Last week there was some publishing news so big that I’ve been wondering ever since why we haven’t been talking about it here. But it’s like that classic left-wing admonition: “I looked around me at what was happening and wondered why somebody wasn’t DOING anything about it… and then I realized I WAS somebody.”
Oh, that’s right.
So, unqualified as I am to write this post, today I’m posting about it. I’m going to keep it short and mostly link to more qualified sources so that you all can use your Murderati time today to catch up, if you haven’t been following along. The news, of course, is that the Department of Justice has filed an antitrust lawsuit against Apple and five of the Big Six publishers, alleging collusion in e-book prices and sales models.
If you haven’t read about it, do that first, here.
So what does this mean for us as authors, exactly?
I have no idea.
I can’t imagine it’s going to be good for advances for traditional book contracts, which have been dropping steadily over the last few years even before this. Damages are being claimed for consumers of e books and not for the authors who have suffered from publishers fixing prices far too high for e books, so there’s no restitution coming there.
What I do know is that it’s going to mean SOMETHING.
Joe Konrath tends to be right about these kinds of things, so I’d highly recommend reading this blog of his and subsequent ones as this case progresses. And April Hamilton has summed up quite a few of the arguments going on in the publishing world over all this.
What I DON’T recommend is ignoring it as if it’s some esoteric business thing that has nothing to do with you.
Writing a book is so hard all on its own that it’s very distracting and anxiety-provoking to have to speculate on how something like this lawsuit may affect your own ability to make a living. I know.
When I was a screenwriter, the life was so 24/7 crazy that I adopted the head-in-the-sand attitude of most screenwriters: “Oh, I don’t have time to keep up with union issues, I am Too Busy with Very Important Writing.”
That is, until an assault by some highly-paid screenwriters on the WGA credits rules so floored and angered me that I got politically involved, so involved that I ended up running for and winning a seat on the WGA Board of Directors.
Now, that wasn’t the brightest career move I could have made, because in truth NO ONE has the time to write and serve on a union Board of Directors at the same time. But being on the board did put the reality of the business changes that were going on in the film industry right in my face. Unignorable.
And what I realized was – I’ve got to get out of this. It’s not sustainable. If the film business model is going to keep changing in this direction, I personally won’t be able to make a living as a screenwriter in five or six years. Which were remarkably coherent thoughts for such a right-brained person as I am, actually. Absolutely not anything I wanted to think about, much less have to act on, but I knew I couldn’t not act.
And I started putting my eggs in other baskets and writing novels while I watched things steadily get worse for screenwriters.
Now I’m making a comfortable living as an author, while a lot of my screenwriter friends have lost their houses and/or haven’t had a film job in years.
I’m not trying to sound dire, especially when I’m being so vague about what all this will mean for us. And of course the news that the publishing industry is undergoing a massive sea change is no news at all for anyone who’s been paying any attention over the last few years. But I do find some authors’ reactions to all of this perplexing, and the idea of silence on the issue alarming. I may not be an expert, but I know this is not a good time to stick my head in the sand.
So I urge you to click through some links, do your own Googling, and be informed. It IS our business.
A while ago on Murderati I started a research ‘series’ and I was going to blog once a month about some of the weird and wonderful stuff I’ve uncovered in the name of research. I started off with blogs on real-life vampires (Research with bite), cults (Part 1 and Part 2), kung fu (Everybody was Kung Fu fighting) and being a hitman (The life of a hitman).
And then it seems I totally forgot about my research ‘series’. Guess I dropped the ball, huh? Having said that, there are probably only a few more seriously interesting research facts I’d blog about. Today, I’m going to look at handwriting.
Handwriting was something I researched for my first crime novel, Body Count and like most of the things I research, I found it fascinating.
Many criminals communicate with the police or press during the time they’re criminally active. For example, serial killers such as the Zodiac killer in San Francisco made phone calls and frequently wrote to the local newspapers, the BTK killer in Wichita wrote letters to the media and left written communications at some of his victim’s homes. His last known letter was left in an intended victim’s house. It simply told the woman that he got tired of waiting for her in the closet. Lucky for her he wasn’t feeling patient that day.
Written communication is also a key in other serials cases (e.g. Unabomber) and of course in kidnapping cases — the ransom note. Some of the most famous ransom notes include those from the Lindbergh case and JonBenet Ramsey case. Often, much attention is given to whether the ransom notes are forgeries used to mask a murder. This was determined as the situation in the more recent case of Zahra Baker.
