Author Archives: Murderati

pushing the limits

Short blog today, but I’m wondering, how do you draw the limits of how far you push the boundaries in your writing? Do you decide the limits based solely on your characters? Or does the genre / potential audience affect your choices? How, then, do you define gratuitous?

I wonder about this, because I think we’re seeing a change in what’s expected and acceptable in fiction, and simultaneously, we’re also writing for a culture which has become more politically aware, which has narrowed down the definitions of what’s acceptable. There are writers I know (some who comment here regularly) who’ve gotten nasty emails due to language. (Something I thoroughly expected to happen with Bobbie Faye, but which didn’t… and I wonder if that’s because I have other characters reprimand her already?) We see more and more thriller writers including sex scenes (or more descriptive sex scenes instead of merely the suggestion of sex), more detailed crime scene descriptions, and, I think, more elaborate descriptions of violence in the moment instead of just the lead up to and then the repercussions of. I know writers who wouldn’t hesitate to use curse words, but who shy completely away from certain word choices / epithets because they are no longer acceptable by society… even though their character, in that world, would have used them. The writer’s worried about offending a segment of society, (i.e., potential readers), whether they admit to the concern or not.

Trends in fiction are not new, of course, but we cannot ignore the fact that TV, film, and video games (Warcraft, Halo, etc.) have affected what’s now acceptable… or at least, tolerated. There’s a divide, though, between those who grew up with the video world on 24/7 and those who grew up before. When I googled readers median ages, there were several studies which suggested a median age anywhere from 35.8 for one study to 45.3 for another. I look at the generation of the 20-year-olds and the iPods and iPhones and constant community-gaming scenarios (playing Halo with a guy in Japan, another in DC, another in Australia, for example) and I think… that generation doesn’t just accept more violence / directness / explicit language or scenarios… they expect them, and are bored without them. So… if readership is declining, is it because we’re failing the younger reader? Failing to keep up with what they demand from story? And if we aim at that group, do we do so knowing we’ll alienate an older—and more likely to read right now—audience?

It’s a slippery slope, I’ll grant you. If we start writing to an audience, we’re going to prostitute story. Prostitute ourselves in the pursuit of story. Or… aren’t we, already? Because the slippery slope / prostitution theory depends on the a priori notion that adherence to character, being true to the creation and only that, should drive the story. Which begs the questions, who created the character to be true to in the first place and didn’t we tailor the character from his or her inception?

I think about limits when I’m writing because I don’t want to shy away from challenges. I chose to write a character who breaks rules, who says what she thinks, who pushes the limits of acceptable behavior, but I did so within a caper genre, which allows me to poke fun at her at the same time. I know some who refuse to have any character curse, for example, but I find it hard to believe that no one in their world curses, not even the villains. Other writers avoid sexual tension and descriptions, when sex (having, not having, wanting, desire, lust, love) is a big part of our world. That writer, though, has a limit, they’ve made choices, and maybe it’s due to genre, maybe it’s due to their audience. There is a famous author I respect tremendously whose audience is firmly anti-cursing, anti-taking-the-Lord’s-name-in-vain. She sells well, and I like her—we’ve become friends, and I love her books, though they are so different from my own. I respect her choices, because it works for her audience… but it doesn’t work in my world. We’ve each set limits based both on character and story… and genre.

How about you? How do you set your limits? Do you actively push across a line, pushing what’s “acceptable” or do you rein in? If you’re not a writer, what book shocked you in it’s breaking-of-limits, and did you love it or hate it?

Back To School

JT Ellison

It’s the beginning of a new year.

I’ve always used September as my start.

Let’s Do It Like They Do On The Discovery Channel

by JT Ellison

Let’s talk about sex.

Face it, writing an effective sex scene takes talent. There is no more common denominator in life. Sex literally makes the world go round. Every single person on the planet is the product of a sexual liaison. Most of us pursue coupling with unflagging enthusiasm. In our society, sex is at the same time revered and venerated, feared and glorified, used for power and influence, celebration and procreation. We as writers must tackle the subject, and we do so in wildly diverse ways. On screen, off screen, doors opened and closed, implied and flagrant. So why is writing a sex scene so damn difficult?

My theory is we are so close to our characters, and sex is such an intensely personal act, that dropping your thoughts, fantasies, experiences onto the page can be either painful or liberating, or both. There’s a huge contingent of erotic writers who capitalize on their imaginations for the pleasure of their reading public, and I say more power to them. Romantic suspense has a massive following, both for the intensity of the stories and the disbelief suspending romanticism that finds women in heightened situations with mind-bogglingly handsome men who in turn rescue, reward and pleasure the oftentimes repressed, depressed and feminist heroines. Pure romance, well, that speaks for itself. Who among us doesn’t want to have the dark stranger ride in on his white horse and sweep us off our feet?

