Author Archives: Murderati

It’s CRAP, I tell you!

by J.T. Ellison

I was watching Richard Roper on Jay Leno the other night. The teaser before the segment’s commercial break was, "When we return, we’ll talk about the worst movies of the year." They came back and had a very interesting discussion about bad movies. Leno asked if there are times when the director knows the movie is going south during filming and moves forward anyway, or do they truly believe that they are making a great movie.

Roper replied, "Well, no one sets out to make a bad movie."

Of course they don’t. No one in their right mind wants to produce crap, be it a movie, television show, or even a book. We’ve all read a book or two that’s a complete stinker. I’ve had a few moments when I look back to see who the editor is, who the house is, and find brand names in the acknowledgments. How does that happen???

Yes, criticism is subjective at best. What I love, another will hate, and vice versa. And it is sooooo easy to read a book, or watch a film, and say man, that sucked. But can we explain why? And if it’s so terrible, how did it make it into our hands and onto our screens???

I need to limit this to discussing books, because I’m hopelessly lost when it comes to movie production. I’d love it if a few of our movie folks would chime in from that side of the fence.

As authors, we strive to make each book better than our last. We struggle and soar, we research and express, we do everything in our power to give good quality entertainment to our readers. Sometimes we have a deeper message. Sometimes there’s a lesson to be learned. Sometimes, it’s just plain escapist fiction, fun for the writer to write and the reader to read.

So how do we produce clunkers? Because I have to tell you, there isn’t an author on the planet who hasn’t written a book they believe in, given it to their editor, who is enthusiastic, gone through the process of being sold-in to booksellers, who are also enthusiastic, then gotten slammed with a crappy review. Does that mean a book is bad? No. A review is a review is a review. Nothing more, nothing less.

What about the books that get brilliant reviews, but the readers hate? What causes the disparity in opinion?

And how does a book that everyone, and I mean everyone, agrees is terrible, make it through the process? The books only a mother could love. How does the editor let it through? How does the publisher get behind it? How does it make it into stores???

Again, no one sets out to write a bad book. No one sets out to produce a terrible movie. But they do exist. So where’s the quality control? Where are the editors and publishers and agents who need to red light the process, send the book back to the author and say, "You need to rewrite this puppy."

I can understand how much more difficult that might be in a movie. Our Toni is producing an indie film right now, and she shared some of her duties with me. I was flabbergasted. Imagine that on a George Lucas scale, with millions upon millions of dollars invested into a film. Have you even really read the credits at the end of a movie? Thousands of people are involved. Scrapping it to start over isn’t exactly feasible.

But if a novel isn’t up to snuff, what can we do? We’re one person, working with one editor, one agent, etc. There aren’t a million people on the payroll. Why can’t we full stop and start over?

As strange as it may seem, authors are people. Which means that they are experiencing this little thing called life, which has a tendency to get in the way. Say, God forbid, a loved-one passes away mid-way through a book. Is that novel going to be the author’s best effort? Maybe, maybe not. But can you insert a disclaimer in the preface and apologize to the reader? Or should the book be pulled from the queue and the author given a pass until they feel ready to produce again?

I’m speculating here, and I’m curious about your opinion. How do the bad books/movies make into the hands of the consumer? Do we do ourselves a disservice by not having a system of checks and balances to make sure that bad work doesn’t make it out there? Does it matter???

Wine of the Week: Tenuta dell’Ornellaia Bolgheri Superiore Ornellaia 2004

Walking in L.A.

There’s a lost art out here in the west. It’s still alive in many other areas of the country (and world for that matter) but here in California, more specifically Los Angeles, it’s a rare thing. What am I talking about?

Walking.

I love to walk. I’ve been a walker since I was a little kid. My parents tell me that my paternal grandfather used to love when we would come for a visit because he knew he could go on long walks with me around the neighborhood near their snowbird home in Yuma, Arizona. My grandfather was a farmer from northern Minnesota, so I’m sure walking wasn’t just a hobby with him, but something he did every day when he was actively working the fields.

Me, I have no excuse. Like I said, I started young, so no profession could account for my preference to walk than to drive. I just always loved to do it. And unlike most other kids that didn’t mind walking, I’ve never grown out of the phase.

How does this related to writing? In two ways, actually.

