Author Archives: Murderati

when in doubt, throw hard candy

(aka: The Santa from Hell)

(I’ve been asked to re-post this as a Christmas tradition.)

When the kids were little — I think Jake was three and Luke was seven — Christmas felt like it was going to be slim. Make that downright anorexic. So I was looking for a way to bring a little fun into the season, something that wouldn’t cost much.

I had a brilliant idea. (I should come with a warning label: If brilliant idea occurs, step way-the-hell back for your own safety.)

Anyway. The idea was to have someone play Santa at our house for a pre-Christmas visit. We’d invite all the neighbor kids and their parents and each family would bring a gift for their child ahead of time. I’d hide the gifts away and squirrel them to our Santa, who would come in the house with lots of Ho Ho Hos and joy and jovial warmth and after regaling the kids with whatever it is Santas regale kids with, he’d give out the presents. There would be hot chocolate and apple cider, a beautifully lit Christmas tree in the background. Maybe even singing, if the kids wanted to sing. We would be so sappy, Hallmark would sue. Or throw up, but whatever, it was going to be great.

When I write it out like that, it sounds like a very nice day, doesn’t it? It really does seem normal and sane and I should have known that in my world, “normal” and “sane” do not apply.

It progressed innocently enough… I invited all of the neighbors, who loved the idea, especially since it was a fairly tight season for everyone. The “gifts” to the kids were held to a very low budget, so everything was fair and equal. There was a tree, decorations, lights, apple cider and hot chocolate, brownies, cookies, you name it for a sugar fix, someone was going to bring it. All I needed was a Santa.

Finding someone with a Santa suit wasn’t quite as easy as I had expected; most of the people who have them are booked for all of December, and it was two weeks before Christmas and looking a little bleak. And forget getting one of those guys for free. Like I was crazy for thinking this was the season of giving or something. Of course, the kids already knew that Santa was going to come to our house for our party, the specific date was set, so there was no going back at that point. (Could you look a bunch of 3 to 7 year olds in the face and tell them Santa wasn’t showing up? If so, here’s your application to Mercenaries-R-Us and Osama’s on line two.) So. Had to find a Santa. Was getting a little scared as the day approached and there was no Santa to be had.

Then a member of our family, who we still speak to even after this event, suggested a certain older friend-of-the-family. I had met this FOtF several times, and he’s a little… erm… warped. He is very very sweet, but also sort of odd, disjointed, but in a quasi-live-in-a-fog sort of way. Jovial, though, he had down pat. He had the rotund belly, the jolly round cheeks, the perfect Santa nose. The thing that worried me was that he was incredibly bashful. And when he did speak, he was extremely quiet. I couldn’t remember him putting together two whole sentences in a row, unless you call smiling and nodding a lot “sentences,” but at this point, I figured, what could it hurt?

Now, in retrospect, I understand why the heroine always goes down into the dark basement when she’s heard a noise, there’s a serial killer known to be in her neighborhood, someone who’d been stalking her and had keys made to her house, and yet she goes anyway, armed with only a pony-tail clasp and Malibu Barbie lipstick. She was thinking what could it hurt?

Our house was tiny, so the plan was for me to hide the bag of toys at our back door for Santa to grab, then he’d go around and come in the front door, where everyone was gathered in the living / dining room area. Tree lit? Check. Apple cider? Check. Hot chocolate? Check. Sugar high toddlers on the ceiling? Check. So many people packed in there, we were going to need pregnancy tests soon? Check.

But no Santa.

An hour goes by. The kids get higher and rowdier and the adults get fidgety and gossipy and God only knows how many families we managed to break up on that one night. Meanwhile, Jake (three) wandered off to the kitchen. I could see him (very very tiny house) from the dining room, when we heard a noise outside. A distinctive ‘HO HO HO” noise. At last.

Everyone turned expectantly toward the front door. I didn’t want Jake to miss this, so I ran into the kitchen to scoop him up, when suddenly, the back door BURST open with Jake not a foot away from it, and in bound Santa, HO HO HOing at the TOP OF HIS LUNGS, and RUNNING, people. RUNNING. There was NO ROOM TO RUN so Jake turned away from this screaming giant red monster and beelined it back to the living room, which meant he went OVER me, over a few other people standing in the way and did Santa stop? No, no he did not. Santa ran smack over me, over a few other innocent bystanders, and to top it off, the whole running time? He was throwing candy. Hard candy. And I don’t mean “lightly tossing it to the cute little four-year-old standing there with her jaw open in abject fear….” No. I mean hurling it, 95mph over the plate there, Babe, pinging parents, knocking out a couple of random elementary kids and everyone started dodging and diving for cover and did he STOP? No. No he did not. He kept whizzing that candy and HO HO HOing and running (now in circles in the living room) and kids were screaming, Jake was crying, Luke was hiding, I was still on the floor in total shock, and when he did stop, finally (I think Carl tripped him), he started with the presents. Not a single jolly word did this man speak. He pulled out presents, asked the kid’s name, and the really smart kids hid behind their parents, because he HURLED the gifts at their heads. Hurled. I’m not kidding you.

