Author Archives: Murderati

Gushing

Pardon me. I know I should be above this. I’m a multi-published novelist, after all. You’d think I’d be past the pre-book-launch jitters, past the butterflies in the stomach worries that no one will show, beyond the sheer joy of that first big event in a book’s entry into the world.

Well, sorry, folks . . . I’m not.

Last Saturday, Jan. 26, will survive in my memory until it’s wiped out by dementia or death.

I knew the Borders store where I planned to have the launch was going to go the extra mile to make it special; there were going to be the gift-card drawings, the book giveaways, the grand prize. But I had no idea just how much farther the store had decided to go. Still, I spent sleepless nights worrying that only a handful of friends might show up. After all, this is book #3, not the first. I’m no longer a "novelty,’ no longer fresh in the way that J.T. is this year.

On top of that, the publicist at UNM Press had her baby earlier this month. In years past, she’d worked tirelessly to make sure the media was absolutely on top of my launches. The woman who is filling her shoes is very good, but doesn’t have the same super buy-in. And then there was the super-long, super-ambivalent review in the local paper. Most of my readers thought it was just fine. I sure didn’t.

So, I approached the signing with some trepidation. Would Borders be disappointed? Would their–and my — pr work be for naught?

I arrived at the store, carrying a tub of Atomic Fireball candies (WARNING: these things are HOT!), thirty minutes before show time. The first thing I saw when I approached the information desk was

Yeah. Pretty cool, huh?

Then I was whisked back into an office — away from hubbub — to sample this

Yes, that’s right. The Borders had invented a drink, "The Socorro Blast," for the event. It was a mocha delight with — as you can see — a huge pile of canned whipped cream, drizzled chocolate AND "red hots." It tasted great.

I chatted with the store’s GM for a few minutes while the Sales Manager went out to finalize arrangements. She came back and said, "Pari, it’s packed out there. And, I’ve got to tell you . . . the energy is just wonderful. It’s so positive, joyful."

I felt my shoulders relax a little. This wasn’t going to be a disappointment for the store or for me. Thank goodness.

Then it was time to be escorted out. When we entered the rotunda area, the audience burst into applause. There were people there from every single aspect of my life — from family-friends who knew my mom before I was born to supporters from the Do Jang, from my children’s former teachers to fans who’d driven more than an hour to get to ABQ — and the love in that room almost made me cry. (I love this picture of a small part of the group because everyone is smiling. Imagine 25 solid minutes of that kind of warmth.)

I told the audience that book launches, and signings where the authors speak, are special. They’re like live concerts. What’s said is unique, once-in-a-lifetime. For that reason, I decided to tell them WHY I wrote this particular book, why I focused on intolerance and used humor to make some of my points, how I hoped the book would have a good and strong life.

The long line after the event, the wonderful sales, the hugs and joyous wishes — all are kind of a blur right now. But I’m happy. I think my newest book has had a beautiful entry into the world.

And, you know what? In spite of those uncomfortable nights, in spite of the anxiety, I pray I never lose the excitement and wonder of it all . . .

So, everyone . . . Tell me about your favorite, most moving book event.

___________________________________________________________________________

Tomorrow is the paperback launch of Patry Francis’s THE LIAR’S DIARY. Francis has a particularly aggressive form of cancer and won’t be able to do the kind of promotion I mention in today’s blog. Please, buy her book. Tell your friends. Let’s support ALL the writers we can — whether they’re able to have public appearances or not.

POV — persistence of vision

by Toni

We often discuss point of view (POV) when it comes to writing–both the specific point of view chosen for the work (first, third, etc.) as well as the point of view or voice of the author. However, whenever I hear the term POV, I also think of the psychological phenomenon of persistence of vision.

Persistence of vision is a phenomenon described back in 1824 by a physician, Peter Mark Roget, who was trying to figure out the mechanism whereby we perceived motion when we saw images in a quick succession. His research was the precursor to years of follow-up study which was seized upon by film theorists as a way to explain why we see motion, or how the still images create the perception of movement. As Joseph and Barbara Anderson point out, Roget and his successors were trying to find the answers to the questions:

Why is the image continuous, and why does it move? In other words, why do the separate frames appear continuous rather than as the intermittent flashes of light which we know them to be? And why do the figures on the screen appear to move about in smooth motion when we know they are in fact still pictures?

The Andersons spend a lot of time (and have in the past in other prominent essays) trying to debunk the "myth of persistence of vision" because biologically, the mechanism Roget used (and was expanded upon by later researchers and theorists) was flawed. As researchers, the Andersons are focused on refuting the prevailing myth of persistence of vision and look to several other explanations of why we see movement, but in the long run, I think they miss why people cling to the myth: we see because the images create the opportunity to see. We connect the images–whether it’s because of speed or flow or distance or some combination, we see the images and interpret "motion" because that makes sense from our experience of things-in-motion.

We recognize motion.