But what about the darker side of life. How does sex fit into mysteries and thrillers?

Sexual tension is a brilliant device for both examining internal fortitude and driving the story along. The act of sex on
the page is an immediate and unflinching psychological examination
a character. Are they loose? Fast? Impotent? Frigid? A serial
monogamist? A one off slut? Happily married and desperate to get back to their spouse and kids? Literary fiction often covers this territory and the minefields therein, utilizing weeks and years to uncover the motivations behind their character’s sexual relationships. But when you’re writing a book that takes place in a twenty-four hour time frame, the character’s actions are paramount. It’s difficult to examine life’s biggest driving force when the world is about to end, and we genre writers find ways to, ahem, do it.

Sex and the mystery is the topic of many a panel discussion. There’s no shortage of lust just because things aren’t going so well. It’s the sex after the funeral phenomenon; we all know that when the going gets tough, the tough go to bed. It’s the variety of manners in which we handle these scenes that interest me so much. When a writers decides to open the bedroom (bar room, bathroom, kitchen floor) door, a reader can be shocked by the proclivities and neuroses of a protagonist, cheer their prowess, boo their selfishness. Notwithstanding the act itself, finding deeper understanding of a character’s motivation is rarely laid so bare. The fragility, humanity, or pure assholeness of a lead can be fully examined if they are naked.

For me, writing a series with two characters who are in love AND face life threatening situations on a daily basis, finding a happy medium is difficult at best. I think it strains the credibility of my characters lives to have them drop trou in the midst of a murder investigation. Just imagine Taylor and Baldwin walking away from a particularly horrific crime scene: "You know babe, there was something about that girl with her throat cut that made me incredibly horny." I don’t think so. If anything, the last thing they’d want to do is have sex, even the life-affirming kind that we mere mortals might succumb to.

Yet when you have two extremely attractive people who are a couple, who banter, flirt, drink, despair, want, and sometimes even act quite inappropriately, and there isn’t even an allusion to sex, the reader feels shortchanged. It’s like handing the reader the keys to the kingdom and then saying, sorry, the moat is clogged up and we won’t be re-opening until 6:00 p.m. tomorrow.

No matter what, I refuse to have sex be a gratuitous tool, something to just fill space. I don’t have a sex scene in my first book, I do in my second. The reason I waited was twofold: I wanted the readers to know Taylor and Baldwin without the specter of what they do in their bedroom before I jumped into the deep end. They are definitely together, certainly sexual creatures, but there is a delicious irony to the fact that they aren’t hopping in the sack every chance they get. Actually, they suffer from pre-coitus interruptus, are stymied by events and don’t have another chance because they are professionals doing their jobs.

By the second book, the tension has grown, and when it does finally culminate in a physical scene it’s so fitting to the story that if they didn’t do it, the reader would be shaking their head and saying "huh?" It was the first on screen sex scene I’ve ever written, and I had so much fun working that scene that I wonder why I never tried before. It’s a perfect allegory for the story, rough and intimate and . . . vertical. Nothing can ever be easy for my characters, so why would I give them candles and silk sheets?

I’m not saying one way or the other is better. I just do my best to be true to my darlings.

Unfortunately, the sexual revolution hasn’t entirely conquered fiction. The male protagonists are practically encouraged to plow a swath through their female compatriots, but we women have to be more careful, making sure that the sex is meaningful and preferably within the confines of a relationship, or two. If there’s a female lead who unabashedly screws her way through a book and isn’t labeled, I don’t know of her. But I’d like to shake her hand.

To that end, there are definitely characters I want to see bed their co-stars. Reacher and Rain? I mean, come on. Lee Child and Barry Eisler both deserve academy awards for their ability to, um, evoke a moment.

So let’s get down and dirty, Murderati style. My question for you… who is your favorite genre sex scene writer, and what’s the best sex scene you’ve ever read?

Wine of the Week:

Should we eschew the wine this week and go straight for the Courvoisier??? No? Okay then, let’s do something decadent, rich and decidedly sexy. We’ll go to the makers of an old favorite of mine, Grand Marnier, and travel to Chile, a dark and devilishly diverse land with handsome purveyors of fine wine. This one has been described as voluptuous and silky, fitting for today.

Casa Lapostolle "Clos Apalta" 2001

(Thanks to the Bloodhound Gang — their very naughty song THE BAD TOUCH inspired this week’s title!)