There are loads of things that forensic examiners look at when it comes to documents, such as restoring erased or obliterated writing; analysing inks and papers; linguistic analysis; and analysing handwriting for the author’s state of mind. It should be noted, that forensic document examination is different to the handwriting analysis known as graphology. Graphology looks at handwriting in terms of psychology (what a person’s handwriting can tell us about their personality), but its scientific merit is almost zilch in the forensic and psychology communities.
In addition to examining the paper (brand and type, any imprints, watermarks, thickness, opacity, etc.) they also look at the ink used and can often narrow it down to a specific brand and colour of pen. This may or may not be useful!
Forensic linguistics studies language and its use. Linguists will consider regionalisms and can often tell that a person was raised or currently lives in a particular area of a country and it also looks at individual patterns of language, such as favourite words and phrases. This can be useful once a suspect is identified, or if the communications are made public and someone recognises the style of language.
One of my favourite research discoveries was “lifts”. When you’re writing something by hand, you naturally pause and lift the pen off the page — even if only for a millisecond. These are visible under close examination and called lifts. But what’s interesting is that generally an unusually high number of lifts indicates that the person is lying, under stress or that their thoughts are scattered. Conversely, if a note has virtually no lifts it indicates the note has probably been rehearsed. In the case of a ransom note, often these are written out several times (rehearsed) by the kidnappers and so by the time they get to the final note that they actually send, it’s simply writing out the previous draft.
Stress can also be seen in what document examiners call “line quality”, how smooth the pen passes across the paper. Angle of contact, tremor and jaggedness all increase if the writer is stressed, excited, nervous or frightened. So this is another thing that document examiners consider when looking at notes or any type of handwriting. And although it is used to judge someone’s state of mind, it’s still very different to graphology.
So, I know most of us use computers these days, but check out some of your most recent handwriting. Notice anything interesting?
As Stephen mentioned yesterday, those of us lucky enough to attend had a great time at the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books this past weekend. A two-day (or three-day, counting the Times’ Book Awards dinner Friday night) celebration of books and the people who write them — what’s not to love about that?
But this year, my appreciation of the Festival was even greater than it has been of late for one simple reason: I got a new coffee cup out of the deal. Here it is:
See, unlike my experiences over the last several years, I attended LATFOB this year as an invited guest, and the cup was included in my swag bag.
Not only did I have a seat on the “California Noir” panel Sunday afternoon along with a great group of authors, Kelli Stanley among them, I also served as a presenter at the aforementioned Los Angeles Times Book Awards dinner two nights before.
(Stephen King won the award in my category of Mystery/Thriller for his epic novel 11/22/63, but alas, he wasn’t there to accept it from me in person.)
This last was a great thrill, and quite an honor, and it afforded me the opportunity to meet some people — authors, editors, journalists — I might never have met otherwise. But just being asked to sit on a panel during the Festival itself is a gift from the gods, and I got quite a kick out of it.
Because I know I might be right back on the outside looking in next year, and the view from those seats suck.
Groucho Marx once said, in so many words, “I wouldn’t want to belong to any club that would have me as a member,” but I couldn’t disagree more with such a cynical statement. When The Los Angeles Times chooses to ask you, Joe Author, to its party, that may not be a sign you’ve arrived, but it’s a sure-fire indication that you haven’t completely disappeared. And disappearing — vanishing from the collective consciousness of readers and editors, agents and bloggers — is every writer’s greatest fear.
Long before you become rich and famous, before you can pay your damn rent as an author, you have to be a known quantity to potential readers, and that can only happen if you’re part of what I call “the Conversation.”
You don’t think my stuff is the product of genius? No problem, as long as you know my name and my work, and find me deserving of a line or two in any discussion you have on the subject of crime fiction. The Conversation is where the magic of word-of-mouth begins. You have to be in the game to win it, and you can’t get in the game if nobody knows who the hell you are.
So visibility is an author’s best friend, and the higher your visibility, the better.
Being visible to those who attend the Festival isn’t the only benefit of being part of the LATFOB program, however. There’s also the boost it gives to the ever fragile author’s ego. Validation comes in many forms — I’ll blog on that subject at length at some future date — and having the Times acknowledge your significance on the literary scene by offering you a role to play at its book festival is one of the more gratifying ones. It’s proof you haven’t been writing in a vacuum. People really have been reading you and finding your work worthy of mention. You may not be able to buy a cup of coffee with such validation, but it feels damn good, all the same.
