This is being written in real time. Two, maybe three, minutes without editing. At least as much as I can do without editing. You see, people always talk about how they can’t find the time to write. Hell, I complain about it all the time, especially since I started working full time and am so tired when I come home from work. Mornings are out because I have to get up earlier than I’d like in the first place so that I can exercise. But writing, ah, writing, it’s exercise for the creative body and it needs its expression too. So, how long does it take to write, say, 100-500 words. I don’t know. I’m writing this as one of my kids goes to the bathroom ( I know, it’s not very glamorous that, but that’s the test I set up for myself), just typing as quickly as I could without editing until my kid gets out of the bathroom and we head to the store. It’d been two minutes now . . .and the door is opening. 178.
Day two: I wanted to make a point with this speed written blog. Namely, that it’s important to power through excuses because, most of the time, excuses are the stuff of fear. Of what? Of not being good enough, of not being profound enough, of not being able to hide from the fact that we’re never satisfied as creative with what we’ve created. The truth is, that’s a good thing. To be self-satisfied is to kill creativity. At least, that’s what I think. So here’s the blog. I’m going to type until I reach two minutes and then I’ll spend three or four to edit and then that’ll be it. I’ve already completed the equivalent of one double-spaced page and that was in 123: 2 minutes exactly ______________________________________________________________________
I wrote the first two paragraphs of this blog in a very short time . . . and decided not to edit. They’re not brilliant, I’ll grant you that. But they’re evidence of something that I have to face myself. There is always time to write! I noticed two things while trying to go as fast as I could:
I couldn’t stand to make typos. I had to correct them and that took time I could’ve been creating.
I wanted my writing to make sense and it was such a struggle not to go back and edit small phrases and punctuation while in the writing process. However, I only paused a few times, only corrected a few errors, too.
There’s no real profundity here, just a test that I’m sharing with you this week. I had originally thought about writing a blog about prejudice or something commemorating Dr. King, but this topic intrigued me.
After all, Dr. King didn’t let excuses or fear stop his mission, did he?
So today, why don’t you try this experiment too? Set a timer and go for 1-2 minutes in the comments and see what you come up with. It might be fun. It might reveal something interesting to you. Or don’t share the test with us . . . but do leave a comment. I’m actually home today and can answer.
By the way, this last segment — with its self-consciousness and spell checking in real time — took me 4:29 to write. 249 words.
I was going to call this post “Is blogging dead?” but that just sets up a conundrum I can’t wrap my head around, not after the week I’ve just had.
But this question has been on my mind a lot lately, for a lot of reasons.
Promotion and social media exposure, a strong internet presence, is absolutely mandatory for an author. Blogging used to be THE primary method of getting yourself out there, and if you had a personal blog and participated in a group blog like Murderati, or several, even better.
But so many group blogs have shut down, and authors seem to be burned out on personal blogging.
And then there’s Facebook.
I hear from a lot of people that FB is on the decline but it seems to me that the conversations that used to be had in the blog comments, and the large communities of “backbloggers,” a lion’s share of that action has moved to Facebook, and that that aspect of FB is growing.
Blogs are in-depth entities. The joy of a blog is that you can really explore a topic (as well as sometimes do some virtuoso writing), and the comments that follow deepen the conversation, and there’s something compelling about the FEELING of a closed, fixed space that a blog is that makes it a sort of virtual salon. People return to their favorite blogs. I think of Murderati as a PLACE, where I can find people I know and where other people can drop by and join the party. I love that virtual reality aspect of it.
But blogging takes a lot of time, not just for the blogger. It takes actual effort to read a blog, in that you have to go to a particular place to get to the conversation. If the conversation there isn’t what you were looking for, you have to look elsewhere.
Facebook is a different kind of experience. It’s all right there in front of you. You throw a topic up there and whoever happens to be passing by on the endless river of “feed” may or may not jump in. You never know who or what you’re going to get, although I do notice a base of regular commenters coming back to my Facebook page over and over, so there is an aspect of place to it as well.
FB has tailored a social media expereince that is either still a novelty, or possibly more suited to the kind of social media experience that we are looking for – quick, fun, convenient interaction that gives you a buzz of relevance without much work.
I’ve heard it referred to as “microblogging” and I think that’s a perfect description.
Now, I’m speaking from a very privileged position of being part of an established and respected group blog and also running a very popular blog of my own – my Screenwriting Tricks for Authors blog is getting more traffiic than ever (though far fewer comments these days), and a great deal of that traffic is for much older posts that are constantly reposted and linked to as people discover the blog and read the accompanying workbooks. It’s a hugely important selling tool for my nonfiction books.
But lately I feel like I’m casting a far wider net with FB than I can with blogging. Any post I make I get comments from people I don’t know at all. It’s a quick interaction that introduces me to a huge number of people who may remember me and the fact that I’m an author, which is the groundwork of all promotion – name recognition. And I enjoy the format of Facebook. It’s so visual – which puts it light years ahead of Twitter, in my opinion. There’s an aspect of improv to it, in that I can always find something fun to say about something someone else has posted. I am, for better or worse, a social butterfly, and I love to have random conversations with large groups of random people.
I know, I know, it’s sounding like I’ve just discovered Facebook (Where exactly has she BEEN for six years?you’re asking). But that’s not exactly true. I was on it before it went public. It’s only recently that I’ve felt that I can use it properly and that it’s at least for the moment being a form of social media promotion that gives me the most bang for my time. Time being always of the essence – not just for writers, but for everyone who reads them.
So today, I’d love to hear what you have to say about it. Do you think blogging has moved to Facebook? Have you had luck microblogging over there?
And while we’re on it, where does Twitter figure in? If people ARE leaving FB, where are they going? I’m really interested in what you all have to say about it.
And for comparison of the two media, here’s my Facebook page, where you can find the same discussion topic (third topic, full page.)
I’m on holidays again. I did consider simply re-posting my summer in Oz blog from last year, because I’m pretty much doing the same thing!
Well, not exactly.
Every year, we head down to the Mornington Peninsula on Boxing Day (26 December) and stay for quite a few weeks. I used to spend my summers down here (since I was two years old, when my grandparents bought a small holiday house) and now my little ones are enjoying their summers by the beach, too.