GROUND RUSH (Part 1)

I have a habit of getting myself into situations bigger than I am. When you’re 5′-4", that’s not hard. I thought I’d post a couple of what I call "I was bloody lucky to get away with that" incidents. These incidents tend re-emerge in my stories in one shape or another. So sit back and enjoy the first of calamities…

GROUND RUSH

I hadn’t always been afraid of heights. In fact, when I was a kid, I was a bit of a suburban monkey, forever climbing trees and running along rooftops. My fear struck during a business flight to Paris. The plane took off and banked left. As I stared out of the window at the world below me, petrifying thoughts gripped me. I was mortal and I stood no chance of survival if engine failure or gravity got the better of aerodynamics. My engineer’s mind cataloged every possible reason for the plane to crash and, with every foot in elevation gained, my chances of survival tumbled. I spent the flight clinging to the armrests like they were going to save me as my gaze remained glued to the world outside the window.

My fear spread beyond flying. My heart rate leapt any time I was in a building more than three floors tall. My imagination got away from me and I feared I might lean against a window that wasn’t closed and that would be the end of me. No, my life expectancy depended on me staying on firm, flat ground. After several years of this, I decided to learn to fly to combat my irrational fear. A kill or cure approach, if you will.

I signed up with the local flying school to get a license. They ran a fleet of Cessna 152s–tiny two-seater aircrafts with less elbowroom than a GEO Metro and in aeronautical terms, about the same capabilities. They couldn’t fly to fast or too far, but for the purpose of training, they were more than sufficient. When I arrived for my lesson, the school assigned me one of their Cessna.

I took to flying pretty well. Being a competitive person, especially with myself, I wanted to do well. I had to ace the milestones laid down in the course, one of which was the first solo flight. Flying solo is when the student gets to pilot the aircraft without the security blanket of the instructor at his/her side. The target time for a student to go solo is ten flying hours. My instructor cleared me for my first solo after nine. Once I had that under my belt, I was free to accumulate the number of solo hours required for obtaining a pilot’s license. At the end of our exercises, my instructor would hop out and I’d fly off again, alone.

Things usually went well, but on one particular day things didn’t go to plan. I was returning to the airport after practicing some slow flight exercises in the local area. I contacted air traffic to tell them I was coming back to land and they gave me clearance to rejoin the circuit. The circuit is essentially a traffic circle in the sky the planes join to take their turn to take off and land. Basic landmarks on the ground stake out the circuit. At Booker Airport, Wycombe Wanderer’s soccer stadium was one, a Victorian mausoleum with a golden ball atop was another, a radio tower marked another and the runway itself completed the circuit. Beginning pilots are taught to navigate and fly using visual landmarks and you need to develop a sharp eye. It’s not until you’re 3,000 feet above the ground that you realize the world is mainly anonymous looking cities, pastures and woodlands. Booker Airport proved this point. Beyond the circuit’s basic landmarks, the city of High Wycombe, the M40 motorway and farmlands were the only other recognizable objects for miles.

I joined the circuit at the “Golden Ball” and pointed the Cessna in the direction of the radio tower. Reaching the tower, I prepared for my descent announcing my intention to air traffic control. Air traffic acknowledged, when suddenly, another plane (a twin-engined Piper) radioed in for a landing. Since the other aircraft was the bigger and faster plane, air traffic wanted to get him down before me. The pilot said he was five miles out and asked for a straight in approach, essentially allowing him to circumvent the circuit.

I told air traffic that I was on “Base” which is the last leg before final approach. The other pilot quickly corrected himself saying he was only two miles out. Air traffic got a little nervous and asked if we could see each other. We both responded that we couldn’t. The pilot radioed in to correct his position again. He said he was right on top of the airport. Air traffic nervously asked where I was. Equally as nervous, I told them that I was about to turn on to final. There was a moment of hesitation from air traffic and I could understand it. They had a tough decision to make. Was it better to have someone competent get the plane down on the ground first or keep the experienced pilot up in the air to prevent spooking the student pilot? They decided to give the twin engine priority over me, but asked again for us to recheck for visual contact. We both said we couldn’t see each other and given no other instruction, I reluctantly turned on to final. As I banked left, my wing lifted and there, about a hundred feet above me, was the twin-engine Piper and its pilot had no idea he was descending on top of me. The expanse of our aircraft’s wings had placed each other in our collective blind spots.

We were seconds from a collision. With no time to explain the situation, I slammed the plane into a dive to avert the crash and radioed air traffic to tell them what had happened. A shocked voice told me to get into the circuit again and come home. With a racing pulse, I said that I would.

I looked over my shoulder for the runway. It had gone, and so had the Piper I’d nearly collided with. Nothing looked familiar. It was as if I’d punctured a hole in the world and reemerged in some alternate universe.