The first speaks directly to the desire to succeed at my craft. And by succeed, I mean become published. I’ve written before about my dedication to specific hours to write. Part of what made that possible was the fact that I purposely chose places to live that were close enough for me to walk to my day job. Now, for someone who loves to walk, that could have meant somewhere within a half hour to forty-five minute walking radius, but to achieve maximum writing time, minimum stress transit time, and not arriving at work in need of a shower, my first place was about fifteen minutes from my office. Later I moved even closer…now it’s ten minutes from living room to office desk.

What’s so big about that? You’re probably thinking. You can understand the living close to work to give you more time to write, and eliminating the mind-numbing chaos that is L.A. traffic. Why wouldn’t someone do that walk?

See, you have to know something about the L.A. culture. I had friends at work that lived even closer to the office than I did, and they DROVE EVERY DAY. Crazy, I know…irresponsible even…don’t think I didn’t bring that up to them, multiple times.

But that sad statement on L.A. society aside, walking gave me the time to write the book that finally got published.

The second way walking helps my writing is that it’s a great way to think about things. I’ll often go on a long walk as I try to work out some problem. I’m strolling the streets of the city, often the only one on the sidewalk, and working out the best way to throw Quinn deeper into whatever his latest mess is. I love doing that. Thought, admittedly, I often get distracted by the things I see around me. Billboards or items in store windows or people in cars will send me thinking about something else entirely. Suddenly ten minutes will pass and I’ll realize I hadn’t been thinking about my manuscript at all. That’s the price you pay, I guess. I still love it.

Often on these walks, whether it be to the day job, to work out a story point, or to the store, I’ll see something or think of something that triggers an idea for a new story. Some times so many ideas that I can’t remember them when I get home. (I know, I know. I should carry a notebook with me. Never can seem to remember to do that.)

I have a daydream of walking up the coast of California. Just lacing up the boots, throwing some water and snacks in a small backpack, and just going. Sure, it would be crazy. I’d need a little more planning than that. But who knows? Maybe someday I’ll wake up and say to myself, “Why not?” Then I’ll head out the door and see how far I can get. I’ll bet I could write a whole novel on a trip like that.

Again, the trick will be remembering it.

What do you do to kick start your ideas? (And Rob, I don’t want to hear any more stories about long showers or car drives…) And more importantly…walker, driver or passenger?

A COUPLE OF NOTES:

1. If you are still reading this on the last Thursday in February, and it’s not passed 6 p.m. Pacific Time, you still have a chance to enter my sweepstakes for an advance copy of my next novel THE DECEIVED. Info Here.
2. THE CLEANER gets its UK & Ireland release next Thursday March 6th. It’s a mass paperback so perfect for carrying around and reading when you have a moment or two of downtime!

Brett

Dirty Lives and Times

I recently finished
a book called "I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead: The Dirty Life and Times of Warren Zevon."
It’s a collection of reminiscences, a sort of oral history, by the people who knew him: his kids, his
writing and playing partners, his friends, quite a few ex-girlfriends, etc.

Now, I’ve been a Zevon fan since his self-titled album came
out in 1976. I’m one of the few people I know who actually owns a copy of Transverse City. The man’s music has had a
major effect on me and, I think, on my writing.

But in reading this book, I can
only come to one conclusion: the guy was a raging asshole,

I’m not talking "lovable scamp" here. I’m talking
about mean, selfish, manipulative, egomaniacal, emotionally and on occasion
physically abusive, and a pretty horrible dad to his
kids, at least when they were little.

To be fair, Zevon did
improve some once he quit drinking. The book also details moments of great
tenderness and generosity on his part. And I give him all due respect for telling Crystal Zevon. his
ex-wife and mother of his kids, to write the book and to tell it all, even the
bad stuff. But on the whole, while reading the book, I just kept thinking “this
was a guy who really needed his ass kicked, perhaps more than once.”

