Author Archives: Murderati


A Soldier Not Yet Fallen

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By Louise Ure

He’s been on my mind a great deal this week, this man I didn’t know well.


He was one of the soldiers we’ve been remembering this weekend. One of those turned inside out by war.


He died in the same year Bobby Kennedy was assassinated, although when I think back now to 1968, it is Kennedy I think of more often.


I don’t have any pictures of him, but that’s not surprising. He wasn’t around much, and when a camera came out he was around less.


William Grant Ure was my father, and one of those soldiers who did not fall in war, but who nonetheless returned so damaged that he was unrecognizable to any who knew him before.


He was thirty-two years old and already a practicing physician when he married my mother in 1941. Sadly, the army wanted him that year, too. My parents boarded a train immediately after the wedding ceremony. He got off in Fresno to report for duty. My mother continued on to the honeymoon suite at the St. Francis hotel in San Francisco and spent the weekend by herself.


Of course the army needed doctors. But what did they do with this Ear, Nose and Throat specialist from the desert? This man who had single-handedly reversed the course of tuberculosis epidemics among American Indians in Arizona and New Mexico? They sent him to the Aleutian Islands to act as the only psychiatrist to 4000 desperate men on a barren, frigid rock for four long years.


He came home a changed man.


To his credit, he honored the marriage he’d entered into only hours before his departure. But that commitment came with conditions. He wanted nothing to do with life, with living, with family. He wanted to be left in peace. And he was.


They had five children in eight years and my mother raised us alone. He had his own set of rooms in the house, and only ate dinners with us three times a year – Christmas, Easter and Thanksgiving. I don’t remember him giving my mother a birthday present. We never took family vacations.


He was not unkind, just distant. Like a powerful, cold rain, you just had to learn to plan around him. When he walked into the backyard for a swim, you got out of the pool. If he came home from the office for lunch, you took your sandwich somewhere else. You didn’t go into his quarters without an invitation.


My mother tells me that he was a remarkable man in his youth. Tall, black-haired and confident, he played the ukulele and sang with a band on the radio. She said he had good friends and laughed easily.


By the time I knew him, he had settled for less.


Every night at ten o’clock he had a small steak he’d cooked to the consistency of shoe leather, a boiled potato, and a pitcher of gin flavored with only ice cubes.  He’d ricochet off the hallway walls as he returned to bed.


I thought all families operated this way, and was stunned the first time I had a sleep over at my friend Mary Ellen’s house. Her father sat at the table with us! And he even passed me the bread! I didn’t know how to react.


Like Robert Kennedy, my father died in 1968, and like Robert Kennedy he was assassinated. Not by a lone gunman, but by all the malevolent powers of war and loneliness and grief that had piled up in his heart in 1941 and 1942 and 1943 and 1944 on those cold, dark islands. He was not much older than I am now.


My mother was at a PTA meeting that night with the youngest of us. My three elder siblings were off on dates, or a science project, or just hanging with friends. I was home alone with him.


I heard him choking, and got up and knocked on his door to see if he was okay. No answer.


God help me, without permission I didn’t go in.


He got his wish. He was left in peace.

I won’t ask for equally sad memories, dear Rati friends. Just tell me how you spent your Memorial Day Weekend, or who you were remembering this year.


Memorialday


LU

Kilroy Was There: A GI’s War in Photographs

by Pari

HillermanmrToday, like many of you, I’m thinking about war. So let me tell you about one of the finest nonfiction books about this subject that’s ever been published. Above all else, Kilroy Was There: A GI’s War in Photographs is an honest record of the mud, grime, fear and drudge of war. Combine these powerful images with Tony Hillerman’s moving, personal narrative and the result is an understated and immensely candid work.

What differentiates Kilroy Was There from other books about World War II is its intimacy. Open it to any page and you’ll see scenes that will remain with you for a long time. Here — an American medic lights the cigarette of a wounded German soldier whose face is lined with blood. There — a cocky SS officer holds his head high when he’s tied to a post in preparation for his execution by firing squad. Tranquil meadows and abandoned byways are gruesomely pocked with the charred remains of tanks and, worse, young men whose bodies are dehumanized by their deaths.

There’s no pretense, no posing here. The soldiers are kids from farms and factories, classrooms and mines, living the day-to-day reality of an extraordinary situation. Their lives are recorded by other kids — combat photographers in the Army Signal Corps — as they cook, walk, smoke and ride on the side of tanks. Those long-ago photographers were on the front lines too, in foxholes shivering with their buddies.

The truth in these black-and-white photographs moved Hillerman to become involved with the project because, "They didn’t make war look fun. They weren’t sanitized by a PR department."

The story of how the photos came to the university press is as remarkable as the book itself. It begins with Frank Kessler, an accountant, known as "Pops" (he was 26 years old) in his Army Signal Corps unit. One of his jobs was to assign photographers to particular shoots, log the photos and file them.

When the war ended, "Pops" didn’t know what would happen to the photographs; he just knew they were too valuable to be left behind or lost. So he took them, some 600 in all, and stored them in his attic at home. Later, he told his family he wasn’t sure if what he’d done was legal . . .

Fifty years passed. "Pops" died and his brother Lee found the photos. The younger Kessler had been a POW during much of WWII. For him, the pictures reflected a war he didn’t know — one he didn’t see as a prisoner. He understood their importance and spent time organizing the collection and carefully transcribing the captions as best he could.

Kessler approached editor Joanna H. Craig at Kent University Press with the idea of creating a book in time for the 60th anniversary of D-Day.

"We were working backwards. We had the art, but didn’t have the text," she says. But Craig knew Hillerman had served in WWII. He’d been awarded the Purple heart, and the Silver and Bronze Stars. She also thought a celebrity forward would be a nice touch. She planned to have a prominent military historian write the majority of the text. It would’ve been a wonderful idea, but the man she’d asked became gravely ill.

Of course, Hillerman was too busy. He was on deadline for a new book. Still, a desperate Craig hoped he’d be willing to expand his foreward into the entire narrative. "I basically pleaded with him," she says.