I tried to reorient myself and scanned the landscape for the “golden ball”, the radio tower, or the stadium. All I saw were trees and the M40. Extending beyond the horizon in both directions, the motorway was no help. I’d committed a student pilot’s cardinal sin–I’d lost my visual bearings and I didn’t recognize a damn thing. This was ridiculous. I’d flown over the same places a thousand times, but nothing seemed familiar. No matter how ridiculous it seemed, I was lost.

To be continued next week…

Yours safely on the ground,
Simon Wood

Climbing Magazine

by JT Ellison

Star light, star bright,
First star I see tonight.
I wish I may, I wish I might,
Have the wish I wish tonight.

How many stars there are.

I gaze at the night sky, inky black, a cool breeze ruffling my newly cut hair. It rained early in the evening so the air is musty, carbon-tinged. There’s Venus, Mars, the Big Dipper. The swath of wispy clouds that are really millions of stars coupled together to form our Milky Way shines with a luminosity only seen at altitude. I stand, leaning, swaying in an attempt to crane my neck backwards to see them all, these pinpricks of life. There is comfort, knowledge that somewhere else, a woman like me stares at the quickening night and sighs in time with the wind.

I got off the plane knowing a week of unassailable memories waited for me. I’d like to live here, but the constant reminders, the landscape changed yet exactly the same, the recognition would overwhelm me. The
five senses are magnified when married to nostalgia and regret. If I moved back, I’d have to go North, into the leeward mountains, or directly west, climbing until my heart raced and my breath caught in my throat. Find a new place among the familiar, with fauna for neighbors. And the scent of pine would drift through the walls of my dwelling.

A shadowy deer stands twenty feet away, being. She sniffs the air, stares at me in frank curiosity and I wonder what she’s thinking. Where to drop the late season bambi she’s carrying in her prodigious belly? Her time is near, her legs are braced in pain. The moon has risen, I can see the shivers of contractions shimmering along her flank. We are in a standoff. I sense she wants me to stay, so I wait, patiently, for her to decide. At last she nods and disappears into the brush to do her job. Loss, pain, joy — all collide in my chest. I miss her already.

I feel transparent here.
I don’t know who to be here.

A quote from Victor Hugo drifts into my mind.

Be as a bird on a frail branch that she feels bending beneath her,
Still she sings away all the same, knowing she has wings.

Am I that bird? Or am I the frail branch, bending under the weight of a beautiful stranger?

When you wish upon a star,
Makes no difference who you are,
Anything your heart desires,
Will come to you.

It is a new day. The shockingly clear sky looks like azure paint swiped across a snow white canvas, the exact shade of blue of my husband’s eyes. I sit in the silence, reading, watching the animals. Within hours, billowy storm clouds begin to creep over the vista, blotting out the sky until all that’s left of color is a patch here and there, like he’s winking at me. I miss him.

The sky becomes a deep gray, matching the moods of two families nearby. Death has been visiting, stealing away their loved ones, people I knew. Their sadness, my sadness, is echoed in the approaching tumult.

The storm will rock the house, howl and tear, plead and bribe, beg and bully in its attempts to come indoors. The wind will whisper seductive promises against the new windows. I will not give it the pleasure. I have enough storms right now.

In the wake of the short-lived tempest, another sparkling clear night. I stand and wish upon my star, my star light, my star bright, my first star of the night. I am making more wishes than usual these days. I guess that’s natural. The unknown stretches before me.

Wine of the Week — We need a soothing selection. This wine was discovered by Murderati reader Mary-Frances Makichen, who was so incredibly kind to suggest a couple of her favorites to me.

R Stuart Big Fire Pinot Noir

Videorati

Go ahead and post your favorite opening lines or paragraphs in the comment section. And those of you who are adding your OWN opening paragraph — for a chance to win a signed copy of my new UK paperback — the rules are as follows: Make it short and sweet and I’ll simply chose the one I like best. The contest ends next Wednesday at 11:59 pm pacific time.

Good luck!

Just Add 89,700 Words

By Louise Ure

“What in the world has come over you?
What in heaven’s name have you done?
Broken the speed at the sound of loneliness
Out there running just to be on the run.”

– Amos Lee
Speed at the Sound of Loneliness

There’s something special about a songwriter’s ability to distill a character, an emotion, an entire story down to fewer than three hundred words. They can often say more in a chorus or a three chord transition than we can with chapters of dialogue and description and narrative.

It is a skill I admire.

An economy of words. And just the right words at that.

And they’ve got the advantage of being able to use that haunting minor chord, or guitar twang or perfect soprano voice to wrench our hearts even further.

There are a few songs – mostly old ballads and country western songs – that spell the whole story out for us.