This year and last year, our ‘go home’ date was dictated by Grace’s school holidays. So we’re here until almost the end of January.
We do pop back to Melbourne for a few trips, like our traditional Australian Open tennis day. That’s today!
So, it’s pretty much been:
Beach
Relaxing on the deck (eating)
Beach
Relaxing on the deck (eating and drinking)
A walk or two
Beach
You get the picture, right?
Then last night was the tennis (sorry about the poor quality pic). We saw Williams (Venus) vs Cornet and then Ryan Harrison vs Djokovich.
Unfortunately the men’s match was extremely one-sided and when you go to these matches you really feel for the guy who’s getting his ass whooped. At least, I did. It must be so hard to be playing in front of so many people and have the first set gone in just 20 minutes. You can feel the disappointment, the frustration.
Anyway, I’m off to the tennis and my family is waiting so I’m out of here. Mind you, it’s going to be a scorcher today…39C which is just over 102F. Loads of sunscreen and hats today! Then tomorrow it’s back to the beach.
We’ve got another ten days on the Peninsula, so I’m guessing we might hit the beach and relax on the deck a bit more!
Are you still on holidays? If so, what are you up to?
My middle daughter Erin is going through a bit of a rough time right now. Nothing earth-shattering or health-related, thank God, just the usual fallout from a young adult making a few poor decisions regarding — what else? — money. We’ve talked about her situation together and we both agree that the best way out of the mess she’s in is the one that is often the most difficult path of all to take: retreat. Facing up to the fact that pushing forward, rather than falling back post-haste, would only make her problems worse, and acting accordingly.
Taking this tack will be embarassing for her, and will impact others. It will involve admitting her mistake to friends and family, exposing herself as someone who isn’t quite as mature and put together as appearances might otherwise indicate. In other words, it’s going to be painful as hell. But it has to be done.
In the process of offering her my fatherly advice that she cut her losses now while she still can, before the brown stuff really hits the fan, I told her about a story I’d just recently heard on This American Life, the NPR radio program. The story was titled “Self-Improvement Kick,” and it dealt with a young guy named Daryl Watson who, lost in life and looking for purpose, was inspired in 2009 to become the new Peace Pilgrim.
Who the hell was the first “Peace Pilgrim” you ask? Well, it was a woman named Mildred Norman, who in 1953, at the age of 44, took it upon herself to walk across the length of America to promote the cause of peace. From the start of her pilgrimage in Pasadena, California, to her death in Knox, Indiana, 28 years later, Norman logged over 40,000 miles on foot, carrying as her only possessions a pen, a comb, a toothbrush and a map. She was entirely dependent on the kindness of others to keep going; everything she received in the way of food, drink and shelter was freely given. She never asked for anything.
Wow, right?
Anyway, 28 years after her death, young Daryl Watson heard Norman’s story and decided he’d just found his purpose in life. He was going to become the world’s new Peace Pilgrim. He chucked his career in children’s television, sold off all his belongings and cashed out his savings account. Every bridge connecting him to the life he knew was dismantled; Watson not only tore up his driver’s license, the aspiring playwright erased every play he had written in the last eight years.
Before he set off from Cape Henlopen State Park in Delaware for San Francisco, California — a trip he estimated would take him around six months to complete — he created a blog site dedicated to his journey and emailed a very public goodbye to all his friends and loved ones, explaining as best he could what he was about to do and why. He then started walking . . .
. . . and gave the whole thing up three days later.
Here’s how Watson describes what happened just after he’d crossed into the state of Maryland, a mere 40 miles into his trip:
“. . . I’m tired, I’m hungry, my feet are killing me, I’m really thirsty, I’m freezing. And I saw this billboard. And it said, ‘It’s OK to make mistakes — as long as they’re new ones.’ And I was like, hmm, I wonder if I made a mistake.”
Watson soon decided he had indeed made a mistake and pulled the plug on his grand experiment. Which meant he had to go back home and start his life all over again, but only after telling all those people to whom he’d bid farewell that the Peace Pilgrim, circa 2009, had fallen just 23 1/2 weeks and 2,880 miles short of duplicating the amazing perambulatory feat of the original.
Talk about humiliation.
The impulse to soldier on, even at the risk of ruining his health or, worse, losing his life, must have been incredible. How to admit to all those people that you’ve failed so miserably, so completely? Wouldn’t perishing in the cold almost seem preferable to enduring such mortification? And consider that what Watson was returning to was nothing less (greater?) than Square One, the giant crater of nothingness — no job, no home, no earthly possessions — he’d deliberately made of his existence.
Yet he did what had to be done. He admitted defeat and reversed his field, saving himself, and all the good works he may very well do in the future, in the process.
I related this story to Erin because I think it beautifully illustrates the lesson I wanted to impart to her, which is that sometimes, the only way to go forward is to stand on the brakes and go back to where you started, no matter the cost to your ego.
I’ve been working on a short story over the last several weeks that I’m overdue turning in to my editor. The reason the story’s late is that I stopped midway through to rewrite much of what I’d already written, having realized — or, more to the point, having lost the will to deny — that the story just flat out wasn’t working as it was. I hated to do it. I wanted the damn story over with. But just as Daryl Watson was cosmically advised by a billboard to rethink what he was doing and turn back, I am occasionally the recipient of similar warning messages, and this one told me to bite the bullet, double-back, and fix what was broken in my short story.
It was the right thing to do. The story works flawlessly now.
When deadlines loom, anything short of forward momentum feels like failure. But there are times that moving forward, intead of backward, is precisely the wrong approach to take.
I think Erin understands this now, and I suspect the man who once sought to become Peace Pilgrim, ver. 2.0, does as well.
I greatly enjoyed Zoë’s most recent post here on the subject of respect and the lack thereof so many people these days show to others. I enjoyed her post so much, in fact, that I’ve decided to riff on it today on this, my Wildcard Tuesday.
This probably isn’t anything you haven’t already noticed, but nowhere is the widespread disrespect Zoe wrote about more apparent than on the streets and byways of America. When civilization completely breaks down, I firmly believe the fuse will be lit somewhere on the 405 freeway here in Los Angeles.
