Author Archives: Murderati


Save The Last Draft For Me

Things are getting quite exciting in Simonville.  I received the ARCs (Advanced Reading Copies) for Accidents Waiting To Happen last week and the preproduction galleys a couple of months ago.  The book will be on bookshelves in six weeks. 

So, am I satisfied with the end product?  No, not really.

The problem is every time I read the book, I want to tinker, and boy have I done some tinkering.  Just to explain, Accidents was first published in 2002 by a small press.  When I submitted the manuscript, I considered it to be the final draft.  When the rights returned back to me in 2005, I decided I wanted to get the book republished.  It didn’t get a fair crack in the marketplace and I wanted to see if I could resell it.  It would have been easy to shove the thing in the mail without looking at it, but I thought I should give the book the once over before sending it.  I rewrote the book. If you compare 2002 version with the 2007 version, the first sentence isn’t even the same.  This wasn’t some manic aberration; I saw how I could do things better.  I’d changed as a writer.  Accidents was the first major thing I started writing back in ’98.  During the re-read, I saw things that I didn’t see back then.  Better things.  Sharper things.  The book didn’t need a polish.  It needed stripping back to the bare wood, a coat of fresh stain applied then some lacquer.  There was nothing fundamentally wrong with the original, but I saw a different way of telling the same story.  I think the revised and updated version is a reflection of me as a more grown up writer (please take the grownup part with a pinch of salt.  On second thought make that a fist of salt).   

So, am I satisfied with the new and improved end product?  No, not really.

The problem is when I received the galleys a little while ago, I saw there was room for tweaks.  A little touch here.  A little touch there.  A cute new angle on a couple of the scenes.  Maybe my bad guy should drive one of those Pontiac Solstices?  I like those.  He’d look mega bad in one of those bad boys.  I had to stop myself at that point.  I wasn’t making changes for changes sake, but each day I saw a different point of view on the story.  I’m always going to see spots where I could change a word, detail or even a scene. 

A common question I get asked is how many drafts I go through before the book is ready.  The last draft is when I’m sick of looking at the damn thing.  There’s a point when I’ve put everything into the story that I can possibly put into it.  This point usually comes after spending two hours debating with the cats on whether a character should tie his necktie in a Windsor or half-Windsor knot.  Unfortunately, put a few months distance between the manuscript and me and my brain has had time to come up with new ideas on the same subject.  I shouldn’t be allowed to think.  This is why I haven’t read the ARCs for Accidents and I don’t plan on doing so.  Enough is enough.  The book is finished.  It’s as good as it’s going to be.  The real answer to how many drafts I need to write before the book is ready is there is no final draft.  I can always make improvements.  As I improve as a writer, I get more critical of my work.  I can always do better.

So am I satisfied with the final end product?  Yes, I am.  I think Accidents is a good book and I hope everyone else will too…

Yours critically,
Simon Wood

ON THE BUBBLE WITH SIMON WOOD

It is said – one picture is worth a thousand words.  So take a gander at this photo of Simon Wood.  Looks like the guy next door, right?  Clean cut, happy smile -loves his dog, Royston -just the epitome of a happy-go-lucky guy who waves at his neighbors, helps elderly women across the street, catches the ball for the kid next door and throws it back with a huge grin.  Just your all-around nice guy.  Hmmm.  Hard to believe that open, charming smile belongs to a guy who hunches over a laptop until the wee hours conjuring murder, fear, and enough horror to make you hide under the covers.  Mr. Charm here has done just that in countless short stories, four horror anthologies, four books – CRESTFALLEN’S WIDOW, DRAGGED INTO DARKNESS, ACCIDENT’S WAITING TO HAPPEN and his latest – WORKING STIFFS.   Oh, and did I mention several articles in Writer’s Digest?

I’ve known Simon for quite some time – I always want to hug him when I see him.  He just does that to me.  But after I began reading his work…well, now I just blow him a kiss and leave it at that.  See, I’m afraid of the dark.  I admit it.  And – well, Simon scares the hell out of me now.  I mean, anyone who can come up with some of the stories he’s done – well, I’d rather stay on his good side.

But not today.

