Author Archives: Murderati

Dis…trac…tions

The "inter-web" and I are good pals. When I first seriously started writing, it gave my voice a place in the world. There weren’t many print markets for short crime fiction out there, especially not the down and dirty variety. But on the web, bloodshed and bullets and brutal head bashing, were no problem. I had a home.

And let’s not forget the web’s role as invaluable research machine. With just a few clicks I can find information on muzzle velocity, illegal cheese smuggling, narcocorridos, whiskey stick fighting… the possibilities are endless.

Maybe too endless.

Often, my forays into internet research have left me…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yg6bZSM48vU

…distracted.

I blame myself, of course. I should have more discipline. But the waves of words and images have gripped me in their undertow, ripping me away from my work. The biggest culprit is…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rABM8ZsFAGg

…YOU TUBE.

Where else can you find skateboarding dogs and crack smoking prostitutes, the Wiggles and Sadam Hussein swinging from a rope, all in one convenient location? I’ve visited the TUBE looking for inspiration or images to help bring authenticity to my work.

More often than not, I…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DjEQARfQ524&mode=related&search=

…end up surfing through a sea of videos. Some funny. Some gruesom. Some awe inspiringly strange.

Am I alone? I think not. Several writers consistently include YOU TUBE links in their blogs, enabling my addiction (I’m looking at you JD!)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AMlnJLdV5VY

So the question dear Murderati readers, do you suffer from my calamity? If so, how do you avoid the siren call of the Internet while writing?

And, while this might sound like an alcoholic asking for a tequila shot…include some of your favorite YOU TUBE links.

Burnout

by Alex

“Honey, you’re overextended.”

I can’t tell you how many times I heard that from my mother when I was growing up.

She was right, of course, but I never listened to her, of course, because what could a parent know about a teenager’s needs and capacities? I could do it all. Of course, I might get sick and have to drop out of a play, or have dreams about climbing a ladder which started to disintegrate in my hands, but that happens to everyone, right?

Well, it’s taken a while, but I think I finally understand that my mother was right. For whatever reason – and maybe it’s an occupational hazard, you tell me – my tendency is to overextend, to do too much, until I’m compromising my relationships, and at least my quality of life (I would say my health but my health has always been good enough to make me think I’m more okay than I probably am) in my obsessive doing.

And when you’ve been self-employed for basically all your life, there’s no federal agency that steps in and demands overtime and vacation pay. There’s no one who turns out the lights in the office building at night, forcing at least a change of scenery. You, the boss, can pretty much work you, the employee, into the ground, with no recompense or repercussions.

So last week, after pretty much killing myself to get my book revisions in, in between traveling to Romantic Times in Houston, back to LA for the LA Times Festival of Books, then straight on to Virginia for Malice Domestic, I stopped.

Completely.

I don’t know how conscious a decision that was. What happened was that my mind said – “Uh uh. That’s it.” And this time I actually listened, instead of doing what I usually do and barreling on ahead to the next few dozen things.

So I’ve been doing nothing.

Doing nothing is hard. It’s been interesting. It’s not as much of a joyous relief as you would think because you’re too tired to really enjoy it.

I’ve been sleeping a lot, so there are not as many hours in a day as you would think to do nothing. There are things that got backed up over the last few months that simply had to get done – cats to the vet, two months of laundry, that kind of thing. Obviously I’m writing this blog… obviously I’ve done other things like that, which are not doing nothing. And I did make a stab at doing my taxes but realized that was NOT doing nothing, even though it was not writing, so I am not going back to them until I have another week off).

I joined a new gym with a staggering number of classes throughout the day, so I’ve been doing one or two of those every day (too much, really, but after all these months of sludge…)

I know some people would take this opportunity to travel but I HAVE been traveling. I don’t want to travel. I don’t want to do anything.

What I do most of the day is read, of course. But even this is strangely exhausting – I guess reading is always going to be work, for a writer. I have quiet, tentative thoughts about it, like – “Why don’t YOU base the next book on a true story…” – you know, that kind of thing. I try to allow myself to have the thought without grabbing a notebook and acting on it.