And yet…

The guy was also a freakin’ genius. If all you’ve heard of Warren Zevon is
his novelty hit “Werewolves of London,” you really ought to check out the
three albums that kicked off his career (Warren Zevon, Excitable Boy, and Bad Luck Streak in Dancing
School) as well as his last three (Life’ll Kill Ya, My Ride’s Here, and the
phenomenal The Wind, recorded in the last year of his life.) There are plenty of over the top gonzo anthems, like
“I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead,” “Excitable
Boy,” or “Basket Case” (written with Carl Hiassen):

My baby’s gonna
celebrate

I’m being dragged
through the nuthouse gates

Got my straitjacket on
and I’m taking her place

My baby is a basket
case

But Zevon could also
write songs that could only be described as brutally compassionate. like his noir take on Marilyn Monroe, “The
French Inhaler”:

Loneliness and
frustration

We both came down with
an acute case

When the lights came
up at 2:00

I caught a glimpse of
you

And your face looked
like something Death brought in in his suitcase

Your pretty face

Looked so wasted,

Another pretty face

Devastated…

(Makes “Candle in the Wind” look kind of candy-ass, doesn’t
it?)

Nothing I’ve read about Warren Zevon can detract from my
love for his music (well, most of it. The aforementioned Transverse City is just a mess). But the book got me thinking about how many great artists were,
to say the least, very hard on the
people around them. Jackson Pollock springs immediately to mind, as does Jerry Lee Lewis. And there are some people I
know for whom finding out the sordid details of an artist’s personal life
detracts from their enjoyment of that artist’s work. I actually once heard a person I’d already regarded as pretty literate say she hadn’t read Fitzgerald because "why would I read some drunk?"

How about you, ‘Rati? Has your perception of an artist’s work ever been affected by your knowledge that he or she was a world-class asshole? What is
the connection, if any, between being a great artist and a terrible person?

And, if I was a bigger jerk, could I sell more books? Because I could be, you know (and yes, I know I’m leaving myself
wide open here; take your best shots).

She Glides Along … the Solitary Hearted

By Ken Bruen

Dusty, on his blog, wrote an amazing piece on depression and it always takes cojones to write of such. I’ve suffered from clinical depression all me life and when I finally got diagnosed, I tried the medical route and it didn’t suit me. Now, when it hits, I bury meself in work and try … Jesus, do I try, not to let it affect those I love.

Depression is still unacceptable here, you tell someone you have it, they go

“You need a hobby to take your mind off yourself!”

Maybe fooking knitting, you think.

I can certainly knit me brows.

One bright spark, a life coach, told me and I quote

To “get a grip on meself!”

Through gritted teeth, I asked him

“Which bit of me should I grab?”

As a child, I learned to turn anger inwards, the classic cause of depression, recently, I’ve tried to do the opposite and not that I’m now a latent fuse but I reply faster and more openly to abuse.

You call me out, I’ll reply.

Dusty raises another oft discussed topic, if you had the choice, would you be happy and not write or … unhappy and writing.

No contest for me.

Writing is what keeps me going.

When I was asked recently, are you a very dark person? … I told the truth, always a no brainer, I said

“I write dark, I try to live in the light.”

My Rabbi, David Wolpe, in Floating Takes Faith writes

“Sometimes a mitzvah is seeing for yourself and coaxing a smile from the darkness.”

I ran that line by the grumpy priest I know and he sighed, his eyes expressing

“God almighty, here he goes again.”

He said

“Be more in your line to follow the faith you were raised in.”

But I knew he wouldn’t leave it alone and sure enough, later in the day, I was watching Boston Legal and he phoned, said

“I’ve been thinking about those Zen things you read and I’m now convinced, you’re a holy terror.”

I was delighted.

You get the clergy to actually come back at you, you’ve certainly got their attention and he finished with

“I can only hope it’s not true that the new book of yours isn’t, as I hear, taking a shot at nuns?”

I said

“Nuns, why would I do that?”

He said he’d pray for me.

The title of today’s blog comes from the poem ‘She was a Queen’ by Hartley Coleridge and has as a second line, “a smile of hers was like an act of grace.”

Few moments as shining as when you see a person’s face light up in pure delight.

The Hilary/Obama duel gets huge press coverage here and yes, we have found an Irish ancestor for Obama, as we did for Reagan and, whisper it, Nixon.

Last week, I was at a function for Down syndrome and it ran late, I was walking home along the canal and a guy was calling a girl every obscenity under the sun. Plus, he had a grip of her hair and not gently. I’ve sworn so many times to mind me own business but his language was beyond belief so I said

“Could you ease up on the language?”

He let her hair go and she faced me, called me every kind of bad bastard under the Galway sky and, bottom line, to go fook meself.

