Author Archives: Murderati

The Practice Novel

By J.D. Rhoades

I’m not sure where it
was—which blog or website—that I first saw the term “practice novel.” At first,
the phrase kind of tickled me, because
it seemed like a sort of wry acknowledgement that the person’s first attempt at
a novel really wasn’t all that good, let
alone publishable, that its main value was in providing examples of what didn’t
work (or maybe as fire starters when the supply of pine knots gives out). But
then, when googling for more examples, I discovered that some people apparently
actually did write their first novel purely for practice, that they really
didn’t have any intention of trying to get it published. John Scalzi, for
example, whose brilliant Old Man’s War
is one of the best SF novels I read last year, had this to say:

I decided to make it easy on myself. I decided first
that I wasn’t going to try to write something near and dear to my heart, just a
fun story. That way, if I screwed it up (which was a real possibility), it wasn’t
like I was screwing up the One Story That Mattered To Me. I decided also that
the goal of writing the novel was the actual writing of it — not the selling
of it, which is usually the goal of a novelist. I didn’t want to worry
about whether it was good enough to sell; I just wanted to have the experience
of writing a story over the length of a novel, and see what I thought about it.
Not every writer is a novelist; I wanted to see if I was.

The result was a humorous
SF novel entitled Agent to the Stars, (now available online) which, as Scalzi predicted, didn’t
sell. But he credits the experience with making his “debut” novel (the
aforementioned Old Man’s War) not
only salable, but award-winning. And, he says,

between the writing of this novel and the
publication of that one, five other books slipped out of my brain, due in some
measure to my confidence that I could write
book-length works, be they fiction or non-fiction. In a sense, this novel is
the midwife to every book since.

This idea fascinates me:
the idea that you’d write something as long and demanding as a novel with no
real idea that you were ever going to try to sell it or even have anyone else read it. Not because I believe, as
Dr. Johnson once said, that “no one but a blockhead ever wrote anything except
for money.” I’ve quoted that line before, in jest, but the truth is, the money’s never been that big a driving force for me (which is
fortunate, all things considered). Even if no one paid me for this, I’d
probably keep doing it (but for God’s sake don’t tell my publisher I wrote that. Or my agent).

And I’m also not talking
about writing something just because it might pander to some imagined audience.
It wouldn’t be satisfying, at least to me, to write something that didn’t
please myself first. I can’t see myself spending that much time and skull-sweat and not writing the "One Story That Mattered To Me". That’s one of the most terrifying things about this
business, though, isn’t it…putting something out there that you care about,
not knowing if anyone else is even going to read it, and even if they do,
appreciate it.

My own first attempt at a novel, a humorous mystery entitled Rebel Yell, never saw the light of day. And now that I look back on it, I can see the mistakes I made as well as the things I think I did right. My other novels have benefited from the experience, I think, and, like Scalzi, I did find that yes, I could write to novel length, which gave me the courage to attempt The Devil’s Right Hand.

But I wrote Rebel Yell with the intention of seeing it in print. To start off not even caring whether the
book reached an audience, that you wouldn’t really care if no one but you ever
read it…well, you might as well be a tree falling alone in a forest. You’d make
a noise, or you might not, but who the
hell would care?

How about you guys? Have
any of my fellow writers here ever written a “practice novel,” one where you
were just riffing, just playing around? Would any of you aspiring writers
consider doing such a thing? Why or why not? And would having the fixed idea that no one was going to read a particular piece of work cause you to change the way you wrote it?

Meet Katherine MacGilvary Pt. 1

by Pari Noskin Taichert

When I first met Kat, she was the events coordinator for one of New Mexico’s most wonderful independent bookstores. Alas, Bound to be Read closed. After a few months at another indy, she make the jump onto the other side of the telephone and became the booking coordinator for the University of New Mexico Press.

I’ve decided to split her interview into two posts because she has so much good information.

Here’s Part 1.

What were some of the challenges working as an events coordinator at an indy? Did your experiences vary depending on the kinds of publishers or authors with whom you worked?
When I was at the bookstore, my major challenge was getting the big publishing houses to acknowledge Albuquerque as a potential stop for book tours. That was frustrating and a seemingly endless battle — despite the fact the we could point to many large events that had gone exceptionally well.

What was your "typical" day like at the bookstore?
I don’t think there ever was a "typical day" at the bookstore. We all wore many hats, so while a majority of my job was scheduling events and handling marketing and publicity, I also worked on the floor — in the coffee bar, at the cash register, reading books to kids at story time, shelving, and helping customers.