By this point, there was hot chocolate and apple cider everywhere, there were a couple of wet spots on the sofa I didn’t want to identify, most of the kids were wailing and trying to climb their nearest parent and on top of everything else, Santa had managed to drop one of the kid’s presents outside… though I had the presence of mind to realize what had happened and I had a stand-by gift ready (in case one of the parents forgot) and so that was solved. When he finished slinging the last present, did he SIT DOWN and calmly tell lovely stories to the kids to keep them from growing up to be SERIAL KILLERS?

No. No he did not.

He started up again with the running and HO HO HOing and throwing even MORE CANDY. You’d think the man was on a float and we were thirty feet away, and when he finally finished careening over a couple of kids who hadn’t been trampled on the first go-round, he sprinted to the back door and ran out into the night.

The back door slammed and the whole house hushed for a moment in stunned silence. Parents looked at me like I should be locked up, and those were the nice polite expressions, comparatively speaking. Then the shrieking began, and the confusion (toys had been dropped and stomped on by Santa on his way out) and there was just no way to rescue it. I’ve never seen a bunch of people leave a party faster in my life.

But I tell you what. Whenever someone would say to those kids, even years later, that they “better be good because Santa was watching”… man, they’d straighten right the hell up. And I don’t think a single one of them touched hard candy for years.

So tell me… what traditions have you experienced in Christmases past that didn’t exactly go as planned?

A Very Merry Solstice

by Alex

(Everyone out shopping? Yeah, I thought so…)

Ah, the holiday season. What better way to spend the end of the year, than in spiritual reflection, decorating trees, buying perfect presents for loved ones, sending out cheery holiday cards and newsletters, drinking champagne and eating fabulous little cookies, indulging in the free DVDs that the evil corporations continue to send striking screenwriters because force majeure be damned, the Oscars must go on…)

Right?

Um.

Wrong.

This Holiday season, if I don’t do at the very least five pages a day WITHOUT FAIL I will not make the deadline of my next book. Not even Christmas Day off for me.

(Michael says – “How long are you going to keep doing this to yourself? “ But how am I doing this to myself? Nobody tells a grocery store clerk or a bank manager or postal worker – “Oh, you don’t have to work today. Why do that to yourself? Let’s go see a movie.” Well, actually, people probably DO say that, but if such advice is actually followed, the result is dismissal and disgrace and homelessness).

Now, in some ways it’s not such a loss, for me. For one thing, I’m not actually a Christian, and I don’t have children that I need to halt everything for, and my family is very laid back about all holidays in general, and I hate malls, and as long as we see Sweeney Todd this weekend, Michael’s not going to complain too much (mostly because I can keep him quiet with all the free DVDs). I must say it’s annoying to have to do the more obligatory Christmas things without getting the benefit of time off from work like everyone else, but I knew this job was dangerous when I took it.

But there is one part of the holiday season that I can celebrate at the same time that I’m doing my pages, and that doesn’t grate on me because I’m missing out on all the fun. And that’s today. It’s Winter Solstice.

As we all probably know, technically, the solstice is the beginning of winter in the Northern Hemisphere and summer in the Southern Hemisphere. It’s the longest night and the shortest day of the year.

We also all probably have heard that ritual celebrations practiced at Christmas go back to pre-Christian times, and we’ve co-opted many solstice traditions (like Yule logs and Christmas trees and the lighting of candles and the birth of the sun – or son) for Christmas. The celebration of solstice extends across pretty much every culture.

But I particularly like the magic aspect of solstice. In pagan tradition, the year is divided into quarters, and the two solstices and the two Equinoxes are the most powerful times of the whole year. Whatever you do during these times gets a certain extra push from the universe. I find that invariably to be true. Your dreams are more powerful, money arrives in the mail, you solve that problem in Chapter 10.

Seriously. For authors, for example, this is a fabulous time to write – your productivity is through the roof. I didn’t just get some kick-ass pages done on my book in the last few days – I also have been cranking the pages out on the novella I’ve been putting off because of panic about the book. Every research book I’ve picked up has been THE EXACT BOOK with the EXACT information I needed to move to the next chapter. I just feel stronger and more capable about everything.

Running around buying gifts is one thing, fine, but the days just before and just after Solstice will invariably turn up some real gifts, cosmic gifts. Pay attention and see what shows up for you, and if you feel like it, share.

I wish everyone Happy Christmas and everything else that you celebrate, but especially this year, an extra Solstice something for all.

Now, back to work.

Or, you know – shopping.

That Magic Moment

by J.T. Ellison

There comes a time in every author’s life when they have to make a decision.