I wondered if that was in the neighborhood of “Get a grip on yourself?”

I don’t see her having that smile of grace but maybe I caught her on a bad night.

When I got home and was making some soup, I realized me hands were shaking, doing a veritable full on jig.

The line in me head

She walks in darkness.

It’s been that kind of week, full of twists and turns, it started with the revelation that Gerry Adams driver was a double agent, followed by the announcement that for the coming student Rag week, they were handing out 65,000 condoms and I can’t wait to hear what me priest has to say about that.

Me doorbell went early on Valentine’s Day and no, not a bunch of heart scented cards, god forbid, but a package of books I’d been waiting on. The postman, I’ve known for longer than I care to admit, gasped

“Jaysus, what happened to yer hair”

I said it was a buzz cut and thinking, I haven’t even had me coffee and I’m explaining me hair? … or lack of. He said

“It’s fooking brutal is wot it is.”

But the ones who know you, they lash you and then try to leave you with a little something, if not uplifting, at least less harsh, he said

“You look fooking dangerous, you know that.”

Try telling that to the girl on the canal.

I get me coffee, tell meself

“Two months to Noir Con, plenty of time to have the hair grow back.”

I open the package and the day brightens considerably

Among the gems

Gutted … by Tony Black

The Cold Spot … the Picc himself

Damnation Falls … Ed Wright

And Will Thomas

Few authors quoted as often as Mark Twain but I can’t help but think of him and

Good friends

Good books

And a

Sleepy conscience

This is

The ideal life.

I’d trade a lot for that sleepy conscience

As I sit before the blank screen, I read a quote I’ve put aside for a chapter heading

… above the roar of the wind, Hector hollers,

“If we survive this, bud — if you take those cocksuckers out — well, then I’ve got a hankering to head into the high country.”

If I could only quite figure out where the high country for me is?

If I could take on board what my friend Lou Boxer says

“To let go

No seeking, no striving

No stewing

In my own juice”

I receive a query as to where is the best place to start with Louis MacNeice and ‘Autumn Journal’ remains as fine as ever and you have to love a writer who described his own race as receiving from their country

… neither sense nor money

Who slouch around the world

With a gesture and a brogue

And a faggot of useless memories.

Lest all of the above tends more to the dark than the light, I remind meself of the following:

“Why have you come my son?”

Pause

Then

“To seek truth

To ask salvation

But mainly … to have a good laugh.”

‘

How did I get here?

by Pari

A friend of mine is going to turn 60 in April. I asked her how she felt about that and she said, "Pari, I’ve survived ovarian cancer for seven years now. I’m just glad I’ve made it this far."

But I’m feeling like David Byrne right now. You know the song, Once in a lifetime, with its famous question (it’s the title of this post).

And then there’s the cartoon on p. 52 of The New Yorker today. The one with the mayfly looking at himself in the bathroom mirror, despair writ large on his little face. He says, "I’ve got a wife, kids, a career — Jesus! I’m twelve hours old! How did this happen to me?"

Boy, can I relate. For the last few months, I’ve been staring mortality in the face. She’s got too many wrinkles, a hairy wart on her left cheek, and a wicked grin.

Yeah, sure, we never really know when we’re gong to die (unless we take it into our own hands). Still most of us avoid looking into that mirror unless we’re forced.

Enter birthdays that end in 0 . . .

When I turned 40, I could double the number of years I’d lived and imagine that an equal number awaited me. Or more! (Even though genetics aren’t in my favor in that regard . . . )

This week, in spite of the power of positive thinking, the math doesn’t work as nicely. When I face my age head-on, I get this lowdown, nasty, cramp-the-gut feeling. Damnit! I’m not gonna be here forever.

Enter distractions . . .

The day after tomorrow, I start a two-week period where I’ll be on the road 80% of the time. San Francisco, here I come! Denver, you’re looking mighty fine!

But a person can’t run forever; this birthday feels critical.

I want to take advantage of it, to live more intentionally.

What’s important? What isn’t?

I’m becoming lighter somehow, more willing to shed those activities, thoughts, goals, definitions and people that don’t deserve the mental/emotional real estate they’ve occupied in the past.

I’m redefining "success." Not "settling for less," but looking at the real value — at least for me, in my life. Fan letters suddenly mean more than reviews; there’s incredible satisfaction in knowing I’ve created a satisfying read.