Simonandroystonlow SIMON WOOD   http://www.simonwood.net

EE:  Scuttlebutt Station reports the real reason you moved to the U.S. was to infiltrate the Northern California chapter of Mystery Writers of America to suss out the rumors that the surplus of talent there is a result of the unique weather conditions surrounding the San Francisco Bay Area.  Don’t tell me your Brit handlers think that just because the climate surrounding San Fran is the key to the best French bread (Sourdough to the unenlightened) in the world might have something to do with growing creativity!

SW:  I must admit I have a bread addiction.  I used to travel to France for bread.  Living in Breadtown by the Bay seemed like a cheaper alternative.  Then I saw the house prices.  I’d leave but I’ve blown all my bread on bread.  That’s why I turned to writing.  I’m hoping to earn enough to cover my addiction.

Oh, very clever – but you don’t fool me.  I happen to have it on good authority that you’re working undercover for Ali Karim who is planning an expose for SHOTS MAGAZINE.  I’ll plead for mercy in your behalf – but I can’t promise anything, okay? 

EE:  But then, my number one Brit spy has another version for your immigrating to the colonies.  He tells me that Fergie was smitten with you when she first saw you race those single-seaters in old Blighty – and she’s still sending you flowers.  How well is Julie handling this?

SW:  No, I came to this country for a different Fergie, she belonging to the black eyed peas variety.  Julie handles it well.  She’s hoping someone will take me off her hands.

A different Fergie and black eyes peas?  I’m sorry, darling…but you really lost me there.  Oh, wait.  I get it.  Answer #44a/397/TK  when being interrogated by Evil E.  Yes, yes – I know all about that code being passed around Mysteryville.  Like I’ve said – I have spies everywhere.

EE:  So, Simon – I understand you have a thing about elephants.  What does Royston think about this?

SW:  Lainey, I’m not sure what you’re referring to here???

Oh, sure – use your pet name for me here will you?  If you think that’s gonna soften me up and make my questions less intense – think again, baby.  I don’t fall over that easy.  Well, that’s not to say I can’t be had – but the price is high.

EE:  I’m hearing rumbles that you plan to fly over and buzz Barbra Streisand’s beach front villa just for kicks.  Guess you never heard about the guy she sued, huh?  You ready for her heat?  The publicity will NOT endear you to her fans.  But then, now that I think of it – I doubt they read.

SW:  I’m doing her the favor.  She needs some good buzz after cussing out a heckler.  I do what I can for Babs. 

True.  That’s awfully kind of you.  She is getting rather long in the tooth – and I imagine her career could use a boost or two.  By the way – I know a few good lawyers just in case.  In fact, you could always sic Dylan Schaffer on her or John Hart.  Dylan’s in South America now, but John might be willing to take time out from his next mega-hit and help out.  Call me, okay?

EE:  Horrorville is abuzz with talk about a certain jealous writer (name withheld for security reasons) blabbing that the reason you write creepy-scary stuff is because you’re really afraid of the dark and your therapist insists it will help you manage turning off the lights at night.  Here’s your chance to squelch that dastardly rumor.

SW:  Jealous people say mean things.  I ain’t afraid of the dark.  No night lights in my bedroom, although Royston’s eyes do glow in the dark.  He makes for a great dachshund flashlight.  Mirrors at night, that’s a different story…

I think I’ll leave that one alone.

EE:  You’ve just rented a billboard on the freeway heading for the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge – what does it say?

SW:  Where’s the sodding cycle lane?

Oh, hell, Simon!  That’s not fair.  I wanted something profound – earth shattering – scintillating – explosive!

EE:  So – what’s this I hear about you wanting Selma Hayek to sit on you lap?  Is this something you’d like to share with us, Simon?

SW:  Selma said, "I keep waiting to meet a man who has more balls than I do."  I’d just like to know whether I pass muster.

Oh.

EE:  Uh, after that – I think we’ll just ease into one of my regular questions.  Sound of clearing throat goes here.  Which writer would you love to have all to yourself (note: I have eliminated ‘cozy’ in deference to our Head Mistress) – in a dark corner of the bar at LCC next month?

SW:  Well, not all authors get the kind of advances they would like.  This is where I come in.  I lend a little money here, a little money there.  I just request that when they pay back my generosity they include a little gratuity.  So I have a number of writer friends who’ve yet to repay my kindness.  I won’t embarrass anyone by saying who they are, but I’ll be needing a dark corner.  The darker the better.

