the day I thought I could live in the world.
In Delaware, Princess died.
And I go:
‘Enough already.’
Well, not really, I’m too nice, Jesus, to utter that but I feel it.

I stand up, think:
‘I really should pay tribute to those I love and respect.’
Murderati
Craig
Jay
Lou
Louise
And the list is endless.

As Paul Brady sang in The Island:
‘Hey, this was never meant to be no sad song.’

I think of the wondrous blogs:
Peter and The Rap Sheet
Ali, of course
Duane (go win that Edgar buddy)
Crime Always Pays
Paul Brazil
Derek Haas
Jen’s Books Thoughts
Spinetingler
Mulholland

The lady I’m with approaches, she’s French so melancholy is not that much of a mystery, she goes:
‘K, there’s a party for your award in like, half an hour.’
I give her me best smile, the one that leaks
Compassion
Empathy
And no humour
None.
I know, I got to practice it a lot at all the funerals.

I start up the incline to the villa provided by the publishers and she asks, slight frown, as me quiet is not common, asks:
‘A gra, OK?’
Sorry, I’ve been teaching her Irish, saved me from talking about the friends I’d so wish to Christ she’d known.

I nearly smile, say:
‘No, I’ve been doing some stuff on the laptop.’
She stops, never … no matter how in the wind they are … underestimate the intuition of a lady who cares for you, she asks:
‘Tom? ( Piccirilli) Lukas? Philip?’
Then she lights up, gets it, says:
‘Jason…. Jason Starr.’
Right.

I have 2 new books near completion but I haven’t written for 2 days.
That’s it, the freaking reason I’m out of sorts.

Man U play Chelsea later and the bar will be full, giving me support for me team and all good stuff, as Lukas (Ortiz) says,
‘It’s all good amigo.’
I drink the equivalent of maybe three Buds (light). God be with the days, yada, but come morning, I’m sitting on our balcony and she, God Bless her, moves right in beside me and you have to know me God-forgive-em moods, to come that close in the morning, she hands me a café con leche, her arm round my shoulder, casually, like we’ve doing it for twenty years:
‘Yeah… right, I know.’
I think, say:
‘Alanna, what I’m writing is, Je pense, mais no, un cri de coeur.’
Gives me that rare to rarest look, of someone who gives a tinker’s cuss as to what I really think, I know at home in Ireland, cri de coeur is simply, whining … worse, what they call, off-white whining.
She looks out at that Ocean, stretching to Africa, she still doesn’t know if we’re travelling, asks:
‘Que pense, Kay?
Tempted to go Galway, channel Charlie Stella.
‘Fug-ed.about.it, Kay.’
But I uncharacteristically tell the truth, say:
‘I’m thinking … ti kema, quelle dommage … of Murderati, of the crew of damn nigh Cowboy-angels there.’
And she laughs.
The French laughing is nigh on as wonderful as the Irish telling the truth. She hugs real close and, God forgive me, the warmth makes me afraid, afraid I’ll get used to it. She misinterprets my shudder, asks:
‘Andiamo, diga me?’
Our slumming in about five different languages is one of her main appeals for me, plus, she never …like seriously … judges me. WTF.
I truly tell the truth, tell:
‘It
      Is
           What
                     It
                          Is.’
Ken Bruen.

PS from Louise: I’m on jury duty again and will check in during the day as we get breaks.

From Alex On The Road

By Alexandra Sokoloff

I am at RT with I think half of the Rati (funny about that… if you ever thought a romance conference wasn’t for you…)

So of course I’m in teaching mode, and today while I’m teaching you get my enornously expanded Story Elements Checklist.

I’m going to be working through the Checklist item by item with examples of how movies and books handle these key story elements, which will take all summer or possibly the rest of my life, but I really do have to start with this monster before I go there.

(Here’s the original checklist)

For those of you new to some of these elements, what I’ve been doing for a couple of years now is identifying key story elements of WHATEVER dramatic form you happen to be working in – film, novels, plays, television – pointing out where relevant how often these elements occur in about the same places in the Three-Act Structure (and the Eight Sequence Structure) and discussing how different stories present those elements for maximum impact.