What a coup.
Through Hillerman’s masterful words, we learn about oft-ignored aspects of war. With the empathy of someone who has been there, he describes the palpable fear of troops scouting around street corners — possibly walking straight into gunfire or death. We itch when Hillerman explains what it was like to go without showers for months at a time. We can taste the food, C-rations and the much worse K-rations, neither one very good . . . never enough. Think about it, most of those kids were still teens; they were still growing boys. And the author tells us how these adolescents fought, marched, hid, killed and watched their friends die.

"War is mean,  damaging and dirty," says Hillerman. "These pictures show the mud and blood." Through his spare narrative and the equally unadorned photos that Frank Kessler so wisely saved, Kilroy Was There emerges as an incredible reflection of a critical — and still meaningful — time in the history of the world.

. . . To everyone reading this post who has lost a loved one in war, known someone who fought or is fighting now — may this Memorial Day be one of peace and remembering.

My respects,
Pari

the tipping point…

by Toni McGee Causey

Eleventy quibillion years ago, when I was in fourth grade, I wanted to
be a writer. I wrote terrible poems, which I think only got worse as I
got older and the teenage years descended like locusts, leaving only
WOE and ANGST. By college, I had brief bouts of sanity, whereupon I
attempted architecture (ohmyGod, they do not tell you about the math),
business (my first accounting teacher gave me the final exam in
advance, with the answers, if I would swear to her I would never, ever,
take another accounting class again), and then journalism (where I
learned they had the picky little annoying habit of wanting reporters
to not make crap up)(this was before Fox News).

And in spite of a fine history of liking to eat and wanting a roof
over my head, I still wanted to be a writer. If you asked a question,
you would get a story instead of an answer. If I could sidetrack into a
couple of tangents? You might as well park a while, because the
stories? They would not stop.

All the while, I wrote. Much of it was bad.

I ran into a
former high-school teacher, who’d also been a librarian, who asked me
the tough question: why wasn’t I submitting for publication? Have you
ever run into one of your former teachers? THEY ARE SCARY. It’s like
they can retroactively fail you or their eyes shoot truth serum rays or
something, and I did not want to stand there in front of my
two-year-old and explain I hadn’t submitted anything because I was a
big honking chicken. So I took her advice and started writing and
submitting to the local paper. (They were insane enough to buy the very
first one. That’s like feeding a stray puppy. They did not realize
this, I think, until I was around so much, they added me to the regular
staff AND the food staff, and this was a fairly prominent paper. One of
my relatives realized that I was being assigned to write about how
people COOK things. He asked, "Isn’t that… fraud? You use the fire
alarm as an oven timer." I look back on this as the beginning of my
fiction career.)

Over the years, and we are not discussing how many, maybe more than
two but less than a hundred, I wrote more articles than I can remember
or count for newspapers and magazines. I started querying and
submitting (and getting sales) at national magazines, but my real love
was fiction. I tried my hand at a novel, but it was a spiraling mess,
and my husband could see how frustrated I was. (And EVERY husband out
there just substituted the words "complete raving loon" for
"frustrated.") So, being a very wise man who liked to wake up breathing
in the mornings, he encouraged me to go back to school for some writing
classes.

For a while, I was lured to the dark side (screenwriting), and
landed an agent, and did a lot of stuff that was almost-but-not-quite
what I wanted to do, which was to sell something I made up. Hollywood,
by the way, will kill you with encouragement, because when you meet the
executives, you will be told you are the most brilliant writer they
have read in forever and where the hell have you been all this time and
they want to be in the "Toni Causey" business. Swear to God, they will
say it and you will believe it because they are that good at
sincere. Until you’re sitting in the Warner Brothers commissary waiting
for the next meeting, furtively looking around to see the FRIENDS stars
on their lunch break (yes, I am dating myself, hush), and the same
executive walks by with his arm around someone else who is not you,
telling them how utterly brilliant they were, the most brilliant person
they’d ever read. That’s when you look down at the script in your hand
that is an action thriller that everyone absolutely loves but could you
make the man a woman and the woman a duck and wouldn’t it be great if
the horse saved the day? and you think, "I’m crazy, but I’m not this crazy." Some writers (our very own Alex and Rob) have the tenacity for that. Me? I kinda wanted to just kick people. (I never claimed to be mature.)

See, I had this idea. An idea for this funny, take-no-prisoners
kind of southern woman, who loves deeply and means well, in spite of
the chaos she causes, and I wanted to write that story and be true to
that story. So I quit screenwriting. (I had had some offers if I’d move
out there. I was not going to move the family.) I had a hard time
convincing my former agent that yes, I was serious. I was quitting to write a
novel. (I think she still thinks I am going to change my mind.) But I
quit, and I started writing Bobbie Faye. I wrote a quick draft
in script form, because I was used to that format, then a friend showed a
friend, the lovely Rosemary Edghill, who said, "Send me some chapters."
And I did. She gave me some notes (smart, smart woman), and taught me
how to write the kind of synopsis an agent needs ("I did not think you
could make this worse," she said of one draft of that synopsis, "but
you did." That’s because I am an overachiever. It took a lot of tries
before I figured out that writing a marketing synopsis is a lot like
writing a non-fiction article, and that I could do.) Next thing
I know, I’d signed with an agent and Rosemary had pitched it to an
editor, who made an offer, and St. Martin’s Press bought that book and
the next two based on three sample chapters and a synopsis. Almost
twenty years from the point where I saw my old high-school English
teacher and she’d said, "Why aren’t you submitting for publication?"

(Thank you, Mrs. Ross.)**

There is a great big huge world of "no" out there. Sometimes, following the dream does not mean hoppity-skipping down the easy path. In fact, a lot of times, it means zig zagging past mortars and incoming and a lot of almosts-not-quites and despair and frustration what-the-hell-were-you-thinking? and ugh-this-sucks and occasionally wow-show-me-more. And in spite of how long it took, and how much hard work, I have been exceptionally lucky–there have been friends and mentors who’ve said, "keep going," and who’ve said, "send that in." They changed my life. They were the tipping point for me.

So how about you? Who encouraged you? Or what’s something you tried that someone encouraged you to do and now you’re glad you did?

~*~

CONTEST: just stop in and say HI or name someone who encouraged you OR something you’ve tried as a result of encouragement. ANYTHING’s fair game here.