But even though I’ve started tp read dozens of books over the last week, I haven’t read much all the way through, and I haven’t been very happy with anything I have managed to read (that is until yesterday, Louise will like this – Barbara Kingsolver’s PRODIGAL SPRING).

It’s a very uneasy vacation, that has turned into a kind of experiment, along the lines of metaphysical directives like – “When you don’t know what to do, STOP” and ”When you find yourself in a hole, stop digging.”

Well, I’ve stopped. And already I wonder how long I can keep all this up.

This afternoon I actually have a book signing that’s been on the books for months – it’s just not possible to go on complete hiatus, unfortunately. And of course there’s an ulterior motive to all this – I want to stop for long enough to feel that surge toward the next book.

But this time I really did overextend myself, and I think I had to go down to as close to nothing as I could manage to figure out what I can cut out, or more gently, let go. Because something’s got to give, or it’s going to be me.

So I know you all can relate… I’ve seen versions of your meltdowns and enforced vacations here on this very blog. Do you have any advice on how to get the most out of doing nothing? Or, hmm, am I already trying to overextend myself again?

Don’t Tempt Me…

by JT Ellison

I was teasing with a friend the other day, emails flying back and forth, the comments benign but tinged with that frisson that exists between good friends. After one exchange, involving the novel concept I’m sure we are the only two writers in the world to have ever had, about running away to a deserted island with never-ending margaritas and dedicated slaves, he simply said, "Don’t tempt me."

My immediate reaction was, oh, how many times have I thought that? How many times have we all thought that? It’s one of those statements that separate us from animals. We are all tempted, by any number of little and big issues, every day. I daresay some of us do a better job of limiting our temptations than others. Assuming that we are governed by morals and values, that we are able to put the temptations of life aside, the big sins and the little. The big ones: don’t kill, don’t cheat, don’t covet. The medium to big ones: don’t have sex with strangers we find attractive, don’t take that extra drink that will send us over the edge, don’t have that cigarette once you’ve given up, don’t, don’t, don’t… The little ones are trickier, and I’m certainly not going to presume to list them here, my morality and yours may have differences.

There are seven deadly sins: Lust, Gluttony, Greed, Sloth, Wrath, Envy, and Pride. Think hard. I’m sure you can find a little of yourself somewhere among these. I know I can. What? You’re a saint? Well, take this quiz. Maybe you aren’t as sweet as you thought.

But I have faith that the vast majority of Murderati’s readers are little white lie types rather than full blown sinners, AKA murdering psychopaths. So what better place to live vicariously than through our characters? I absolutely adore writing bad people. The freedom to allow them to think uncharitable thoughts with impunity, to kill, maim, key cars, lie, cheat and steal… all those things that I’m programmed NOT to do. Does that make me a bad person? Man, I hope not. I just find it enjoyable to explore my darker nature through my antagonists.

So, dear readers, I ask you these three questions.

When was the last time you muttered "Don’t tempt me" under your breath?
If you could choose one sin, (only one, mind you,) that you could commit with with the knowledge of immediate absolution, what would it be?
Who is your favorite evil character?

Feel free to post anonymously : )

Wine of the Week: An article on celebrated wine consultant Michel Rolland, and a Château le Bon Pasteur 2003 in his honor.

Beach Boy

Accidents Waiting to Happen has been out for a while, so emails have been hitting my mailbox from readers. I can honestly say there’s a little bit of trepidation when I receive an email titled: I’ve read your book. Sounds innocuous enough, but a statement like that can be read a bunch of ways. I’ve read your book…and I loved it. But it could also mean, I’ve read your book…and you should be looking over your shoulder for a long time because I know where you live, you son of a bitch.

Luckily the emails I’ve received have been the former and not the latter—and for those who think the latter, I’m armed, okay? So just back off, buddy.

So my ego has been fed over recent weeks with some very nice praise. One of the recurring themes has been along the lines of, “a great beach read.”

Hmm. A great beach read, eh? No one has mentioned anything about it being a future classic of literature or a life changing experience. It keeps picking up the beach and airplane tag. I mentioned this to a friend and they asked, “Aren’t you offended?”