I’m not as desperate to go traipsing around the country for every potential promotional opportunity; real relationships are the goal now. The old quality vs quantity question is a no-brainer.

I’m writing more than I ever have before, taking risks . . .

Who knows where any of our lives are heading? With this birthday, I’m finally old enough to realize that I don’t.

And, because of that, I’m paying more attention to today, to every day.

_____________________________________________________________________

Next Monday, Steve Brewer will be guest blogging here at Murderati. He’s got a great post and I hope all y’all will make him feel welcome.

Stayed tuned for regular programming

Hi, Murderati readers,

Many of the ‘Rati crew are on the road today.

Please check back tomorrow — Sunday — for a new post.

Thanks,

Pari

It Was a Dark and Stormy Night …

by Zoë Sharp

I’m fascinated by opening lines. It’s a question I always ask other writers: "What’s the opening line of your last/latest book?" and it’s amazing how often they can’t quite seem to remember, or maybe they’re just a little embarrassed to be able to quote it verbatim off the top of their head.

For me, nothing is harder to write than that first sentence. I’m reminded of the famous quote – can’t remember who originally said it – that goes: ‘After three months of continuous hard labour, he thought he might just have a first draft of the opening line.’ Always gets a laugh, but the terrible thing is that it’s not far off the truth.

I just can’t go forwards until I have a start I’m happy with. Maybe it’s because when I pick up a book by a new or new-to-me author, the first thing I read is the opening paragraph. It says everything about the pace, the style, the voice. It basically tells me if I want to go on with the rest of the book, almost regardless of anything else.

So far, I’ve been lucky and nobody’s asked me to change the start of a book – it’ll happen, I’m sure – but generally speaking, I’m pretty easygoing about edits. If my agent or my editor says something needs altering or cutting, and I don’t have a really good reason for that scene to stay, it goes. Comes from years of non-fiction writing for magazines, where you couldn’t get away with lying full length on the floor and beating your fists into the carpet, wailing, just because somebody wanted you to cut half your deathless prose to fit around the pretty pictures.

But I hate it when people mess with the rhythm of what I’ve written for no good reason. I put commas in for their original purpose – to tell the reader when to pause, where to place the emphasis within a sentence so it reads with the same cadence as it had in my head when I wrote it.

I did a short story for a particular magazine last year. It had to be to a specific length and I delivered it precisely 32 words over, which I thought was pretty close to target. The story was entitled ‘The Getaway’ and my original opening went:

‘Lenny Bright sat opposite the Holland and Seagrave Building Society in a gunmetal Honda Accord with the engine running. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the front door for twenty minutes, and right at that moment he would have sold his soul for a cigarette.’

But when the magazine arrived, to my surprise the editor had changed the opening to:

‘Sitting opposite the Holland and Seagrave Building Society Lenny Bright kept the engine of his gunmetal Honda Accord running. He hadn’t taken his eyes off the front door for twenty minutes, and he would have sold his soul for a cigarette.’

Not a great deal of difference, I grant you, but enough to change the whole character of the opening, the pace, the style, everything. Lenny’s a getaway driver, as the title suggests, so it’s not his Honda, for a start. And somehow the ‘right at that moment’ seemed an important point to make about Lenny’s sudden craving for nicotine. Quite apart from anything else, it just reads WRONG to me, and I wish they’d asked me before they messed with it – or even told me beforehand that they intended to – but there you go. Argh!

When I was kicking around the idea for this post, I went and looked up the opening lines for my fellow ’Rati, and when you look at them all, one after another, you really get a feel for the eclectic styles of this highly talented group of writers.

Pari Noskin Taichert – THE SOCORRO BLAST

‘If hell exists, it’s filled with old boyfriends … and a cat.’

Louise Ure – THE FAULT TREE

‘At the end, there was so much blame to spread around that we could all have taken a few shovelfuls home and rolled around in it like pigs in stink.’

Robert Gregory Browne – KISS HER GOODBYE

‘It all started when the pregnant girl went crazy.’

JD Rhoades – GOOD DAY IN HELL

‘The first blow split Stan’s lip and knocked him into a stack of re-capped tyres at the back of the repair bay.’

and THE DEVIL’S RIGHT HAND

"She ain’t no damn lesbian," the stocky man said.