What I am forever suggesting is that studying the movies and books that you love, and looking specifically for those story elements and how they are handled, is like playing scales on a piano or doing barre work in dance. Practicing this kind of analysis builds your chops as a writer and becomes a natural part of your writing process. It can also help you solve virtually any story problem you come up against.

(All of this and more is compiled in the workbook, Screenwriting Tricks For Authors.).

So here’s the list so far along with some questions that you can apply either to movies and books you’re analyzing, or to your own story.

———-STORY ELEMENTS CHECKLIST————

ELEMENTS OF ACT ONE:

(The full discussion is here – but a very brief summary:

– In a 2-hour movie, Act One starts at the beginning and climaxes at about 30 minutes.

– In a 400-page book, Act One starts at the beginning and climaxes at about 100 pages.

And adjust proportionately depending on the length of the story.

First, identify the separate SEQUENCES of this act. What time do they start, and what time do they climax? (Full discussion here.

In a movie there will usually be two approximately 15- minute long sequences, Sequence 1 and Sequence 2, and the climax of Sequence 2 will be the Act 1 Climax, at about 30 minutes into the movie. But if the movie is longer or shorter the sequences will be longer or shorter to match, or there might be three sequences or even (rarely) four in Act I. There may also be a short PROLOGUE.

In a book you have more leeway with number and length of sequences – there may be three or four in one Act, and they may vary more in length – 40 pages, 20 pages, 30 pages. But generally in a 400 page book, the Act One climax will be still be around p. 100.

– OPENING IMAGE/OPENING SCENE

Describe the OPENING IMAGE and/or opening scene of the story.

What mood, tone and genre does it set up? What kinds of experiences does it hint at or promise? (Look at colors, music, pace, visuals, location, dialogue, symbols, etc.).

Does the opening image or scene mirror the closing image or scene? (It’s not mandatory, but it’s a useful technique, often used.). How are the two different?

* What’s the MOOD, TONE, GENRE (s) the story sets up from the beginning? How does it do that?

* VISUAL AND THEMATIC IMAGE SYSTEMS

(More discussion here.)

* THE ORDINARY WORLD/THE SPECIAL WORLD

What does the ordinary world look and feel like? How does it differ in look and atmosphere from THE SPECIAL WORLD?

* MEET THE HERO OR HEROINE

How do we know this is the main character? Why do we like him or her? Why do we relate to him or her? What is the moment that we start rooting for this person? Why do we care?

• HERO/INE’S INNER AND OUTER DESIRE

What does the Hero/ine say s/he wants? Or what do we sense that s/he wants, even if s/he doesn’t say it or seem to be aware of it? How does what s/he thinks s/he wants turn out to be wrong?

• HERO/INE’S PROBLEM

(This is usually an immediate external problem, not an overall need. In some stories this is more apparent than others.)

* HERO/INE’S GHOST OR WOUND

What is haunting them from the past?

• HERO/INE’S CHARACTER ARC

Look at the beginning and the end to see how much the hero/ine changes in the course of the story. How do the storytellers depict that change?

• INCITING INCIDENT/CALL TO ADVENTURE

(This can be the same scene or separated into two different scenes.)

How do the storytellers make this moment or sequence significant?

* REFUSAL OF THE CALL

Is the hero/ine reluctant to take on this task or adventure? How do we see that reluctance?

• MEET THE ANTAGONIST (and/or introduce a Mystery, which is what you do when you’re going to keep your antagonist hidden to reveal at the end).

How do we know this is the antagonist? Does this person or people want the same thing as the hero/ine, or is this person preventing the hero/ine from getting what s/he wants?

* OTHER FORCES OF OPPOSITION

Who and what else is standing in the hero/ine’s way?

• THEME/ WHAT’S THE STORY ABOUT?

There are usually multiple themes working in any story, and usually they will be stated aloud.

• INTRODUCE ALLIES

How is each ally introduced?