Even if it’s something in motion that we haven’t ever seen personally, like a specific person walking across a specific room.

What holds our attention, though… for any length of time… is how we see the images. The angle of the images, the lighting, the mood, the way they’re framed, the context, the tone (coloring), etc., can all work to create what I like to call (and I think I am totally making this up), "recognition dissonance" — where what we see is both familiar (we can tell what it is that we’re looking at) and unfamiliar (we’re looking at it in a slightly different way/angle, etc., or with something that intrigues our visual comprehension or the composition is unsettling enough to make us work to figure out what we’re seeing)… so that we keep looking. Give the same script to two different directors and you’re going to end up with two different films. Give one of those scripts to a great director, and you’ll be riveted.

Okay, so what does that have to do with writing?

When we’re writing, we’re creating the mythology of a world. As the author, we (hope we) have a persistence of vision, a way of seeing the world and communicating that imagery to the reader to help them hook into the images and the characters and stories. We have to bring recognizable things to the reader (sights, sounds, etc.) but with an angle of vision that is uniquely appropriate to that world. It’s a step beyond just creating setting; it’s translating the dream.

If we think about it, there’s no clear reason why we should see motion in film. There’s also no reason why people should "see" the world we create with these discrete words on a page. Words are strung together in such a way that maybe they make grammatical sense, and surely they hold meaning, but for this sentence to create an image that leads into the next sentence which enhances that image and keeps the image alive in the mind… continuous… is a sort of deliberate magic.

One of the things I think about as I write is not only "what is the right detail for the image here?" but "will it keep the image flowing, will it keep the forward motion of the story, will it break or keep the mood?" The last thing a writer wants to do is to have a moment where the flow stops, like a broken film strip, flapping in the projector (or, to update, a scratch on a DVD). The reader stops, the continuous image is broken, and it’s easier for them to put the book down.

I think writers tend to do (or want to do) the above naturally–it’s a part of creating that unbreaking story. We’re mythmakers, and everything we write goes to the creation and sustaining of that myth, and we learn it by trial and error. But we can’t forget that part of the reason why the reader connects to the story through these bits of alphabet is because they want to see the world. We’re creating an opportunity and they are supplying the faith. It’s our job to give them something unique to look at, to hold their attention, to both recognize and intrigue their curiosity. If the world I create (the setting, the people) could be plunked down into someone else’s setting, then I’ve failed at creating that dream, that worldview that is unique.

Some writers out there are so damned good at creating those worlds, that the imagery last for years and can be recalled as clearly as if the reader had actually, physcially been in the location of the story, witnessing it unfold. I have a long list of writers who’ve done this, but I’m curious about you… who have you read who creates this sort of vision, this sort of world? Who are the mythmakers you admire?

— a side note… I am omitting about a zillion points on the psychology and physiology of recognition and how that relates to film. I can geek out, but I’d like more than two people to finish reading this.

–second side note… In addition to Pari’s novel THE SOCORRO BLAST being out right now, don’t forget Louise Ure’s THE FAULT TREE and, coming out TUESDAY, THE 29TH, friend of the ‘Rati’s Allison Brennan’s first in her new trilogy, KILLING FEAR. Three unique worldviews, three unique visions, all fantastic. Seriously.

Contemporary home office furniture.

A little while ago I mentioned splitting into two writers and developing a pseudonym. Since I started writing, I’ve straddled two genres. I’ve had one foot in the world of crime and the other in horror. Instead of a cross-pollination of readers, I confused everyone. Mystery readers thought I wrote horror and horror readers thought I wrote mystery—and editors thought I should stop bothering them.

Ever since I mentioned splitting, I’ve been beavering away at trying to sell some of my darker stuff. I have several pieces I’ve been pushing hard. They would make for the perfect springboard to launch my other identity. Well, I made that breakthrough sale. Next year will see the release of a very dark prison-set horror novella entitled, The Scrubs. The story incorporates a fictionalization of London’s Wormwood Scrubs prison. I’ve invented a dark mythology around the prison based on its name. I’m very proud of the story. Julie thinks it’s one of most visually impactful things I’ve ever written. I certainly think it’s one of the most imaginative things I’ve done. Bad Moon Books picked up the rights and will be releasing the book as a limited edition trade paperback and a hardback collector’s edition next year. I’m quite excited. I’ve always considered myself limited—but never in book form. J

So, now I can officially split personalities. I’m sticking a fork in the road that will go in two directions at once and readers out there can either follow one or both roads along with me. I’m pleased with the decision. I’m not keeping my two identities secret. I’m not ashamed of my horror writing. I just want to end the confusion. Essentially, I’m branding my work. If someone wants horror, go here and you’ll find it under this label. If someone wants crime, go there and find it under that label. I hope those that know me will want to seek out my two sides. Those people who don’t know me won’t know the difference.