And when the invite from the Times doesn’t come? You feel like a loser. Like that chubby kid who failed to get picked on a team down at the corner playground, even though he could knock the cover off the ball if given a chance. Intellectually, you understand that no author can be asked to participate every year; there are just too few slots for too many worthy writers for someone to get one in perpetuity. And yet you take the snub personally, as a sad commentary on how far you’ve come in your career and how far you have yet to go.
Silly.
Anyway, back to that new LATFOB coffee cup of mine. It sure beats the hell out of my old one, which I received the last time I made the festival cut back in 2006:
And if you think that one looks bad, take a look at the one I got three years before that, when I was first invited to participate in all the LATFOB fun:
I know — the design’s hard to see. These things fade over time.
There’s nothing quite like the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books. It’s a two-day extravaganza that was for many years held at UCLA, but has now found its home at USC.
The Festival consists of hundreds of small and large press publishers as well as booths for popular book stores, newspapers, comic book publishers and just about everything else related to books. There are stages for poetry reading, performance art, musical acts and children’s story-telling. Dozens of lecture halls hold author panels that run dawn to dusk.
Thousands of authors appear at tables to sign copies of their books. Every genre is represented. It’s a huge celebration of the written word.
In years past I’ve had the opportunity to rub shoulders with the likes of James Ellroy, Walter Mosley, Michael Connelly, TC Boyle, Buzz Aldrin, Barbara Eden and Bernadette Peters, among others. A couple years ago Bono poked his head into the Mysterious Galaxy tent and stared me right in the eye. We smiled at each other and he walked away. I’m still kicking myself for not stuffing a copy of Boulevard into his hands.
This year the celebrity guests ran the gamut: John Cusack, Julie Andrews, Rodney King, Betty White, Marilu Henner, Ricki Lake, Sugar Ray Leonard, Anne Rice, Molly Shannon and Tori Spelling.
This is my third year at the Festival and each year I’ve been blessed to be on a panel. Last year I sat with Miles Corwin and Marcia Clark, and this year my panel included April Smith, Ned Vizzini, Jerry Stahl and John Sacret Young. Our panel was actually featured in Sunday’s issue of the L.A. Times.
Everybody’s experience of the Festival is different. There are just too many cool panels, parties and events for anyone’s experience to be the same. Between my panel and the booth signings I did I was only able to attend two other panels. My wife and son split off to see their favorite YA authors while I caught Gar Anthony Haywood and Kelli Stanley at a crime panel.
(YA panel)
(Crime panel with our Murderati member Gar Anthony Haywood and Kelli Stanley)
Saturday evening featured an author bash at the Los Angeles Central Library, a beautiful Art Deco backdrop for the literati crowd.
I caught dinner before the event with authors Lee Goldberg, Boyd Morrison, Lissa Price and Barry Eisler. It was the best “panel” on non-traditional publishing I’ve ever attended.
My son Noah has become quite the event photographer and I let him go hog-wild documenting the event. Noah might not have had such an interest in photography if it hadn’t been for the encouragement of one beautiful woman who no longer walks among us.
Publicist Diana James, the late wife of author Darrell James, gave Noah his first paying job as a photographer, hiring him to take photos of authors at last year’s Festival of Books. She gave him a wonderful letter telling him to follow his dreams and continue taking pictures, something we’ve framed along with a copy of that first check. Her kindness had an impact on our lives.
The following are images of the Festival from an eleven-year old’s point of view. It’s not everyone’s experience at the L.A. Times Festival of Books, but it was ours…
(Denise Hamilton and Cara Black)
(Tough Guy Gary Phillips)
(YA author Maggie Stiefvater)
(Ned Vizzini and his wife at the library party)
(Naomi Hirahara)
(Jerry Stahl)
(Lissa Price, YA author of Starters hanging out with my lovely wife)
Although sleep has been elusive for a few weeks because of work worries, I often think about dreams past and what they can still yield in the weedy garden of my current imagination. The extraordinary and wonderful disjointedness of dreams is especially fascinating because, in the moment of dreaming, all dreams make sense. They merely defy waking analysis.
I’ve opened my eyes many a morning grasping for the colorful threads of logic, the strands of story that felt so incredibly right just seconds before, but that seem to vanish at the touch of my mental fingertips.
And yet . . . I know that dreams have logical counterparts in the world of storytelling.
Years ago, when I was in my last semester of college, I took a history colloquium on jungles. Like a dream itself, there was no waking logic to my finding this course. I stumbled into it, thinking I was in another class. However, that first day after listening to the professor speak about the mystery of jungles, I decided to stay — to take my intellectual canoe down that dark, muddy river to see what I might discover.