Remember, it’s CONTEST MONTH — every commenter on today’s post will be eligible for a signed copy of BOBBIE FAYE’S VERY (very, very, very) BAD DAY as well as a hot-off-the-press, not available in the stores ’til the end of the month BOBBIE FAYE’S (kinda, sorta, not exactly) FAMILY JEWELS. Excerpts from book 2 are now up HERE. Winner from this week to be announced on next Sunday’s blog.

WINNER FROM LAST WEEK — Billie! billie! Sister of the soul. 😉

Like last week, I put the names in a hat and
my neighbor chose. So Billie, please email me at toni [dot] causey [at]
gmail [dot] com with your
address and I’ll get your signed copies mailed out to you this week!

**This is part of the interview I did with Bethany Hensel over at Lux Magazine… I’ll post a link here to the rest as soon as I have it. Thanks, Bethany!

What’s your premise?

by Alex

I’m off to New Orleans this week to teach a five-day writing workshop run by Deborah LeBlanc called The Pen to Press Writers Retreat.

Yeah, pretty excited! Also feeling a huge sense of responsibility. Anyone who commits the time and money to a retreat kind of workshop is really saying to the entire world – “I’m serious about this, I’m ready.” And I want to give these people the best of what I know.

So my first lesson is going to be about premise.

I was at some author event the other night and doing the chat thing with people at the pre-dinner cocktail party and found myself in conversation with an aspiring author who had just finished a book, and naturally I asked, “What’s your book about?”

And she said – “Oh, I can’t really describe it in a few sentences– there’s just so much going on in it.”

WRONG ANSWER.

The time to know what your book is about is before you start it, and you damn well better know what it’s about by the time it’s finished and people, like, oh, you know – agents and editors, are asking you what it’s about.

And here’s another tip – when people ask you what your book is about, the answer is not “War” or “Love” or “Betrayal”, even though your book might be about one or all of those things. Those words don’t distinguish YOUR book from any of the millions of books about those things.

When people ask you what your book is about, what they are really asking is – “What’s the premise?” In other words, “What’s the story line in one easily understandable sentence?”

That one sentence is also referred to as a “logline” (in Hollywood) or “the elevator pitch” (in publishing) or “the TV Guide pitch” – it all means the same thing.

That sentence really should give you a sense of the entire story: the character of the protagonist, the character of the antagonist, the conflict, the setting, the tone, the genre. And – it should make whoever hears it want to read the book. Preferably immediately. It should make the person you tell it to light up and say – “Ooh, that sounds great!” And “Where do I buy it?”

Writing a premise sentence is a bit of an art, but it’s a critical art for authors, and screenwriters, and playwrights. You need to do this well to sell a book, to pitch a movie, to apply for a grant. You will need to do it well when your agent, and your publicist, and the sales department of your publishing house, and the reference librarian, and the Sisters in Crime books in print catalogue editor ask you for a one-sentence book description, or jacket copy, or ad copy. You will use that sentence over and over and over again in radio and TV interviews, on panels, and in bookstores (over and over and OVER again) when potential readers ask you, “So what’s your book about?” and you have about one minute to get them hooked enough to buy the book.

And even before all that, the premise is the map of your book when you’re writing it.

So what are some examples of premise lines?

Name these books:

– When a great white shark starts attacking beachgoers in a coastal town during high tourist season, a water-phobic Sheriff must assemble a team to hunt it down before it kills again.

– A young female FBI trainee must barter personal information with an imprisoned psychopathic genius in order to catch a serial killer who is capturing and killing young women for their skins.

– A treasure-hunting archeologist races over the globe to find the legendary Lost Ark of the Covenant before Hitler’s minions can acquire and use it to supernaturally power the Nazi army.

Notice how all of these premises contain a defined protagonist, a powerful antagonist, a sense of the setting, conflict and stakes, and a sense of how the action will play out. Another interesting thing about these premises is that in all three, the protagonists are up against forces that seem much bigger than the protagonist.

Here’s my premise for THE HARROWING:

Five troubled college students left alone on their isolated campus over the long Thanksgiving break confront their own demons and a mysterious presence – that may or may not be real.

I wrote that sentence to quickly convey all the elements I want to get across about this book.

Who’s the story about? Five college kids, and “alone” and “troubled” characterize them in a couple of words. Not only are they alone and troubled, they have personal demons. What’s the setting? An isolated college campus, and it’s Thanksgiving – fall, going on winter. Bleak, spooky. Plus – if it’s Thanksgiving, why are they on campus instead of home with their families?

Who’s the antagonist? A mysterious presence. What’s the conflict? It’s inner and outer – it will be the kids against themselves, and also against this mysterious presence. What are the stakes? Well, not so clear, but there’s a sense of danger involved with any mysterious presence.

And there are a lot of clues to the genre – sounds like something supernatural’s going on, but there’s also a sense that it’s psychological – because the kids are troubled and this presence may or may not be real. There’s a sense of danger, possibly on several levels.

The best way to learn how to write a good premise is to practice. Make a list of ten books and films that are in the same genre as your book or script – preferably successful – or that you wish you had written! Now for each story, write a one-sentence premise that contains all these story elements: protagonist, antagonist, conflict, stakes, setting, atmosphere and genre.

If you need a lot of examples all at once, pick up a copy of the TV Guide, or click through the descriptions of movies on your TiVo. Those aren’t necessarily the best written premises, but they do get the point across, and it will get you thinking about stories in brief.

And now that you’re an expert -go for it. Write yours and share!

Hope everyone has a great holiday weekend!

——————————————————————————————————————-

I am thrilled to announce that while I’m in New Orleans next weekend the brilliant Megan Abbott will be blogging here on Saturday. I can’t wait!

Lost Book Friday

by J.T. Ellison

The lovely and mondo-talented Patti Abbott has started a cool retrospective called LOST BOOK FRIDAYS on her blog, Pattinase. (Click here for a listing of other LOST BOOKS) She asked me to contribute, and since I’m actually in Omaha today, at the wonderful Mayhem in the Midlands conference, I agreed to play.

My LOST BOOK is a controversial one. SONGS OF INNOCENCE, by Richard Aleas (AKA Charles Ardai.)Songs_of_innocence_cover_3

I’m sure there isn’t a soul in the crime fiction world who didn’t hear about the situation with Charles Ardai and the Edgar Awards, and I’m not going to delve into that quagmire. But since this book couldn’t get the recognition it deserved for the awards, I’d like to name it my LOST BOOK. (Richard Aleas is the pen name for Charles Ardai, to clear any lingering confusion.)