So, if I’m splitting, who am I going to be from now on? Well, seeing as all but one of my published books have been in the mystery-thriller world, I’m sticking with Simon Wood for my criminal fiction and it’s my horror identity that will be new. So please give a warm—yet dark—welcome a new voice in horror, Simon Janus.

I stuck with Simon as a first name as I find it’s a bugger to sign a different name. Janus is the perfect name to break out with as a pen name. If you know your Roman mythology, Janus is the two-faced god. That goes hand in hand with my life in two genres. Also, Janus is the god of new beginnings. The month of January is named after him. Oh, this is too perfect. This really sums up what I’m doing here. This is fate on a bagel. Finally, Janus sits snuggly on the shelf just before King and Koontz. Hmm…coincidence? I’ll let you decide, but I will say this—sometimes I can be very premeditated.

So when I think dark, I’m Simon Janus. I think it works. What do you think? It has a ring to it, doesn’t it?

Yours coming at you from two sides,
Simon Wood
PS: Next week, Chris Grabenstein will stand in for me and Bryon Quertermous the week after, while I break the back on a new project. Be nice to them. They’re doing me a favor.

What dreams may come

by Alex

I always tell the students in my writing workshops that if they’re not writing down the dreams they have, every morning, they’re working way too hard.

I’m starting to do interviews about THE PRICE, which comes out next month, and I got that question yesterday: “Where did the story come from?” And because you tend to forget how you started your last book, and pretty much everything else about it, when you’re tearing your hair out over the new one, I had a moment of, “What the hell?” And my mind was scrambling for some intelligent thing to say about my thematic obsession with the secret deals that we make with ourselves about the things we want, but what came out of my mouth instead was, “I dreamed it.”

Which shocked me speechless for a second, and then I remembered. That’s right. It did start with a dream. A series of dreams, actually.

I love that about interviews… they teach you so much about what you’ve written and why you wrote it.

I didn’t dream the whole book, or even the whole idea of the book, which I understand happens to people all the time – and I believe it. But certainly I dreamed the seed that grew into the book.

This is an extremely sad story, but this is what happened (in real life). A friend of mine and his wife had just had their first child, and she was born with a hole in her heart. She lived the whole of her two months of life in the children’s ward of a Boston hospital, and her parents moved into the hospital to be with her. When she died, her parents were too distraught to come home to all the unused baby furniture and clothes, so a bunch of their friends packed everything up for them, and because I have a huge attic, we put it all upstairs in my house. That night I started having dreams of a beautiful little five-year old girl who was not alive but not dead, either – somewhere in between. And that was the beginning of the book – that little girl haunting me in my dreams.

Now, who’s to say why it was that little dream girl who crystallized all the rest of that heartbreaking real-life situation into a book? No one would read the dreams I had and recognize them as the book that came out of that, which really isn’t about that little girl at all, important though she is in it. Maybe I needed to feel the girl first because I don’t have a child of my own and I needed to put myself in the position of her parents to write the book I was going to write.

But there are certain dreams you have that are just so vivid that you KNOW they’re the start of a book. I don’t know if this is true of all authors or artists but it is true of many of the writers, musicians and painters I know: your dreams work just as hard on your ideas as you do at your desk in waking life. And particularly as a writer of the supernatural, I depend on those dream images to give a certain unreality to real-life situations – and to give a certain inevitability to my unreal situations.

I know that this new book is finally clicking into place because I’m starting to dream it, or rather dream I’m in it, and let me tell you, it’s a relief to have my subconscious take over for me, because I was getting tired of doing all the work myself.

I meet a lot of people who say they don’t dream. Well, that’s impossible – dreaming is a vital life function. What they mean is they don’t remember their dreams. Since dreams are so elusive, you need to actively court them to keep them on the surface long enough for you to remember. I’ve kept a dream journal since I was fifteen or sixteen. The more you write them down – even just a word or a feeling that you remember – the more they will start to stay with you. And this sounds strange, but it really works – if you wake up from a dream that you can’t remember, but you know you were just dreaming – try rolling gently back into the position you were actually sleeping in. Many times the entire dream will pop right back into your head, like magic. I don’t know how that happens, but it works like a charm.

And I swear, if you don’t keep that pad and pen, or tape recorder if you prefer, right next to your bed, you will not remember as much. Your dreams seem to need to KNOW that you are committed to remembering them, or they won’t let you remember.

In fact, if I get on a kick of writing every dream I remember down, then I remember pages and pages of dreams, six or seven a night – so many it would start to cut into my work time if I wrote them down.

So you have to find a balance. Or maybe I could get my dreams to do entire books for me if I wrote all that stuff down. Who knows? I wouldn’t be at all surprised.

So of course my questions for the day are – Do you remember your dreams? Can you share an example of a book or story that came from a dream? And do you have any tips about dreamwork in general? And for bonus points – have you ever had precognitive dreams?