Angelenos treat the rules and regulations of the road like mild suggestions no one is really expected to take seriously. Funny, but when I read a “NO RIGHT TURN” sign, I take it very literally, while others…well, let’s just say they must see some fine print on there somewhere that’s invisible to me.
Here, then, are a few common road signs, and the ways they are interpreted by some of the numbskulls who risk our lives daily driving any damn well they please:
THE A-HOLE’S INTERPRETATION: “Make a half-assed effort to slow down momentarily, then watch for opposing traffic as you blow through the intersection.”
THE A-HOLE’S INTERPRETATION: “Park here only it you have a need to, and only for the amount of time it will take you to leisurely conduct your business.”
THE A-HOLE’S INTERPRETATION: “Please don’t turn left here unless it would inconvenience you in some way not to do so.”
THE A-HOLE’S INTERPRETATION: “Right-of-way doesn’t mean jack if you can’t beat me to the spot, sister. Let’s go!”
THE A-HOLE’S INTERPRETATION: “If they didn’t want people making U-turns here, they would never have put this opening in the island. Besides, you’re nuts if you think I’m going to drive a block out of my way to turn around legally, instead.”
THE A-HOLE’S INTERPRETATION: “Relax! I’m gonna run into the store, fill my cart to the max, than start a huge argument with a cashier when I attempt to get 68 items through the Express Line. Should only take me a minute.”
THE A-HOLE’S INTERPRETATION: “You say your lane’s going away and you need to merge into mine? Sounds like a personal problem to me, pal. Get lost.”
THE A-HOLE’S INTERPRETATION: “If you watch for opposing traffic very, very carefully, and do it really quick, you should be able to continue on past this sign for another block or two to reach your destination. Beats the hell out of going around.”
THE A-HOLE’S INTERPRETATION: “First of all, I’m not stopping, I’m parking. Secondly, I left my kids in the car so you know I’m not going to be here long. And third, there’s no place else to park that’s not at least a block away and my damn feet hurt.”
THE A-HOLE’S INTERPRETATION: “So I’m supposed to hang back and miss the next green up ahead just so some shmuck I don’t know can make his left turn in front of me? I don’t think so.”
Last week, the internet got itself into one of its all too frequent tizzies. You probably don’t remember, as by the time this one blew over there was another one already brewing up. Or several. Like the green-garbed supervillain outfit HYDRA in the old Nick Fury, Agent Of SHIELD comics. Cut off one head, many more will take its place. But this was one I got interested in. It was about the concept, and indeed practice, of selling out.
Now, selling out is something that’s been around as long as selling has. If not before. One of the earliest historical examples that I know of concerns Galileo. This is a very truncated form, as filtered through Bertolt Brecht’s version of events. As you probably know, Galileo worked out through his calculations that the world was in fact round not flat and that we orbited the sun, not the other way round. At the time the Catholic Church was running the show and he presented his findings to them. They objected, said it contravened what they were teaching. Contradicted their version of the word of God. If word got out about it they would lose their authority. Yes, argued Galileo, but the world is round and it orbits the sun. And that’s a fact. Fine, said the Catholic Church. You tell people that fact and we’ll have you killed. Okay, said Galileo. The world is flat and the sun orbits us.
Now, did Galileo sell out? Or did he take the prudent and sensible option in order to protect his own life? It’s easy to take a morally highhanded approach about this years later when your life’s not in any danger and say yes, he did sell out. But I like to think that he did what most of us would do presented with that situation. Compromise. Live.
And then this: http://whatever.scalzi.com/2013/01/08/thoughts-on-selling-out/ If you don’t have the time or the inclination to read all that, let me paraphrase. A writer got annoyed by the fact that other writers were openly writing books to make money from them and gain readers. This, he saw, was a gross violation of what a writer was supposed to be doing. ‘What’s the point in writing,’ he said ‘if you don’t get to write whatever the fuck you feel like writing?’ Cue internet perfect storm.
This reminds me of a BA creative writing student in a university class I was teaching. I was chatting to them about writing, the craft of it, the art of it, the business of it, all that. One student, who clearly didn’t think I knew what I was talking about, piped up and told me I had everything wrong. That maybe what I was talking about was okay for me because I was writing crime fiction (Or possibly ‘just’ crime fiction. If he didn’t actually say that, that was his attitude.). He was going to be different. He was going to write what he wanted, when he felt inspired to do so. And publishers would be so grateful for him doing this they would offer him loads of money. He would then be a bestseller and get brilliant reviews. Yes, he said all this with a straight face, while sneering at my crime novels. I had two options – tell him the truth about what he had just said, or wish him the best of luck with his career. I wished him the best of luck with his career. This was a few years ago. At the time of writing this, the world hasn’t heard from him. Maybe he hasn’t been in a position to be inspired enough to be brilliant yet. Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt.
I thought of him when I read all the pieces about selling out. I think it’s a tired, tired old argument and I really have no time for it, or for the kind of writers who argue in its favour. I don’t care if they’re well known or obscure.
So let’s look at this. What actually is ‘selling out’? What does it constitute? Well, the naysayers would have you believe that selling out means prostituting your art in order to reach a wide audience. Or a wider audience. Or any audience, even. Diluting your talent just to sell books. Just? Just? What else are we supposed to be doing? Sorry if that comes across as blunt and to the point. But there you go. I can’t see the point in a writer toiling in obscurity, writing their heart out (sometimes literally – stress and chest pains are all part of the job) just to be ignored. Or not published. Or left unread. What’s all the pain been for if no one else will ever read it? And why should it be seen as diluting? It’s just accepting a challenge to do something differently. If you regard whatever talent you have as something so rigid and immobile it can’t be bent into different shapes or used to see other perspectives, then it’s not much of a talent, is it?
Ah yes, the artist writer would say, my work is pure because it is not commercial. Because it is not popular. And therefore it is better because of it. And my response would be, ‘Tell that to Charles Dickens’. As everyone knows, Dickens wasn’t just hugely popular in his day, he was also regarded – and still is – as a literary giant. Popularity and literature are not mutually exclusive things.