Describe your ideal event. What made it click?
I suppose people expect to hear, "The event that 200 people showed up for and we sold 400 books," or something like that. And, of course, those are always great for authors and venues. But honestly, I’ve seen authors really enjoy an evening with a handful of people. So, I guess my idea of an ideal event is one in which the author has a genuine opportunity to connect with readers. That doesn’t always translate into book sales, but you have to look at it from the point of view of the customer: If you’re an author, you my have created a lifetime fan who will recommend your books to others. If you’re a bookstore, you’ve made one of your customers happy and he or she will come back, hopefully to other events. I’ve seen events where an author stayed until well past midnight to ensure that everyone who attended had their books signed and I’ve seen authors sit with small book clubs and have in-depth conversations for several hours. If the author and the audience walk away happy. I’m happy.

What was the event from hell? Can you pinpoint what went wrong?
Without naming names, right?

Events from hell tend to stem from bad attitudes or poor communication or both. I have a really hard time with prima donna authors. At the bookstore, we had events almost every night of the month and inevitably there would be authors who did everything in their power to monopolize my time. So, before the event even happened, they’d succeeded in driving me, and a large portion of the bookstore staff, crazy.

How did you feel about authors approaching you directly?
I think it’s really important for authors to establish relationships with bookstores. So, to answer your question: It depended on the situation. I admired ambitious authors when they were cooperative because I knew I could count on working together to create successful events.

But there’s a big difference between a friendly face that shows up every once in awhile — and daily phone calls inquiring about that week’s book sales.

What did you wish authors knew — would know — from your experiences in a bookstore?
I’ve dealt with a lot of pushy authors. There’s a fine line between ambition and sheer annoyance. As I said above, I respect ambitious authors, those who you know, when you schedule an event for them, will work with a venue to ensure a success. Then there are those who won’t take "no" for an answer.

Authors need to acknowledge that a bookstore knows its clientele better than they do. If staff at a venue don’t think a book will fit in the store, authors need to respect that.

. . . and there’s more:

It’s really difficult to call authors and tell them a place they were hoping for has declined an event. Usually, bookstores feel just as awkward, so they’ll say something like, "It’s not a fit for our store," or, "We’re booked for the next six months." Calling them back and asking again is usually not a good idea. There’s something to be said for the squeaky wheel, but a lot of the time you’re pushing people towards an emphatic "no," and that can easily turn into a "NEVER."

Also,
I think I speak for booksellers universally when I say: DO NOT under any circumstances go to a bookstore and rearrange the books!

Do not put your book in the front window.
Do not face it out on the shelf, etc.
We know who you are.
After repeat offenses, your book will likely end up in the darkest corner of the store.

There are better ways to develop a relationship with a bookstore that will ensure staff recommendations, events, displays that feature your works and more.

(A special thank-you to B.G. Ritts for helping to get Kat’s photo in shape to post here.)

Knuckle Sandwich with a Side of Bullets

by Mike MacLean

Way back in December, Bryon Quertermous, editor of Demolition Magazine, blogged on a subject I hold dear to my heart–action scenes.

Chances are, if you write crime fiction or thrillers sooner or later someone is going to throw down. Fists will fly. Muzzles will flash. Blood will spill.

But what’s the best way to go about writing these sequences?

Duane Swierczynski, author of The Blonde, is no stranger to this bloody art. He commented that keeping descriptions to a bare minimum allows the scene to "take place in the reader’s mind." On the other hand, too much detail in an action scene can distract a reader.

Swierczynski makes a good point. Years ago, I attempted to read a thriller by an ex-special forces dude (who will remain nameless because I’d rather not end up in the cross hairs of sniper scope). I put the book down after the very first action scene. An entire paragraph was used to painstakingly describe the simple act of drawing a pistol. It was like reading a technical "how-to" manual. Needless to say, my heart was not pounding with excitement.

And that’s the key. A good action scene should make the old ticker go thump, thump, thump. Often, it’s not the bullets and roundhouse kicks that accomplish this; it’s the SET UP. The emotional build up before the fight. The conflict assembled into the narrative. The trash talking that fills the pages with tension.

But sometimes, as both writer and reader, I yearn for blood on the page. I Pistoloptics1_2 want justice served up with a machinegun or nice crushing elbow strike to the larynx. Simply put, I want my protagonist to kick ass.