A Block of Parmesan and a Pot of Darjeeling

J.T. Ellison

It’s been one of those weeks, so let me beg your forgiveness up front.

I’ve been nestled in my chair, hard at work, moving only to cut nibbles off a block of Parmesan cheese and brew copious pots of tea. Never distracted, that ‘s me. I WISH!!!

I’ve realized that I’m much too caught up in "current events." Current Events was one of those items you’re graded on in elementary school, then morphs into a class in junior high. I excelled at Current Events. Excelled. I’m a news junkie as a result, and now I realize I’m a media whore as well. The death of one of my favorite actors, Heath Ledger, stunned me into immobility on Tuesday. I sat and stared at the television, stared at my laptop screen, stared into space. I "experienced" the moment, along with millions of others. It sucked.

And it’s funny, because I’ve broken myself of the habit of having my television on all day tuned to the news stations. I never turn the TV on during the day anymore. My Mom called to tell me Thompson had pulled out of the Presidential race, so I skimmed the web news sites that I frequent. The Breaking News about Ledger came up, so I turned on the TV, in shock. Something in me kept waiting for them to say it was all a mistake. I waited, and watched…

Three hours later, hubby arrived home. My laptop was burning hot in my lap, I had four windows open that I was refreshing every few seconds, the TV was blaring, and I was still in total shock. Just then, they broke in to show Ledger’s body being wheeled from the apartment building. I thought I might just throw up. I kept going back to TMZ (TMZ, y’all. I was in a bad way) to see what tidbits they had uncovered. They got most of it wrong, as did all the news services, but little bits of truth scampered out. I resisted the urge to email a friend who works in the ME’s office in New York, just to say if he saw the body to say a prayer over it for me.

Hubby, not greeted at the door with the customary slippers and a martini, wandered into the living room looking lost. I assume he looked lost, that is, because I didn’t look up from the computer screen. I was much too busy refreshing, replaying the stretcher rolling, imagining Ledger’s gorgeous body in there and all the people who loved him being subjected to this insane treatment of his last day on earth. Imagining how I’d feel if I DID know the lump in black. Throwing up was again an option.

Hubby broke the spell. He frowned and said, "I see the copyedits are going well."

Oh, yeah. Did I mention, I’m doing copyedits??? Sandwiched in between two out-of-town appearances on back-to-back weekends, leading into the Killer Year signing next week. No excuse, but still…

I had given up for the night anyway. Something about this kid dying just rocked me. I don’t know him. I’ve never seen him in person. I’ve never met anyone who knows him. Yet as I watched the coverage, I knew deep in my heart that he wouldn’t be happy with all the fuss. An intensely private media person, Ledger was being publicly dissected, and I was furious for him.

That’s when I realized I’d fallen into the black hole myself. I hate the idea of this kind of media frenzy. yet I watched, pointed and clicked with bated breath all afternoon. Shame on me.

Shame on all of us. Why do we let these vultures, the paparazzi and the media, perpetuate this insane culture of excess, celebrating, CELEBRATING, when kids go down the wrong path. If you’ve got money and fame, by God we’re going to hear about your escapades. When you die as a result, well, that’s ratings gold.

Sigh.

I dragged myself back to the page on Wednesday. It’s late Thursday now, and I’m nearly done. I’ve been lost in Taylor’s world for two days, and am starting to feel that incessant curiosity about the real world leave me.

So how do copyedits and Heath Ledger combine into a cohesive blog post? Well, they don’t, really. This has to be the first week in a long while that I just didn’t know what to write about. I’m a bit burned out on the blogging front, I’m afraid. It’s one of those weird moments when you realize you just don’t have anything to say.

So let me share what I’ve learned this week.

1. Don’t take anything for granted. In life, in art, in our hopes and dreams. It seems more and more that you need to be tortured to be an artist. I vote for less torture and more art. Try to live life to the fullest, because it is a frail beast.

2. When you’re copyediting a current book, you need to make sure that the changes being addressed are consistent with your last book. I imagine the further into the process you are, the worse this phenomenon gets.

3. I have zero grasp of the plural possessive. I lay the blame squarely at the feet of Mrs. Grasso, who made me read Animal Farm instead of teaching me how to use a damn apostrophe.

4. No matter what, Fate will make sure that there are four or five tree-trimmers in your neighborhood running chain saws and wood chippers whilst you try to copyedit. Gaaahhhh!

And now, some announcements.

Kim Alexander from XM radio’s Fiction Nation kindly interviewed me about All the Pretty Girls, Killer Year, and life in general. That was a fun phone call, let me tell you. Her review is up on the Fiction Nation website, and the interview can be heard on Take Five, XM 155 on Saturday January 26th at 6pm and Sunday January
27th at 10:00am and 8:00pm, and on Monday January 28th at 12:00
midnight and 3:00am. You can also hear Fiction Nation on Sonic Theater,
XM 163 on Thursday January 31st at 3:00 pm. All times EST.