Want a (slightly) more recent example? Or several? Jim Thompson. David Goodis. Charles Willeford. These men all wrote for money and they wrote fast. They didn’t deny it, didn’t try to hide the fact. They worked in the paperback original market, the most commercial of commercial part of publishing. They didn’t apologise for it, didn’t make excuses about it. But they turned out some of the most extraordinary fiction of the Twentieth Century while they were doing this. Not every time, admittedly, but then neither does Jonathan Franzen. I’m sure you can find examples of your own to use.
Did any of these writers compromise in order to be published? Probably. Did any of them say the world was flat when they knew it was round? No. I don’t think so. They did what the best writers always do. They communicate shared truths about the human condition from writer to reader. They just happen to do it in the guise of hardboiled novels of suspense. Could they be considered sell outs? Only by the more precious. What they actually did, was sell. And in huge quantities.
Now having said all this, I’m sure you can tell which side of the line I come down on. Because seriously, I don’t know what all the fuss is about. But then I know why I write. Or most of the reasons.
I write crime fiction, for the most part. I write thrillers and mystery. Do I think I’m selling out if I want to sell? No. I know the market I’m working in. I’m not naïve or under any illusions. I write the kind of books that I hope people want to read. Should that mean I’m writing the kind of books I don’t want to write? Of course not. Why should the two things be mutually exclusive?
I accept the genre conventions. I know that they’re there for a reason. There has to be a beginning, a middle and an end. And the end has to satisfy. The murder – if there is one – has to be solved. The reader has to feel like they haven’t wasted their time. Like Chekov’s gun – if it’s there in the first act it’s got to be fired by the third. I know all this. I knew it when I made the contract. And not just with the publisher but with the reader too.
But, and here’s the bit the artist writers have trouble with, am I compromising what I want to write? I don’t think so. I’m telling the stories I want to tell in the way I want to tell them. At the same time I’m accepting market conventions because I want the books to sell. It’s still me writing them. It’s still me in them. My heart, my head, my life. I still want to write about the truth of the human condition. I just want to entertain people with a crime story at the same time. I think this is something we all do and accept, irrespective of what line of work we’re in. You could make the most brilliant computer the world has ever seen. But if you’re such a purist you refuse to make a keyboard to go with it you may as well not have bothered.
I want my work to be read. There, I’ve said it. And if they’re honest, so does every other writer who has ever written or ever will write. Unless there’s something wrong with them. My friend, the brilliant Christa Faust, summed the whole thing up perfectly on Twitter last week: ‘As a proud pulp hack, I don’t get the whole selling out thing. Why shouldn’t I use my skills to make a living?’
Why indeed?
And then she aced it with this: ‘It’s easy to make high falutin’ “art” when mom still does your laundry. The rest of us need to pay our own bills.’
Blog Time ain’t exactly Miller Time, you know, where the point of the thing is to kick back and relax, raise the beer to the lips and press “play” on the remote. No, Blog Time requires effort. It requires that I have some kind of opinion on some matter of the day that means something to someone, including me.
Maybe I’ve said everything I have to say. Did you ever consider that?
No, that’s ridiculous. I’ll never have said everything I need to say. Although there’s still a chance I could make that move to Tibet, don the orange jumpsuit and meditate my way to Nirvana. And if there ever comes a time when you don’t hear from me, that’s a good place to look. It sounds oddly comforting – no Facebook, no outward communication, no blogs. I remember studying Japanese literature and religion in college and I was struck by one faction’s belief that the only purpose to life was to meditate oneself to a higher plane. Something like that – I mean, really, do not quote me on this stuff. But part of the discussion was that the poet or the artist should remain silent, too, because to engage in writing poetry or doing one’s art is an act of selfishness that ties one to the flesh. That is, it is a projection of self into the world. Why write poetry or anything if not for the satisfaction it brings us when others read our words? So, it comes back to self, ultimately. I’m sure David Corbett will have something to say about this – in fact, I invite him to jump in now and finish my education on the subject. Because, as we know, a little education is a dangerous thing – and I’ve only had a little education here.
Still, the concept strikes me as truthful, the concept that the writing is meant to fulfill a sense of self-satisfaction. Not that that’s a bad thing – do it if it makes you feel good. But so much of the time I see people writing in an effort to get “successful” or “famous” or to finally “get respect” from others. And, I admit, that’s been a big motivator for me, through the years.
But all along there’s been that nagging thought, that voice from my Japanese Literature and Religion class saying that the purpose of life is to focus on elevating our connection to the universe through meditation, and that even the act of writing is something that distracts us from this goal. It kind of freaks me out, that this should resonate with me. Because I don’t want to stop writing. I’ve always felt that writing is at the core of me. It’s my essence. So, why do I entertain this notion that writing is a masturbatory process? Was I just in a really susceptible place when I took that class? Corbett, help me out here.
My relationship to writing has changed over the years. I sacrificed everything so that I could produce writing that would get me that recognition, that “respect.” Is it worth it? Was it worth it? Yes, for me, in my experience, it was. However, I’ve had to do some repair work in its wake – I’ve made a point of spending more time with the family I ignored while I wrote those books and screenplays. I left the day job and spent a year writing at home so I could really be with them. But dwindling finances required a return to the work-force, which put me in the tough spot of having to prioritize my time again, which in the past has meant that the family gets the short end of the stick. And now I’m not willing to drop those precious relationships back to the third-tier, behind the day job and writing.
I no longer need to prove anything to myself. I no longer need to win an Academy Award, or to have the most successful book series in publication. These things would be nice, but I no longer live for them.
Instead, I’ve grown to appreciate this ability to express my views in writing for its own sake. The ability tell a story. This, in itself, is a prize. And I know that I can tell a story when the time for telling stories presents itself. I’ve discovered, in the process, that I’m a different kind of writer. I’m not a one or two book a year guy. I think my agent discovered this long before I did.
I think of all the experiences in life I’ve missed by sitting at a desk writing about the experience of life.
I wonder if it’s in me to sit silent and watch the world move about without the narration of my words. Maybe, someday. But I doubt it. I think I’m the guy who steps back and observes, then jumps in and produces, then steps back and observes. I’ve always been a sprinter, not a long-distance runner.