Gratuity?  Uh, isn’t that called ‘vig’?  And now that I think of it – money lenders usually have a sign outside their place of business – three balls, right?  So listen up, Simon – if you took those three balls…and …well, you could call Selma then.  You will keep us posted, won’t you?

After that – I think we’re out of here, folks…

But do stop by again – coming attractions include, besides the rest of my blogmates (why should they get a free pass?) – and not in the following order:  Jim Born, David Corbett, Lee Goldberg, Doug Lyle, Joan Hess, Gillian Roberts, Phil Hawley, Dave White & Bryon Quertermous together!, Bob Levinson, Keith Snyder, Barry Eisler, Suzanne Beecher, Kevin Burton Smith, Ken Bruen, Lee Child and Marcus Sakey.  And return engagements by …well, never mind – you’ll just have to drop in and see for yourself.

Hmmm…I just noticed I only have three women listed.  I wonder what a shrink would have to say about that?

Repetitive Virginity

By Pari Noskin Taichert

My favorite time-stealing, attention-sucking, procrastination-aiding computer game is Tumblebugs. After each round, a humorous saying pops up as a kind of reward. My favorite is, "Confidence is what you feel before you understand the situation."

Ah, Dear Grasshopper, it’s true.

A few years ago, I was in full swing, agonizing about being a small-press author. Should I wait to see if BELEN would sell to a big NYC publisher? Would I doom myself to a tiny career by staying with the University of New Mexico Press? Oh, hell, what should I have for breakfast?

I’m sure most writers often succumb to this weird desire to try to predict the future. We’re victims of the feeling that a wrong move can cast us, and our works, into oblivion quicker than snow melting on a sunny sidewalk.

One of the people from whom I sought perspective was Barbara Peters of Poisoned Pen Bookstore and PP Press fame.

She said, "Pari, you’re only a book virgin once."

Alas, my publishing cherry had already been popped.

Peters is right, though. Debut authors (Hey, J.T. and Alex, what do you think?) only have one chance to be fresh and new–without the outward expectations that come from a more established career.

However, I find it a tad inaccurate for those of us who have been at this profession a little longer.

Without lapsing into too much grooviness, I’d like you to look at this link. Here, you see THE FOOL in a traditional tarot deck. (I have a much prettier deck and might be persuaded to bring it to LCC or Malice this year — and do some readings — if enticed abundantly. But I digress . . . )

If you look at the card, you’ll see a youth, haversack on his back, dreamy and joyous expression on his innocent face. Look a little closer and you’ll notice he’s about to step off a cliff.

Yep. I think that’s a marvelous metaphor for how I’m feeling right now (and why the saying from Tumblebugs might be more apt).

Book #3 is at the publisher; I got the 13-digit ISBN on Friday. Rather than feeling the ennui of the initiated, I’m incredibly optimistic.

I’m not the only one who isn’t jaded, though experience might tempt many a writer to focus only on the negatives. Most novelists I know think that this, their next novel, might be the one that breaks out, that establishes unequivocally a career, that makes enough that they can relinquish half of their promotional responsibilities, or earns at least the dollars necessary for their children’s first year at a state university.

Indeed, I think many of us become blithering optimists with each new release AND with each project begun.

We become book virgins again and again and again . . .

What say you, fellow writers?
Do you feel this way? Or, do you exercise caution in your heart, know not to expect too much?

What say you, fellow readers?
Is there anything comparable in other fields? Heck, do you feel this way, too, each time one of your favorite authors comes out with a new book?

BTW:  A moment of gratitude and silence to honor MLK today. And, when you’re through with the quiet, go to this site and listen.

ART VS. AUDIENCE: More Questions from the New Guy

When asked how he became a bestselling author, Elmore Leonard replied, I started writing only the parts people wanted to read. 

Now, I’m paraphrasing an interview I read years ago, so the quote might not be exact.  But the sentiment is something that has stuck with me.

I only want to write the parts people want to read. 

I never want to bore and audience.  I want don’t want their minds to wander away from the page.