* INTRODUCE MENTOR (may or may not have one)

What are the qualities of this mentor? How is this person a good teacher (or a bad teacher) for the hero?

• INTRODUCE LOVE INTEREST (may or may not have one).

What makes us know from the beginning that this person is The One?

* ENTERING THE SPECIAL WORLD/CROSSING THE THRESHOLD

What is the Special World? How is it different from the ordinary world? How do the filmmakers make entering this world a significant moment?

This scene is often at a sequence climax or the Act One Climax. Sometimes there are a whole series of thresholds to be crossed.

* THRESHOLD GUARDIAN

Is there someone standing on the threshold preventing the hero/ine from entering, or someone issuing a warning?

• SEQUENCE ONE CLIMAX

In a 2-hour movie, look for this about 15 minutes in. How do the filmmakers make this moment significant? What is the change that lets you know that this sequence is over and Sequence 2 is starting?

(Each sequence in a book will have some sort of climax, as well, although the sequences are not as uniform in length and number as they tend to be in films. Look for a revelation, a location change, a big event, a setpiece.).

• PLANTS/REVEALS or SET UPS/PAYOFFS

Di
scussion here

• HOPE/FEAR and STAKES

(Such a big topic you just have to wait for the dedicated post.)

* PLAN

What does the hero/ine say they want to do, or what do we understand they intend to do? The plan usually starts small, with a minimum effort, and gradually we see the plan changing.

• CENTRAL QUESTION, CENTRAL STORY ACTION

Does a character state this aloud? When do we realize that this is the main question of the story?

* ACT ONE CLIMAX:

In a 2-hour movie, look for this about 30 minutes in. In a 400-page book, about 100 pages in.

How do the storytellers make this moment significant? What is the change that lets you know that this act is over and Act II is starting?

You will also possibly see these elements (these can also be in Act Two or may not be present):

***** ASSEMBLING THE TEAM

***** GATHERING THE TOOLS –

***** TRAINING SEQUENCE

And also possibly:

***** MACGUFFIN (not present in all stories but if there is one it will USUALLY be revealed in the first act).

*****TICKING CLOCK (may not have one or the other and may be revealed later in the story)

* And always – look for and IDENTIFY SETPIECES.

ACT TWO, PART ONE

(Elements of Act I checklist is here).

In a 2-hour movie Act II, Part 1 starts at about 30 minutes, and ends at about 60 minutes.

In a 400-page book it starts at about p. 100 and climaxes at about p. 200.

Identify the separate SEQUENCES of this act. Where do they start, and where do they climax? In a movie, usually there will be two 15-minute long sequences, Sequence 3 and Sequence 4, and the climax of Sequence 4 will be the MIDPOINT, at about 1 hour into the movie. But if the movie is longer or shorter the sequences will be longer or shorter to match, or there might be three sequences or even four in Act II, Part 2.

And a book may have several more sequences in this section of more variable length, but the MIDPOINT will still be at about p. 200 in a 400-page book.

Act II, Part 1 is the most variable section of the four sections of a story. I have noticed it also tends to be the most genre-specific. It doesn’t have the very clear, generic essential elements that Act I and Act 3 do – except in the case of Mysteries and certain kinds of team action films, which generally have a more standard structure in this section.

IF THE FILM IS A MYSTERY, this section will almost always have these elements:

-QUESTIONING WITNESSES
-LINING UP AND ELIMINATING SUSPECTS
-FOLLOWING CLUES
-RED HERRINGS AND FALSE TRAILS
-THE DETECTIVE VOICING HER/HIS THEORY

IF THE FILM IS A TEAM ACTION STORY, A WAR STORY, A HEIST OR CAPER MOVIE (like OCEAN’S 11, THE SEVEN SAMURI, THE DIRTY DOZEN, ARMAGGEDON and INCEPTION) then this section will usually have these elements:

– GATHERING THE TEAM
– TRAINING SEQUENCE
– GATHERING THE TOOLS
– BONDING BETWEEN TEAM MEMBERS
– SETTING UP TEAM MEMBERS’ STRENGTHS AND WEAKNESSES that will be tested in battle later.