The title, SONGS OF INNOCENCE, is taken from the title of a book of poems by William Blake, one of my favorite dead guys, and obviously fitting for a detective named John Blake. The opening epigraph to Aleas’s book uses a selection from "On Another’s Sorrow":

Can I see another’s woe,
And not be in sorrow too?
Can I see another’s grief,
And not seek for kind relief?

I love the idea of this level of compassion, that it takes the truly tortured to understand grief and loss. This book takes this concept and pushes it to the extreme, to the very limits of human endurance, and beyond.

It’s a lovely opening to this story, the sequel to Aleas’s excellent debut LITTLE GIRL LOST. I read that and loved it, but SONGS OF INNOCENCE takes the next step, moving John Blake into a world with no boundaries, where the sex trade runs rampant in the streets of New York, where his own sanity is at risk. Aleas takes his character, puts him out on the ledge without a net, and watches to see what he’ll do. I love seeing authors take that kind of risk.

Which begs the question: When writing a series, or at least inter-connected works, how far can you push a character onto that ledge? Aleas does it so seamlessly, so effectively, that I wasn’t mad at him when I read the end (I’m not going to talk any more about the book, so don’t worry, no spoilers.) Surprised, yes. But I understood. I bought into the epigraph — Can I see another’s woe — I certainly can see and understand John Blake’s woe. It’s masterfully done.

John Connolly manages this as well — the tortured soul seeking redemption. Charlie Parker is my all time favorite character, simply because he is so imperfect, so haunted (literally and figuratively.) He’s driven by his past, trying to escape the horrors he’s lived through. He’s desperately trying to find a way to survive in a mean world — one that is essentially of his own making, mind you. Dave White does a nice job of this in his debut, WHEN ONE MAN DIES, as well. Jackson Donne is as flawed a PI as they come without being a cliche. Our J.D. Rhoades has a tortured soul in Jack Keller — a bounty hunter  — again, a peripheral law enforcement occupation. Maybe that’s the trick — make sure these guys aren’t cops and you can get away with it. These meaty characters are so hard to pull off, but when executed well, it’s nirvana.

We talked two weeks ago about the dangers of exposing character weaknesses, but these are four authors who do it right. I’m trying to think of some female characters that can fall into this category — Karin Slaughter’s Lena Adams comes to mind. She’s tortured, no doubt. I’m reading the latest installment in the Grant County series, BEYOND REACH, right now and I’ve got to say, I’m more annoyed at Lena’s stupidity that empathetic to her plight. I wonder if it’s just me, that flawed men are fascinating but flawed women are just flawed?

Hmm… now there’s some food for thought on a Friday.

I invite you to share your favorite lost book in the comments, your favorite epigraphs and/or your favorite tortured characters. I’ll be checking in sporadically. A big thanks to Patti Abbott for inviting me to play along, and I wish you the happiest of Fridays.

Wine of the Week: 7 Deadly Zins, a surprisingly original wine. I’m not a big zinfandel drinker, but this one blew my socks off. Light, but friendly.

PS: I’m giving away an ARC of my new book, 14, to my newsletter list at the end of the month. Just head over to JTEllison.com, sign up, and you’ll automatically be entered. When I send out my newsletter, I’ll announce the winner there. (And a note, I only mail these quarterly, so don’t expect to be inundated!)

Here’s the whole Blake poem, for those of you who are interested.

Can I see another’s woe,
And not be in sorrow too?
Can I see another’s grief,
And not seek for kind relief?

Can I see a falling tear,
And not feel my sorrow’s share?
Can a father see his child
Weep, nor be with sorrow fill’d?

Can a mother sit and hear
An infant groan an infant fear?
No, no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!

And can he who smiles on all
Hear the wren with sorrows small,
Hear the small bird’s grief &
care,
Hear the woes that infants bear,

And not sit beside the nest,
Pouring pity in their breast;
And not sit the cradle near,
Weeping tear on infant’s tear;

And not sit both night & day,
Wiping all our tears away?
O, no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!

He doth give his joy to all;
He becomes an infant small;
He becomes a man of woe;
He doth feel the sorrow too.

Think not thou canst sigh a sigh
And thy maker is not by;
Think not thou canst weep a tear
And thy maker is not near.

O! he gives to us his joy
That our grief he may destroy;
Till our grief is fled & gone
He doth sit by us and moan.

I Don’t Sleep, I Dream

Deadline: June 2nd.
Today: May 22nd
Days left: 11
Useable days left: 7
Chances I’ll make it: 50-50

I’m typing as fast as I can. Not done….

…but close.

So you’ll excuse me if I post something some of you may have read before.

Before THE CLEANER came out, I sat down one night and wrote a short piece. It’s sort of about how my main character – Jonathan Quinn – was conceived.

So, here it is…a conversation with Jonathan Quinn.

__________

“I make things disappear,” Jonathan Quinn said.

I think we’d known each other about six months at that point. We’d met in Germany when I was working there on a project for a visitor center presentation that would live at a new Volkswagen plant in Dresden. The job itself wasn’t in Dresden, though. It was in Berlin, a town Quinn knows well.

I thought at the time he was just another American businessman working overseas. I think I first met him on the U-bahn train heading across town from the Mitte toward Ku’damm. I’m not 100% on that, though. The genesis of a character is often a drawn out process, and my memory of Quinn’s birth is murky.

By the time this particular conversation happened, we were both back in Los Angeles, where, it turns out, we both live. Quinn much more comfortably than I do.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

As he took a sip of his beer, I thought maybe he was just going to leave it at that. After all, this was the most I’d ever got out of him about what he did for a living. But then he said, “Sometimes things don’t go as planned. When that happens I’m the one who makes it all look pretty again.”

“Tell me about Berlin,” I said. I had sensed from the beginning that something had happened there, something I wanted to know about.

“Nothing to tell.” He didn’t even try to hide the fact that he was lying.

That’s about as far as I got that night. What exactly the ‘things’ were that didn’t go as planned, I wasn’t completely sure, but I did have my ideas.

I could have just let him die right then. He was forcing me to work pretty hard to get to know him. I’d dismissed more talkative characters sooner than this. But there was something about him, something that made me want to know more. He was interesting and mysterious. And I’d be damned if there wasn’t something that had happened in Berlin I wanted to hear about.