Of course, you’ll always bore someone.  If you keep the action at a fast boil, some will clamor for more characterization, more personal background (they want to know characters’ favorite breakfast cereals, the names of their pet iguanas, what they read on the can).  But Delve into the protagonist’s life too deeply, and others will thumb through the pages wanting you to "get on with the plot, damn it!"  The solution seems obvious.  Find the middle ground and you’ll find the biggest possible audience.  Right?

I can’t help but feel that danger lingers in that line of thinking.

Alexandra Sokoloff wrote a great post yesterday on style.  What happens to style (or voice, or storytelling) when the writer questions his choices based not on his own preferences, but on the preferences of this unknown audience?  And who can really guess what people want?  If I constantly try to please everyone, who do I really please?

So instead, do I ignore this invisible audience, and write from instinct and heart?

A voice in my head screams, "No friggin’ way." 

I can think of two best selling authors who prove my point (and no I will NOT name names).  They’ve sold millions and made millions and pretty much have a guarantee that whatever they scribble down will be published.  But ask their fans, and I’ll bet they enjoyed the authors’ middle works the best, not the 10,000 page rambling "epics" they’ve just produced.  My guess is that these bestsellers have let their egos take the wheel and jammed their audience in the back seat.

Then what’s the solution?  Do we strive for art, audience be damned?  Or do we try to see our work from another perspective and let the thought of audience become our internal editors?  And if the latter is the case, how do we keep from losing our voice?

The new guy needs answers people.

               

Of Vampires and Jumpers

JT Ellison

Alex wrote a post this past weekend about the vampiric
nature of writers.

I don’t think it’s much of a stretch to say that for
writers, life can sometimes seem like a series of vignettes, a compilation of
observations that we distill into experiences and memories that propel our
work. I’d even postulate that crime fiction writers get a wealth of inspiration
from the everyday life going on around us – let’s face it, there is no desert
when it comes to crime as inspiration. Just look at your evening news, the
majority of lead stories are crime related. If it bleeds, it leads.

I know this is true for me. And over Christmas, I had an
experience that shaped my view, sparked an idea, and gave me creative
sustenance. I just wasn’t happy about it.

Hubby and I were heading to my parents, and their house is
on an island. There are two bridges over to beachside, and we were heading
toward the South Causeway, a relatively new structure that allows for large-mast
ships to pass through on their journey along the Indialantic waterway. The
North Causeway is still a charming drawbridge, the South is mammoth by
comparison.

As we reached the base of the bridge, there were cop cars
littering the road, and they were directing people to turn away. There have
been some terrible accidents on the bridge – the speed limit is much too high,
so the first thought was bad smash-up. But I saw a few people walking around at
the top and realized, no. It was worse. It was a jumper.

Now, this bridge is big enough to do some serious damage if
you went over unwittingly. About four stories high. Not a guaranteed death, but
you’d get hurt. Badly.

I was horrified at my immediate reaction. We must pull over.
I need to see this. I can work this into a story. I need to assimilate the
scene, burn the images into my mental retinas. Before I knew it, I was
vocalizing my thoughts. I told hubby we needed to stop. I heard myself giving
him directions into the local library parking lot, which sits at the base of
the bridge. There was already a group of people doing the same thing. But things
got worse. I sickened myself when I realized I had my camera. In my bag, at my
feet. And as the car stopped moving, it was in my hand.

                       Jumper_large_4

A familiar sense of detachment flooded me. I got out of the
car, and snapped a few shots, telling myself that if I were a photographer and
this were my daily job, I wouldn’t have two seconds of hesitation about taking
pictures. I’m simply documenting at this point, a purely dispassionate
observer. I am not rooting for this man to jump. I am not glorying in his pain.
I am not wondering what it would look like if he actually lets go of the
railing he seems to be clinging to as if he really doesn’t want to be doing
this. My mind can make all of those images and words for me. I am absorbing. I
am being a vampire.                                                   

I’ve seen some pretty nasty things. My research has taken me
into darkness. I’ve been at a stabbing scene, seen the results of teenage head
versus .44 magnum in a suicide, viewed autopsy photos and crime scene photos.
But nothing could have ever prepared me for a group of people, gathered at the
base of a very big bridge, all yelling one collective word. “JUMP!”