There may also be

– A MACGUFFIN
– A TICKING CLOCK

But if the story is not a mystery or a team action story, the first half of Act 2 will often have some of the above elements, and ALL stories will generally have these next elements in Act II, part 1 (not in any particular order):

– CROSSING THE THRESHOLD/ENTERING THE SPECIAL WORLD

(This scene may already have happened in Act One, but it often happens right at the end of Act One or right at the beginning of Act Two.) How do the storytellers make this moment important? Is there a special PASSAGEWAY between the worlds?

– THRESHOLD GUARDIAN (maybe)

There is very often a character who tries to prevent the hero/ine from entering the SPECIAL WORLD, or who gives them a warning about danger.

– HERO/INE’S PLAN

– What is the hero/ine’s PLAN to get what s/he wants?

The plan may have been stated in Act I, but here is where we see the hero/ine start to act on the plan, and often s/he will have to keep changing the plan as early attempts fail.

– THE ANTAGONIST’S PLAN

Same as for the hero/ine: the plan may have been stated in Act I, but here is where we see the villain start to act on the plan, and often s/he will have to keep changing the plan as early attempts fail. Even if the villain is being kept secret, we will see the effects of the villain’s plan on the hero/ine.

– ATTACKS AND COUNTERATTACKS

How do we see the antagonist attacking the hero/ine?

Whether or not the hero/ine realizes who is attacking her or him, the antagonist (s) will be nearby and constantly attacking the hero/ine. How does the hero/ine fight back?

– SERIES OF TESTS

How do we see the hero/ine being tested?

In a mentor story, the mentor will often be designing these tests, and there may be a training sequence or training scenes as well. Sometimes (as in THE GODFATHER) no one is really designing the tests, but the hero/ine keeps running up against obstacles to what they want and they have to overcome those obstacles, and with each win they become stronger.

The hero/ine USUALLY wins a lot in Act II:1 (and then starts to lose throughout Act II:2), but that’s not necessarily true. In JAWS, Sheriff Brody doesn’t get a win until the big defeat of the Midpoint, when he is finally able to force the mayor to sign a check and hire Quint to kill the shark.

– BONDING WITH ALLIES – LOVE SCENES

This is one of the great pleasures of any story – seeing the hero/ine make lifelong friends or fall in love. Besides the more obvious romantic scenes, the love scenes can be between a boy and his dragon, as in HOW TO TRAIN YOUR DRAGON; or between teammates, as in JAWS; or a man and his father or a woman and her mother (some of the most successful movies, like THE GODFATHER, HOW TO TRAIN YOUR DRAGON, TERMS OF ENDEARMENT and STEEL MAGNOLIAS show these dynamics). What are the scenes that make us feel the glow of love or joy of friendship?

Or in darker stories, instead of bonding scenes, the storytellers may show the hero/ine pulling away from people and becoming more and more alienated, as in THE GODFATHER, TAXI DRIVER, THE SHINING, CASINO.

In a love story, there is always a specific scene that you might call THE DANCE, where we see for the first time that the two lovers are perfect for each other (this is often some witty exchange of dialogue when the two seem to be finishing each other’s sentences, or maybe they end up forced to sing karaoke together and bring down the house…). You see this Dance scene in buddy comedies and buddy action movies as well.

– GENRE SCENES (action, horror, suspense, sex, emotion, adventure, violence)

Act II, part 1 is the section of a story that will really deliver on THE PROMISE OF THE PREMISE.

What is the EXPERIENCE that you hope and expect to get from this story? – is it the glow and sexiness of falling in love, or the adrenaline rush of supernatural horror, or the intellectual pleasure of solving a mystery, or the vicarious triumph of kicking the ass of a hated enemy in hand-to-hand combat?

Here are some examples:

– In THE GODFATHER, we get the EXPERIENCE of Michael gaining in power as he steps into the family business. There’s a vicarious thrill in seeing him win these battles.