I adored the class! For my term paper, I read Amazonian Indian mythology. The stories intrigued me so much that I taught myself enough Portuguese so that I could read original source accounts. I read Levi Strauss in French. I scoured the University of Michigan’s substantial library collections for everything I could find.
On the face of it, these stories were very odd. Animals transformed into other creatures, plants into animals, people into unrelated animals . . . Few things remained totally whole or the same. The stories were tremendously dreamlike in this way, constantly fusing aspects that didn’t belong together into a new creation. But somehow — within that world — they made sense.
I theorized that this constant transformation was born of the jungle itself: something dies and — due to heat, moisture and localized fertilization — another thing grows right out of it. In essence, everything dead is rapidly becoming something else; it’s visible and visceral . . . the Yin-Yang principle on LSD.
Why did I bring up dreams and jungles today?
When I started my blog yesterday, my topic was the fragility of creativity. I’d intended to float a couple of familiar memes about nurturing creativity, practicing it . . . yadda yadda yadda. But once my fingers hit the keyboard, this blog about dreams and jungle mythology sprang out of the carcass of predictable intent.
Perhaps the point, if there is one, might be that dreams — like jungles — allow seemingly unrelated topics to merge and, when we least expect it, creativity works in the same way.
Today’s question: What subject or project have you accidentally studied or undertaken that yielded marvelously unexpected results?
It’s interesting how quickly one goes from “Hey, everything’s great” to “AAAAHHHH! I’m spiraling out of control!!!”
And then, after a bit of trauma, one bounces back.
That’s kinda how my last year has been. I left my day job to take a screenwriting assignment and write novel number three. I rolled the dice on the notion that I could support a family of four on my writing income alone. I hedged the bet by cashing out my 401k. Things looked so good that I took that trip to Ireland with the wife and kids, all the while thinking there’d be opportunities to come. There was another screenwriting assignment or two in the wings. And that TV option for my novels would soon become a network sale, really, it was just a matter of time. And I’d finish that third novel and it would be a six figure acquisition. Yep, it was glory days ahead, for sure.
All the while watching the numbers in my bank account dwindle away.
And then, boom, there it was. Last dollar. Rock bottom. Permission to flip out.
Oh my God…did I leave my day job for this? Was I really going to have to dredge up that old resume and start over again? And how would I revise it? I had been the vice president of a national lighting company–that’s the gig I left when I left. I had written both my novels when I had that job. And yet I couldn’t complete my third novel when I had all the time in the world. Maybe I needed the pressure of not having any time, maybe that’s how I worked.
Well, I didn’t have a choice anymore. Writing would have to take a back seat again.
But how would I sell myself? Would I mention that I was a best-selling author? List all the panels I’ve been on, the awards I’ve received, the reviews? What kind of message would that be to my potential employer? “So you left your last job to pursue a career in writing, and now you expect us to believe that your writing is a hobby?”
I would have to face that question when it came, and I hoped I would be ready.
I decided to de-emphasize my creative side. I wrote my new resume as a two-page story of success in the lighting industry, and I included the period of time I spent as a development executive for film director Wolfgang Petersen. That little bit of “creative” content focused on the success of the films I helped develop. It didn’t really relate to my own creative aspirations. I was working for someone else.
At the very bottom of the resume, under “Special Interests,” I noted that I was an L.A. Times bestselling author. I felt I was taking a chance, but I wanted to land at a place where they understood my creative passion. I hoped they would see my creative drive as an asset.
It takes months to land an executive position; even longer during uncertain economic times. My resume went into circulation, but things weren’t happening quickly enough. I had waited too long, stepped too close to the edge. I didn’t have time to wait things out.
Things got desperate and I found myself taking embarrassing interviews at local restaurants and grocery stores, temp agencies, and even a dog grooming salon. As if any of those options would support my family. I invested time and money into getting a taxi driver’s license, thinking it would be the perfect job for a writer. All that time alone in the car, thinking of ideas, mapping character studies of the strangers I met. I saw Travis Bickle in the mirror, pissed off and ready to set the world on fire. I’ve had just about every crap job in the world and I figured I won’t “make it” until I’ve spent some time behind the wheel of a taxi.
I took all the tests, paid my dues, went through drug-testing and background checks (the most trustworthy guys you’ll ever meet are taxi drivers – no drugs or alcohol and they haven’t been convicted of a felony for at least three years) and then, finally, found a car owner to lease me his vehicle for $350 a week.
After two miserable seven-day weeks, ten hours a day, I ended up making a couple hundred dollars (went right into groceries) after paying off the lease (I still owe the car owner $50). I quit immediately, before I could rack up another $350 debt. I would’ve made more money working part-time at Starbucks.