I’m guest blogging for Tasha Alexander this week and next while she gallivants in Istanbul. We’re having a cocktail party just for her, so stop by and say hi.

Patry Francis’s THE LIAR’S DIARY comes out in paperback Tuesday. Please give it a try — it’s a brilliant book. Honestly, if it doesn’t make Oprah’s pick this month I’ll be shocked.

Marcus Sakey’s second novel, AT THE CITY’S EDGE, came out on Tuesday. He’s written another wonderful book, and I highly recommend you give it a try.

And of course, our labor of love, KILLER YEAR: Stories to Die For, dropped on Tuesday as well. Guaranteed to make you sit up and take notice, the stories from both debut and experienced writer’s are stellar, and the essays by Lee Child and Laura Lippman are worth the price of admission.

Thanks for putting up with me this week. I promise a stellar column to make up for it.

Wine of the Week: Copious amounts of whatever red is close to hand.

KIDDING! How about a yummy Spanish — 2004 Ostatu Crianza

P.S. As I was putting this column to bed last night I received some terrible news. My English teacher from high school, the one I’ve mentioned here was my inspiration for becoming a writer, lost his oldest son Dave in Iraq last week. I have a few boys over there, and I pray for them constantly, but this one is a real blow. Dave Sharrett was a hero, a young man who joined up in 2006 because he knew it was the right thing to do. He was a sweet kid, one I remember as Bean. I can’t believe he’s gone, and this whole post now feels eerily prophetic. I debated long and hard about deleting it entirely, but that wouldn’t change anything. Please keep the Sharretts in your prayers today.

Am I Missing Something?

by Zoë Sharp

We don’t have TV. Not connected to an outside means of receiving broadcast programmes, at any rate. This state of affairs is not entirely from choice, but more down to the topography of the valley in which we live, which means terrestrial TV is a non-starter. We also have a clump of very large sycamore and ash trees at the southern end of the garden, complete with preservation orders attached. I don’t mention this on the off-chance you happen to be a keen arboriculturist, by the way, but because they stand precisely where a satellite dish would need to point. According to the engineer who called not long after we moved in, we might just about get a signal in the winter, but as the dish relies on line of sight, by the time the summer foliage was in full bud, all we’d see on our TV screen would be snow.

On the one hand, it’s quite nice not to have the distraction of an evening that drifts past in front of the haunted fish tank. We have a tendency to go back into the study and work. On the other, it’s amazing just how many people’s conversational opening gambit is: "Did you see that episode last night of …" and we have to shake our heads sadly. We’ve also been able to throw away the initially suspicious and increasingly accusational letters from the TV licensing authority, demanding to know why we don’t have one, because they’re pretty sure we must be hooked up to an aerial somehow.

Instead, when enough people recommend a TV series, we buy the boxed set on DVD and watch that, and it works out well. No adverts, no missed episodes because you forgot to set the recorder, and no inopportune phone calls that always seem to coincide with the most exciting bits.

So, recently we’ve been enjoying two popular US crime series, which we’ve watched pretty much one after another. There are certain similarities between the two, never more so than in the two seasons we’ve just seen. Both shows are loosely concerned with the detection of crime through forensic means, and in both of them one of the characters has been writing crime novels on the side. And, wouldn’t you know it, both characters have achieved instant best-seller status, to the point where one was given a Mercedes by her publisher, and the other was able to go out and buy himself a Porsche Boxster before the first royalty cheque arrived.

And in both series a copycat killer took the grisly methods of murder described in each book and started using them in ‘real’ life. There are usually three such killings, each more bizarre than the last, and the characters are caught up in the usual race against time to catch the copycat before he/she strikes again. Oh, and, naturally, in both shows the debut writers almost instantly acquire a deranged fan as a stalker.

This is all well and good, and I can accept – not readily, perhaps, but I can accept – that people are routinely able to go out and buy $50,000+ motor cars with the advance from their first novels. And, yes, there are certainly some strange people out there who latch on to anyone they deem to be a celebrity. That isn’t what annoys me most about these scenarios.

It’s the fact that, in both cases, the authors use thinly disguised versions of their friends and work colleagues as characters in their books, often changing their names only very slightly, never mind their physical descriptions and characteristics. All done, of course, totally without their prior knowledge and consent.

The thing that gets me the most about all this is that these TV shows are written by writers. They know the rules as well as any of us, don’t they?

Now, maybe the laws of libel are less stringent in the US than they are in the UK (yeah, right!) but in this country you can’t go around basing your characters on recognisable people, and you have to be pretty careful not to accidentally use the name of a real person, regardless of intent. In other words, if you pluck a name apparently out of thin air for the child molester in your next novel, and give a rough approximation of his description and address, you’d better hope that no-one of the same name or appearance has been seen innocently hanging around outside their local nursery school, or you stand a very good chance of ending up in court.