Too much description can bog the reader down, boring him into skimming pages (a cardinal sin among crime and thriller writers). Too little can leave the reader feeling unsatisfied (another sin if you’re looking to sell your next book).

So, what do you think Murderati readers? What makes a good action scene? Who writes the best? Who does the best job of the "set up"?

Home Again, Home Again…

JT Ellison

Part One…

Call me crazy, but I am loving the first day back to work after the big vacation. Catching up on what’s been happening over the past two weeks has brought me nothing but joy today. First I see Naomi won the Edgar (YES!), then I see Rob got a new contract with St. M’s (YES!), Julia Spenser-Fleming won the Gumshoe (YES! — and thanks, Sarah Weinman, for all the fantastic coverage!), all the Killer Year folks have news and reviews galore, my email holds nothing but good news from my editor and publisher… damn, folks, I need to leave town more often!

And there’s that odd sense of dislocation that accompanies international travel — the time change screws my clock royally, so I woke up full of energy at seven this morning and now, at five o’clock, I’m ready for bed. Top it all off with a lovely rainy, thunder-stormy day, and I think I will heed my editor’s advice, who firmly instructed me to lie down. I call that a free pass, and am shutting the computer until tomorrow.

Part Two…

I tried so hard to be good while I was in Italy. I brought along a travel diary and planned to journal the trip, writing daily about what we’d seen, experienced, ate and drank. I’ve established once and for all that I am not a journaling kind of girl. I made it four days. How sad am I??? So instead I have this massive accumulation of business cards, hotel magazines, wine labels, scratched notes, napkins, and notepads to document the trip. There’s so much to talk about and so many pictures, I’m not sure what to include. People keep saying, "Tell me all about your trip! Was it just fantastic? Did you have just so much fun?" And of course I must answer yes, because what sort of ungrateful charlatan could go to Italy for two weeks and NOT have a fabulous time?

Of course we had a fabulous time. So do I admit that there were… issues? That I blew the charger on the camera and it pissed me off, ergo I was crappy to everyone for a day? That I was horribly upset when my favorite pair of glasses broke, literally in half, for no apparent reason? That we were really getting sick and tired of repacking every day and wished we’d gone with plan one, to stay in a bed and breakfast in Tuscany for four nights and day trip instead, knowing that if we HAD, we’d be miserable and bored being stuck in one spot??? Or do you just want the shiny happy version? Regardless, there’s a lot, so I think I may do a two-weeker, allow myself some time to catch up and not bore you too much while I recharge. It will all affect my writing in the long run anyway, so here goes…

Week One:

We started in Pinerolo with the famiglia. (Buongiorno, e grazie mille!)

My father’s Great-Uncle Nando, his lovely wife Alma, and my cousin Daniele were so welcoming. (Yes, there was a couple of generation skips in our family tree) My Italian has certainly improved since the last trip, and Daniele’s English is superb, so we had no trouble at all communicating.

We were staying in our favorite place in all of Italy, the
Tenute la Cassinetta. It’s beautful, we got the same room as last time, the aptly-named Ambrosia Suite. The wisteria was in bloom, Daniele has fabulous taste in wine, and dinner was incredible.

We left early the next day for a trip into the mountains. We checked into the hotel in St. Vincent, a very special place we loved. Then we drove up to see the Matterhorn, in a city called Brueil-Cervina.

It was a stunning day, and they were closing the mountain for skiing, having a laid back party day, which definitely fit our moods. I’ve rediscovered a childhood problem, carsickness at altitude. I hate riding in the backseat, and I did it through several rather large mountains. I don’t know if it’s acrophobia, claustrophobia, or if I’m just a massive control freak (gee, wonder which it is?) but I was happy to get out of the car and breathe the super fresh air.

After a phenomenal night in St. Vincent, we took to the road again and meandered toward Lago Como.

We stayed in Cernobbio,
and Miss Snark, if you happen across this
column,
please know that I looked for Mr. Clooney everywhere, even here at Harry’s Bar. Hubby was obviously thrilled by the pursuit.

Clooney was MIA, so the next day we moved on to Stresa, on Lago Maggiore. A very cool town. We stayed in the Astoria, and the strip of old motels along the water are reminiscient of the 40’s when the movie starts used to come stay here. The flowers were incredible, the zoo and botanical gardens stunning, and the pizza excellent.

Though all in all, I think I prefer Como.