An editorial decision, that is. A moment when your editor says, "What do you think about this?" and you have to decide one way or another whether you want to listen. It can be very, very hard to hear that a change may be necessary. I imagine there are authors out there who go into a complete tailspin when they receive "input." But good editorial input is like having opposable thumbs, it makes life a whole lot easier. I’ve been blessed so far with the suggestions and critiques I’ve received, and I’m not terribly uptight when it comes to changing aspects of my work. But that has everything to do with being surrounded by the right people.

If you were on Facebook this week, you might have seen a status update from me that said "JT loves her editor." I’m wasn’t trying to suck up. I was telling the truth. I do love my editor. She’s brilliant. And she can play me like a harp. She knows me. She gets me. And she has the vision to strengthen my work with just a few strategically placed plucks.

We’ve just finished working on the second Taylor Jackson novel. Yesterday, to be exact. The book is about to go into production, which means we backed into a hard deadline. As of now, the books is done and has been sent to copyedit, so there is much rejoicing in the Ellison household today. I’ve already received the cover art, a cover so amazing that I’m sitting on it for a few months so we can make a splash at the right time. It’s that good. Talk about people who get me, the Mira Art Department knows my mind better than I do. I give them a couple of nudges toward the direction I want, they come up with sheer genius.

Back to the editorial decision.

I always look forward to my edits. I find the process fascinating. Simply put, I write a book, do three revisions, let other people read it, read it again myself, thinking it’s the best I can possibly write and THEN submit it to my editor.

And that’s where the magic occurs. My editor suggests a tweak here, a change there, more information, less detail, sugar, spice and everything nice. When I was doing the edits for All the Pretty Girls, check that, when I thought my edits were done, my editor came in with a suggestion at the 11th hour. It was a tiny little suggestion. Minor. Minimal. I thought about it, plugged it into the manuscript, and voila! it became a novel. I hate to overuse my cooking analogy, but that’s just what it’s like. You add all the spices, let it cook, and though it tastes wonderful, something you can’t put your finger on is missing. You might even go so far as to serve the dish… then a guest says, hmmm, needs salt, and you’ve got it. Eureka. A dash will do, you taste it again, and it’s perfect. Simple, yet satisfying.

And that moment is pure bliss.

I had one of those transcendent moments Wednesday night. I submitted my revisions, my editor read through them, and she came back with a relatively minor question that rocked my boat. I don’t want to tell what it was because it goes to the crux of the story, and I’d rather not give it away just yet. She asked the question, and I didn’t have the answer. I wrote her back and said I would have to think about it and WHAM! Just as I clicked send, it hit me. The answer was already there, in the manuscript, ripe for the picking. It literally took two lines to make it come to the forefront. Crazy.

That’s what a great editor can do for your book. I made the changes. When I hit send again, I was giddy. I’d found the salt.

The past few weeks have seen several debates regarding self vs. traditional publishing. All arguments aside, I’ll tell you why I would never self-publish. Yes, I’m looking for a mainstream audience. Yes, I love the distribution models, the access to bookstores, all that jazz. But it’s the editing that I would miss.

There’s a symbiotic relationship that grows between a writer and editor. Your agent’s job is not only to place the book you’re trying to sell, it’s to match you with an editor that fits your temperament. I think it’s vital to be paired with an editor who gets you. Who can be as excited, laid-back, cheery or morose as you are. Someone who can be your polar opposite when you’re down, and knows when to reign you in for your own good. Someone who can understand when the time is right to talk to you about making changes, who won’t step on your feelings or your dreams, who knows when to push and when to pull back.

And yes, your relationship with your agent must be harmonious as well. It’s terribly difficult to be at loggerheads with your agent. They are your cheerleader, your priest, your conscience and everything in between, and it’s vital that the lines of communication stay open, that you stay open, and they stay open. This business of being reluctant to contact your agent about an issue because you don’t want to waste their time is nonsense. You need to be a cohesive unit, and that takes communication. But send them cookies. Often. Send your editor some too.

So as I float today, thrilled to pieces that I’ve found that elusive morsel that I didn’t know was missing, I ask you. Do you have any great catches that your editor made for you? I’ll lead it off. Mine once pointed out that cannibals don’t use pixie dust to shrink heads. Talk about mixing metaphors…

Wine of the Week: 2000 ODDERO BAROLO Rocche di Castiglione Falletto It’s halfway down the page. If anyone can get their hands on this stateside, let me know. The website I’ve linked to is my present to you — a bevy of wonderful, top-notch vino.

—————

Since I will be disappearing for the week of Christmas, taking a long overdue vacation from the Internet, the writing world, and everything in between, I wish you a Merry Christmas — and if you celebrate something else this season — peace, joy and goodwill for the New Year. See you next Friday, though I’ll be remote.