It’s nice to know the mountain is there. For the day I have nothing to say.
“From what I’ve seen of you, Zoë, you treat people with a respect you somehow do not expect to receive yourself.”
This was said to me a month or so ago by someone I’ve known for a long time, if not closely. I had no idea he’d observed me well enough to form such an opinion one way or another.
My first instinct was denial. Or not quite denial but certainly qualification. Respect is not something that can be expected—not in the present world.
It has to be worked for, earned.
And once you have it, you can’t simply hang it above the fireplace like a dusty stag’s head trophy and expect admiration from all comers. It has to be carefully maintained or the moths will turn it into little more than a memory.
“I’m not concerned with your liking or disliking of me … All I ask is that you respect me as a human being.”―Jackie Robinson
Respect is a living entity, always shifting, always in motion—much like the stag before someone shot and stuffed it.
One false move, and it’s gone.
I respect someone who has a no-nonsense competence without allowing their ego to enter the equation. It should be possible to be good at what you do without making yourself thoroughly unpleasant in the process.
But it seems to me that modern society will break down not because of some great catastrophe, but because of a series of tiny personal injustices. How many times recently have you experienced the following?
~Watched someone pick up a piece of litter they did not drop?
~Been let out into traffic by someone who had to inconvenience themselves to do so, rather than because they had to stop anyway?
~Been thanked by someone you’ve let out into traffic when you had to inconvenience yourself to do so, rather than because you had to stop anyway?
~Have a door held open?
~Had a car slow down to pass you walking along a wet road so you weren’t splashed?
~Been invited to go ahead by the person before you at the supermarket checkout because they’re shopping for a siege and you have only a few items?
These may seem like trivial examples—and indeed they are—but they are also the niceties of civilisation that make us human.
So, ’Rati, what petty injustices have you witnessed recently, or what random small acts of kindness?
Instead of a Word of the Week, this time round I have a selection of quotations on the subject of respect—or lack of it.
“You should respect each other and refrain from disputes; you should not, like water and oil, repel each other, but should, like milk and water, mingle together.”―Buddha
“They cannot take away our self-respect if we do not give it to them.”―Mohandas K. Gandhi
“The bond that links your true family is not one of blood, but of respect and joy in each other’s life. Rarely do members of one family grow up under the same roof.”―Richard Bach
“Be peaceful, be courteous, obey the law, respect everyone; but if someone puts his hand on you, send him to the cemetery.”―Malcom X
“If you have ten thousand regulations you destroy all respect for the law.”―Winston Churchill
“I get no respect. The way my luck is running, if I was a politician I would be honest.”―Rodney Dangerfield
“Men are so willing to respect anything that bores them.”―Marilyn Monroe
“When you are content to be simply yourself and don’t compare or compete, everybody will respect you.”―Lao Tzu
“I never make the mistake of arguing with people for whose opinions I have no respect.”―Edward Gibbon
“To the living we owe respect, but to the dead we owe only the truth.”―Voltaire
“In order to acquire a growing and lasting respect in society, it is a good thing, if you possess great talent, to give, early in your youth, a very hard kick to the right shin of the society that you love. After that, be a snob.”―Salvador Dali
“I do respect people’s faith, but I don’t respect their manipulation of that faith in order to create fear and control.”―Javier Bardem
“Respect for ourselves guides our morals, respect for others guides our manners.”―Laurence Sterne
“I don’t have a lot of respect for talent. Talent is genetic. It’s what you do with it that counts.”―Martin Ritt
“I respect my limitations, but I don’t use them as an excuse.”―Stephen R. Donaldson
“If you are killed because you are a writer, that’s the maximum expression of respect, you know.”―Mario Vargas Llosa
‘“With the greatest respect,” I said. Always a nice phrase to use when you intend to speak without any.’―Charlie Fox
“Zoë Sharp is one of the sharpest, coolest, and most intriguing writers I know. She delivers dramatic, action-packed novels with characters we really care about. And once again, in DIE EASY, Zoë Sharp is at the top of her game.”—New York Times best-seller, Harlan Coben
Ed Kaufman, the elfin, indefatigable owner of M is for Mystery (and More …) Bookstore, passed away on December 20th from complications resulting from kidney disease.
He was known by many of us in the writing biz—and cherished. You arrived in his store and felt like royalty. He not only actually read your books, he generously and knowledgeably expressed his enjoyment of them. He knew what you were up to and respected it. His encouragement crackled in his voice and in his eyes.
Ed Kaufman spoiled me. After my first acquaintance with him, I suspected—or more appropriately, I suppose, hoped—that his level of intelligence, energy, and personal fondness might propel me along like the current of a river throughout my career. If only. Men like Ed are rare. Which is why his passing hits so hard.
More than once he came at me like a buzzsaw: “Where’s the next book?!” For a slowboat writer like me, it was half pat on the back, half kick in the pants. But I knew he was saying it because he genuinely believed my books were worth reading, not just putting on the shelf.
He also offered me the chance to introduce and interview writers like Michael Connelly and Richard Price, two men I very much admire.
He was the quirky uncle with a steel-trap mind and the metabolism of a dervish. His smile engulfed you, and his handshake was always warm and strong. I’m sure he could be prickly and impossible and self-absorbed at times—like I’m one to talk—and his employees were no doubt more long-suffering than we might imagine. His manager, Pam Stirling, remains one of the people in the book business whose warmth and appreciation remain among my fondest memories as a writer, and the other members of his staff, Jen and Ann and Warn and Charlotte, were always so welcoming and kind.
He closed the bookstore in December, 2011, and it felt like someone had dropped a nuclear bomb in the business. You can imagine what his death feels like.
There were two lovely obits online, one in the San Francisco Chronicle, the other in the The Daily Journal, and they flesh out his prior years—his growing up in Ohio, his service in the military as a plainclothes Counter Intelligence Corps officer, the chance to serve as clerk to US Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart that Ed turned down because he needed to make more money for his family, his longtime work as a lawyer in Los Angeles, his passion for art and opera—and his marriage to Jeannie, whom most of us got to know as well: She was the lovely, witty, wise-cracking counterpoint to Ed’s almost boyish enthusiasms.