Despite the sea planes and helicopters buzzing about trying to make us feel like the area was "important," the lake seemed a little more unspoiled, and we stayed up on the mountain, where the views were absolutely fabulous.

We went back to Pinerolo to pick up my brother, then took a cool trip to Sestriere, home of the winter Olympics in 2004. Sestriere is one of those places that lets you feel a little closer to God.

It’s on the border of Italy and France, snow-capped mountains as far as the eye can see. The mountains were sharp, the air clear and softer than what we’re used to (growing up in Colorado, I’m used to the mind searing clearness of the air at altitude; the Alps are much smaller than the Rockies and the air has more humidity.) Daniele is a ski instructor in Sestriere so we got the special tour. I could write here.

Had a great dinner that night in a restaurant literally perched on a mountain side. While I’m not a fan of
grappa, the proprietress made her own liqueur which was astounding. Delicately flavored with a local flower, I could have drunk the whole bottle. Maybe that’s an exaggeration, the bottle was a little large.

Now in possession of several days of Italian and increasing fluency, we flew to Rome, which was just as easy as hopping a shuttle between New York and Washington. Security was straightforward, the flight was good, no issues at all.

They say all roads lead to Rome. Thankfully, all roads lead OUT of Rome too. It’s funny. Looking back, the place we liked the least was actually the best part of the trip. Rome is dirty, and smelly, covered in graffiti, trash, pickpockets and thieves shoving roses and whirly plastic fliers in our faces. Within ten minutes, we were groaning that we had to spend two nights.

We took a quick bus tour to get oriented, and the tour guide was very knowledgeable. Dinner the first night was great. Heartened, and despite our dismay at the state of things, we decided to walk the city the next day. The weather was postcard perfect, skies so blue it hurt to look at them for too long. We started in Trevi (wow, the fountain was incredible but the crowds were gross.) We did the Pantheon, the Piazza Navona,(though the fabulous Borromini fountain was under wraps for refurbishment) St. Agnes’s, walked and walked and walked until we hit the Area Sacre. It doesn’t even have a real name on the map, and it’s just been recently rediscovered– during a 1920’s excavation, I believe, in the Largo Argentina. Four divine temples used to sit on this spot. It was a tiny piece of sanity in the midst of the city. Until it started to move.

Cats are protected in Rome. And this sacred place was home to many of them. Sleek and sassy, what seemed to be stones in the grass became frisky kittens, stately mouse catchers, domineering bullies… a veritable commentary on life slipped into a grass-filled ruin. We must have stood there for half and hour watching them play. That was cool.

We then promptly got caught in a protest parade. Skinheads, communists, anarchists — all blaring American music as their protest songs and some Aretha Franklin (go figure). I was captivated by the riot polizia. If you’re going to go to Rome, choose April 25th, Festa Della Liberazione, marking the end of the Nazi occupation and the end of World War II. It was less crowded, and you might get to see irony in action. (pics of this after the second camera returns home…)

The Coliseum managed to exceed expectation. I always assumed it had simply crumbled over time — not so. The Romans cannibalized their treasures to build more buildings. Embarrassment over the excesses of the Roman Empire, what it stood for, what it meant, drove them to destroy what they built. And the conquering hordes contributed their own desecration. It’s astounding that any of the ancient city is still standing. I’d recommend Palatine Hill. There’s something very special about that view on what we used to be.

Next week, I’ll wrap things up with a tour through Umbria and Tuscany. In the meantime, a brilliant Piedmont wine for you.

Wine of the Week, thanks to my dear cousin Daniele… Langhe Nebbolio

A little taste of heaven on earth. Every bottle, from every vineyard, was excellent.

Killer Ideas

I live with a cold blooded killer. I haven’t turned him into the cops because he’s my cat, Tegan.

He’s on a roll at the moment. It’s spring and that means young and inexperienced creatures are poking their heads from their protective homes and Tegan is there to bite them off. I spent last week picking up the chewed remains of mice, rats, birds and a lizard. As soon as I’d drop a carcass in the trash, he’d have the remains of something else dangling from his jaws.

“Tegan, you git. Stop killing things.”

He’d look at me with a typical cat arrogance that said, “Yeah, right.”

After I’d dealt with his latest trophy and sat down, he joined me on the couch for cuddle and a purr (okay, I purr. It’s what I do). I stared into his big eyes and I looked for a sign of remorse and obviously saw none. Morally, he wasn’t doing anything wrong. He’s an animal and his genetic code is programmed with the need to hunt and kill—irrespective of how much kibble I give him. He’s doing what he’s supposed to do. But he takes lives on a pretty regular basis without a hint of killer’s repentance.