The simple answer is no. I think it’s wonderful to be thought of as a beach or airplane read. I have no pretensions. I really mean it when I say I want to entertain the reader. I don’t have an agenda. I don’t want to educate. I want to provide a little escapism. I want someone to forget how cramped it is in economy and how much work is building on their desk while they veg out on the beach as they flip through the pages of my imagination. If the book ends up as a dog-eared bundle of pages that spends the rest of its productive life as a doorstop, so be it. All I ask is that they’ll remember me the next time they hit the beach or board a plane.

Yours in your hand luggage,
Simon Wood

Hawking Our Wares

by Robert Gregory Browne

This isn’t the post you were originally meant to read.

Until last night, I had planned to release an allegory of sorts, a short story about two painters hawking their wares at an arts festival, a thinly disguised version of events that unfolded at a recent group signing I was involved in.

I decided to scrap it. Why? Because — as my wife rightly pointed out — it was too mean spirited and not nearly as clever as I originally thought it was. And in my attempt to take a fellow author to task, I lost sight of the point of the post.

So that post is now gone.

The incident that sparked it, however, is still fresh in my mind and several weeks later, the feelings that this incident stirred up don’t seem to want to go away.

So let’s talk about those feelings.

While I’ll never be one to call what we writers do "art," I certainly take pride in the work I put into a book. It took me years to learn my craft, years to learn to paint pictures with words, to create three-dimensional characters, to keep a story moving forward through dialog and action and unexpected plot twists.

I don’t think I have to say that writing a book is not an easy thing to do, and those of us who manage and, better yet, manage to get it published, have every right to cherish that accomplishment.

Once we do get published, however, a whole new set of realities enter our world, not the least of which is the task of promoting our books.

But the question I have to ask myself (especially after an encounter with an author whose take-no-prisoners enthusiasm for the task was annoying, to say the least) is: what exactly are we selling?

Is the work we do, the product we represent, no different than link sausage or high-heeled shoes? Are we in the same type of business as carnival barkers or medicine wagon hucksters? Should we stand on a crowded street corner, megaphone in hand, and call potential readers over to sample our wares?

I don’t think so.

Call me a snob, but I like to think that what we do is special. And rare. And when it comes to promoting my books, I try to do it with a kind of dignity that reflects that. In a group promotional situation, I also try to treat those around me, my fellow authors, with the same kind of dignity and not allow my words and/or actions to make them feel uncomfortable or embarrassed.

It’s simple courtesy.

Unfortunately, not all of us feel this way. Some of us feel quite comfortable with that megaphone pressed against our lips, and selling our work is no different than selling a bottle of snake oil. For whatever reason — and who knows, it may be a good one — these authors feel compelled to grab every potential customer by the lapels and drag him or her over for a closer look at their "product."

But I’m just not built that way. And maybe that’s a problem. Maybe I need to wake up to the realities of the book business and realize that because we live in a world of short attention spans, a place filled with a lot of glittery objects, that I need to do whatever I can to get people to pay attention to mine.

A few weeks ago, I posted a forum topic over at Crimespace called BSP about my disdain for blatant self-promotion. It turned out that my post touched such a nerve that I got dozens of comments and even won a Crimespace t-shirt after it was voted "topic of the month."

Several of the comments took me to task, telling me that promotion is a necessary part of the game. But these people misunderstood what I was trying to say. I have no problem with promotion. I’ll gladly play that game as long as it’s necessary.

But where I draw the line is when that promotion crosses over into "blatant" territory, where everything we say and do is designed to push our product, where every encounter we have on an online forum or blog or in a chatroom is an opportunity to sell, sell, sell.

I believe in the soft sell. And while I’m happy to do book tours and attend conventions and festivals and mingle with those who love to read, I’ll be damned if I’ll shove my book under everyone’s nose and beg them to read it.

Most of my selling is done on the page. And while I may be naive, I believe that good writing will eventually attract a following and that word of mouth is the very best selling tool we have.

I don’t want to be seen as a crass used car salesman. I can’t imagine that anyone does.

So if you ever see me on a promotional tour, don’t be surprised if I keep it low key. I’ll give my speech, sign my books, talk to you about reading or writing or whatever you feel like talking about.