That’s right. While I’m mantra muttering Don’t Do It under
my breath, the redneck assholes who were partaking in an afternoon of someone
else’s misfortunes are wrapped in their superiority cloaks, screaming at this
poor soul to kill himself.

But what did I look like to them? I’m the one with my camera
in the air.

I felt a bit like a naturalist. On the Discovery Channel,
you wonder how the videographers and photographers and announcers do it.
There’s always the story of the lion pride, and the cub that’s gotten lost. We
usually see the happy ending, the cub is reunited with his pride. But the
tension I feel leading up to that moment is overwhelming. How many times did
the cub not make it? When does reality intrude on the entertainment value?

If the documentarians are true to their work, they know
there’s nothing they can do to put the cub back on the road to safety. They
can’t interfere; it’s nature’s way. But how do they watch, and record, and
voice-over while the hyenas strike?

I always tell myself, as I turn off the show before I find
out what happens, that it’s happening right now, all over the world. The weak
are being preyed upon by the strong. The naturalists know that if they weren’t
there to document the process, it would happen regardless. That’s how I
justified my actions at the bridge. If we hadn’t stopped for a soda and had
been five minutes earlier, we would have driven by and never known the
difference. But since we were there, I felt compelled to, at the very least,
give the man’s story some credence. I told hubby if he did jump, at least I
could find a way to mention it so he wasn’t lost in utter obscurity, didn’t
become just another statistic.

He came down. He lived. I didn’t know that until the next
day, when a brief mention in the newspaper handled the situation with
surprising delicacy. I’m paraphrasing… Police closed the north Causeway for
nearly an hour yesterday as they talked with a despondent man… Despondent.
What a perfect word to describe the situation.

You may be surprised by that last bit. Yes, we left. I
didn’t want to see what happened. I certainly didn’t want to see him go over. I
was testing fate by even stopping and taking pictures. I was lucky that he
didn’t let go while I was there.

                       Jumper_small_1

This nameless, faceless stranger has been grafted into my
next book; I’ve got a scene with a jumper. I intend to mine it for every detail
I can, answer all the unanswered questions, glorify and inflate the situation
to fictional proportions. And I have my memories and pictures to thank for
guiding me. All’s well that ends well, right?

If I just weren’t thinking about what drove him to that
bridge in the first place.

 

 

JT’s First Unabashed (Sort of) BSP

The fine editors of the most exciting new ezine this year, MOUTH FULL OF BULLETS, have nominated a story I wrote for them for the Preditors and Editors 2006 Readers Poll.

The story is called THE TEMPEST, and it’s one I wrote while I was in Colorado this past summer. I blogged about that week in my old hometown, and promised that I was writing. This is my proof.

Here’s a link to the story.

There’s a catch. This is a voted contest. If you like the story and want to vote for it, click here.

I’m going to blog about the issue of awards in two weeks. I debated long and hard about whether to mention this at all, simply because it feels unseemly to me to ask for votes.

But you know what? The editors of MOUTH FULL OF BULLETS felt strongly enough about this story to nominate it. It’s their only entry in this particular category of the contest. And I want to honor their kind action by sharing this with all of you. This one truly isn’t about winning or losing. So thanks for the vote of confidence, BJ!

Splitting

I’m splitting.

Don’t get too excited.  I’m not leaving or anything like that.  No, I’m going through something of an identity crisis and I’m considering splitting myself into two.  People aren’t sure what I write.  The problem is that I write in multiple genres.  One side of me writes thrillers and mysteries and the other side of me writes horror and dark fantasy.  I know a number of writers who flit between genres with no problem and I hoped to do the same, but it isn’t working for me.  My writing in different genres confuses people.  Horror readers think I write mystery and mystery readers think I write horror.  The simple thing to do would be to stick to one genre and have done with it, but I don’t want to.  I love writing horror stories as much as I do crime. 
 
So what is a chimera to do?  What else, but split.

I think it’s time for a pen name, but which side of me gets the new identity?  That’s an easy one.  The pen name will go to my horror writing.  I’ve written a lot of short horror fiction that has appeared in magazines and anthologies, but I’ve never published a horror novel, whereas my published and forthcoming novels are thrillers.  It would be too disruptive to reinvent myself in the mystery and thriller world now. 