– In JAWS, we EXPERIENCE the terror of what it’s like to be in a small beach town under attack by a monster of the sea.

–
In HOW TO TRAIN YOUR DRAGON, we get the EXPERIENCE and wonder of discovering all these cool and endearing qualities about dragons, including and especially the EXPERIENCE of flying. We also get to EXPERIENCE outcast and loser Hiccup suddenly winning big in the training ring.

– In HARRY POTTER (1), we get the EXPERIENCE of going to a school for wizards and learning and practicing magic (including flying).

(I want to note that for those of you working with horror stories, it’s very important to identify WHAT IS THE HORROR, exactly? What are we so scared of, in this story? How do the storytellers give us the experience of that horror?)

Ask yourself what EXPERIENCE you want your audience or reader to have in your own story, then look for the scenes that deliver on that promise in Act II, part 1. Well, do they? If not, how can you enhance that experience?

And another big but important generalization I can make about Act II, part 1, is that this is often where the specific structure of the KIND of story you’re writing (or viewing) kicks in. For more on identifying KINDS of stories, see What Kind Of Story Is It?

Act II part 1 builds to the MIDPOINT CLIMAX – which in movies is usually a big SETPIECE scene, where the filmmakers really show off their expertise with a special effects sequence (as in HOW TO TRAIN YOUR DRAGON and HARRY POTTER, 1), or a big action scene (JAWS), or in breathtaking psychological cat-and-mouse dialogue (in SILENCE OF THE LAMBS). It might be a sex scene or a comedy scene, or both in a romantic comedy. Whatever the Midpoint is, it is most likely going to be specific to the promise of the genre.

THE MIDPOINT –

– Completely changes the game
– Locks the hero/ine into a situation or action
– Is a point of no return
– Can be a huge revelation
– Can be a huge defeat
– Can be a huge win
– Can be a “now it’s personal” loss
– Can be sex at 60 – the lovers finally get together, only to open up a whole new world of problems

More discussion on Elements of Act Two.

ACT II:2

In a 2-hour movie this section starts at about 60 minutes, and ends at about 90 minutes.
In a 400-page book, this section starts at about p. 300 and ends toward the end of the book.

First, identify the separate SEQUENCES of this act. In a movie, usually there will be two 15- minute long sequences, Sequence 5 and Sequence 6, and the climax of Sequence 6 will be the ACT TWO CLIMAX, at about 90 minutes into the movie. But if the movie is longer or shorter than 2 hours, the sequences will be longer or shorter to match, or there might be three sequences or even four in Act II, Part 2, and in a shorter movie this section is often condensed into just one sequence or two very short sequences. (I’ve noticed that Act II:2 tends to be the place where a shorter movie will condense the action).

A book may have 2, 3, or even 4 sequences in this section, and the page count can vary.

Act II, part 2 will almost always have these elements:

* RECALIBRATING– after the shock or defeat of the game-changer in the midpoint, the hero/ine must REVAMP THE PLAN and try a NEW MODE OF ATTACK.

What’s the new plan?

* STAKES

A good story will always be clear about the stakes. Characters often speak the stakes aloud. How have the stakes changed? Do we have new hopes or fears about what the protagonist will do and what will happen to him or her?

* ESCALATING ACTIONS/OBSESSIVE DRIVE

Little actions by the hero/ine to get what s/he wants have not cut it, so the actions become bigger and usually more desperate.

Do we see a new level of commitment in the hero/ine?
How are the hero/ine’s actions becoming more desperate?

* It’s also worth noting that while the hero/ine is generally (but not always!) winning in Act II:1, s/he generally begins to lose in Act II:2. Often this is where everything starts to unravel and spiral out of control.

* INCREASED ATTACKS BY ANTAGONIST

Just as the hero/ine is becoming more desperate to get what s/he wants, the antagonist also has failed to get what s/he wants and becomes more desperate and takes riskier actions.

* HARD CHOICES AND CROSSING THE LINE (IMMORAL ACTIONS by the main character to get what s/he wants)

Do we see the hero/ine crossing the line and doing immoral things to get what s/he wants?