But, please, don’t ever expect me to pick up that megaphone.

The Upside of No Attention (plus Malice Domestic Pix)

by Pari Noskin Taichert

Last week, I had the delight of not being a nominee. I know it sounds ungrateful, but bear with me.

Below, you’ll see pictures of my fourth Malice Domestic. It’s a wonderful, well-run convention that has had a tremendous influence on my career and sense of self as a national writer.

But conventions are odd. These get-togethers are usually conceived of, organized by and manned with dedicated "fan" volunteers. We writers are cautioned to remember our place: these events are NOT vehicles for marketing, they’re NOT designed to satisfy our agendas.

Alas, while good in theory, that’s just not the way it works.

Most writers who are trying to make a living at their craft come to conventions to meet the truly enthusiastic mystery readers, the ones who’ll spend time and money to hobnob with the creators of their favorite works and to encourage newbies.

Going to conventions is a heady experience — almost otherworldly — because they provide such a fantastic sense of community. Still, they can’t be vacations for me — or most writers I know. We have to find a way to justify the expense.

So . . . we end up "working the room," whether we mean to or not. It’s important to be visible, to get on a panel and in the program book. This is especially true for authors from lesser known presses with books not easily found in every corner bookstore.

My first year at Malice, I felt so much pressure to make every minute count. I must have met hundreds of people. My second year, I was a nominee for an Agatha for best first novel and felt even more compelled to use my time well. Fast forward to the next year — another glorious nomination — same drill.

Understand this:
I adore being nominated for awards.

Understand this, too:
I adore meeting people at conventions and learning about them and their lives. I’m just noting that normally, I feel this weird need to perform, to be charming and witty . . . to be memorable

. . . but this year, I didn’t. I was between books. I kicked back and enjoyed myself without frenzy. I had wonderful conversations with people who’d only been acquaintances in the past. Superficial relationships deepened into friendships.

It was bliss. This kind of freedom doesn’t come often in an up-and-coming writer’s life.

I didn’t worry about impressing editors or agents, didn’t worry about connecting with every possible new reader or influencer in the mystery community.

From a marketing perspective, maybe I should have.

Next January, I’ll start working to give THE SOCORRO BLAST the best chance possible for success. I’ll travel more and will schmooze with people all over the country — and I’ll love every minute of it.

But this year, for one brief and scrumptious moment, I got to chill, to simply have fun.

It felt great.

MALICE PICTURES (If only I’d remembered to use my camera more often, I would have gotten Neil Plakcy, Chris Goff, our own Alex, several Mystery Babes, Margaret Fenton {of Murder in the Magic City}, Judy Clemens, Tammy Lynn (of The Book Basket in Wetumpka, AL) and oh, so many more . . .

***********************************************************************************************************************
Who doesn’t love Mary Saums? She and I spent an afternoon in the lobby unintentionally holding court. The conversation wound into ideas about national identity and sense of history, patriotism, and so much more.

If you ever want to delve deep into the human mind, Jacqueline Winspear is a worthy guide. She’s a spectacular conversationalist. I hope to talk many more hours with her in the years to come.

I met Hope McIntyre at LCC Seattle this year. She’s witty, a fab writer and great fun to hang out with. Next to her is the lovely and talented Mary Frances Makichen. She’s a regular reader of Murderati and a writer who most certainly will land a good agent and publisher soon.

Okay, now, I’m going to abandon trying to lay this out in an interesting way. Here are the rest of the pictures with just a bit of commentary.

1. Peter Pringle & Julia Pomeroy
2. Bruce Cook & fab moderator Laura Bradford
3. Annette Mahon & Barb Goffman.

1. Noreen Wald & Ellen Byerrum
2. Don & Renee Paley-Bain
3. Troy Cook & Leonard Stein

1. Margaret Maron, Karen MacInerney & J.B. Stanley
2. Patricia Sprinkle, Honora Finkelstein & Susan Smily
3. Gwen Freeman

1. Beth Groundwater, Cynthia Riggs & Deborah Donnelly
2. Sarah S. Shaber, Kathryn R. Wall & Alan Cook
3. Noreen Renier and companion Larry (?) — Noreen was one of the most down-to-earth psychics I’ve ever met. A joy.