Marty Robbins’ “El Paso”
“Puff the Magic Dragon”
Bobby Gentry’s “Ode to Billie Joe”
Dixie Chicks’ “Goodbye Earl”

"Goodbye, Earl
Those black-eyed peas
They tasted all right to me, Earl
You’re feeling weak?
Why don’t you lay down
and sleep, Earl
Ain’t it dark
Wrapped up in that tarp, Earl?"

And my all time favorite in the category: “Paradise by the Dashboard Light,” by Meatloaf.

“Ain’t no doubt about it
We were doubly blessed
‘Cause we were barely seventeen
And we were barely dressed.”

These are no one act plays. They tell the whole story — all the way from asshole to appetite. We know the characters, we know the plot, we know the conflict, we know the ending.

But there are other songs that touch me and make me ache to hear more. Not just of the song, but of the story told. Those are the songs I’d like to turn into novels.

Amos Lee, quoted above, is one of those. His song is a sad plaint about a woman living on the edge, making bad choices, and leaving a good man in her wake. Who is she? Why has she driven herself to this lonely place? It’s a book I’d like to read. It’d be a perfect vehicle for Ken Bruen. Or Denise Mina. Or Sara Gran, dontcha’ think? Somebody who carves into the hearts that beat in cold gray places.

How about Janis Joplin’s version of "Me and Bobby McGee?”

I want four hundred pages of the saga of these two drifters. And would we dare turn this tale of harpoon-blowing hitchhikers into a crime story? Duane S. could do it. Or Megan Abbott.

Maybe Solomon Burke’s "Honey, Where’s the Money Gone?"

Even the oldie “Walk Away Renee” leaves me wanting more pages. (Although the new ballad version by Linda Ronstadt and Ann Savoy seems to tell more of a story than the old Four Tops pop-and-R&B song.)

“Your name and mine inside a heart upon a wall
Still find a way to haunt me
Though they’re so small

Just walk away Renee
You won’t see me follow you back home
The empty sidewalks on my block are not the same
You’re not to blame”

What drove these young lovers apart? A pregnancy? An abortion? Narrow-minded parents? A new lover? “Romeo and Juliet” was written with less inspiration than these lyrics.

And Miranda Lambert’s “Crazy Ex-Girlfriend” is tailor-made for a mystery novel.

“Well, I started throwing things
And I scared folks half to death
I got up in his face
And smelled whiskey on his breath
I didn’t give a second thought
To being thrown in jail
Cause baby to a hammer
Everything looks like a nail.”

I want to write that book. The wacko ex-girlfriend who hunts down the sleazy ex and his trashy new lady. I do so love writing about strong women bent on revenge.

And I was going to add that Amy Winehouse’s “Rehab” would make a good book, too, but she seems to be living out that story for us live and in person. Still, ya gotta love that song. It’s got echoes of “Dancing in the Streets,” but only if you’re dancing in a funeral procession.

How about you guys? Is there a song you’d like to see taken to 400-page length?

Is it one you like to read or one you’d like to write?

And if you aren’t the perfect person to write it, which author should we talk into it?

LCU

Standard Bears

by Pari Noskin Taichert

A few months ago, Mystery Writers of America revised its approved publishers list for active membership. The change went up without fanfare and there it would have stayed — in my opinion — if not for the fact that Left Coast Crime’s standing committee adopted the list as a primary guideline for defining "authors" for signing slots. (Note: Writers with other publishers are not excluded from being on panels. There are two separate things going on here.)

Here’s the exact wording — taken directly from the bylaws:

"To be considered an author at Left Coast Crime you must either meet the requirements for active membership in the Mystery Writers of America (you don’t actually have to be a member) or have been shortlisted for a major mystery award (the Edgar, the Anthony, the Agatha, the Dilys, the Barry, the Hammett, the Macavity, the Lefty, the Nero Wolfe, the CWA Dagger, the Shamus, the Arthur Ellis, and the Bruce Alexander Awards). Non-American writers without U.S. publishers who meet the requirements for active membership in their national mystery writer associations also qualify."

You can see that LCC’s definition is more inclusive. Authors who were once published by any of the "approved" houses also fall under the rubric; there’s no timeline specified on that.

During the last couple of weeks, I’ve noticed that the writers with publishers that were dropped, or have not been "approved," have been quite vocal about these new decisions. Their distress and anger are evident. I do, honestly, understand where they’re coming from — especially in the case of legit publishers who’ve only been around for a year or two.

Here’s the but . . .

I don’t pretend to know why MWA made the changes, but I’m glad they did — however imperfect the list may be.