When I wanted to include a fictitious major drugs company in the next Charlie Fox book, I ran the name Storax Pharmaceutical through Google to see what came up. (No matches, fortunately.) I use a random name generator website for most of my character names – particularly the villains – although I once suggested we should become literary assassins and offer to kill off someone else’s nemesis, somewhat in the style of Strangers on a Train. But only in print, obviously.

I’ve only ever included three real people in my books, and they all asked for it. No, they really did. The first was librarian Andrew Till, who always wanted to be included, so became an FBI agent in First Drop. Then Frances L Neagley bid to be a character in the charity auction at Bouchercon in Chicago, and Terry O’Loughlin bid for the same purpose at B’con in Madison. I’ve tried to include little snippets about each person that are personal to them, but the rest is pure invention. Fortunately, Frances liked what I’d done with her in Second Shot, And I’ll no doubt lie awake at night worrying about Terry’s reaction to Third Strike until the book comes out this summer.

But I’m intrigued to know what precautions everyone else takes. Do you do Internet searches on your proposed baddies to see what comes up? Has anyone ever approached you and said, "Hey, that’s me!" Even if it wasn’t remotely like them?

On a final note, I’d like to mention Patry Francis, whose debut thriller, The Liar’s Diary, comes out on January 29th. Patry is undergoing treatment for an aggressive form of cancer, and so won’t be able to tour the book’s release in person. Let’s hope the wonders of ’Tinterweb do the job of promoting it for her. Best of luck!

And on a final, final note, I love the idea of JT’s Wine of the Week, but I’m not a big drinker, so I thought I’d have a Word of the Week instead. This week’s word that caught my fancy is arcanist. From arcane, meaning secret or mysterious, an arcanist is someone who has knowledge of a secret manufacturing process, especially in ceramics.

Gambling casino online.

Looking for a good time sailor? How about checking out a book signing?

Okay, I know. I’m preaching to the converted here, but I’ve really enjoy book signings. Admittedly, there have been a few duds. On more than one occasion, my ass has gone numb sitting on a folding chair, listening to a writer ramble on and on about some plot device I could care less about. For the most part, however, they’ve been great. Going to see Charlie Huston and Marcus Sakey a few weeks ago reminded me of that.

Put simply, for the low, low price of one book, I get to listen to an author I admire wax poetic on the craft I love. What could be better?

But try telling your non-writer pals this. The words will barely leave your mouth before you see their eyes glaze over with stupification. You can read it in their faces, plain as day. "Why would anyone want to a book signing?"

Because they’re damn entertaining, that’s why. And I’ve got the list to prove it.

What follows are some of the most entertaining authors I’ve gone to see. My criteria has nothing to do with their insights on the craft, or the thought provoking discussions they inspired (that’s another list altogether). Instead, I picked them for one reason and one reason only–they made me laugh.

JENNIFER WEINER

I’m the first to admit, I wasn’t thrilled about being dragged to a Jennifer Weiner signing. My wife absolutely lovers her books, and I have no doubt she’s a very good writer. But frankly, I’m guy. And I’m guessing the main character of IN HER SHOES rarely if ever breaks out in a killer, karate rage. With that established, I’m here to tell you Weiner is one of the funniest, most engaging speakers I’ve seen in a very long time. I’m not exaggerating. This woman could give up writing for a career in stand-up. She was so funny, I quickly forgot that I was one of only four people in the room with testicles.

JAMES PATTERSON

I understand the criticism of Patterson’s work, but I also admire his ability to create page-turning plots, and I’m fascinated by his phenomenal success. So when Mr. P visited the Poisoned Pen on the Jester tour, I jumped at the chance to hear him speak. To give you an idea of the pull Patterson has, the president of Time Warner books traveled with him, introducing the mega-seller at each stop. After a few minutes of gushing by the pres., Patterson regaled the audience with funny vignettes about his life, his fans, and about the wild ride of success. In his most endearing story, Patterson described going to his local bookstore and counting copies of his novels on the shelf to see how many had been sold. I guess multimillionaires are neurotic just like the rest of us.

JAMES ELLROY

You can call James Ellroy many things, but boring isn’t one of them. Ellroy has earned a reputation for being cocky, outrageous, and totally uncensored. And it’s all true. Sans microphone, his voice boomed over a crowd of fans, answering questions with a wit and style all his own. I vaguely remember the mention of his unrequited love for his dog ("She’s a dyke," said Ellroy) and his opinions of then presidential candidate John Kerry ( who he described as a donkey filater). But through all the bravado and cursing, I heard glimpses of Ellroy’s brilliance and saw a true appreciation for his fans.

R.L. STINE

At last year’s Thriller Fest, when I heard children’s author Stine was speaking at a luncheon, my first reaction was, Well, I’ve already paid for the grub so I might as well go. I don’t remember what I ate, but I do remember Stine. In a convention full of highlights, this man was a star. He had the whole audience quivering in their seats with laughter. From tales of his early writing careers, to descriptions of fan letters, each story was better than the last. Walking out of the ball room, I noticed just about everyone had smiles stretched across their faces. A complete stranger turned to me, shook his head and said, "I can’t believe how good he was."