My agent Joshua Bilmes

The dessert we shared when he took me to lunch.

A special thanks to B.G. Ritts for cleaning up these photos. Without her help, everyone would have looked anemic vampires.

Get Your Freak On

by Mike MacLean

In 1999, Freaks and Geeks was one of the best shows on television. It was a heartwarming coming of age story full of wit, intelligence, and sincerity. So of course, NBC cancelled Freaks in its first season.

It was sad news. But watching the episodes, witnessing the raw talent and charisma on screen, I just knew I’d see more of these kids.

Yet still, I wonder how James Franco took it when the show was cancelled. Did he feel like his big chance had slipped through his fingers, that he’d never get another opportunity to live his dream? Or did he know something better would roll his way-something like the Spiderman movies, some of the biggest grossing blockbusters of all time.

Or how about Jason Segel? After being dropped, did he dare to imagine himself succeeding on network television? Could he have guessed a hit show like How I Met Your Mother was on the horizon.

Or Seth Rogen? Before stealing scenes from Steve Carell in the 40 Year Old Virgin, did he picture himself waiting tables? Did he think his opportunities would shrivel on the vine, or did he know he’d someday be a leading man in upcoming movies like Knocked Up?

The hope is that good writers put everything they have into their work, just as the young actors of Freaks and Geeks had. So what happens when you try your best and come up short? What happens when your "big chance" doesn’t pan out?

Giving up would be the easiest option, and possibly the sanest. After all, there are thousands of aspiring writers out there, and only so many book deals to go around. So why not throw in the towel?

For me, the answer is simple. Throw in the towel and you’ll never know what the next round has in store for you. Just ask the cast of Freaks and Geeks.

So how about it, Murderati readers–has a writing failure ever led you someplace unexpected? Has a lost opportunity ever turned out to be a blessing in disguise?

Romantic Times

by Alex

Burned out as I am (and I am) I am going to take a deep breath and try to give a report on the Romantic Times Booklovers Convention. I think it’s important for people in the mystery, thriller and, yes, even horror genres, to hear this because Romantic Times is a convention that may not be on the radar for other genre writers – but it should be.

I never read romances as a kid, or any time after – just had no interest, although looking back I can see there was some romance crossover in the Gothic thrillers I gobbled up in my endless quest for the supernatural. And it’s that crossoverness that makes Romantic Times a more obvious bet for me than, say, a noir writer, because paranormal is so huge right now – in romances AND mysteries, and though a lot of paranormal seems to be about warm and fuzzy werewolves and endless variations on quirky vampires, there’s also a significant segment of the paranormal readership that likes a good straight-up ghost story.

I heard from almost the very beginning of my promotional efforts that I should go to RT because I write sexy and I write paranormal and romance readers simply Buy Books. In fact, they Buy Books voraciously, which I discovered when I went to my first romance-centric workshop in the fall, Heather Graham’s Writers for New Orleans.

I’d also heard what you’ve probably heard about Romantic Times, if you’ve heard anything at all – that it’s full of women dressed as vampires and fairies and half-naked male cover models slinking around. Well, I’m from Hollywood, so this is a normal party for me, and secretly (or not so secretly) I miss that kind of hedonism at the more sedate conferences, so I was all for THAT part of it.

I mean, here was my packing list for RT:

red velvet opera coat
saloon girl parachute skirt
black net crinoline
red velvet corset
black fishnet cape
black lace bodice
1 pair Victorian boots
1 pair red fishnet stockings
1 pair black fishnet stockings
harem girl outfit
3 veils
1 dozen arm bracelets and cuffs
Glinda the Good ballgown
matching wand
1 pair vampire fangs
sparkly Western hat
red lace mantilla
body glitter
hair ornaments
Victorian choker
riding crop
micro leather mini
thigh high vinyl boots
red leather vest

You have to admit – it’s a hell of a lot more fun than “business casual”.