Ken Bruen – CROSS

‘It took them a time to crucify the kid. Not that he was giving them any trouble; in fact, he’d been almost co-operative.’

Brett Battles – THE CLEANER

‘Denver was not Hawaii. There were no beaches, no palm trees, no bikinis, no mai tais sipped slowly on the deck of the Lava Shack on Maui.’

JT Ellison – ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS

"No, please don’t."

and 14

‘Would the bastard ever call?’

Alexandra Sokoloff – THE PRICE

‘Dead of winter, and snow falls like stars from a black dome of sky.’

Toni McGee Causey – BOBBY FAYE’S VERY (VERY, VERY, VERY) BAD DAY

‘Something wet and spongy plunked against Bobbie Faye’s face and she sprang awake, arms pinwheeling. "Damn it, Roy, you hit me with a catfish again and I’m gonna–"’

All very different, all fascinating. They make me want to know more about all these stories, just from the opening lines. Not only that, but I’m intrigued to know if these were the original opening lines for each book? Were there lots of ideas kicked around? Did an editor disagree with your preference and you had to make a major change?

But what makes a good opening line? What’s your personal favourite as a reader? How do you decide on one as a writer? The openings of some of the most famous novels vary wildly, from the famous "Call me Ishmael" of MOBY DICK to the incredible opening sentence from Montgomery’s ANNE OF GREEN GABLES, which weighs in at a hefty 149 words, beating Dickens’ positively lightweight opener to A TALE OF TWO CITIES by a solid thirty. Wow, people must have had the breath control of a whale in those days.

But it’s not just the opening lines that intrigue me, it’s what they represent. They are the jumping-off point for the whole tale. Books never start at the beginning of the story, and deciding exactly where to invite your reader to join you on that journey is an enormously difficult choice, because it’s vital they arrive at the right point to engage their interest, intrigue them, make them unable to leave that bookstore without your book clutched under their arm. But you can’t cheat, either. You can’t open the book with a situation so outrageous that, when the explanation’s finally revealed, it can never live up to the set-up.

When I wrote the opening line for SECOND SHOT, it was one that came to me immediately and it never changed:

‘Take it from me, getting yourself shot hurts like hell.’

The whole of that opening scene, where Charlie Fox, shot twice, lies bleeding in a freezing forest in New England, watching her principal die in front of her, arrived in one big lump, like something out of a movie. I watched it unfold in front of me and I wrote down what I saw, as fast as my little fingers could thump the keys.

But, as you can imagine, the opener for that book is very definitely not the start of the story itself. And, contrary to many expectations, it’s not the end of it either. Not by a long shot. Or, in this case, a couple of medium-range ones. One of the whole ideas behind the book was to strip away Charlie’s physical self-assurance, her capability when it comes to defending herself and those she’s been tasked to protect. So, I put her on crutches for the latter half of the book, just to see how she coped. So, I suppose you could say the real start for the story is Chapter Two, when she first meets Simone, the woman whose life she will fail to save, and Simone’s young daughter, Ella. And that was a pig to write.

Closing lines are just as bad, although when JT told me the closing line for ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS, it links just beautifully with that opener: "No. Please don’t. Yes."

The closing line for SECOND SHOT arrived in the shower while we were staying at a friend’s house in Chicago, and I literally had to jump out from under the spray and write it down. It came to me long before I finished the rest of the book and when I got there, it just seemed to fit perfectly. Maybe I was subconsciously writing towards it the whole time:

‘So, still I ask myself the question: Did I kill him because I had no choice, or because I made one?’

And boy, I hope I never enter one of those bizarre alternate realities where fictional characters spring to life, because if that ever happens I swear Charlie Fox is going to seek me out and beat the crap out of me for what I put her through in that book.

Erm, and the next one, actually …

This week’s Word of the Week, appropriately enough is persue. Not only is this an obsolete spelling of pursue, but it derives from the French percée, the act of piercing. It was used by Spenser – and I mean Edmund the English poet, rather than Robert B Parker’s detective – to mean a track of blood.

How Far is Too Far?

by Robert Gregory Browne

I read a lot of books. I read whole books and parts of books. I read
two and three books at a time. Walk around my house and you’re likely
to see a number of them cracked open and waiting for me to pick them up.