In 2012 the Mystery Writers of America bestowed on Ed the Raven Award for outstanding achievement in the mystery field outside the realm of creative writing. But awards only say so much. Here are some words from other writers to give you an idea of what he meant to us all:
I am so very sad. I loved Ed, loved his drive, his manners, his charm and energy. He built a great business and you could see he just loved it when an author grew almost right in front of him. I was so nervous on my first visit there, with my first book, that I almost passed out. And a few years later, after a packed event during which I signed about 85 books, he put a few hundred more books in front of me to sign and date — and I almost passed out again, this time with shock! But it was always nothing but a pleasure to do anything for him, because he was a wonderful supporter of authors and of the mystery. That sparkle of passion was always there, even if he seemed weary the last time I saw him.—Jacqueline Winspear
Here’s my favorite Ed story: I was once in M is for Mystery talking to Ed and I saw a copy of The Kite Runner on the front table. I looked at him and said, “Really Ed? The Kite Runner in a mystery store?” And he kind of grumbled and said, “There’s a kidnapping in it. Besides, as far as I’m concerned, if someone in the story gets a parking ticket, it’s a crime novel.” —Mark Haskell Smith
What a champion he was of first-time authors, and how loyal. I remember how supportive he was so early on and how it never wavered. Then, as recently as August, he called me at home out of the blue to congratulate me on a review. Whenever I saw him we talked about his love of opera. When he spoke of it, his face just lit up from within.—Megan Abbott
I always looked forward to visiting Ed Kaufman. He was a kind, enthusiastic, cultured man, with a love not only for the contents of books but for the artifact of the book itself. A generation of great booksellers is passing, and we will not see their likes again. —John Connolly
Ed Kaufman was a gentleman of the old school, unfailing in his support of authors at all stages of their careers. I treasure the memories of events I was honoured to participate in at M is For Mystery. He made me feel so welcome, and did so much to help bring my work to American readers. I shall always remember him with gratitude and great joy. —Zoë Sharp
I met Ed when I was in law school in the bay area, well before I ever realized my books would be among those in his store. He was my friend, and I will miss his big hugs and sweet laughs.—Alafair Burke
I had the tremendous honor of presenting a Raven Award to Ed in 2012. I have always thought of him as “The Mensch of Mystery,” and it was awfully nice to be able to honor him in return for his having hosted my very first signing at M is for Mystery. What a lovely, lovely man.—Cornelia Read
Ed was my hometown bookseller and a broke-the-mold guy. One of my highlights every year on tour was seeing him at the store. Because I’m from the Bay Area, he got to know my family and friends over the years and always remembered them and had a good word — and a book recommendation or two — for them. I miss him. —Gregg Hurwitz
Ed was such a gentleman, but always with that little twinkle in his eyes. He made me feel welcome, and special, and I’m sure he did the same for readers as well as authors. Most of all, you could feel his passion for books.—Deborah Crombie
I thought Ed treated me as a friend because he was an ex-New Yorker and a reader of The Wall Street Journal. Then I learned he treated everyone with warmth and friendship. He was a sweet man who was a joy to visit and a tireless advocate for authors whose work he admired. I miss him and am so glad we met.—Jim Fusilli
Ed was a leprechaun of a bookseller; kind and mischievous, delighted by literary finds both bound and unbound (in the form of the visiting authors), he regarded books and writers as gold to be treasured, promoted and championed. Ed and the staff at M is for Mystery—Pam Stirling, the manager, Ann, Charlotte, Jen—were like a family to me. I’ll miss him—and the wonderful Xanadu they built together–forever. —Kelli Stanley
Ed was a superb lawyer, an extraordinary bookseller, a wise counselor and a supportive friend. He will be greatly missed.—Sheldon Siegel
When I interviewed Ed K last year to write something up for the Edgar Awards program – he was awarded the prestigious and well-deserved Raven – I met him for coffee which turned into Ed taking me to lunch, yes that was Ed, but in all the years I knew him I realized I didn’t know where his love of books came from. So I asked him. ‘Years ago when I was a young lawyer I travelled all the time. Always on the road, my family at home. But I discovered bookstores. From then on I was never without a book under my arm – airports, waiting rooms, hotels, conference breaks in law offices. A book was always my companion. Then as now you won’t find me without a book under my arm.’ That’s how I always remember Ed, holding a book. —Cara Black
When my first book came out I got a phone call from Ed, inviting me to sign at his store. I was new and completely unknown and felt so honored that he’d asked me. Never mind that only a couple of people showed up. Ed has been a dear friend ever since and even ordered me to bring my Celtic harp to play once. If you know how shy I am about playing instruments in public you’ll know in what high regard I held him. His passing has left a hole in my heart.—Rhys Bowen
Ed made new writers feel incredibly valued, cherished. I’ll always cherish him for that!—Pari Noskin Taichert
When my first book came out, Ed read my industry reviews and then took the initiative to contact my publisher and request to host my book launch (shown here).
I remember how he toured me, my husband, and our pug around his shop. My stage fright soon melted away in the warmth of Ed’s welcome. He made this first book event so special for me. He even taught me how to sign my books. Such a mensch! Ed loved literature and was a true champion of authors. He had a keen intellect and a big heart. I’m sure that everyone who knew Ed was all the better for it — and Ed knew a lot of people! —Cynthia Robinson
What I remember most is Ed’s infectious passion for mystery writers and anyone who shared his passion. Ed made me feel like I’d finally found my clan. I think that’s why the local chapter of MWA always held their Christmas party there. Being in that store and standing among those bookshelves, seeing your name on the spines of some of the books and listening to Ed’s stories, that was as big a thrill as getting published for the first time. He made a small bookstore in a small town a destination, because Ed was the destination.