—-RATI in the Media—

Our own Robert Gregory Browne will be on Kim Alexander’s Fiction Nation, on Take Five, XM 155 on
Saturday December 22nd at 6pm, on Sunday December 23rd at 10:00am, and
on Monday, December 24th at 3:00am, and on Sonic Theater, XM 163 on
Thursday, December 27th at 3:00pm. All times EDT.

Kim Alexander has been doing some amazingly cool interviews. Check out her whole backlist here, there’s plenty of familiar names.

Something I Don’t Want For Christmas

Christmas is just around the corner and it’s a time for giving, but there are some things I don’t want—bad reviews to be exact. I was thinking about reviews the other day. Well, not exactly thinking, more like obsessing. Despite my rough, gritty exterior that you’ve come to know and mildly like, I’m quite squidgy inside, so the idea of getting a bad review is likely to make me cry or hide under the duvet until someone compliments me. So I started to think about what would be a nightmare review. Here’s what I hope never to see written about my books this Christmas or at any time:

“A great bathroom read—very absorbent.”

“It’s one hell of doorstop.”

“Out of all the books I’ve read this year, this was one.”

“Once read, never remembered.”

“This book made me switch on the TV.”

“It was grate!”

“This book is very put-downable—a policy that should be applied to the author.”

“An author to track down—and do bad things to.”

“It made me hate my ability to read.”

“This was a real page burner.”

So those are some of my nightmare reviews. What are yours or what ones do you wish you could have written for other people’s books? (No names or titles, please).

Yours hoping for everything I deserve this Christmas,
Simon Wood

The Strangest Place You’ve Ever Done It

by J.D. Rhoades

Stephen King wrote in his book “On Writing” that the most
valuable thing you can have as an author is a door you can close—and the will to close
it. "Most of us do our best," he writes, "in a place of our own."

Me, I’m a bit different. (I knew you’d be surprised). I don’t have an office in my house. We do have
the main desktop computer (the one my son named “Bob”) in a large alcove near the
front door. It’s next to a nice big bay window, but that’s the computer the family
shares and its close enough to the
kitchen and living room that I can hear conversations and the TV. But that’s okay, because as it turns out, most
of my writing is done on my trusty laptop, anyway. So I can most often be
found in the bedroom, propped up on the bed with the laptop on my knees. Or if
the weather’s nice, I take it out on the back deck. As I mentioned in a post a while ago, I’ve
also written in vacation house bedrooms during the heat of the day. If the
house is just too noisy, there’s always my law office, but I usually only write
there if I start at the end of the workday.

Often, a chapter or a column or a blog post will start at the office, get e-mailed to Bob the Computer, finished there, then maybe dropped back onto the laptop through the home wireless network and polished out on the deck while Nick uses Bob to play The Sims.

I’ve mentioned this to some other writers, and they’re
horrified. How, they ask, can you write without a room of your own? Actually,
I’ve said a couple of times, I do have a room of my own. It’s between my ears.

It helps that I usually have music playing, either through the computer itself
(I hear some of the damnedest things on Shoutcast web radio) or through my MP3 player. This also
horrifies a lot of writers I’ve mentioned it to, who claim they need quiet to
write. But I have two rowdy teenagers in the house. Absolute quiet is not an
option, even on the back room.

But not everyone requires an office with a closed door. William Kent Krueger says he composes in a cheap notebook at
his local coffee shop. J.K. Rowling wrote the first Harry Potter book in a cafe. (John Scalzi, on the other hand, tells us in the title
of his book on writing that You’re Not Fooling Anyone When You Take Your Laptop
to a Coffee Shop). Don Winslow reportedly writes in a tent pitched in a grove
of trees on his property (Either he does the first draft in longhand or he has
one hell of an extension cord). Scott Turow wrote Presumed Innocent on the commuter train as he rode into work at his Chicago law firm. Harlan Ellison used to stage events where he’d
bang out a short story in an afternoon while displayed in a bookstore window.

So….where’s the strangest place you’ve done it (writing, I
mean?)

Bronach Agus Bringlodi

By Ken Bruen

We’ve been having storms like you wouldn’t believe. On the seafront, the waves have reached heights of near 45 feet, that’s 13.4 m. I’ve stood transfixed at the ferocity and sheer magnificence of them. And of course, two surfers went out there and the Coast Guard had to risk their lives to rescue them. Down at the docks, another fishing boat was lost and the wives keep a lonely vigil. The fisherman don’t learn to swim, believing if the sea wants you, it will indeed claim you.

Fatalism?

All I know is that the sight of those women devastates me.

The title of this piece translates as

Sadness

And

Dreams

Bronach, pronounced … Bro-knock, is so much more than sadness though. In Irish, it’s like a soul sickness, a melancholia that reaches down over hundreds of years and Bringlodi, pronounced Bring-load-e, is simply dreams.

In so far as dreams are ever simple.

I was telling Elaine Flinn about these words recently and she loves them as much as I do, they have a resonance that is beyond articulation.