* LOSS OF KEY ALLIES (possibly because of the hero/ine’s obsessive actions, possibly through death or injury by the antagonist).

Do any allies walk out on the hero/ine or get killed or injured?

* A TICKING CLOCK (can happen anywhere in the story, or there may not be one.)

* REVERSALS AND REVELATIONS/TWISTS

* THE LONG DARK NIGHT OF THE SOUL and/or VISIT TO DEATH (also known as: ALL IS LOST).

There is always a moment in a story where the hero/ine seems to have lost everything, and it is almost always right before the Second Act Climax, or it IS the Second Act Climax.

What is the All Is Lost scene?

* In a romance or romantic comedy, the All Is Lost moment is often a THE LOVER MAKES A STAND scene, where s/he tells the loved one – “Enough of this bullshit waffling, either commit to me or don’t, but if you don’t, I’m out of here.” This can be the hero/ine or the love interest making this stand.

THE SECOND ACT CLIMAX

* Often will be a final revelation before the end game: often the knowledge of who the opponent really is, that will propel the hero/ine into the FINAL BATTLE.

* Often will be another devastating loss, the ALL IS LOST scene. In a mythic structure or Chosen One story or mentor story this is almost ALWAYS where the mentor dies or is otherwise taken out of the action, so the hero/ine must go into the final battle alone.

* Answers the Central Question – and often the answer is “no” – so that the hero/ine again must come up with a whole new plan.

* Often is a SETPIECE.

More discussion on Elements Of Act II:2

ACT THREE

The third act is basically the Final Battle and Resolution. It can often be one continuous sequence – the chase and confrontation, or confrontation and chase. There may be a final preparation for battle, or it might be done on the fly. Either here or in the last part of the second act the hero will make a new, FINAL PLAN, based on the new information and revelations of the second act.

The essence of a third act is the final showdown between protagonist and antagonist. It is often divided into two sequences:

1. Getting there (Storming the Castle) (Sequence 7).

2. The final battle itself (Sequence 8)

* In addition to the FINAL PLAN, there may be another GATHERING OF THE TEAM, and a brief TRANING SEQUENCE.

• There may well be DEFEATS OF SECONDARY OPPONENTS (each one of which should be given a satisfying end or comeuppance. (This may also happen earlier, in Act II:2).

* Thematic Location – often a visual and literal representation of the Hero/ine’s Greatest Nightmare
–
* The protagonist’s character change
–
* The antagonist’s character change (if any)

* Possibly ally/allies’ character change (s) and/or gaining of desire (s)

* Possibly a huge final reversal or reveal (twist), or even a whole series of payoffs that you’ve been saving (as in Bac
k to the Future and It’s A Wonderful Life)

* RESOLUTION: A glimpse into the New Way of Life that the hero/ine will be living after this whole ordeal and all s/he’s learned from it.

• Possibly a sense of coming FULL CIRCLE – returning to the opening image or scene and showing how much things have changed, or how the hero/ine has changed inside, causing her or him to deal with the same place and situation in a whole different way.

* Closing Image

changes

by Toni McGee Causey

Here I am, changing things again. Maybe it’s the spring weather we’re having (down here, in NOLA), or maybe it’s the fact that I went to two funerals in the last couple of weeks – one of a cousin who died (not much older than me) from cancer and another who died terribly young (27) from where a car ran a red-light and hit his motorcycle.

Maybe it’s that I’ve become one of those people who start telling a story and wonder if I’ve told that one already. I don’t want to be that person–I want to be out there, living new stories, finding new things, new ways of being.

When we moved to New Orleans for this job, I knew it would turn everything on its ear, and it pretty much has; I get up in the morning and walk to breakfast, saying hello to more people in a morning than I did all week, back at our house, where we lived out in the suburbs, and even if you got up early in the morning, the most you’d see were cars driving off to work and a few joggers, maybe a mom or two in a stroller, or someone walking a dog. There are layers here, to this place, that I haven’t had the chance to experience, since I’ve never lived in a “city” atmosphere, even though I’ve lived in Baton Rouge all my adult life. (Baton Rouge is a series of neighborhoods, one melting into the other, and it had no real proper “downtown” until just the last few years. It’s a beautiful place to live–just very spread out.)