The topic of a pen name has been on my mind for some time.  My attempts to educate the world to my multi-faceted aspects haven’t worked and it’s getting a little frustrating.  People either label me as a horror or thriller writer, never both.  More than a minor annoyance, the situation has hindered me.  Not for the first time, anthology editors have looked me over because they knew me for one genre and not both.  It’s time to break out the white flag and surrender to the realization that it’s hard being two things at once.

I do have a name picked out, but I’m not willing to share it at the moment.  Change, while good, does create waves.  While I want to create a second writing identity, I have to consider other people.  There are a number of upcoming projects, which this decision will affect.  I need to discuss it with them first.

As Eric Burden of the Animals once said, “I’m just a soul who’s intentions are good. Oh Lord, please don’t let me be misunderstood.”  It’s not a good situation for a writer to be in.

I’ll let you know what I decide.

Yours a person divided,
Simon Wood

ON THE BUBBLE WITH PARI NOSKIN TAICHERT

YES – IT’S FINALLY HERE.  THE INTERVIEW YOU’VE BEEN WAITING FOR – OUR HEADMISTRESS – OUR RESIDENT DIPLOMAT TO THE UNITED BLOGOSPHERE (some of us occasionally need one)- IS GONNA GET IT TOO.

But let’s not get carried away just yet.  Pari, as you all know – is the sassy mother of Sasha Solomon – the quirky gal inhabiting two Agatha nominated mysteries:  THE CLOVIS INCIDENT and THE BELEN HITCH – with SOCORRO soon to be in your favorite independent bookstore (and chains, naturally).  I love Sasha – she doesn’t suffer fools very well, but when she does – it is with such elan… and has us laughing all the while.  Were I to be so accomplished.  I could go on and on – tell you that Pari and I first met at Bcon/Las Vegas – she moderated the ‘newbie’ panel (which I was on) and as a newbie herself – did a standup job.  We became fast friends then – and still are.  So why am I telling all this breaking news?  Well, see – it’s like this – I just couldn’t bring myself to grill her too hard.  At least not this first time.  When SOCORRO comes out – that’ll be a different story.  I mean, she’s been snowed in with her girls home from school and I understand she’s been, well…sort of sloshing around the snowdrifts making those so-called snowshakes.  Suffice it to say she’s a bit frazzled at just now.  And good friend that I am, I’ll take it light this time.  I’m not always evil, you know.

So, here she is – PARI NOSKIN TAICHERT   http://www.parinoskintaichert.com

P8050204 Okay, I lied.  After seeing this photo – I was too chicken to ruffle her feathers. It’s kinda small (Pari’s fault not mine- so blame her if you have to squint) – but I still got the message.  That’s quite a kick she’s managed to master.

EE:  So, Pari – I’ve been hearing rumors that Jackie Chan is a fan of yours – and when he found out that you’re into Tae Kwon Do, he went bananas and wants you in his next film which begins shooting in April, but you’ve turned him down to go to Malice.  Are you nuts, or what?

PT:  That’s partially true because, well, Jackie is slowing down a little and I just wasn’t sure he’d be up to the stunts we discussed.  But, I did propose doing some of the filming at Malice – you know – a chase scene during the tea with all of those ladies wearing such wonderful hats.  He said he’d get back to me.

Well, guess I should tell you that he called me today.  He’s a little nervous about being around all those women who kill for fun and profit.  He’s hoping you might reconsider the venue and is asking me to be the go-between.  He was thinking about the parking lot-he’ll have a Hummer waiting for him just in case the ladies get too rambunctious.  Let me know, okay?

EE:  Talk of the Town is that a group of citizens (and fans) are trying to get you to run for mayor of Belen, New Mexico.  They claim you’ve done more to put their fair little town on the map than Mayor Torres – and they want you bad.  What does Sasha think about all of this?

PT:  Ronnie Torres is only a part-time mayor.  He’s really a hairdresser (I kid you not.)  I wouldn’t dare run against him; I don’t know the first thing about conditioners.  As to Sasha’s opinion?  She’s firmly against the idea.  She’d rather I write her into more travels – maybe in other small towns out of New Mexico – like Antibes or Cap St. Jean Ferrat.