Which led me onto me gig of lighting candles.

As I do for friends who are undergoing pain, stress or trauma. Alas, there is only one church remaining in the city where you can light the candles in the old style. The rest have gone, if not digital, certainly electronic. You put your Euros in and press a button and a light comes on. Reminds me too much of a celestial slot machine, Vegas without the noise.

I need the traditional route, the long taper, you light it then put it to the wax candle and the whole ritual is strangely comforting. They say a candle is a prayer in action.

No debate from me.

If it’s a really special case, I light a green candle, no, not because I’m Irish but the green candle has deep significance in Irish history.

I did that recently for a friend who said

“I don’t believe in all that crap.”

I said

“I believe for you.”

I’m thinking of Sandra’s novel, What Burns Within.

Didn’t fly.

She scoffed, said

“You’re the last person I ever expected to be religious!”

I tried to explain that I believe religion is for people who are afraid of going to hell and spirituality is for those who’ve been there.

Said so

And she countered

“How do you know if someone is spiritual?’

Usually, if they firmly believe they are spiritual, they’re anything but.

And heaven knows, I seem to be a constant target for the spiritual muggers, they figure I need saving and they’re right, I do.

From them.

Like humility

You claim to be humble, you ain’t.

There are three simple questions to determine if you’re spiritual:

1. Are you wanted
2. Are you needed
3. Are you loved

It’s quite astonishing the number of people who will deny one or all of those.

But lest I get too deep here, there is a wonderful song by Amy Winehouse with Mark Ronson titled, Valerie. Sent to me by my close friend Tony Black. His novel, PAYING FOR IT, has a line of true Bronach, a dying father saying to his son

“I thought I could win you round by being hard on you … it was all I knew. I got what I wanted by being hard, a hard player I was … I thought you needed the same.”

My daughter and I jive to Valerie.

You guys call jive, swing.

Her sheer gurgles of delight as I swing her round the kitchen is as spiritual as ever I need to know.

One of my close friends here, said

“Jaysus, I can’t picture you dancing.”

I want to ask

“And why should you?”

Plus, it’s a given that Irish guys don’t dance, way too macho for that shite.

Few things give me more joy than watching people dance. Time back, when line dancing was hot here, I was in me element.

Few years ago, in Mexico, I was with some friends who asked me how I’d like to spend the evening?

I said

“Line dancing.”

They told me it was passé.

I said there must be someplace that still had it and they finally admitted that a biker joint, just outside Cancun did but it was a risky venue.

Just what I wanted to hear.

It was certainly atmospheric, the Harleys outside, one particularly beautiful Soft Tail custom, gleaming in the lights from the bar, and inside, a motley crew. We found a table and got the Tequila with the worm in the bottom of the glass.

We didn’t order it, they brought it over, plonked it down and gave you the look.

There were actually two types of drink available.

You could have it with or without the worm.

There was a heavy vibe in the air, I felt like I’d wandered onto the set of “Dusk till Dawn” and asked my friend if there was ever any trouble?

He said no as everyone was packing.

I said

“Except me.”

He shrugged it off, said

“Act like you are, swagger when you go for a leak.”

Right.

And knowing my history, someone would surely call my bluff.

I skipped the swagger.

The band were terrific, a blend of Cajun, Tex Mex and Country.

If I could have just got an Irish lilt to it, it would have been awesome.

Just recently, I’ve had a recurring dream. I’m walking with a lady and Ye Gods, I’m happy. I wake and I can’t recall her face, her name, just the feeling.

Craig Mc Donald in his debut novel quotes a line,

“You’ve got to find what you love and let it kill you.”

Head Games indeed.

Phew.

My wondrous Rabbi in Beverly Hills emails me about the nature of love and the true spirit of the human condition.

I think of that as I re-read Louise’s blog about her amazing gesture for her dying brother.

All of this drags up some lines from a poem I never finished

In distance- once

Your face, I might

Untied

From complications

Have gentle

Almost touched

My wish for 2008 is that Bill Crider’s wife is healed and well.

You guys say, Happy Holidays

We still say, Happy Christmas.

It’s so much more resonant in Irish and so, to you all

La Nollaig leat go lear

Thing is, I truly mean it.

Sin an sceal

The evolution of personal myths and our writing

by Pari

In a way, every human being is in the fiction business. We all nurture myths about our lives — the victories and defeats, the entitlements and generosities.

Writers mine these myths in their work, often unaware that they’re doing this mental archeology. But, I believe all of us create characters that, in some way, mirror the attributes we admire or abhor in ourselves. At least, that’s where we start.

If we do it well, no one can tell what we’re up to. If we fail, people think our fiction is autobiographical. (This is a common pitfall for newer writers.)

Over time, myths become ossified. Our personal legends sit so still that we don’t even realize they’re there. They’re cemented into our psyches.

IF they budge, it’s usually at a glacial pace . . .