I’ve had more ideas for stories, having lived here for two months, than I had had in the full two years prior. Stories I’m itching to write. Short. Medium. Long. Different genres.

What I lack is the time to write them.

I weighed that, for the last year or so. Weighed want I want to do (be a writer) against what I was doing more of (blogging). I didn’t want to let go of blogging. I kept thinking, “But… but what if they forget me?” And this little stab of fear would hit my solar plexus and I would think, “must keep blogging” in order to keep my name out there.

But here’s the thing: keeping my name out there means focusing my time on that instead of telling stories. And what the hell good is my name doing being “out there” if there are no new stories?

I kept finding myself using experiences or observations to fill the blog. And then, they were used up, husks, and not suitable for recycling into a story.

So, I’m stepping away from Murderati as a regular, but not without a lot of love for my fellow ‘Rati members, who are truly wonderful and gifted, and not without remorse that I won’t be a part of the group any longer. I’ll be around in the comments on occasion, and I know what will happen — they’ll bring in someone new and exciting and you all will love them, and that fresh perspective will be great for everyone. I can’t even envy that–it’s the way it should be.

Meanwhile, I want to thank so many of you who’ve read me here over the years. Your comments, your encouragement… honestly, you just cannot know how much you mean to me. You got me through some very dark writing times, when I honestly did not know if I could still write, if I was even a writer any more. You’ve made me smile and you’ve made all of the time here absolutely wonderful. You’ve given me courage. I have to act on that.

If you ever doubt that leaving comments means anything to us, please know that it does. It keeps the dark at bay, the doubt, the voice on our shoulder that says no one cares what you have to say, and it reminds us of why we slog all of those months–or years–trying to corral a story into some semblance of order.

Thank you, so very very much.

I hope you will make whomever follows me feel as welcome as you have me. Let him or her know the ‘Rati love. Because you rock.

I’ll still be over on Facebook, occasionally on Twitter, and, randomly, on my own blog. I hope to see you all around.

Take care,

-t

M-O-U-S-E

Now it’s time to say goodbye to all our family

See you real soon.

Why? Because we like you.

E…

Yes, the time has come for me to say goodbye. It’s been fun. It’s been nice having an audience for my rants. But I’m moving on, folks, and I want to thank you for making Murderati a home.

I’m not going to say much else today. (Thank God, some of you are muttering.) But I’ll leave you with a link to one of my earlier posts. A favorite one.

LEGACY

Oh, and here’s Leila’s favorite. And she says goodbye, too:

THE THINGS I HATE

If you’re so inclined, give it a look. Or not.

And as the months go on, I’m sure I’ll see you in the comments section.

Until then… Hasta.

The New Normal

By Louise Ure

Bruce Goronsky and his mother, 1951

Today, March 29, is the one year anniversary of my husband Bruce’s death. It seems so much shorter than that. But so much longer at the same time.

I’m finally back from all my travels to Australia, Arizona and Seattle and maybe … just maybe … ready to think about the next steps.

Six months ago, my brother, Jim, asked me if I was getting back to normal. “What is that? What does that look like?” I replied. There was nothing normal about my days and my future would be different than I ever imagined. I would never be normal again, but somehow … just maybe .. there might be some kind of New Normal ahead.

Like any other endeavor I’ve ever approached, I tried to get as smart about widowhood as I could. I read countless tales of previously strong women bowed by the unexpected loss of a spouse. Joan Didion’s “The Year of Magical Thinking,” Joyce Carol Oates’ “A Widow’s Story,” Genevieve Ginsburg’s “Widow to Widow.” They may have proved that I wasn’t crazy, but they also showed that I sure wasn’t handling this well.