Ed was also a great connector. He called me several times, sometimes at the last minute, to guest-host a number of author events, either at the store or occasionally at the local library. Usually they were authors I knew, but sometimes he just had an instinct an event would work if he threw certain authors together, and he was always right. I made some great friends at those events because Ed had a matchmaker’s eye for people with shared passions. He was a great soul, and whatever bookshelf he gets in heaven, I hope it stretches as far as his reach did on Earth. He’s the kind of guy we should all write stories about. —Tim Maleeny
As a final note: I posted the following on my website in 2007 when the publication of my third novel coincided with Ed’s birthday:
I and a number of other northern California mystery writers—including Rhys Bowen, Ann Parker, Camille Minichino, Nadia Gordon, Tony Broadbent, Tim Maleeny, Kirk Russell, and Dylan Schaffer—threw a surprise birthday party on Friday evening, March 23rd, for Ed Kaufman, the owner of M is for Mystery in San Mateo, one of the premier crime and mystery bookstores in the country.
The evening was billed as a reading for my new novel, Blood of Paradise, but when Ed and I booked the date, he let it slip that it was his birthday, and the scheming began.
Ed’s wife Jeannie, store manager Pam Stirling, and the rest of the M is for Mystery staff were in on the caper, and even though Ann and Camille, with all the best intentions in the world, almost blew the surprise by walking in a bit early with balloons, Ed didn’t catch on until the cake appeared. (Though he did, in introducing me, express a little surprise that so many folks had turned out for my event—hmm.) Cara Black and Steve Hockensmith, unable to attend because of other obligations, nonetheless sent congratulations from afar, and a grand time was had by all (even Tilly and Morgan, the canine celebrants). The inscription on the cake read, “M is for Mensch,” and truer words were never written—certainly not with icing. Many happy returns, Ed!
As it turned out, there were only five more happy returns. Far too few.
You’re missed, Mr. K. More than even a bunch of writers can say.
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If you have any words or a recollection of Ed you’d like to share, please feel free.
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Jukebox Hero of the Week: In honor of Ed’s abiding love of opera, here’s Angela Gheorghiu in a live performance of Puccini’s “Vissi d’arte,” from Tosca. (Yes, it’s a crime story—she sings this aria right before murdering the villain, Scarpia):
Bonus Track: Ed’s wife, Jeannie, when we emailed back and forth about possible arias, said, “just about any aria from Puccini’s ‘La Boheme’ — such as ‘Che gelida la manina’ (“…how cold is your little hand…” he flirts) and Pavarotti never disappoints. And neither does Puccini.”
When I told her I was thinking of Puccini’s “Vissi d’arte,” she responded, “Oh, Vissi d’arte even better! Of course — I lived for art, etc. etc. How silly of me not to think of that! (though Ed loved the schmaltz of the Boheme youthful flirtation).”
So, in honor of Ed’s love of schmaltzy youthful flirtation — as well as crime:
Sarah Pinborough is, i think, one of the brightest stars in the British crime and horror writing firmaments. In the last few years she has come to prominence in the predominantly male arena of horror fiction. Not content with that, she moved over to crime fiction. She’s also written YA novels, fairy stories, historical fiction and for film and TV. If you’re on Twitter or Facebook you’ve probably come across her, likewise if you frequent the bars of West London. She is, for my money, one of the most exciting voices in fiction at the moment. Here’s Sarah!
Me: You came to crime fiction with The God Faced Dogs trilogy after a very successful career as a horror novelist. Did you notice much of a difference, either from inside (the community) or outside (how you were perceived)?
Sarah: It was a big change for me on many levels, not just the shift in genre. My first six books were straight horror novels, but they were mass-market paperbacks in the USA and never published in the UK, so when I signed the trilogy deal with Gollancz it was my first UK deal, and was a much bigger deal than I’d had before. And although I wouldn’t have got that deal without the first books (I was up for a best novel British Fantasy award for The Taken and that led to meetings and pitching to Jo Fletcher at Gollancz) I still consider signing that deal as the start of my career ‘proper’ as it were. Because of that it’s hard to judge a change in perception from people. To my American readership they probably thought I’d dropped off the side of a cliff rather than taken a step up! I’m very pleased that Ace (Penguin) in the USA have picked up the trilogy so I’ll be published there again.
Me: The God Faced Dogs trilogy overlapped the two genres. We’re always constantly told not to do that but you got away with it and quite spectacularly. How did you manage that?
Sarah: Although people say it straddles crime and horror, I consider it more of a crime/Sci-Fi cross really, although the first book of the three probably seems more dark urban fantasy (How many genres can I try and fill??;-)) so I can see how it gets the horror tag.
Before starting it, I had reached a stage where I was bored and restless writing straight horror, and I did – what was on reflection quite a stupid thing – and quit my job to concentrate on writing a story that challenged me. I realised that I read far more crime and thriller novels than horror and had been thinking of trying my hand at something more mainstream for a while. I’d read Michael Marshall’s The Intruders and while talking to him – probably in a bar – he mentioned John Connolly’s Charlie Parker books to me. I hunted them down and was blown away by Every Dead Thing. I loved the richness of the writing and storytelling and realised that if he and Michael Marshall were writing thrillers with a touch of weird in them, then there was a market for it, other than just in my own head. Thankfully, I sold the trilogy before I’d written it and therefore didn’t end up living in a gutter after packing in teaching.
Sarah with John Connolly. She has nothing but respect for him.
Sarah with Michael Marshall. She has nothing but respect for him too, obviously.
I can see why crossing genres isn’t encouraged from a professional point of view though – I’ve found the three books of the trilogy in three different sections of one Waterstones once. Quite frustrating. But, you know how it is, you have to write the stories that come to you, and the more I settle into my career, the more I’ve come to realise that the ideas I have tend to straddle genres. I seem incapable of shaking off the weird.
Me: I genuinely have trouble keeping up with you. You’re probably the most hard working and prolific author around. Yet you still have time for a full social media presence. How do you do it all?
Sarah: Ha! I hear this about me quite a lot, although I’m not sure how true it is. I’m sure there are a lot of writers out there more prolific than me. If I’m honest, I would like to have more time on each project – but I’m also very aware that the market is tough for writers at the moment, and the sentence that rings in my head is always, ‘Getting published isn’t the difficult bit – staying published is.’ If you’re a mid-lister and not riding the top tens frequently then you just can’t relax. Not that relaxing comes that easily to me anyway, and even when I sort some free time out for myself, I inevitably end up working. I’m terrified of running out of time. It’s the same for all writers. Too many stories itching in our heads.