Recently I started a reading a new book, but suddenly had to quit. I couldn’t go forward. And I want to tell you why.

What follows is not meant to be a criticism of this particular book.
I haven’t read the whole thing, so how can I possibly criticize? I will
say this, however: the person who wrote it can write. I mean, REALLY
write.

And while what he’s writing would likely be characterized as
melodrama, there is nothing melodramatic about his writing. There is a
certain minimalist grace to his prose that I wish I could manage.

I was immediately swept up by his style, his tone and his story.
And, judging by the critical attention the book has gotten, I’d say
that I’m one of the few who actually stopped reading.

But now to the why.

I don’t want to risk giving anything away, so I’ll be fairly vague
about the storyline. But let me boil it down to its essence — at least
what I know of the story.

It’s about a man who has an affair and how that affair causes his
life to take a sudden and devastating wrong turn. It all hums along at
a good clip, keeping the reader intrigued. They meet, they flirt, they
fall in lust… Then there is an incident about forty or so pages into
the book that is so awful, so invasive, so repellent that I simply had
to put it down.

I can’t describe that incident to you. But let’s just say you wouldn’t wish it on your worst enemy.

And as I set the book down, telling myself that I didn’t think I’d
continue reading, I had to ask why? (Yes, I’m getting to it.)

Was it because the incident in question was too intense? Too
graphic? No, I don’t think so. I’m not particularly bothered by graphic
scenes and, frankly, as far as graphic goes, my own mind did most of
the work — a sign that I’m dealing with a very good writer.

But here’s the thing: no matter what happens in the rest of the
book, no matter how happy the ending might be, no matter who lives or
dies, who kisses and makes up, who is rescued from evil —

– it’s all too late.

Because once the incident in question happens, nothing any of the
characters might do from that moment forward can change that fact. No
matter how wonderful everything turns out in the end — and I’m assuming
it will — there is nothing the author can do to erase that awful, awful
moment and somehow make it better.

Well, there is ONE thing the author could do. Probably what I would
do, if I were writing the book. A major twist could change everything —

— But I can’t count on that happening.
And because I was so devastated by that one act, that one scene, that
one irrevocable moment, I lost all desire to go forward, even if a major twist will change it all. The damage has been done.

So I have to ask, how far is too far?

While I’d never say we’re obligated as writers to make everything
smiley and happy — quite the opposite if you want to write readable
books — I do think that we take a huge risk when we treat a character
so brutally that the smiley happy moments can’t erase what we’ve done.

As I said, I think the author is a wonderful writer. In fact, I just picked up another of his books.

But that one scene just killed it for me. Maybe I cared too much.
Maybe it’s because the writer has done his job. But it got to me and I
felt sick to my stomach and just didn’t want to go forward.

I won’t name the book here, because I don’t think it would be fair to the author.

But I’m curious to know if any of you have ever had a similar experience, where you felt the author had somehow crossed the line and you just couldn’t read any further?

The Best of Times?

By Louise Ure

There are enough bleak times to span the seasons. But then, every now and again, a couple of THESE weeks come along, when all your favorite things happen at once.

Weeks when lots of old friends show up at book signings in Seattle and Los Angeles and San Leandro.

And they buy books. Lots of books.

Weeks when your desk is covered with anthuriums and orchids because your spouse knows the value of a continuing Valentine’s Day celebration.

Weeks when you get to have lunch with one of your favorite people in the whole world. (Mrs. Claus was there, too, although suffering with a mean bronchitis.)

Weeks when your sister arrives for a weekend’s worth of birthday partying (hers, not mine). She gets to request any meal and almost always picks osso buco.

Then we pamper ourselves with pedicures and good red wine.

Weeks when you’re reading a new friend’s manuscript and realizing what a fine, fine writer she is. (Are you listening, Susan?)

Weeks when you treat yourself to a new toy and find it to be even more fun than you ever thought possible.

Weeks when some neighborhood wag leaves this on your door and makes you smile.

Ha!

So what’s the problem? Anhedonia, I’m guessing, or its little sister "too much input, not enough time for reflection."

Anhedonia, of course, is an inability to appreciate normally pleasurable activities. For me, this week, it’s literary anhedonia. An inability to enjoy a good read (with a couple of exceptions) or write anything worth a damn myself.