I can’t help but notice each of these writers is a huge bestseller. Is this a coincidence? Or is there a correlation between being an engaging public speaker and a bestselling author? What do you think?

And…

Let me hear some of your picks. Who should I go see next if I need a good chuckle?

Killer Diller

by Rob Gregory Browne

As I write this, the Killer Year anthology has just come out.

What started in the summer of 2006, just a few months after I got my first publishing deal, has now blossomed into something I’m truly proud of — and I know my fellow Murderati/Killer Year bloggers, Brett, JT and Toni are just as proud as I am. (And let’s not forget that Ken’s in there, too.)

And since I’m less than a week away from my deadline for book three and sweating bullets over it, I’m going to take the lazy route today and offer up my final post from the Killer Year blog.

It went something like this:

What can I say about Killer Year that
hasn’t already been said? Not much, I suppose. This past year has gone
by in a blur of emails and conferences and late nights getting drunk
and reveling in the knowledge that we all finally made it, finally
fulfilled the dream we’d been nurturing for years.

I don’t really remember how I became
involved with Killer Year. I think one of the founders sent me an
email, asking if I was interested in joining them in a little
experiment in promotion — and I said “yes” without hesitation.

Despite that yes, however, I was a
little skeptical about what our little group could accomplish. After
all, who really gave a damn about a bunch of first-time authors?

But then I met JT and Brett and Jason
and Toni and Marcus and god knows who else at Thrillerfest in Arizona
and I knew I was in good company. Knew that these were high caliber,
enthusiastic people who were determined to make the world notice us.

JT brought customized Killer Year
t-shirts — one I still wear to this day (I’m wearing it right now, as a
matter of fact) — and Brett brought hats. Or maybe it was the other way
around.

Whatever the case, the next thing you
know, Barry Eisler and Joe Konrath were wearing them and helping spread
the word about us, and a short time later I was sitting with the crew
and MJ Rose, being told that ITW was interested in giving us a helping
hand.

From that point on, Killer Year became something of a phenomenon.

I knew we had arrived when I was down in
San Diego teaching a writing workshop, and one of the participants came
up to me out of the blue and said, “You’re one of those Killer Year
people, right?”

When the idea that we pitch an anthology
was raised, I have to admit I didn’t think we had much chance of
getting one published. But one thing I’ve learned about JT Ellison is
that she’s not only a great talent, but a very determined woman, and
she worked tirelessly in prepping the proposal. I sent her a story that
was added to the packet and when the email came saying we’d made a deal
with St. Martin’s, I was pretty much flabbergasted.

The final result is getting spectacular
reviews. And as I hold it in my hand, I can’t help but think that it’s
truly a representation of what we are as a group. The variety of
writing styles. The diversity of subject matter. The authors who
supported us and helped turn Killer Year into that phenomenon. It’s all
there in one package. A testament to what a handful of people can
accomplish if they try hard enough.

But what it represents to me most of all
is friendship. This last year has created a bond between us that I
don’t think will ever be broken. The kind of bond that few writers ever
have the chance to experience.

Because writing is, after all, a lonely profession. An old cliche, yes, but an accurate one for the most part.

And Killer Year has managed to shatter that cliche. Many times over.

——–

For those of you in the Los Angeles area, Brett Battles, Marc Lecard and I will be signing copies of KILLER YEAR: Stories to Die For at 5:30 pm this Saturday, January 26th, at the Mystery Bookstore in Westwood.

Hope to see you there.

——-

Me, again. If you made it this far down on the post, I’d be curious to know if you’ve had any of those frantic a-week-away-from-deadline-and-still-a-hundred-pages-to-go moments like I’m having right now. How close have YOU come to missing your deadline?

rgb

My New Fan

By Louise Ure

“I saw the information about your appearance in the Santa Rosa Press Democrat, and have decided I should become one of your fans,” the note read.

The wording struck me as strange. How does one “decide to become a fan?” And why do so simply by reading the roster of author events at a local bookstore?

That was ten days ago, and I had just finished the signing event for The Fault Tree at one of the nation’s best independent bookstores, Book Passage in Corte Madera, California. It was a fitting place to launch this second book. That’s where I took my first writing class, “Eight Weeks to Stronger Fiction” taught by Judy Greber (Gillian Roberts), and first imagined that I could write something longer than an email. Where I attended a Mystery Writers Conference and began to believe that I could be published. Where I went on to become a Mystery Conference faculty member and an author launching her first book.

I’d been worried about the launch of the second book. You know how it goes, you can ask your friends to help you move once, but when it comes to loading up that van and toting that furniture a second time, that’s really testing the friendship. I didn’t know if I’d have one person in the audience or none.