Oh? Going international, huh?  Hey, I’m with you!  Listen – I know of a gorgeous little villa overlooking Lake Como that maybe I can get you and Sasha into.  My friend George has a lovely place there.  He’d do anything for me.  I saved his…well, nevermind.  Want me to call him?

Paribellydancer1 EE:  A voice from your past told me that the belly dancing routines you did on that TV show you had some years ago (I’m not saying how many, okay?) was considered quite…er…spicy, and it had to be taken off the air after the local square dance and polka groups put up a fuss.  Wanna splain that, kiddo?

PT:  Nah, that didn’t happen.  But something that did:  I hated Econ 101, despised it and wasn’t doing too well in the class.  The night before my final, I had a dancing engagement in Beloit College’s "coffee house."  (They served really good micro-brewery beers – not coffee.)  Anyway, I was dancing away with too much merriment when I did this nifty spin and turned to face…you guessed it…my Econ prof.  Somehow, I passed the final.

Well, hell – one look at that outfit you’re wearing must have made him realize…well, how about ‘one picture is worth a thousand words’?  I think we can fill in the blanks here.

Hong20kong2020kowloon EE:  Just between us gals, tell me about that year in Hong Kong when you were supposed to be studying at the Chinese University.  I mean, okay – so you really do speak Chinese and Russian – but – well, do I have to spell it out?  You weren’t really a student, right?  If you want to say it was research for a novel, go ahead – but…

PT:  Of course I was studying.  I spent a whole damn year painting one character in calligraphy.  That’s the only class I truly remember.  But, in Hong Kong proper, there was this great bar called Waltzing Matilda’s where the Aussie and British ex-pats used to hang out.  Oh, and the tea at the Peninsula was to die for.  And, I used to save up all my money to go to Gaylord’s, a fab Indian restaurant in Kowloon…

Hells bells!  If it takes a damn year to paint one character – I’d be hanging out at a few bars myself.

EE:  Okay, enough of the light stuff.  Which writer would you love to have all to yourself in a cozy corner of the bar next month at Left Coast Crime?

PT:  Cozy!!?  Did you say "cozy?"  I’m so tired of people putting me in …oh, excuse me…um…  You know what?  I’d love to hang out with all of the Murderati crowd.  Hell, I’d love to hang out with absolutely anyone who’ll buy me an Oban or two.  Frankly, at conventions, I find just about everyone fascinating.

Crapola!  I didn’t think!  Yes – that damned word!  Funny – I didn’t realize it until now.  You can bet I’ll be changing the wording from now on.  I HATE IT TOO!  I mean – we write about murder, right?  What the hell is COZY about that?  Note to readers:  Did you notice she really didn’t give us a specific name?  See what I mean?  Diplomacy r us to the max.  Damn, I hate that in a woman.

EE:  Since you’re gonna side-step all my questions, how about telling me about your Walter Mitty dream?

PT:  You know, I really can’t think of much.  Well, there’s that chateau in Cap St. Jean Ferrat…and the jet-setting around the world to meet adoring readers…and being paid to do it.  There’s the win at American Idol.  There’s that great review in NYT.  There’s dancing the tango in Argentina.  Actually, dancing professionally would be pretty cool.  There’s that seventh don in Tae Kwon Do, and being able to do flying kicks and actually get hang time.  To look like Alex, Twist, Harley or Laura.  There’s brokering world peace,  Solving the global warming problem.  Eradicating child abuse…  I know that list is pretty mundane, but, really, my life is good.  Family, friends, love, health, a career that will pay someday.  What could be better?

Not a hell of a lot, Pari.  Not at all.  Unless… well, nevermind.  I guess I was thinking about you and Jackie Chan.  I mean, there’s this small role he promised me…and I just thought…well, being we’re friends and all… but, don’t give it another thought, okay?

EE:  Here’s an easy one:  You just bought a month’s advertising on a billboard.  What’s it gonna say?

PT:  Hey, I just wrote a Murderati post about creative space and I’m answering these questions with the kids still around.  So, I’ll take a first shot and reserve the right to change it when I’ve had a couple of gallons of coffee.

Let’s see…Billboards need short text and a lot of white space.  I’d have great graphics of my books, maybe me smiling…maybe not.