To me, a professional/trade organization must stand for something difficult to attain. It’s main purpose is to define and support professionalism in its particular niche — not as a social group or outlet for marketing. Without exams or tough requirements, active status (as opposed to affiliate) means little to those who do qualify.

As soon as I signed my first contract, I joined MWA. I knew from the start that the normal networking that might take place in a larger urban area wouldn’t be available to me. Denver is the Rocky Mountain MWA base and that’s a healthy eight-hour drive from Albuquerque. My networking happens mainly via email and that certainly has huge limits.

Even though MWA doesn’t meet a lot of my needs, I’ll remain a member. I believe its a professional’s responsibility to support the trade organization. (I’ll be honest though . . . If my publisher weren’t on the list — if MWA didn’t consider me a professional — I wouldn’t stay a member. That’s my bias.)

Strict standards for active membership remind me of exams for entrance/certification into a profession and I’m not going to tell the examiner what to test me on.

Other writing organizations have similar requirements:

Romance Writers of America draws sharp distinctions between its PRO and PAN and other members.
International Thriller Writers does, too. And, look at Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America as well.

I’d like to know what Murderati readers think about all of this. Do you, as fans, care if publishers have been vetted by a professional organization? Will the new definition that LCC has adopted affect your willingness to attend the Denver convention next year? (Disclosure: I’m helping with publicity on this con and expect it to be a wonderful event. Don’t worry: The website will be updated soon.)

What about you, the authors who qualify, who’ve complained about the mix of writers at conventions, will you step up and support the changes or will you sit on the sidelines to watch the fallout?

And, I want to hear from writers who feel they’ve been snubbed. I want to know what they think about professional standards and how they think MWA could have done a better job of defining them . . .

My only request is that everyone BE NICE. I want a true dialog and thoughtful discussion.

I’m not looking for a flame war here and won’t tolerate it.

Here goes . . .

the knob theory of the universe

I have a theory of the universe. And that theory is, apparently, that if I change the butt-ugly doorknobs on my kitchen cabinets, the entire universe as I know it will somehow have to be remodeled. I am not exaggerating here. I’ve been knowing this since the year 2000, and I have been killing myself to not change them to save you all time and expense.

You’re welcome.

Here’s how it goes: Every so often, my husband will forget that he’s married to a relatively introverted person and, without warning me ahead of time, he will volunteer our house for a party—usually a big one which entails about sixty or so people all in our living-room and kitchen area. Now, individually, I like all of the people. And, individually, I like having them over. I’m just not so great at the whole crowd thing, though I can do it from practice now. He typically announces that he has already volunteered the house for the time and date (usually within two weeks of his pronouncement—he doesn’t like giving me much warning because the head spinning might get a little intimidating… short notice means I have to suck it up and deal). (After twenty-five years, he’s unreasonably confident that I’m not going to kill him.)

At any rate, this announcement of a party starts a dead panic for me because (a) I typically haven’t visited the kitchen for anything except for diet cokes and to use the microwave (I think I used the stove top twice this year, and that was only because the microwave was busy) and (b) since I am usually buried in writing or reading, I have no clue what the house looks like and am appropriately appalled at all of the projects that didn’t magically finish themselves. (To hell with the tooth fairy, why can’t there be construction elves?)

About this point in the process, I start worrying about how the house looks and I want to get it back up to speed. What I can see in my head—its potential—is sadly lacking in the reality and I know that I could make a few small changes and it would be greatly improved. We’re contractors, after all. We should have a finished house (you’d think). This is when I zero in on one of the main offenders: the kitchen knobs. (These are some of the ugliest knobs on the planet. I swear to you, the people who built this house went to the Ugly Store and picked out the cheapest looking crap knobs in the place and then thought, “Hey, why just ruin the kitchen! Let’s make the bathrooms as ugly as we can, too!”) I typically focus on them because I think, “easy fix!” and inevitably, my husband sees me looking at them and sighs, because he knows what’s coming next: the knob theory of the universe.

Or, better known as, “When Toni loses her mind.”