I shouldn’t have worried. It was a grand event, one that seemed to merge all the parts of my life into one grinning crowd. Old friends from my advertising days showed up. Newer friends from my writing life. People I’d studied with, gotten drunk with, and slept with. There were even a couple of people I didn’t recognize.

When it was all over, Reese Lakota from Book Passage had a significantly shortened stack of books that she wanted me to sign for the store, some of them pre-orders and some to put out on the shelves. The first one she handed me was a pre-ordered book that came with that note. “I have decided I should become one of your fans.”

“In my long and now retirement stage of life,” it went on to read, “the Ures that I’ve encountered have been few and far between.”

That would be right. There’s Mary Ure, the actress who co-starred in Where Eagles Dare. But she’s some kind of second cousin, so I guess that’s still my family.

There’s Midge Ure, the rock-and-roller and Live Aid organizer from Scotland. I can’t stand his music but I like his name.

And then there’s my family in Arizona. Desert dwellers. Happy with their prairie dog behavior of poking their heads up from their sandy burrows every now and again to see what’s going on, but not ever venturing far from home. There’s no reason to. As one cousin puts it: “If you wait long enough, everything comes to Tucson.”

“My name is also Ure,” the note concluded. “Robert Ure.”

Imagine that. Just forty miles north of me, is quite possibly a member of the family I’ve never met before. At a minimum, just forty miles north of me is a generous, open-minded mystery reader with a sense of humor.

I signed the book, “From one Ure to another.”

We’ve since begun an email relationship, and he’s also asked me to sign a copy of my first book for him. It makes me wonder if I could increase my reader base by changing my name to Smith or Park.

I’m heading down to Arizona this week for signings in Tucson and Phoenix and I’m really looking forward to it. Another blend of all parts of my life: family, high school buddies, writer and librarian friends, and readers. (Phoenix phriends, please note that the signing is at 1:00 p.m. Saturday the 26th at Poisoned Pen. The bookstore mistakenly put the wrong time on their website.)

I got a note from a former high school teacher of mine, Kay Ijams, saying that she’d be at Clues Unlimited in Tucson for the signing on the 25th. I told her that we might have to reintroduce ourselves after forty years with no contact. “I’ll be the old woman in the back of the room with pride in her eyes,” she wrote. She’s right. I’d recognize her anywhere.

I wonder at what point in an author’s career the readers and fans who come to events outnumber the friends and family that do so. Even now, at every signing or conference panel or library presentation, there is at least one person in the audience I don’t recognize. Maybe they’re new fans. Maybe they’re high school teachers from forty years ago.

Maybe they’re all named Ure.

Okay, Rati’, what’s the weirdest connection you’ve made to a fan or an old acquaintance on tour? And readers, have you ever “decided to become a fan?” Why’d you do it?

I’m strapping on my high-heeled sneakers

by Pari

The other night, I told one of my daughters, "It doesn’t matter what you look like. It’s what’s inside that counts."

The next day I went to get my hair cut and eyebrows waxed.
Yeah, I know.

I’ve been in a dither about gray splicing my once-brown mane. I weigh too much. My clothes don’t fit right.

Do as I say, not as I do.

Welcome to the pre-booktour jitters. Those who know me, know these superficial concerns are waayy out of character. But, then it hit me, in public, I play a character. It’s the together writer. (Hah!) Gone is the soccer mom in sweats, the occasional misanthrope, the woman who worries about whether the shephard’s pie she made will be loved by her family. In her place is a well-coiffed, cleaned up gal who is witty and fun.

Playing this character made me think about the ones I write (thanks to Brett for his great post last Thurs.). And, in the weird way my mind works, I turned to superficialities. How important are looks to those we create in our novels/short stories?

Of course we need to be able to visualize our characters. Readers need that, too. Bulbous or cheerleader noses, breasts the size of champagne glasses (thanks, Arthur Koestler) or crenshaw melons, eyes the color of wet sand or pristine sky — all of these give us clues about the person.

And, well, clothes are important — up to a point. If a woman picks horsehair over silk for her slacks, that tells us something.

But it’s about two steps beyond those necessary descriptions where I get hung up. There’s this vapidity about fashion that I just don’t understand. Brands become code words for entire character traits. Vera Wang, Calvin Klein, Kanye West. Paris Hilton? Paula Abdul? Huh?

The problem is, I haven’t got any idea what the code means. I also don’t feel compelled to get the education. Is this writing that deserves our effort or is it simply lazy?

From my POV: If a woman carries a purse, I could care less whether it’s a Coach or Andrino. What I want to know, what really matters, is if it’s big enough to conceal the murder weapon.

So, my questions today center on fluff and frippery as they are translated into crime fiction.

When do clothes matter? (Do you have an example?)
When do brands matter? (Do you have an example?)
Have you read any great books or passages where these kinds of fashion concerns are done just right?