And, I like the idea of a campaign that would change weekly (I might even want to change it more frequently) to interest the commuters on the freeway going to and from work.

1st week – "Buy my books.  You know you want them."

2nd week – "You must have my books."  Imagine Vincent Price saying that!

3rd week – "I mean it."

4th week – "I know where you live."

Okay, well, that might be a bit scary.  Let me get another tankard of coffee.  ‘Kay?’

Uh, yes – please do.  Take your time.  I’ll just step out while you gather your thoughts.  No hurry.  Honest.  Oh, by the way – I moved.  I’ll, uh, get my new address to you soon.  Ciao.

I heard from Pari today.  She’s doing fine now.  The coffee did wonders for her mood.  The trembling is gone, the girls are back in school – she’s back to squirting whipped cream in her mouth…and I hope to hell the snow has melted.  Those forays out to the slush stuff were sort of doing her in…

Thanks for stopping by today – and don’t forget about ITW’s grand giveaway!

Itwlink "150 Thrillers" Contest!  Just signing up here for the free online ITW newsletter, you’ll be entered for a chance to win a whole library of new, author-signed thrillers. A hundred and fifty, in all.

p.s. I stole this from Louise’s post today.  I have to be a little evil, don’t I?

Mental Space: The Final Frontier

by Pari Noskin Taichert

Remember the storm I so rhapsodized last week? Well, it lost its charm.

After many a liqueur-laden snowshake, the reality hit. My kids’ more than two-week vacation was extended. The Albuquerque Public School system couldn’t handle the white stuff and cancelled three — yes, three — extra days of classes. Sure, the snowfall was an unprecedented event, but, hey, I NEED TO THINK!

I have wonderful children. They are not the problem.

It’s all in me.

When my kids are home (or my hubby, for that matter), even if they’re sitting quietly reading, my ears are cocked to listen for potential crises. Maybe it’s a mom thing. I don’t know.

What I do know is that it’s very difficult to pal around with the Muse when kids ask for snacks, the house is adrift in strewn toys, and the theme song from Arthur wafts through the air yet again. Yeah, I can close the office door, but that only lasts for so long. My kids are still in the conversation-through-the-bathroom-door stage.

Paul Guyot and others in our community have written marvelous pieces on self-discipline. Some people I know get up at 4 am to work. I’ve done it myself. But, when my kids are home, I need to be coherent. I need enough of my iffy sleep to respond to fights, broken dishes, and the ups and downs of home life.

I need to be able to drive to the store without hallucinating.

Frankly, if I got up consistently at 4 am, I’d need to go to bed at 8. Ladies and gentlemen — that’s simply not going to happen. Writer though I be, my family comes first. I can’t be a recluse, though sometimes I dream of doing just that.

Plus, I tried the 4 am technique to slam out THE SOCORRO BLAST. You know what happened? That first draft had the creativity of a chunk of stucco. That’s why I had to rewrite the whole damn thing.

So, it’s not productivity  . . . it’s the product. What I need is mental privacy, an empty house, a time when I’m not responsible for anyone or anything but my imagination.

Don’t get me wrong. I am writing every day.  I am showing up at the computer and slogging through pages of text. But, this forcing isn’t nurturing the story I need to tell.

How can I find a way to create a cocoon of mental quiet to allow myself the clarity and freedom to think?

Organization isn’t the issue here. It’s something more elusive.

I need a shroud of impenetrability, of undisturbed psychic space, to let the story unfold in my mind. This isn’t a question of being precious about my craft; it’s about finding a way to nourish creativity.

I know this is only a temporary set-back . . . sort of. The kids should be in school soon. But, I’ve been writing through motherhood long enough to know: Life intrudes. My spouse works full time out of the house. I’m the go-to person for all family events.

I AM NOT complaining.

I AM NOT looking for suggestions on scheduling.

What I want to know is:

How do you create, nurture and maintain the mental space for your imagination to thrive — especially if you’re stretched between demanding realities?

Any advice?

_____________________________________________________________________________

Prepare to be amused by book biz definitions:

part 1


part 2

New blog:  Join me in congratulating Jeff Cohen and Deni Dietz — two Murderati alums — who have put together a new blog that opens its virtual doors today. Stop by http://www.heydeadguy.typepad.com and say, "Hi."