Because in spite of the fact that there will be sixty or so guests showing up at our house about two weeks from the point of the discussion, I decide I can go buy new knobs. But I don’t want cheap knobs, I want something pretty. Something that will make a statement. Something stylish and current, I think, and then I go find knobs that I like (online, because I hate to shop) and that’s about the point that I realize that the knobs I like are $10 each. Which wouldn’t be bad if there weren’t 78 knobs. This is when the adrenaline has started to pump (because there are PEOPLE coming OVER and the house is a WRECK) but I am ignoring the adrenaline, happily skipping into denial because this is an opportunity to fix the damned knobs. This is the part where Delusion piles on… I really look at the kitchen cabinets and think, “Gee, you know… if I’m going to spend that much money on knobs, I don’t want to put them on these doors the way they look. They need to be painted. I could paint them.” Then, because I am very good at painting, I think, “And age them! A couple of layers of paint, sand one off a bit to make them look like old furniture!” (Yeah, because that’s a lot simpler.) Which then leads to, “I also need new hinges, because these look out-dated.” About five seconds later, up pops the, “But those countertops are ugly and won’t go with the new knobs or the new color of paint (which I haven’t picked out yet, but I CAN because I am INSANE)” which of course leads to me saying, “but if we’re going to put in new countertops, we’ve really GOT to replace that stove top because two of the burners can no longer be resuscitated,” and almost immediately, next, is “that oven has got to go because it’s just too damned small for anything bigger than a postage stamp” which then has me scampering down the road of insanity to “but if we’re going to get new appliances, we might as well go with the range option with the six-burner top instead of the four burner top, seeing how we’re always having people over here for parties” which THEN leads to “but that means we have to enlarge the opening in the cabinets to fit the range, which means some demo and construction,” which then further leads to “but if we’re going to go ahead and do the range, we might as well redesign the kitchen and put the pantry over there and the range over here so that we can put an opening in this section, which means chipping up and replacing the tile floor” which forces the next idea of “but if we’re going to have an opening there, we might as well go ahead and build the porch off the side of the house that we’ve always been wanting,” (which then means changing the roof and the driveway and the back door entrance) at which point my eyes have gone glassy and my head is spinning and I am probably frothing at the mouth because I am somehow trying to figure out how to get it ALL done in two weeks before people arrive. Not to mention the minor little detail that instead of spending $780 for knobs (which is, I will admit, nuts), I am now contemplating work that will cost upwards of fifty grand and I am, at this point, COMPLETELY CONVINCED it can be done in two weeks before the party. It has to be all or nothing, because my entire identity is wrapped up in those fucking knobs and how my kitchen looks (when everyone who’s coming to visit knows me and knows I don’t use the damned thing) and when my husband tries to point out that I could just go get knobs, it’s as if he’s yanked the rug out from under my demented little world and I’m usually furious with him that he won’t go along with this terrific plan. How dare he be practical and pragmatic when there are PEOPLE coming OVER.

This is about the time he makes me margaritas and I calm down.

(Okay, there may be a little more ranting on my part about how I never ever get the stupid knobs I want, which we now refer to as the “great knob debate,” the reference of which cuts off about two days of me being annoyed.)

Here’s the thing I will tell you: it’s dumb. The whole process of stalling out and not doing anything because I can’t instantly have the whole thing is dumb, and luckily, confined mostly to the knob argument.

The thing is, as dumb as this example is, it’s not that far off from what a lot of people do when they’re trying to write. I see the parallel in people every day who hope to accomplish something with their writing, who feel overwhelmed, and as a result, they don’t move forward. They are deeply fearful of something (people coming over)(or the writing equivalent, worried about what people will think of the finished project) and so they sidetrack themselves (construction projects)(or the writing equivalent, listing all of the reasons they can’t write “right now.”) I’ve watched over the years as people have discussed online why they’re having trouble writing and there are always some good reasons mixed in there: work constraints, kids, family, tragedy, depression, financial… There are always obstacles. Big obstacles. You can let them stop you or you can find a solution. The solution is rarely, if ever, magically done in a moment. It’s step by step, bit by bit, or as Anne Lamott would say, bird by bird.

Books don’t happen overnight. Careers don’t happen in one move. It takes whittling away at it, a little each day, to create something like a book or a script or a career. Every single day you don’t do a little bit toward your dream is a day you lose.

We aren’t getting these days back. They aren’t a dress rehearsal.

I realized early on that in spite of my frothing over the whole knobs issue, that the bottom line was, I didn’t really care. The knobs aren’t important to me because if they were, I’d have done something about them long ago. I recognized the whole debate over them was really over fear; focusing on the construction was a way of keeping myself busy so I wouldn’t have to face the reality, that having a crowd here made me a little apprehensive and wanting to flee until it was over. Ultimately, though, the only real choice I can make is to deal with what’s at hand: clean up the house, do what I can, get ready for the party.

Then enjoy. And no matter how traumatized and fearful I am prior to a party, I always end up enjoying the people, once they’re here. Not a single one of them cares about the knobs or the countertops or the kitchen; they’re typically having fun, eating great food. As much as I feared these times, I look back on them now and know my husband was really the smart one: he kept our friends and family together through these events. He kept us all interacting and part of a bigger family unit than my introverted self would have managed. These memories I have of everyone laughing around the table, people eager to come over… would have been lost, if I had waited until the kitchen was “just right” for guests. These people would have been absent from my life. And I am glad to have been pushed a bit out of my comfort zone, to have these memories.