That chilled my human sensibilities.

Transpose Tegan’s killer instinct to a person and that person wouldn’t be a cute, furry companion, that person would be a psychopath, no ifs or buts. Tegan can wander in from a kill, snuggle up to me for companionship then clean up the two kittens he’s rearing. Sounds cool for a cat, because we accept this as cat behavior, but we don’t accept this behavior in all things. Substitute a person for Tegan and Tegan’s behavior would present a very different picture. Imagine a father like any other caring for his family while there is still blood under his fingernails. This is serial killer country.

People always ask, ‘where do you get your ideas?’ I don’t have to trawl through the aisles of the true crime section to learn about killers, or even experience terrible events. Sometimes, I don’t have to leave the house.

Stories are out there waiting to be discovered. Anything and everything can be the ignition source for a story. It’s all about watching the world around me and seeing how things interact and what everyone else misses. Usually, it’s the little things that people miss that make for the best stories. With a little ingenuity, the mundane can become the extraordinary.

So Tegan could be the genesis for a very nasty killer. All it takes is a little imagination and a dash of transposition. J

Yours on golden pondering,
Simon Wood
PS: My local Sisters in Crime chapter is putting on a 1-day writer’s workshop. If you’d like details, please email me at simonwoodwrites@yahoo.com

Voice Lessons?

What is this thing we call voice?

When Crimepace was first up and running, there was an interesting discussion there about voice – whether or not it could be taught. I weighed in on the side that a writer could be taught elements of voice and that this type of knowledge could help them speed up the process of creating it. (I don’t believe anyone could teach the specific voice any specific writer should use.) Others argued that none of it could be taught, that it absolutely was something a writer had to find their way to, through trial-and-error or maybe just blind luck, but that it wasn’t something which could be dissected and analyzed and then created.

That’s when it occurred to me that maybe we were making some basic assumptions that everyone actually knew and/or agreed as to what voice meant.

Is voice a style of prose, and approach to story-telling created by and author which is his or her way of expressing story—any story—insomuch as you would recognize the author if you read just bits of the story out of context? This would be the Hemingway or Faulkner type of voice, where their styles were immediately recognizable, no matter the book.

Or, is voice supposed to serve a specific story—is it the voice of the world, the tonal / language combination which is very specific to that world of the story and characters therein insomuch as it conveys something about the story itself and it (the voice) wouldn’t fit any other story? (One example which leaps to mind which is a mystery set in an SF setting is Connie Willis’ To Say Nothing of the Dog which is nothing like her other books’ voices. It also happens to do first person POV and voice brilliantly.)

If voice is story-specific, then logically, a story’s needs help to shape the voice used. An author can look at their own intent (is this supposed to be funny, dramatic, said, etc.) and tonal need, they can look at whether multiple POVs or a single one is needed, they can decide how much authorial distance they want (do they want to be commenting on the world or shoving the reader right up into it), they can take into consideration the world of the story (upperclass, poorly educated, rich, destitute, post-war, etc.) and use these needs to influence how they want to tell the story. An author who wants the readers to be up close to a poorly educated, steeped-in-crime sort of main character isn’t likely to choose ponderous, oblique six syllable words which would have the readers running to a dictionary. (And sometimes, choosing the voice is knowing what not to do.) Likewise, a story with an attorney at the center isn’t likely to be filled with the latest rap phrases and expletives every other word. Paring away at what won’t work leaves the author a much smaller subset of choices and then the characters influence the rest.

The above tools are handy… but none apply if what we mean when we say voice is an overall perspective / approach of an individual author—a.k.a. style.

So… what do you think it is? Are we using it to mean overall authorial style? Or specific style for a specific story? Do you think it can be taught? If not, why not?

-toni

p/s… Murderati is not turning into the Toni show, I promise. I just happened to substitute this weekend while everyone was away. Pari and Alex will be back next week.

War of the Words: Scripts vs. Novels

As I began my new screenwriting gig, a memory struck me.

Years ago at a book signing, a fan asked a respected mystery author to compare the challenges of writing a novel to that of writing a screenplay. At the mention of the word "screenplay" the author’s face went sour.

For him, there was NO comparison. While novels were full of complexity and style, a screenplay was merely "an outline."