And that’s scary. When your go-to source of pleasure dries up and no matter how many other good things in life are happening, all you can think about are the things that aren’t.

The tour is almost done. I have the gorgeous Authors on the Move event in Sacramento to look forward to, then a visit from our own Pari, then Denver for LCC.

Someplace along the way, I hope I can dash this feeling of ennui and dissatisfaction that’s taken root. I need to fall in love with reading and writing again.

Tell me, my ‘Rati brethren, what makes a great week for you? And any suggestions for this too-long string of days when the pleasure of reading and writing has abandoned me?

More than magic in this city

by Pari

The subject of conventions has come up more than once on the ‘Rati, but some are so special they deserve a post of their own.

Enter Murder in the Magic City.

Each year, in early February, Margaret Fenton and the Southern Sisters in Birmingham, Alabama host this one-day event at the Homewood Library. It consists of four sequential panels, a lunch, and a talk by the Guest of Honor. Sounds simple, huh?

The next day, authors caravan to Wetumpka, Alabama for Murder on the Menu. This luncheon fundraiser for the local library is the brainchild of indie bookstore owner Tammy Lynn.

A person could argue that the success of these two events rests on the fact that they’re only on one day, or that they’re small and manageable. However, I think those comments diminish the real magic here.

From the moment authors accept the personal invitation to come to Alabama, they’re treated with warmth and respect. Margaret and Tammy make a point of communicating frequently with useful information; you know they’ve got their act together. What other convention picks up ALL of its writer panelists at the airport, gives them great food and drink? What other convention strives so hard to make people — audience and author — feel appreciated? The same is true for the Murder on the Menu. There are gift bags for the authors and happy fans who can’t wait to discover new fiction.

Every single detail has been thought through and improved upon.

This year, for the first time, organizers were faced with many last-minute changes — authors got sick, the weather didn’t cooperate — and yet, I doubt anyone in the audience noticed. Every panel was excellent, each participant talking about craft and life with intelligence and humor. The audience was delighted. I loved being able to listen to all of my fellow authors at both events, to learn more about them as writers and people.

And, the audiences at both MitMC and MotM come to buy. It’s a beautiful thing to see that many people, their arms laden with books, waiting in line.

Some of the most memorable moments for me this year were:

Meeting Gena Ellis, a talented screenwriter, with whom I’ve corresponded since she posted on DL. I spent time with Julia Pomeroy, Deb Baker, Donna Andrews and Toni Kelner. Talk about quality fun! What pleasure to meet Linda Berry, Kathleen Delaney, and the K-Y man Darden North; to hear Radine Trees Nehring and Lonnie Cruse speak so eloquently about their work, to watch Gayle Wigglesworth on a panel. Betty Webb did a bang-up job as a moderator; Jane Cleland danced and sang; Donna told us about penguin sex; Rosemary Harris glowed with that wonderful newness of an author being on a panel at a convention for the first time; and J.T.‘s happiness was palpable when she explained the pleasure in returning to MitMC as an author after having been in the audience just two short years before.

One of my absolute favorite moments was after the delicious barbecue dinner on Saturday night. Most people had gone off to bed, but a few of us stayed around a table, unwilling for the night to end. Don Bruns took out his guitar and began to sing ballads so lovely they brought tears. And, in the way that these things go, others began to sing. Deb Baker wanted to hear Piano Man and Bob Morris — bless him — whipped out an IPhone (or whatever that little computer dillybob was) and looked up the words. We sang and sang until the hotel staff turned off the lights.

I’d urge EVERYONE — fan and author alike — to put one or both of these events on your to-do list. The hotel isn’t expensive. Restaurants are nearby. And, I can guarantee you’ll have a magical time.

Below are some pictures from Murder in the Magic City. I’m including them so you can see some of your friends or favorite authors. I wish I’d been together enough to have better quality, snapped more . . .

Above: Gena Ellis and husband in the bookroom. J.T. holding her debut novel.
Below: Radine Trees Nehring and her husband, John, at breakfast. Gayle Wigglesworth and Betty Webb at their signing.

Below: Julia Pomeroy, Don Bruns and Deb Baker.
And, next to that . . . well, it’s the giant statue of Vulcan that overlooks Birmingham. And, um, I liked this particular angle.

LATE BREAKING PHOTO — from Margaret Fenton this afternoon. How many of these authors can you identify??