Plus, I can spend money like water so I have to work hard! As for the social media presence, I live alone and work alone, so I have more time for Twitter and Facebook, and on days when I’m not out and about, especially before I moved to London, they were easy social interaction for the day. BUT, they can be a time suck. I have Freedom on my Macbook that cuts me off from the Internet for set periods of time when I need to get some words down without distractions.
Me: You recently wrote an episode of TV cop show New Tricks as well as acting in and directing a couple of short films. (You see what I mean about prolific?) Any more TV and/or film work coming up?
Sarah: I didn’t direct the short films, that was my friend Abigail Blackmore (@snaxhanso), and the ‘acting’ as you very kindly call it, was all improvisation on the spot and under the influence of wine so didn’t require any effort from me, but were fun to do.
Here’s a still from the film, She’s Behind You. Don’t take it too seriously.
As for TV and Film – I’ve got another draft of my horror film ‘Cracked’ to do this month with the director Peter Medak (The Changeling, The Krays, The Ruling Class, Breaking Bad and many more) which is slated to go into production at the end of this year, but we all know how these things can fall apart! I’ve got another film, ‘Red Summer’ under option, and I’ve got a 3-parter TV Crime pitch ‘Fallow Ground’ optioned by World Productions that’s doing the rounds, and a couple of other pitches to put together when I’ve got some time. But TV
Me: You see what I mean about prolific? How did you get into writing? Because it wasn’t what you’ve always done . . .
Sarah: I’ve done a lot of different things over the years, but I’d always written, right from a very young age – I wrote plays for school and 40 pages of a (terrible) novel when I was about fourteen, but I didn’t seriously think about writing professionally until I was about thirty. I wrote some short stories in my late-twenties that friends etc seemed to like and then one day, when I was about 29, I found three pages of an opening I’d written a year or so before, and suddenly I saw where it could go. It became my first novel, ‘The Hidden’ (which Cracked is based on). I’d been to America when writing it and bought some Leisure horror novels at the airport to read on the plane home and when I’d finished it, I sent it to them and they bought it. I was doing my teacher training at the time and my first 6 novels were published during my teaching career – one out every nine months. Although they had great distribution the money was terrible, and it was only when I was asked to write a Torchwood book (I ended up doing two) that I had a little pocket of cash and could quit my job and concentrate.
Me: Mayhem is your next book, and another departure for you. What can you tell us about that?
Sarah: I’m quite excited about Mayhem although it’s probably the book I’m most insecure about as it was such a challenge. Again it crosses genres, as it’s historical crime, but there is a touch of weird thrown in. I’d read Dan Simmons The Terror and loved the way he’d used real historical events and built a fictional story around them, and it inspired me to try it. I’ve used the Thames Torso murders which were occurring at the same time as (and beyond) the Jack the Ripper killings, and like the Ripper cases, were never solved. My central character is Dr Thomas Bond who worked on both cases, and a lot of my main characters are real people, and although I’ve had to take liberties with personal lives for the sake of the story, I’ve stuck to the factual events for my framework. It’s a really rich period of time for crime and all these people had such interesting or damaged lives (Bond killed himself in the end) that there is a lot to play with.
It was also real challenge because normally in a thriller or crime novel your main concerns are your plotting and making it as tight as possible – with this I had all the historical stuff to worry about as well. It’s also structured quite differently to my normal books – it goes backward and forward, and has both first person and third person narratives. I’m really pleased with it, and I hope people like it. Plus, they’ve given me an awesome cover!
I’m about to start work on the follow-up, Murder.
Me: Branching out yet again, what’s this I hear about you and fairy stories?
Sarah: The fairy tales have been a really interesting project and one that I’ve enjoyed far more than I expected to. Gollancz came to me and asked if I’d be interested in doing three short novels re-working traditional stories, and being me and never liking to say no, I said yes. I was a bit flummoxed how I was going to do it at first, and then I had that moment of revelation and the whole thing slotted into place in my head. Poison, Charm and Beauty are all out next year – I’m just finishing the last one now – and although fairy tales seem to be everywhere at the moment, I really don’t think – touch wood – anyone’s done them quite like I have. They’re quite twisted and dark in places, but they’re also sexy and fun – which was a departure for me!
I’ve also written them so that although they are all interlinked, you can start with any one of them and the rest of the story won’t be ruined. I guess it’s a circular story – you’ll just have a different perspective of the characters depending on which one you start with. They’re not female exclusive, but it is the first writing I’ve done with a female audience in mind and that’s been good for me.
Me: And YA books too?
Sarah: The YA are on hold at the moment, although The Death House, which I’ll be writing for Gollancz, starting after Murder (I’m confusing myself!) I’m hoping will cross over between a teen and adult market. It’s a book that needs to be handled sensitively though and I may go away and hole up somewhere to write it. You can see what it’s about here.
Me: It could be said, uncharitably, that for a horror writer you’re woefully uneducated in classic horror films. What can be done about that, do you think?
Sarah: Ha ha ha! I need more horror movie nights with friends! Although ever since I said I found The Wicker Man (the original) comical, I think I’ve been disowned by the whole horror community.
(In the interests of full disclosure, I should say we now get together for film nights with Sarah raiding my collection of old Hammer DVDs.)
Me: And finally . . . the future. In a year’s time where do you think you’ll be and what will you be working on?
Sarah: Gosh, well like all of us, I would like to still be working and climbing the ladder, but who knows? My book future is pretty much planned out for the next couple of years (I’ve got 5 books out this year and I owe four more full-length novels which I want to give some time to) and a lot depends on how the TV and film stuff goes. TV is very demanding time-wise and also very collaborative so you can’t just jet off anywhere because there are A LOT of meetings. I’m tempted to spend a few months in LA as I have friends there, but if I’m honest, by this time next year I’d like to have met a man to fall in love with and maybe even..*shuddersslightly* settle down. I have to give it a go some day. I put far too much focus on my work and not enough on my life. Oh, and I’d like to have a cat.
Thank you so much for taking the time to do that, Sarah. You can get back on to Twitter now.
And if you’ve never read her books – what are you waiting for? She’s brilliant. That’s OK, thank me later.