I shrunk in my seat.

You see, one of my favorite courses in college had been Screenwriting. From it, I not only leaned proper screenplay formatting, but I also took away a nuts-and-bolts understanding of story structure and an economy of language that still influences my writing today. Valuable skills in my book.

Yet here was this author, a man I admired, telling me the craft was second rate.

He wasn’t alone in his sentiments. Months later, I attended another reading where another famous author was asked essentially the same question. His answer was almost identical. Novel writing is real writing. Screenwriting is outlining.

While I would’ve never said so out loud, that line of thinking strikes me as narrow-minded, perhaps even insecure.

Screenwriting is not a lesser form of literature. In fact, it presents many challenges the novelist doesn’t face. As Richard Walter puts it in his book Screenwriting: The Art, Craft, and Business of Film and Television Writing…

"The limitations of sight and sound require that a screenwriter never write what a character "thinks," "realizes," "recalls," or "remembers"… This requirement to present such information visually is one reason that the screenplay, contrary to popular misconception, represents a more demanding form of writing than the novel."

More demanding than a novel? Maybe not. But the challenges of writing a screenplay–a good screenplay–shouldn’t be understated.

Of course, all this is just one man’s opinion.

What do you think Murderati readers? (I’m looking at you Alex!)

Is a screenplay easier to write than a finely crafted novel? Of course the politically correct answer would be that they’re different art forms with different demands. But is there anyone out there willing to go on a ledge and side with one over the other? What makes a screenplay easier to write? What makes a novel easier?

Letting Your Freak Flag Fly

First, congratulations to Naomi! Such terrific news!

Alex is away at RT this weekend (and I’ll bet having a blast) and asked me to post today, and what’s been on my mind lately regarding writing is how much (or how little) we push ourselves to push our own limits. Or the limits of the genre.

Many times when you hear or read advice to new writers, the old cliché write what you know is generally hanging in there, tenacious. It’s not bad advice—it’s just that it skims across the surface of the issue, creating tiny ripples atop the flat expanse of what’s possible instead of plunging in, fishing the deep.

Taking the risk.

Exposing ourselves, being vulnerable in front of the world.

Not necessarily because the characters think or do what we’d think or do, but because we’ve pushed some internal boundary we have, we’ve flown in the face of convention, or we’ve reached for some level of writing and maybe we didn’t quite make it (and we’re waiting for the world to agree). And sometimes, we have to push past our own comfort level to grow and that’s difficult, I think, because we’re flying our freak flag and people are going to see. It requires a lot of bravery, this thing we do.

Maybe the better advice is to mine what you’re afraid of; write not only what you know, but what you fear.

There is an attraction to sticking with what we know, feeling comfortable in the world we create, feeling comfortable with whatever level of ability we have, because if we’ve done it well at all at least once, maybe we can stay there and not embarrass ourselves. The problem, of course, is that staying in one place digs a rut, and we’re not surprising ourselves anymore, and in all likelihood, we’re not surprising the reader.

I was thinking about that recently as I wrapped up the first draft of the second book in the series, and I wondered just what in the hell I’d gotten myself into. I write capers. Comedy. Have you ever had one of those weeks where everything just goes all to hell and back, absolutely nothing works, Karma is not only putting out the banana peel, but greasing the floor for extra measure? And when you’re flat on your back, you hit a point of incredulity where it’s just damned funny, this absurd thing we call life. Yeah, that’s the kind of comedy I write. (We are so not going to get into comparisons between my life and my character’s. Thank you.) But to write that kind of comedy, I have to push the characters emotionally into hard places, bad moments, and the comedy has to be organic. There has to be real fear or heartache or worse underneath the comic actions, beneath the laughter, or it would all just be slapstick. Surface. And ultimately, common.

The problem with this is carrying it forward in book 2—pushing that suffering. Making the choices the characters have to make more heartbreaking, and still finding the absurd, keeping the reader laughing. I found myself hedging on a particular emotional point because it was not only difficult, it’s stretching the boundary of that particular genre. It’s saying, “yeah, caper books can be funny, but sometimes, they can also make you ache.” If I pull it off. I’m not convinced on this draft I have, yet. Part of me wanted to pull back a little, make it a little easier on myself, because seriously, I have set myself up for a fall with this one if I can’t make it work. I know it. I feel it. I see where I’m heading into book 3 and I know I could have made my life a lot more sane with a simpler emotional choice. I could cheat that choice and have something happen to one of the characters to where the choice becomes slightly simpler. It would still resonate, it would make sense, it would still have a gut-punch. And since I write caper, it wouldn’t pull the story too far off-track, tonally.