A week later as we rode in my car, I said, “You’re not killing people, but you do deal with the dead, right?”

“You’re talking in black and whites. You, as much as anyone, know the world is made up of grays.”

This answer stung me a little bit. He was right. One of my biggest pet peeves is people who only think in black and white, yet here I was trying to put him in a neat little black and white box.

“Let’s just say I don’t kill if I don’t have to,” he went on. “But you’re right about dealing with the dead. It’s a big part of what I do.”

“You dispose of them?”

“Exactly.” He smiled as if I was a student and he was a proud teacher. “Disposal is one of the services I provide.”

“How does that work?”

“That I’m not going to tell you.”

“But you will eventually.”

“Eventually.”

“These other things you do, what are they?”

He looked out the window into the L.A. night. “I think that was your exit,” he said.

He was right.

I moved over to the right lane, so I could get off at the next ramp and double back.

“Just getting rid of a body isn’t enough. You’ve got to make it look like whatever went wrong never happened. Blood, fingerprints, spent shells, things out of place. These are all problems I have to deal with.”

“I can’t imagine you went to school for this. How did you get in and learn about the business?”

“I was recruited.”

“Out of college?”

He shook his head. “I was a cop.”

For some reason, that surprised me. “Who recruited you?”

“Doesn’t matter. He’s dead now.”

“Did he teach you a lot?”

“Everything.”

As I eased my car off the freeway, I decided to press my luck. “And Berlin?”

I was greeted with only silence. When I looked over at the passenger seat, Quinn was gone.

As time passed, bits of his story started coming to me. Not from anything Quinn said, but somehow I was sensing it, I guess. Even when he wasn’t around, I’d pick up on things. I would be at work or getting into bed or even watching TV and a name or a place or a situation would pop into my mind. Immediately I’d know it was part of Quinn’s story. Still, the problem was I had a lot of parts, but I didn’t have the whole.

The only way I was going to get that was to have Quinn tell it to me himself.

“Tell me about Orlando,” I said one morning.

“Leave her out of it.”

“Then let’s talk about Berlin.”

“Let’s not.”

The next day: “Is she a friend?”

“You don’t listen very well, do you?”

“No.”

“She’s a friend.” I could tell he was holding something back.

“Was she with you in Berlin?”

If she was, he didn’t hang around to tell me.

Each day I kept pressing, harder and harder, using the bit of information that had seeped into my mind.

“What did you learn about the fire in Colorado?” I would ask. “How long did you work for Peter?” “Why do you hate the cold?”

And finally, “Tell me what happened in Berlin.”

Finally one afternoon, he looked at me for a good long time before answering. “Okay,” he said. “If you think you’re ready.”

“I’m ready.”

“You’d better write this down.”

So I did.

Interested in winning an ARC of THE DECEIVED? I’m running a sweepstakes on my blog.

Click Here for more details

Word of the Day

Nerf

I was out with the family for our evening walk  when the conversation
turned to a popular young-adult book series about vampires.

It seems that, in said series, the vampires can walk in daylight without
ill effect, don’t have fangs, and try to avoid killing humans. In fact, they drink mostly animal blood. "Yeah," my
son said, "they really nerfed the curse."

"They what?" I asked.

"They nerfed the curse."

"Nerfing" as it turns out, is apparently an expression from video and
computer gaming where an antagonist,  weapon or artifact is dumbed down
or reduced in destructive power by the developers in later versions of
the game.  Sometimes, the idea behind nerfing is to better balance the
game, to avoid the phenomenon of "when you get the Sword of Kumquat,
it’s all over, everyone else might as well quit." But sometimes nerfing
takes all the challenge out to the point where the game is  a boring
cakewalk.

So what does this have to do with crime fiction? Well, how many times
have we seen a message board post or amateur review in which someone
has said, "Well, I don’t like it if there’s too much violence." "I
won’t read anything where a child is put in danger." "I won’t read
anything where an animal is hurt." And god forbid you should kill off a
series character. Some of the things I’ve read from blogs after that’s happened make Stephen King’s character Annie Wilkes look like a poster child for mental health.

Ah, hello? This is CRIME FICTION. Crime is violent, at least if it’s
being done right. And villains, surprise surprise,  do villianous
things, including threatening women, children and small cute animals. And sometimes the good guys die.

But there’s also the question of balance. You want to make the antagonist powerful and deadly, but not so deadly he or she can’t be believably overcome. You want to make him or her nasty and evil, but not so much so that they’re cackling, hand-rubbing cartoons.

Likewise, you sometimes want your protagonist to be a bad-ass, but not so much that he lacks any vulnerability at all. For instance, I love Lee Child’s work beyond all reason, but there’s a bit in, I think, ECHO BURNING, where it says "Jack Reacher had never lost a fight." First thing that popped into my head when I read that  was "well, guess he’s not gonna lose this one, either, so much for suspense."  In later books Reacher did, from time to time, make mistakes, and even allow himself to think that,  maybe this time. he might not make it (or, more often, that the damsel du jour might not).  And that’s why Lee’s books get better every time.

But hey, I could be wrong. How about it? Writers, have you ever felt pressure, internal,  editorial, or
otherwise, to nerf? Have you ever read a book in which you felt that the
author nerfed the bad guy? And can you tell I just really like writing
the word "nerfed"?

Fame

by Pari

Last night, while flipping channels, I watched snippets of the American Country Music Awards show. I’ll say it: I’m not a huge fan of country. There’s an undercurrent of anti-intellectualism, mocking higher learning, that distresses me. But during the last year, I’ve begun to listen to more of it because of the marvelous story telling in those three-minute vignettes.

On the glitterati stage Sunday night, musicians sang. Fans packed the cavernous MGM Grand, their hands held out as if the air around the performers was holy. They screamed, applauded, swooned and gave standing ovations.

Ah, fame.

Wouldn’t it be cool to have that response when we had book signings? Can you imagine fans so enthusiastic they’d wait days to buy a ticket to a reading?

Most of the writers who’ve earned similar followings were entertainers — singers, actors — or televangelists/preachers, before they ever decided to pen a book. And most of what they write is, ostensibly, nonfiction.