It’s the same thing with the writing. Sure, there’s the Platonic ideal in my head that I fear I’ll never live up to, but there would never be anything to show if I don’t start somewhere, keep working and strive to improve. No matter how afraid I am for the reception of my writing, I am always glad I did it, that I stuck it out, gritty detail after gritty detail. I do what I can, to the best of my ability, day by day. I’ve been lucky in the reception of it, for the most part, but the bottom line is, I love what I do. I wouldn’t have accomplished it if I had waited to have enough “time” to write, or the right office or money or work circumstance or calm and quiet or lack of pain in my life. Maybe it’s insane to plug along every day, not knowing what the outcome can be, but I’d rather think of it as tenacity. I know sometimes new writers sort of look at published authors, wondering what the secret is to getting from there to here. Maybe tenacity is a big part of the answer. Maybe, though, the secret lies also in recognizing that we all have fear, and we do it anyway.

So tell me, what accomplishment are you glad to have (besides writing), in spite of what it took to get there?

Angel Line Contemporary Baby Crib

By Louise Ure

We all have things we keep – holding them close to our heart. Other things we sell or give away, their meaning no longer important to us. But then there are the things we’ve lost. Things that define us even though we don’t have them anymore. And those are the ones that hurt the most.

It was a humid August afternoon in Austin, Texas, and I’d just finished lunch with the account team at GSD&M Advertising. It is only coincidence that I usually associate those initials with Greed, Sex, Drugs & Money – the four best reasons to commit a crime.

I was working on something that would make no difference in anyone’s life … a new feature on a cell phone, a new long distance pricing plan. Whatever it was, I cared deeply about it at the time, and the conversation was heated. Tempers flared and hands flew.

I knocked over my coffee, spilling it on my hands and lap and strewing those little packets of mysterious whitener like starter kits of cocaine across the table.

It wasn’t until I was back in the hotel room several hours later that I realized the loss.

There was an airy space where my wedding ring should have been.

In a moment of pure photographic recall, I remembered taking off my ring, wiping the coffee from my hands, cleaning the ring, bundling everything up in paper napkins and throwing it all away.

My arm ached with the sense memory of trying to call back that toss.

I drove back to the agency, where a stooped, sixty-five year old Mexican man met me at the door with a bucket in his hand.

“Ayúdame … por favor.”

The night cleaning crew took pity on me. We pawed through the trashcans in the conference room. We got down on our hands and knees and searched the floor. We emptied the vacuum cleaner bags. We stood shoulder to shoulder in the dumpster out back and went through every plastic bag with flashlights.

It was gone.

I wasn’t dreading telling my husband. Hell, he’d left his wedding ring in three different hotel rooms around the world and had to have it mailed back to him.

No, the diamond belonged to Mimi.

Mimi was my grandmother, Leonora Bianca Cosamini, born in the mountain town of Lucca per Barga in Tuscany in 1896 and carried to America as a baby. Unlike many Italian immigrants, they came west. West to a land still punctuated with gunfire and cattle rustling and barefoot Papago Indians making daily treks to market down the middle of a dirt road grandly named Broadway.

She was as intrepid and independent as her new land, running away at thirteen from the convent where she’d been in training, and eloping with a thirty-three year-old man with bright blue eyes. Her parents had him arrested for kidnapping and sent her back to Italy.

Fat lot of good that did. Jimmy Counter found her in Lucca and kidnapped her all over again.

Thus began their short, hot life together. Only three years later, Jimmy died in a plane crash while trying to strew rose petals over the house in apology for a spat the night before.

He left her with two children … and that diamond ring.

It was an Old Miner’s Cut stone, more cushion-shaped than today’s brilliant cuts, with a smaller table on the top and greater depth than diamonds carved today. A cut like that doesn’t reflect much light; it holds it close and keeps the joy inside.

Mimi died in 1971. The ring is what I had of her.

I need to know what happened to it.

In my mind’s eye, it was found the next day in the city dump by a young Latina named Genoveva, whose pregnancy demanded a marriage ceremony, but whose young lover could not afford a ring.

They consider it a miracle, just like the child growing inside her.

They thank the Virgin Mary every night in their prayers and the guardian angels who left heaven to drop the ring at their feet.

They lived happily ever after.

Well, that’s the way it should have been anyway.

I hold the memory of that ring inside me. And the love behind it.

What, my friends, defines you, even in its absence? What have you ever lost that you would give your heart to get back?

P.S. Check out this terrific half-day seminar on "How to Create Killer Openings," sponsored by MWA Norcal. September 8, in San Mateo, California. Details are here.

LCU