I was ready to party, and I was REALLY ready to perform. One of the features of RT is Heather Graham’s Dinner Theater, an original musical review written by Heather and her longtime, comically brilliant collaborators, writer/director/performer Lance Taubold and writer/manager/performer Rich Devin, always featuring several of Heather’s charming and multitalented offspring. This year the show was “Vampires of the Wild Wild West”, and this year all three Killerettes were in the cast – Heather, Harley Jane Kozak, and me. There simply is no more fun to be had with clothes on. (Slideshow here).

But the thing that stunned me from the very first moment of the convention was how incredibly, professionally and logically organized it is. RT had really worked to recruit and organize a thriller track and a mystery track (track = a series of panels and events in that genre), alongside their bookseller track, huge paranormal track, writing tracks, and breakout (how to get an agent/publish) tracks. ITW (International Thriller Writers) had been working well in advance with RT planners to organize an outside book signing at the truly lovely Murder By The Book bookstore and a bookseller event (the fourteen thriller writers chipped in to host a breakfast for all 75 booksellers in attendance at RT, where we did a meet and greet and gave out promotional material and books. 75 booksellers at once – think about it…). The mystery track similarly organized a group signing and events.

The conference also features some unique ways of handling reader/author interaction. Apart from outside bookseller events, there is only one mass signing – that takes place in a HUGE convention room on Saturday, after all the authors have already done their panels. The authors are lined up alphabetically at long rows of tables, and the readers just walk up and down the aisles. There are drawings for dozens of author-donated gift baskets going on throughout the whole three hour signing, and video screens project book trailers through the whole event as well (THAT was fascinating). I sold dozens of books, and I’m still in hardcover and not nominally a romance writer.

Another cool feature of RT is “Club RT”. Throughout the convention, in the dealers’ room there are a couple dozen little café tables set up and authors are scheduled for one/two hour slots where they just sit at these tables and anyone who wants to can come up and chat, get books signed, etc. If I were an aspiring author I would have spent half my time at this conference just going around to chat with different authors in my genre. A truly unique and intimate opportunity for authors, aspiring authors, and fans.

I also have to say, when women organize these things everything is just – prettier. The attention to detail was staggering. Promo Alley, where authors put out their postcards and bookmarks and giveaways, was a long aisle of covered tables on both sides, and instead of having people just throw their swag on the tables, all the giveaways had to be in displays or decorated baskets. Yes, that took an extra hour of prep time, but oh man, was it worth it. You could actually SEE the promo stuff, and you got a feel for each author from the decorations of the boxes and baskets. Brilliant idea.

Ditto with the parties. RT has professional costumers/decorators who dress the ballrooms for the theme parties – this year, Moulin Rouge, Midnight at the Oasis, Vampires of the Wild Wild West, Immortals of Rock and Roll, and of course, the Faery Ball. There was lighting. There were trees. There were enormous Moroccan pillows. There were stage backdrops. There were mirror balls and candles. There were screaming mechanical skulls. And the level of personal costuming rivaled the Renaissance Faire events and special effects masters’ parties I’ve been to in LA (I never even dreamed there were so many variations on fairies. Seriously…)

And these women DANCE. All night. I’m sorry, but you can only talk so much. You get out on the dance floor with a bunch of readers screaming “It’s Raining Men” and you have made friends for life.

And okay, I admit it – all professionalism aside – after years of having to put up with only female strippers at Hollywood events, I like the turnabout of having half-naked beefcake at a convention. Sue me.

Zen and the Art of the Gelato Drip

by JT Ellison

UPDATE: From the Baltimore Sun… Sarah Weinman has reviewed some excellent novels set in Italy. Click here to read the article.

Italy, Part Two

How to explain this title??? I’m going to play at being a Taoist. Suffice it to say we were in the Circus Maximus and there was a long line at the roach coach. The Italians have a true talent for gelato, both the making of and the subsequent eating.

We left Rome by car, driving north into the Tuscan countryside. Within ten minutes, the stress, hubbub and mess of the city gave way to green fields and rolling foothills. I could feel the tension bleeding out of my shoulders as each mile ticked off the odometer. We were en route to Assisi, one of our favorite places in all of Italy. Of course, there was a detour off the A1, so we were forced to go the back roads to Perugia. What a treat! We got off the highway at Trevi, went through Spoleto, Monte Falco, Foligno and Spello — all intricate hill towns with so much character and charm I was disappointed that we couldn’t stop in them all, even for a moment, to see what they were about.