So, imagine my surprise when I realized my self image as a "frumpy soccer mom" had been sidekicked into oblivion.

I never thought that Tae Kwon Do would affect my art.

When I first started, about four years ago, I did it because it looked like fun. For a long time, it wasn’t. At least once a week, I thought more about quitting than sticking with it.

It was too hard.
I didn’t want to punch a bag. I didn’t want to punch a person OR BE punched.
I didn’t want to try to throw a person down. I sure as hell didn’t WANT to be thrown down.

But, I stayed.

Somewhere along the line, I became fierce and focused. I have no idea when it happened.

The other night, when we were in class, Master Kim had us compete against each other. The class had about 30 people that evening ranging in ages from 15 – 59.

For the uninitiated, "forms" are a series of specific moves that reflect attacks and defenses. Sometimes they make sense. Often they don’t. But you learn all of them in a particular order and each one brings its own challenges and insights. Right now, I’m working on the one I’ll need to earn my black belt.

Master Kim (he’s the Korean guy in the background of pictures 2 & 3) lined up three chairs and had the other black belts teaching the class sit as judges. The only thing they were looking for in our execution of these forms was sheer power.

I won every time.

Given that my kicks aren’t high or pretty, given that there are men in the class who are much stronger than I am, given a thousand other factors . . . this was astonishing and truly humbling.

My TKD master often jokes that I should have one of my protags study this martial art. I tell him that neither one has the discipline or personality for it.

But, as my writing continues, I’ve noticed that these ladies I’ve created have more and more backbone. They’re less willing to be frightened or intimidated.

Somewhere, deep inside, they know they could ram an attacker’s nose cartilage into his brain . . . if they had to.

That didn’t come from writing the character. That came from my own study and ownership of Tae Kwon Do. My personal mythology has evolved and it’s affecting my writing in a very real way.

My questions today are:
1. Have you noticed these kinds of transformations in yourself?
2. If you write, have you seen them transfer to your characters?
3. Is there anything lately that has caused a shift in your personal myths?

I can’t wait to read what you’ve got to say.

Agentspeak

by Alex

As Dusty and I are apt to joke, we (and JT and RGB) share the most awesome and the most laconic agent in New York. Scott can say “I’m excited” (and mean it) in the deadliest deadpan you’re ever likely to encounter. I often wonder if he makes such great deals for his clients because editors assume from his tone that he’s so underwhelmed by their initial offers that they panic and double the price before they lose out on the deal completely.

This can be a disconcerting thing about Scott, until you get to know him. Because as we all know – writers need feedback, they need enthusiasm, they need approval, they need validation, they need, well, love.

And the truth is that we spend so little time with our agents, even on the phone, much less in person, that we tend to obsess over and parse every word they utter. And if that’s true of published authors, it seems even more true of authors seeking representation. Every rejection letter is mined for that hint of gold that means you really are the next Stephen King, or that spot-on criticism that will take the book to the next level.

Because I’m so used to working with my film agent, who is a prince among men and a gentleman among agents, I think I’m somewhat less likely than most new authors to assign baroque interpretations to what Scott has to say. It’s pretty much face value. When he says he likes something, he likes it. When he says he’s excited, he’s excited, even if his voice never rises above a monotone.

Sometimes in workshops people ask me about my first phone call with Scott, what was the most thrilling thing he said to me about THE HARROWING. And everyone is always shocked when I say the most thrilling thing he said was, “Yeah, I think I can sell this.”

But you see, I know agentspeak. It’s a very refined code, and you need to be able to interpret the nuances. And in agentspeak, “I think I can sell this” means – “I think I can sell this.”

And that’s what you want your agent to do, right? That’s their job, and you want them to feel they can get their job done with your book.

In general I find communication in the book world pretty low stress, mainly because agentspeak in publishing (and pub-speak in general) is so much less florid than Hollywoodspeak. Screenwriters are regularly assaulted with phrases that seem to be passed around in a secret manual for producers, executives and agents. Every so often there’s a new phrase that gets added to the manual and you will hear it in every meeting and on every phone call you have for months. “I have to run this up the flagpole and see if anyone salutes.” “What’s our way in?” “We need that character to have a sexier profession” (“sexy” having nothing whatsoever to do with sex). “It’s time to start thinking outside the box.” “Let’s make Chicago (Austin, Cleveland, St. Petersburg) a real character in this script.” “We’re looking for a Hallmark ending for the fly-overs.”

My theory is that editors generally know what they’re talking about, therefore they don’t have to use cryptic phrases or words du jour to communicate with their authors.

But lately a word keeps coming up from the agent and editor front that has thrown me.

The word is “fun”. As in “It’s a fun book.” “Wow, we love it, what a fun story.”