Why don’t novelists earn this kind of rabid devotion? Is it that we’re behind the scenes — that we eschew being recognized — that we’re creators rather than performers?

(Well, hells bells, I’d love the chance to perform!)

Okay, okay. There are exceptions. I bet J.K. Rowling wouldn’t have a problem filling a stadium. Alexander McCall Smith might manage it. Stephen King? Nora Roberts?

Maybe I’m being near-sighted here, but I can’t name a darn mystery author, one who solely writes mysteries, who’d pull in those numbers to a live gig. Not even in Europe, where book events tend to be better attended.

What gives?

Is it that books take more effort to access than sitting back and listening to music? Is it the media exposure factor, that novelists simply aren’t seen enough to make an impression? Is it harder work to sing or act than it is to write a novel (Hell, NO!) Are fiction writers doughy and repugnant (not!) so that large numbers of people wouldn’t want to see them in the first place?

I don’t buy it. Anyone who goes to mystery conventions knows that we’ve got one heck of a talent pool. And I’m not just talking about words on paper here.

Maybe some writers would hate to be that popular. I sure wouldn’t. And I’d love to see that kind of rock star craziness — flicking the cigarette lighters, swaying to the sounds of an author reading a great chapter — for novelists overall. Imagine if our signings generated the kind of super-heated buzz of a Garth Brooks concert, if scalpers routinely haunted the fronts of bookstores because all the tickets had sold out.

What’s your take?
     Why aren’t novelists rock stars? (Or are they?)
     Would it be horrible to be that famous? Would it be horrible for readers if authors WERE that famous?
     What is fame in the first place? Does it matter?

HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY NEWS!!!!!!!!!!!!!! HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY NEWS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sometimes it’s just great to be mama bear here at Murderati. Last week, I was so upset about Ken’s departure . . .

This week, I’m overjoyed to announce that beginning June 17, author extraordinaire Tess Gerritsen will join us on alternating Tuesdays.

. . . Tomorrow, we’ll have L.J. Sellers as our guest.

Pretty wonderful, huh?

 

the lesser known superpowers

By Toni McGee Causey

 

I must’ve
dug in that big, yellow box for fifteen minutes, the first time. Just could not
believe I wasn’t finding what I was searching for. Damn them. I wasn’t just
looking for the prize. I was searching for
it
. Dug around the outside of the waxy paper bag the cereal had come in.
Slid my hand down the flat of the wide sides first, scrabbling my fingers below
the bottom of the bag, feeling the rough cardboard against my knuckles. And
coming up empty. Then retreated, reorganized. Listening for my mom. Pushed my scrawny
little wrists down the skinny sides of the box, thinking it was wedged there. Still. Nothing.

Surely they
wouldn’t have buried it in the cereal?

Okay, fine.
Shoved my hands down in the cereal. (I don’t know how old I was. Probably old
enough to know that I wasn’t supposed to be shoving my hands down into the
cereal.) (I only did that to the cereals I didn’t like and knew I wasn’t going
to eat) (oops) (Of course, I could have gotten down the big bowl, poured the
cereal into it, searched for the toy, gotten it, returned all of the cereal
back into the bag, bag back into the box, box back into the pantry, but then I’d
have had to also clean out the bowl and put it up and I ask you… you’re
standing there with eight things to do or you know you have a little brother—the
same little brother who thought it was hysterical to DRUM on your door, day in
and day out, 24/7, using your head sometimes as the crash cymbal, yes, THAT
little brother—and you can use said little brother as a fall guy, what would you
do, hmmmmmmmmmm?)

Then, most
of the time, there was the finding the plastic toy, and it was always simply
that: stupid, plastic. Nothing close to the real thing.

I wasn’t
disillusioned. I just knew I hadn’t found it
yet. And it was out there.

I knew that
finding it was just a matter of perseverance.

Looked into
all of the Cracker Jack boxes. (Hated Cracker Jack. I don’t think my parents
realized ‘til years later why I would agree to a box of the damned stuff. My
brother, though, was good for getting rid of whatever I didn’t want to eat.
Younger brother, very handy to have sometimes. Especially if someone is going
to get into trouble for digging in the cereal box.)

Still, it
was not there.

I was pretty
convinced. Some people had superpowers.
They had to have found them somehow.

Tried the
towel pinned around the neck thing. (Turns out, this will not make you
fly.)(ow)

Tried the
wiggle-your-nose-to-make-something-float-to-you thing. (Not highly recommended
to be done in front of witnesses.)

Never
managed anything close to the supersonic hearing, although I am CERTAIN my
parents had this one and have NEGLECTED to mention exactly how they got it. (My
dad has selective supersonic hearing.
I want that.)

Scoured the
hell out of my brother’s comic books, though I was old enough by then to
understand that maybe superpowers weren’t ever really going to happen. (I’m
still not 100% sure I’ve given up all hope.) (My brother, by the way, forgave
me for the cereal boxes.) (Well, last year.) (I think.)

Then one
day, my little brother and my (slightly barely hardly at all younger, ha, she
is going to kill me) cousin, Danette, and I were together while our parents
visited. We’d pretty much exhausted our imaginations, and there were no such
things as video games, wargaming, internet, iPods… (YOU, YES, YOU THERE IN THE
BACK MAKING THE “OLD” JOKES, I CAN HEAR YOU, I LIED ABOUT THE SUPERSONIC
HEARING, DON’T MAKE ME GET MY CANE OUT TO BEAT THE CRAP OUTTA YOU)… anyway, out
of complete desperation to keep them from arguing, I made up a story. I have no
clue what the point of that story was, but in it, we were superheroes (with
some sort of super bus or super car, I was just radical with the transportation
there). And Mike and Danette were quiet. Completely quiet, the entire time, and
if I tried to bring it to an end, they’d ask for more. And then the next time
Danette visited, they wanted the story… first.

I was
hooked. Hot DAMN, a superpower.

Do you
remember that Daffy Duck cartoon Daffy_duck_2
where he’s all determined and snatching
something away from Bugs, claiming, “Mine, mine, ALL MINE,” and it blows up on
him? LET’S PRETEND MY SUPERPOWER IS NOT LIKE THAT. Thank you.
 