We pushed through to get to Assisi though because we wanted to spend a leisurely afternoon soaking up the atmosphere in this tiny, spiritual town.

We climbed the hill into town, found our wonderful hotel, (our room was two-stories, the bed upstairs in the loft, which was too cool until I needed to go to the bathroom in the dark in the middle of the night. The bruise has faded, thanks for asking) and immediately took up residence in the piazza with some munchies and wine. Unfortunately, they were putting up scaffolding in preparation for a festival the following week, but hey, it’s Assisi. Even with the crowds and the noise, it’s hard to spoil the piazza. (Here’s some shots from another site — the camera with the pics is in France today, about to wing its way home with my parents.)

Forgive me a moment. I’m going to babble.

What’s important here was more than touring the basilica and standing vigil at St. Francis’s tomb, more than communing with my spiritual side, more than absorbing the spectacular views of the Umbrian countryside. There’s something about the whole purpose of Assisi now, a city responsible for one of the most important travel destinations in all of Christendom. Pilgrims of all shapes, sizes, colors and creeds come to pay homage to a saint who told the church hey, you’ve got to get back to the simpler things in life, stop taking all this money for the indulgences, the vulgarities, the flashy shows of wealth. You need to appreciate what God gave in a more natural way. Appreciate that less is more. St. Francis was the original hippie. One can imagine him scoffing at our attempts to be green, flat out saying hey man, quit lying to yourself. You aren’t pure, so quit pretending you are and do something real about it.

I’ve always felt a special affinity with St. Francis. He was a no-nonsense kind of guy. After the amazing hustle and bustle of Rome, the trip to Assisi made me think back to those times when a young patrician’s daughter named Clare decided to eschew her upbringing and become the first female Franciscan. Assisi was in an uproar, but Clare stuck to her guns and joined the order. I love the story. My main character does something of the kind, deciding she doesn’t want to be the precious debutante that her very wealthy parents have raised, instead wants a simpler life as a cop. Taylor would like Clare too.

Sorry, waxing poetic over here. What I’m trying to say is there’s something very special about Assisi. One can easily imagine tossing aside the material wealth we strive to accumulate and focus instead on existing. In a world obsessed with Paris and Brittany, with Manolos and Laboutin, where People magazine has a massive market share, Assisi is a breath of fresh air, a reminder that these things are just that, things. What car we drive, what jeans we wear, how much collarbone Posh is showing this week, ummm, yeah. I resolved to clear out my closet, at the very least.

The next day we went to a little town on the top of a hill overlooking Lago Trasimeno. The hotel is in a medieval fortress, the town is small and simple, with lots of fun signs of the Knights Templar engraved over the lintels, and out of respect for the fact that hubby and I would like to spend some quality time there, I’m going to forgo the name.

We stared at the lake, breathed in the mountain air, and just were.

The next day we were off to Cortona for a whirlwind tour to buy my birthday present, a lovely painting by Bruno Tinucci in our favorite gallery, Nocchia . Middle, center, bottom. The picture can’t do the colors justice, nor the vivid palette knife strokes that make up the poppies. It’s fabulous. (Thanks, honey!) We scooted out of town and went to the vineyard that shares my family name, Tenute Silvio Nardi.

This is a serious vineyard dedicated to making wine from the grapes and the soil, not from the process in the vaults. Their Brunello is the best I have ever tasted, I’ve recommended it here before. Our friend Joerg gave us another wonderful tour, and we went a little wild during the tasting, breaking out the bread and olive oil, telling stories and getting very happy. There’s just nothing better in Italy than spending some time breaking bread and drinking wine, in the literal sense. You get to know a wine this way, and that’s why we’re so enamored with this particular vineyard. There’s something magical in the soil, I think; a mouthful of these liquid grapes always transports me to another, simpler time. We did the Rosso and the Brunello, and purchased some olive oil, which was truly spectacular.

We went to Florence that afternoon, and that’s where I’ll leave this travelogue. Florence is the greatest town, full of amazing restaurants and cool sights. Florence just plain makes me happy.