So many people tried to help. My old advertising friends, Judy Hughes and Barbara Pauly, whose memories about losing their husbands haven’t faded over the years. David Corbett and his frequent emails giving me permission to handle this however I had to in order to preserve my sanity. Linda Ronstadt with her constant invitations to dinner, to a walk, to help around the house. Pat and Karen Scott who took the burdens of my in-laws in Seattle as their own. David and Sara Arnold next door who continue to feed me now just like they did when Bruce was sick.

Neighbors and cousins and email friends, you’ve all done your best.

But eight months into this new life I found myself not getting better, and only getting worse. I shuttered myself indoors and would not bathe or dress for days at a time. I quit answering the telephone. I wouldn’t leave the house if I ran out of food: a paucity of cigarettes, wine or toilet paper was about the only call to action.

I cried every Monday at 8:05 a.m., remembering the 36th Monday without him … then the 37th. Then the 38th. I cried yesterday, too, although I know that the rest of the world will call him gone a year today. What a world we live in where there are 52.14 Mondays in a year.

I broke down when the lady at the Mammography Center asked if Bruce Goronsky was still the emergency contact she should list on my medical forms.

I lashed out at acquaintances who asked if I was dating yet.

I have not been the model widow. Nor am I Mrs. Bruce Goronsky anymore.

But I’m not Louise Ure again yet, either.

Three people have brought me this far. Three people who never, never let me give up.

Jude Greber

First, Jude Greber, who not only made me laugh the day we went to the mortuary to arrange for Bruce’s cremation, but whose constant, gentle support has carried me every day through Bruce’s illness and now through this new chrysalis of widowhood with emails, long visits and even more frequent meals. Her message: DON’T FORGET, YOU’RE A WRITER AND YOU HAVE FRIENDS.

Maggie Polling

Second, Maggie Polling, my old friend from Australia who opened her home and her life to me these last several months. She wanted to come take care of Bruce but I wouldn’t let her. Then she wanted to come for the funeral, but I thought that hosting an out-of-towner would be too grueling. She finally came to travel with me to the memorial car race the SCCA put on in Bruce’s honor; I couldn’t have attended without her. Then she taught me how to breathe again in Australia. She is closer to me than a sister. Her message: WE KNEW YOU AS LOUISE LONG BEFORE WE EVER KNEW BRUCE, BUT WE LOVED HIM, TOO.

Louise Ure and Brian Washington

And finally, my foster son, Brian Washington. How can I ever thank him? He sat by my side those long hours in the hospital. He took me home when Bruce’s last lap was run. He bought me a cookbook called “The Pleasure of Cooking for One.” He calls and comes by every week, offering love, lunch and a change of light bulbs if I need it. I could not ask for a better son if I had birthed him myself. His message: YOUR FAMILY IS HERE FOR YOU.

I can’t promise that I’m over this fever, but things have started to become more gray than black. I wake with plans for the day, even if those plans are sometimes just to make lunch or go to the post office.

I can still get caught short by the strangest, most unexpected sadnesses. I still have to mute the television when one of the Cancer Society’s “Happy Birthday” ads comes on. False advertising I call it, and rubbing salt in the wound. Bruce didn’t even get a quarter of a year.

Then just this week Bruce’s father asked if I would send him Bruce’s wallet as his own is well-worn and falling apart. I tried to do that and again broke down noting that Bruce’s credit cards had longer expiration dates than he did. And the wallet still holds the curve of his butt. I think I’ll send my father-in-law a different replacement wallet and hope he understands.

This anniversary, like so many other benchmarks I’ve passed this year, is neither completely happy nor sad. I’ve begun to remember the good times we had and not just the last hours in the hospital. I’ve even laughed a few times.

The Vietnamese lady who does my fingernails lost her father in the same hospital on the same week I lost Bruce. She told me yesterday that she and her family prepared his favorite foods on the anniversary of his death and added a plate for him in front of his picture at the head of the table. It’s a lovely idea. Maybe I’ll do the same, even though a bowl of chili with cornbread doesn’t sound all that festive.

But while I’m remembering Bruce today, I’m also remembering and loving each of you who have given me so much this year. You have my heart.