Now, I guess that wouldn’t bother me, except that I write pitch-black suspense. So “fun” isn’t a word I immediately associate with my writing, or that I would want associated with my writing. I have found myself obsessing over this word, to the point of slipping back into screenwriter neurosis. Do they mean that they want a more fun story here? Are they gently urging me toward a lighter tone? Did they actually read my first two books as comedic romps?

I know this is mental craziness. “Fun” is in all likelihood the word du jour in publishing circles. But since as authors we don’t have constant contact with a wide variety of agents and editors in the way that screenwriters have a constant contact with numerous producers and executives, we might not be as aware of the industry buzz words.

So I wondered if you guys could give me any buzz words that you’ve been picking up from your peeps. Is there a secret manual of pub-speak?

Or… gulp… do they really mean “fun” when they say “fun”?

This is Your Brain. This is Your Brain on Drugs.

by J.T. Ellison

(Oddly enough, I wrote this a few weeks ago, well before the fervor that was unleashed yesterday.)

I had the most fascinating conversation the other day.

A friend’s husband is a scientist and we were discussing the prevalence of genetic blood enhancement in professional cycling. My eideticly enhanced hubby covered the baseball and football bases. Basically, we concluded that pretty much all professional athletes are juiced up in same way, shape or form. Cynical, yes. Realistically, how could they not be? They are performing super human feats of athletic prowess, with almost zero recovery time. Now, I don’t want this to turn into a discussion about the pros and cons of steroids. I have something else in mind.

What would happen if we, writers, were made aware of a drug that would allow us to enhance our writing? Can you imagine? And if there were a writing enhancing drug — not LSD, mind you, what then?

My first instinct, right or wrong, is we would be stabbing people to move ahead in the line.

To get at the heart of the matter, I guess we do have to tap into the steroid argument a bit. Is there something to be taken away from professional athletes who use performance enhancing drugs? If you’ve ever been around someone who aspires to "professional" status, or even a dedicated amateur, you know that they work beyond normal human endurance at their sport. It’s a gift, I think, that can’t be disguised. The constant desire to be better, to excel, isn’t bred into all of us. Steroids don’t give an athlete the will to train at 4 in the morning before work. They don’t drive the desire to work harder to improve, to fight for every inch in training opportunities and sponsorships, to sacrifice. Because honestly, being a pro at anything is a sacrifice. You have to give up friends, family, free time to pursue your dream. Hmmm… I guess there’s a stronger correlation between writers and athletes than I thought.

Shouldn’t we celebrate these people? Or should we treat the ones who take a shortcut with derision?

I was an athlete in high school, a decent shot and discus thrower, a better golfer. I competed at the state level in discus and shot, and was the only girl on the golf team — at the time, there wasn’t a separate system for women golfers. Fine by me, I could play with the best of them at that point. (I remember the final meeting of the district board: "You’ll have to play from the white tees…" Me: "Oooh, scary." Ah, the joys of youth, when Bring It On takes on a whole new meaning.) So I had a full schedule — fall and winter indoor track, spring outdoor track, and golf spring through fall. School was the obvious priority (cough) but all my free time was dedicated to track and the links. Which I loved. And there’s something to be said for that level of desire.

I had to choose between a track scholarship to two different excellent ACC schools or a golf team in Florida at a lesser known college. Daddy threw in the offer to let me put off school for a year and try for the LPGA Q school, which I stupidly turned down. ("I need to get a good education" — notice I’m not using my degrees…) I made the decision to go to school and pursue golf, which in hindsight wasn’t the smartest, but set me on the course that I’m on now, so I can’t complain too much. I played golf and IM volleyball, and had a decent time. I didn’t enjoy the competition at the higher level like I did in high school, probably because the other team’s players made me immediately and knew exactly how to rattle me. I don’t like being touched in competition. You can imagine.

And now that I’ve gotten completely off the subject… my point is I pursued these activities with a vengeance, trying to make myself the best that I could be. Something like what I do with writing.

Back to the writing enhancing drugs. There’s obviously been several legal and illegal means to expand our cerebral muscles. But I’m talking about a hypothetical enhancement that would make us the bionic writer. Better, stronger, faster.

Competition with writers can be as cutthroat as it gets. I’ve heard some pretty frightening stories about people desperate to climb to the top of the ladder, about egos, bitterness and jealousy wiping out friendships. I’ve also seen some amazing cooperative efforts, seen friendships flourish and grow under tight deadlines and differences of opinion.

Could anything good ever come of literary blood doping? Or would we make some scientists very rich women and men?

Wine of the Week: 2003 Li Veli Passamante Negroamaro, shared with great friends at Dickie Brennan’s Steakhouse in New Orleans last week. Yum, but let it breathe a bit.

———

I’ll be appearing on Backstory on the Radio as the guest of River Jordan tomorrow (Saturday) December 15th at 4:15 p.m. Central time. Go to Radio Free Nashville to listen live.