Now I
realize that a bunch of other people
have the same superpower, but we are still going to call it a superpower
because that is a LOT cheaper than paying for therapy. And I also realize that
a lot of these other people have this same ability but in the MEGA HUMONGOUS
SUPER WATTAGE size… they are sort of like the Superman with all of the bullets bouncing
off and I’m over here with my little silver surf board thingie and the only
thing I may be able to do is surf around, but by God, I’m going to do it with
enthusiasm, so I’m happy.

Meanwhile,
having not completely given up the idea that there still may be another
superpower out there that I have that I’ve missed, I’ve thought about this.
(Yes, the fever is fine, why do you ask?) Those superheroes, with their cool
superpowers—they suffered. They had a
lot of angst. Sometimes they didn’t realize just how valuable their superpower
was, even though others could see it clearly. Which got me to thinking that
maybe I actually have a superpower,
but it’s just not something that I realize
is a superpower. Because God knows I have angst! Plenty of it! It would fit the
pattern! All was not lost! So I thought long and hard about the things I’m
really exceptionally good at, and my list looks something like this:

1) Able
to detect anyone even thinking about
drinking the last diet coke in the house

2) Able
to shove an entire two rooms’ worth of junk into ONE closet, and still find
stuff

3) Um.
Hmm. Wait… wait. Hmmm. Did I mention the diet coke thing?

Okay. Well.
Maybe not.

But how
about you? Did you want a superpower as a kid? And right now, what is your
superpower? (I know you have one.)

~*~

CONTEST: just stop in and say HI or name your superpower (or name someone else’s, it’s all good).

Remember, it’s CONTEST MONTH — every commenter on today’s post will be eligible for a signed copy of BOBBIE FAYE’S VERY (very, very, very) BAD DAY as well as a hot-off-the-press, not available in the stores ’til the end of the month BOBBIE FAYE’S (kinda, sorta, not exactly) FAMILY JEWELS. Excerpts from book 2 are now up HERE. Winner from this week to be announced on next Sunday’s blog.

WINNER FROM LAST WEEK — Lisa Richardson! (Can I just tell you all how blown away I was? I know it was a holiday type of entry, but I wanted to thank every single one of you who took the time to stop by and email. I was floored.)

Like last week, I put the names in a hat and my neighbor chose. So Lisa, please email me at toni [dot] causey [at] gmail [dot] com with your
address and I’ll get your signed copies mailed out to you this week!

Creating suspense

by Alex

I know, I know, huge topic. And I’m sure many others have done it better, but I’m not being satisfied with what I’m reading, so I’m blatantly using my post today partly to beg links to good articles (compile links, I mean…) and attempt to discuss what I myself know or suspect about creating suspense.

This is the first thing I tell people who ask me about suspense:

You have to study, analyze and teach yourself to write the kind of suspense YOU want to create.

Because there are all kinds of suspense. Many thrillers are based on action and adrenaline – the experience the author wants to create and the reader wants to experience is that roller-coaster feeling. I myself am not big on that kind of suspense. I love a good adrenaline rush in a book (in fact I pretty much require them, repeatedly). But pure action scenes pretty much bore me senseless, and big guns and machines and explosions and car chases make my eyes glaze over. What I’m looking for in a book is the sensual – okay, sexual – thrill of going into the unknown. How it feels to know that there’s something there in the dark with you that’s not necessarily rational, and not necessarily human. It’s a slower, more erotic kind of thrill – that you find in THE TURN OF THE SCREW and THE HAUNTING OF HILL HOUSE and THE SHINING. So although I can learn some techniques from spy thrillers or giant actioners, studying that kind of book for what I want to do is probably not going to get me where I want to go.

There’s also the classic mystery thrill of having to figure a puzzle out. There’s a great pleasure in using your mind to unlock a particularly well-crafted puzzle. I love to add that element to my stories, too, so that even though the characters are dealing with the unknown, there is still a logical way to figure the puzzle out.

So to create suspense, the first thing you have to identify is what KIND of suspense you want to create. Most stories use all three kinds of suspense I just talked about (and others – really I’m just scratching the surface), but there will be one particular kind that dominates.

A useful thing to do is to make yourself a master list of ten books and films that are not just in your own genre, but that all create the particular kind of suspense experience that you’re looking to create yourself. There are particular tricks that every author or screenwriter uses to create suspense, and looking at ten stories in a row will get you identifying those tricks. If you’re reading a particularly good book, you get so caught up in it that you don’t see the wheels and gears – and that’s good. So read it to the end… but then go back and reread to really look at the machinery of it.

What tricks am I talking about? Well, let’s see.

To my mind, the most basic and important suspense technique is ASK A CENTRAL QUESTION with your story.

Of course, every good story is inherently a suspense story, because every story is predicated on the storyteller creating the desire in the reader or audience to find out What Happens? And writing mysteries as we all do (mystery/thriller/suspense), our genre has a built-in suspense element by its very nature – the built-in question – “Who done it?” (Or in my case, as Dusty says, “What done it?”)

So the very first place that a book creates suspense is on the meta-level: in the premise, that one line description of what the story is. That story line (flap copy, back jacket text) is what makes a reader pick up a book and say – “Yeah! I want to know what happens!”

– When a great white shark starts attacking beachgoers in a coastal town during high tourist season, a water-phobic Sheriff must assemble a team to hunt it down before it kills again.

– A young female FBI trainee must barter personal information with an imprisoned psychopathic genius in order to catch a serial killer who is capturing and killing young women for their skins.

– A treasure-hunting archeologist races over the globe to find the legendary Lost Ark of the Covenant before Hitler’s minions can acquire and use it to supernaturally power the Nazi army.

Any one of the above can also be phrased as a question: Will Clarice get Lecter to help her catch Buffalo Bill before he kills Catherine? That’s what I mean when I say the central question of the story.

Now, there’s a whole hell of a lot of suspense in that story question – unlike in, say, the movie we saw last night: WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS. Does anyone going into that movie think for one single solitary second that Cameron Diaz is not going to end up with Ashton Kuchner? No suspense in that premise at all.

But in a mystery, or thriller, or horror story, someone could die. Anyone could always die. Even the main character can die – at least in a standalone. And I would argue that third person narration in a mystery/thriller is always going to be more suspenseful than first person, because even if your first person narrator DOES die in a surprise twist at the end, the reader hasn’t worried about it for the entire book.