But it would be the coward’s way out.

Damnit.

So I’m trying to push there, find the way to make that choice heart-rending because, I hope, by that point, you really care about that character and the choice she’s facing and you realize, she’s never ever ever had this sort of moment in her life and she does not have a clue how to make this choice. Or how to live with it, once done. And there are ramifications for that. Meanwhile, I’ve got to watch it, tonally, and make it work within the genre. Or throw over the conventions a bit and say screw it, this is the story and I’m sticking to it. Somehow, figure out the balance, while still flying the freak flag.

What are you afraid of?

What have you read lately which feels like it pushes the genre? Reaches for something and accomplishes it? Takes a risk and makes it work?

Live From New York

A BRIEF MESSAGE FROM NAOMI HIRAHARA FROM THE GRAND HYATT HOTEL A DAY AFTER THE EDGARS:

SHOCKED…SURREAL…HUMBLED

See some of you at the L.A. Times Festival of Books!

UPDATE (4/30/07): Here are some photos from the Big Night–

Nominees’ reception before the banquet. The above photo courtesy of New York Japion.

It takes a village to create an Edgar (not to mention a book). Post-banquet with, from left to right, publicist Sharon Propson, publicist Katie Rudkin, editor Shannon Jamieson Vazquez, and editor Danielle Perez.

Mulling

"What are you doing?"

"Something."

"Well, it doesn’t look like something."

I had a lot of conversations like this in school with teachers that usually led to one of those "pull yourself up by your bootstraps" kind of lectures. Sadly, my footwear never came with "bootstraps," so needless to say my school years weren’t my best. Daydreaming was an issue that I didn’t shift until I went to college. Now the daydreaming is back–in career form (of sorts). Daydreaming is even tax deductible. You just can’t daydream without a bag of Ruffles in your hand.

Now that one book is in the bag and I’m embarking on the next, I’m in that daydreaming faze, where I’m piecing ideas, themes, scenes and other stuff together before I start outlining.

Normally, when Julie comes home at night, I’m banging away at the keyboard and she knows her little man has been hard at it since 9a.m. At the moment, when she comes home, I’m stretched out in front of the TV with a cat or two on my chest.

"What have you been up to today?"

"Working."

"It doesn’t look like you’re working. It looks like you’re vegging out."

"I’m being conceptual. I’m forming a story, wrapping my head around the idea. You know me, measure twice, cut once."

"So it’s been a DVD day."

"No, it hasn’t." I sit up and a kitten slithers off my chest. "I have been working. I’m mulling things through is all."

"Simon, what’s that pile of Dr. Who DVDs sitting on the floor?"

"They help me mentally cleanse my palate."

"And this empty Ruffles bag?" she says, picking it up.

"Brain food." I snatch the bag from Julie and aim a sleepy kitten at her. "Julie, you have no idea about the creative process. I am mulling. Mulling is an important part of the writing process. Now move, I can’t see the TV."

Julie’s an angel, but she can be mean sometimes–don’t you think?

The problem is that we live in a quantifiable world. We need results. Tactile ones at that. When I’m in the throes of a book and Julie asks, "How much have you done?" I can answer, "Twelve pages," or "Three thousand words" or "Two chapters." These are things the world and Julie can hang their hats on. Me included. I like quantifiable. There’s traction. Forward motion. Progress. Industry. A paycheck.

Mulling doesn’t inspire the same response. Mulling is intangible–like air. It’s there, but you canât see it. But just try and go through a day without it, and you (and I’m looking at you, my old teachers and Julie) will be begging me for some of that intangible stuff. Yeah, too bloody right you will.

So I’m mulling and I’m going to take my time with it. There’s no point in going off half-mulled. That would be ridiculous.

I think I’ve explained myself sufficiently. Now where did I put my Ruffles and those kittens?

Yours in front of the TV,
Simon Wood
PS: I’m attending my first LA Times Festival of Books. It should be a lot of fun. If you’re making the trip to the UCLA campus this weekend. This is where I’ll be signing this Saturday.

Crime Time Books (booth #355) 11:00am-noon
Sisters in Crime (booth #355) 2:00pm-4:00pm
Book ‘Em (booth #441) 4:00pm-5:00pm