Lying to be honest

I’m a pretty good liar, especially on the spot. Someone can toss out a subject and I can pretty much tell them some convincing facts about history, science or the arts—none of it true. Hmm, I wonder if I’m related to Dan Brown to me.

This is, of course, great when it comes to telling stories. I’m not lying. I’m just flexing my fiction muscles.

Where things go a little awry is when it comes to telling the truth. Lies need polish and racing stripes. The truth doesn’t. It’s naturally shiny. But I struggle when faced with telling the truth. It looks so vulnerable and naked when I tell it and in most cases no one believes me when I do tell the truth. The other week someone told me they didn’t believe my pieces about having to crash land a plane and falling off a mountain were true. They bloody were and I have evidence to back it up.

A few months ago I had a run in with Julie over my truthfulness. I’ve pulled the wool over Julie’s eyes so many times that she doesn’t have a fear of blindfolds. She’s used to my fibbery. This time, I ran into a little problem.

Now that I work from home, I’m a little house husband and I do the laundry and things. Laundry is a task I don’t mind. I find it quite therapeutic when I’m working a story idea out in my head. So, on this particular day, Julie came home to nice, neat piles o’ laundry. Please place Simon in the good books section of Julie’s world. I was typing away and Julie came in. I expected to get my good boy pat on the head. Instead, a pair of scarlet ladies underwear hit me in the back of the head.

“Whose are they?” she demanded.

I peeled the knicker cap off my head, examined them and said, “Yours?”

“No, they’re not mine.”

Well, they weren’t mine. They were these tiny little Victoria’s Secret things. Not my style for sure. To settle things down, I said the one thing I thought would calm her. “I don’t know whose they are, but you have them. Finders keepers and all that.”

“I don’t want somebody else’s underwear.”

I went to say they were clean, but didn’t think this would resolve the issue. So I shrugged.

“I want to know whose these belong to,” she demanded.

This is where I panicked. The truth was, I didn’t know who the knickers belonged to and me proclaiming my innocence didn’t seem to be working. I should have lied at this point and told her I was holding them for a friend or something, but I scrabbled for an explanation and came up with, “Maybe they’re your mum’s. She house-sat for us the other week.”

“My mom doesn’t wear these. Have you had someone here?”

“No,” I said, but it sounded so weak.

“Tell me the truth.”

“I am.”

“Then how did these things get in our laundry?”

“I don’t know. It could be a trick. Maybe someone pulled a prank on me.” I said this as if it was likely that one of my chums would get back at me by dropping the naughty undies in my gym bag. I tend pull pranks on others. Payback is a female dog.

“Then I suggest you find out. That’s your task. Find out who owns these things.”

“I’ll get on it straight away, my petal,” I said, but Julie had left the room.

I’d told her the unadulterated truth (ew, bad choice of word there) and it didn’t sound very convincing. I didn’t know how to be more convincing. If I had been lying, I would have done a great job of having a story lined up with backup lies on hand. I’m a totally interactive liar. So very now. But my truthiness (thanks, Stephen Colbert) sounded so lame it needed shooting.

Like a half-lit firecracker, I gave Julie time to cool off. I snuggled up to her on the sofa and asked, “You do believe me, don’t you?” She told me that she did but in one of those clipped tones that said otherwise. I gave her another ten minutes and asked her again and got the same tight answer. For the next hour, I repeated my question every ten minutes or so.

“If you keep asking, I’m going to start doubting you.”

I stayed quiet after that.

I asked my lady chums if they’d played a cruel joke on me and all replied that they hadn’t. This news didn’t please Julie. She was leaving on a business trip that weekend and she left me with instructions to get to the bottom this issue. My Sherlockian skills narrowed it down to Julie’s mom. Julie didn’t want to ask her mom for obvious reasons. If they weren’t her mom’s, then her mom would think of me as a cheater. A thorny issue. Anyway, Julie left for trip.

About an hour later, I received a call from Julie. “I talked to my mom. They’re hers.”

Not one to gloat, I told Julie she could apologize any time she felt like it. Oddly, she hung up on me.

When she returned from her trip, I chatted to her about our knicker mystery. I reminded her that I’d been right from the beginning. I said I was little worried that she thought I might be a cheater.

Julie said, “I had total faith in you and I only threw the underwear at you for a joke, but when I asked for an answer, you looked completely guilty. You were telling me you didn’t do it, but all I saw was guilt.”

And there lies the problem. My honest face is real shaky. I know why. I didn’t have a good story to back up the truth. My “Dunno” defense felt as weak as it sounded, but the issue at hand wasn’t something I wanted to lie about. In retrospect, I should have embellished in some way. I would have come over more convincing.

I wish I could say my truthfulness hasn’t gotten me into trouble. Oddly, my lying never has. I’m not sure what that says about me, but I’m guessing it’s not good.

You believe me, right?

Yours truly,
Simon Wood
PS: CrimeSpree Magazine interviewed me in their latest issue and you can read it here.