In that SILENCE OF THE LAMBS story set up, we know Catherine could die – in fact, any number of additional victims could die – because it’s a thriller and we’ve got a particularly monstrous killer holding her. Clarice could die, too – in fact, throughout the story, we are always at least subconsciously aware that Clarice is disquietingly similar to Buffalo Bill’s previous victims: she is young, white, Southern, from a struggling family.

All this is STAKES – a critical element of every story. What do we fear is going to happen?

A good story makes the stakes crystal clear – from the very beginning of the story. We know right up front in SILENCE OF THE LAMBS that there’s a serial killer out there who will not stop killing young women until he is caught or killed. How do we know that? The characters say it, flat out, and not just once, and not just one character. Harris makes us perfectly, acutely aware of what the stakes are. The story ups the ante when a particular victim is kidnapped and we get to know her – we really don’t want THIS particular, feisty victim to die.

In RAIDERS OF THE LOST ARK, the government agent who comes to hire Indy to find the Ark of the Covenant says that Hitler is after it, and Indy and his colleague, the archeological experts, tell us the legend that the army which has the Ark is invincible. That’s really, really bad. Huge stakes. And it is spelled out with crystal clarity, in dialogue, with accompanying visuals of ancient text – in the first 15 minutes of the movie.

It might even be the number one rule of suspense – You need to tell your reader what they’re supposed to be afraid of. Not just scene by scene – but in the entire story, overall. You need to let the reader know what the hero, or another character, is in for – or the whole world is in for – if the hero doesn’t do something about it.

And if that’s the number one rule, then the photo finish number two rule is – You have to make the reader CARE. Because if the reader doesn’t care about the characters, then they have no personal stake in the stakes.

No, I’m not going to go into all the techniques of creating a character that readers will care about – different post!

But here’s one technique that also goes to creating suspense: stack the odds against your protagonist. It’s just ingrained in us to love an underdog.

In SILENCE, the protagonist, Clarice is up against huge odds. She has many personal obstacles. She’s a woman in a man’s world, young, a mere trainee, she has big wounds from a troubled childhood. She also has many external opponents, like Dr. Chilton, the Senator and more minor characters within scenes – not to mention that Dr. Lecter is not exactly being cooperative – he’s got his own agenda, and he’s a master at playing it.

In RAIDERS, Indy is up against Hitler (through his minions). Indy is awfully heroic and expert and, well, hot – but he’s still the underdog in this particular fight.

A lot of suspense stories use children, women, or characters with a handicap to stack the odds against the hero. Okay, it sounds manipulative, but suspense IS manipulation. And just because a technique is manipulative doesn’t make it any less effective when it’s done well: Think of WAIT UNTIL DARK (blind protagonist) , REAR WINDOW (wheelchair-bound protagonist), THE SIXTH SENSE (I swear I went to that movie just to make sure that little boy made it out okay), THE SHINING.

Another suspense technique that can be built in on the premise level is the TICKING CLOCK. Building a clock into the story creates an overall sense of urgency. In SILENCE, we learn (very early) that Buffalo Bill holds his victims for three days before he kills them. So when Catherine is kidnapped, we know Clarice only has three days to save her. We know this because the characters say it. Beginning writers seem to be afraid to just say things straight out, but there’s no reason to be coy.

Harris does the same thing in RED DRAGON – that killer is on a moon cycle so the hero knows he has only a month to track this killer down before he kills another entire family. Again, we know that because the characters tell us so – repeatedly.

Harris is actually the master of the ticking clock – he has a particularly clever one in BLACK SUNDAY: a terrorist attack is being planned to take place at the Superbowl. Well, we all know it would take no less than the Apocalypse to get sponsors to cancel or postpone the Superbowl, so Harris has both locked his characters in to an inevitable event, and also created a clock – come hell or high water, it’s all going to come down on Superbowl Sunday.

Again, a ticking clock is manipulative, and you can make an argument that it’s a less effective technique these days because it’s been overused, but that just means you have to be more clever about it. Make it an organic clock, as in the examples above. In RED DRAGON, for example – having the killer be on a moon clock is very creepily effective, because not only is this a real characteristic of some serial killers, Harris has built a whole symbolic image system into this story – he uses animal imagery to depict this killer: describing him as a baby bat (with his cleft palate), emphasizing his biting, giving the character a desire to become a dragon. The moon clock is part of the image system, and the killer seems much more monstrous.

Now, all of the above are suspense techniques on the meta-level. Once you’ve created a story that has the elements of suspense built into the overall structure, you have to start working suspense on the scene level, moment-by-moment. And here’s where I find a lot of books really lacking in the kind of suspense I personally crave, which is about making me feel the physical and mental effects of wonder and terror. And that you have to do by working a scene over and over and over again. You need to direct it, act it, production design it, cast it, score it. What is scary in the physical environment, in the visual and in the symbolism of the space? How can you use sound to create chills? What is going through the character’s head that increases the danger of the experience? How do you use pace and rhythm of language to create the equivalent of a musical soundtrack (the prime purpose of which is to manipulate emotion in a viewer?)

You have to layer in all six senses – what it looks, smells, sounds, feels, tastes like – as well as what your characters sense are there, even though there’s no physical evidence for it. You have to create the effect of an adrenaline rush. I think a huge weakness of a lot of writers is that they either don’t understand – or they’re too lazy to convey – the effects of adrenaline on the body and mind. You know how in a good suspense or action scene the pace actually slows down, so that every detail stands out and every move takes ages to complete? Well, that writing technique is actually just duplicating the experience of an adrenaline rush – your heart is going so fast and your thoughts are coming so fast that everything around you seems slowed down. You react to things faster because your metabolism has sped up so you CAN react faster and possibly save yourself.

I’m realizing that this is going to have to be two posts – at least! – but here’s my last thought for this one. I think one of the best things a writer can do to learn how to write suspense is to take some acting classes. Learning to experience a story from INSIDE one of the characters – literally, inside that character’s body – will make you much more proficient at creating a physical, sensual experience for your readers.

So yes, if you have links to particularly good articles or sites on how to create suspense, please share! Authors, what are your favorite suspense tips and techniques? Who did you study to learn the fine art of suspense? And readers, who are your favorite suspense authors, and do you have a favorite KIND of suspense?