Thank you for indulging me. Now I have a record for myself, to make up for my lackadaisical journaling skills. And I’ll tell you, getting back in the groove hasn’t been the easiest thing, so at least I’m getting some blog entries written.

Wine of the Week: From the first part of the trip, at Ristorante Amanda in St. Vincent. From the Vallee D’Aoste region, NUS by Le Triolet (Sorry, I can’t find a link to the bottle itself.)

Two housekeeping notes:

CHECK THIS OUT!!! ITW gets down and dirty with this kick-ass video.

And if you haven’t already, drop by the brand new Flash Pan Alley, brainchild of our own Bryon Quertermous and a significant nod to the now defunct Flashing in the Gutters, may it forever rest in peace. FPA is rapidly filling with some cool shorts. I was thrilled to see another venue like the Gutter. It’s the perfect place for whacked out stuff like this. Hope to see you there!

Scaredy Cat

Because I write horror as well as thrillers and mysteries, people ask me what scares me, what my deepest fears are, and what sends me into a panic. Austin Powers fears only two things: nuclear weapons and carnies. I’m different. Pretty much everything frightens me. I think people are usually looking for a man-of-steel kind of an answer. But I have to disappoint. I’m scared of my own shadow. Literally. It’s always there, behind me, creeping up on me. There it is. Arrrrhh!!!

I’ll go into a cold sweat at a Starbucks. The choice dazzles me and I can’t make up my mind what I want. Suddenly that long line looks real short. Now the choice isn’t the scary thing, but what happens when the green aproned personage asks for what I want and my answer is er, I need some more time. I know the people behind me are going to start gnashing their teeth and all because I don’t know what fancy coffee I want. Eek!

Everyday things scare me. I lived in an apartment where the shower curtain had a habit of clinging to me when I got within a foot of it. The material had an odd texture that felt like skin when wet, which was a distinctly unpleasant sensation. I got to fear that damn shower curtain and avoided using it (and Julie got to hate that I didn’t shower). But that was enough to spur a story about a haunted shower curtain…

A few months back, my Sisters in Crime chapter volunteered to man (or woman) the phones during the local PBS pledge drive. I feared my phone would ring, because I might get someone with a weird name I couldn’t spell. I thought, if I screw up the donation, PBS won’t get their money and Yanni won’t get his funding and he’ll hunt me down like a dog.

So yes, I can make anything scary. It’s a talent. Don’t applaud me all at once. You can’t all be like me.

I made author fears a topic at a World Horror Convention panel. It was a really interesting panel. A number of the authors discussed their darkest fears. Some were parents were frightened by the potential loss of their children. Several had had incidents that led them to write stories.

Fear makes for great storytelling. It’s a fossil fuel with an inexhaustible supply. It drives stories. It forces the reader, the writer and the characters to face what frightens them full on. Stories thrive on conflict and facing your fears is the greatest conflict. No one is fearless, so everyone can relate.

The best scary writing explores our archetypal “core” fears. People fear the unknown, the loss of a loved one, loss of liberty, loss of control, their position in the world. The point is that to write scary stories, you have to be fearful. The adage goes you write what you know and fears are very real and accessible. Horror stories just don’t explore someone’s fear of vampires, werewolves and Freddy Krueger. They explore a power stronger than the individual and that overwhelming power has the ability to rob you of what you hold most dear or thrust you into an environment you desire least. No one fears Freddy Krueger. Everyone fears what someone like that can do to them.

So my myriad of fears are good for my writing. They keep it real (scary). And not just in the horror vein. Thrillers thrive on fear. There’s a terrible crisis that must be averted. This can be anything from a ferry crossing gone bad to a kidnapping of a loved one. It’s easy to see what I, the writer, you, the reader, and they, the characters have to fear. For me it’s easy to slip into each situation. My Next book, Paying the Piper, is about a child abduction. Now, I’m not a parent, but I can imagine myself in the parent’s position and the terrible state I would be in if my child was snatched from me.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m next in line at Starbucks and I don’t know what I want.

Yours cowering under the bedclothes,
Simon Wood