And it’s not like it was exciting. There was no danger involved. I spent all that time taking little old ladies to their eye appointments. My passengers were the perfect cozy demographics. Although I’ll always relish the ride I had with the narcotics dealer whom I picked up at the Torrance Police Station. I milked him for everything I could. I still can’t believe he’d never seen “Breaking Bad.”
Days of panic, disillusion and depression followed. Borrowing money from friends, family, business associates. Taking an early payment on the screenwriting assignment (foregoing the production bonus that would have come if I had waited), eking out a little more time, a rent payment, an insurance payment, groceries, then back to the bottom again.
And all the time spent on my computer–Monster.com, Indeed.com, Careerbuilders.com, Linkedin…and all the lighting industry head-hunters, and the shylocks with their promises, and the scheisters with their schemes, consultants wanting me to pay for their job-hunting services…
I sent out hundreds of resumes. I called execs I knew from different companies, put the word out that I was looking, looking, looking.
Then all at once a few hits. Phone calls that turned into Skype interviews. I had to pull that suit out of storage. I had to buy a tie. And I faced those question about my writing.
“Writing screenplays and novels sounds so glamorous. Why are you coming back to this industry?”
I had dust off an old joke – “Do you know the difference between a writer and a pizza? A pizza feeds a family of four.” Rim-shot. It took the edge off. I’d continue – “I’m fine writing evenings and weekends. I wrote two novels with a full-time job. No problem.”
Skype interviews led to interviews at corporate headquarters in Florida, Arizona, Ohio, New York.
And then, just a month ago, the right one came through. They looked at the whole package, saw the writer and the salesman as one.
They told me I could lose the tie.
“Really?”
“And the suit.”
“What about…the hair?”
“You can keep the hair.”
They made their offer and I accepted.
Sometimes the magic happens. A good job, good pay, good products, good people. They were out there looking for me, and I was out there looking for them.
It’s a tough balance, making a living and struggling as an artist. I’ve spent much of my life living one or the other, hiding one from the other. When I wrote “Inside the Space Station” for the Discovery Channel I had a full-time day job. I couldn’t tell the day job that I was writing for the Discovery Channel and I couldn’t tell the Discovery Channel I had a full-time day job. I had to live two lives. I don’t ever want to live such a lie again.
And, now that I actually have a good job, with health insurance (it’s been over a year), 401k, expense account, car allowance, company credit card…I can’t just up and leave it for another writing gig. Which means I’m going to have to fit all my writing into that small window of after-hours time. It’s not hard to do if I’m writing a spec novel on my own time. But what if I’m offered another screenwriting assignment, with producers expecting my attention and an immediate turn-around? When I was young I would leave whatever job I had for an opportunity like that, and it would’ve been worth it. That was when I could live on $30,000 a year. Those days are gone.
So I have to make prudent decisions now. And I’ll have to pass on opportunities that don’t meet my needs. Thankfully, I’ve earned a little credit. I don’t have to chase things down as much as I did when I was young. I have work that producers can read–my novels and screenplays–and they can decide if they want to work within my time frame, with my restrictions. They’ll have to accept that I have responsibilities to another employer, and that I value the day job at least as much as I value the opportunity to write on assignment.
Because the truth is, the day job saved my ass.
What’s great about the whole thing is that I’m writing again. I had trouble working on the novel when I was looking for a job. It felt like my writing was taking time away from my search for a job. I began to resent it. My writing, my passion, became the thing that was keeping me from finding a way to support my family.
And now that I’m working, I’m writing. The pressure is off. I don’t have to try to anticipate the market; I don’t have to write something commercial enough to pay all my bills. I can write what I want. Which is how I wrote Boulevard. And how I wrote Beat. Which is not how I’ve been writing my third novel, worrying all the time if it’s commercial enough to “launch my career.” But the truth is that most authors don’t support their families with their writing until they’ve published a half-dozen books or more. Often many, many more.
So, I’m looking at a different time-line now. I’m seeing what I managed to accomplish with just two novels. I’m recognizing how far I’ve come.
Accentuating the positive.
I’ve got a lot to be thankful for. Things are good. I might not be Michael Connelly, or Lee Child, or Dennis Lehane, but then again, I’m not Joe Schmo. I’m in the game, I’m on the journey. I’m paying the bills and I’m practicing my art.
I think this is the sound of happiness.
On another note, if you’re coming in for the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books at USC this weekend, I’ll be speaking on a panel with Jerry Stahl, April Smith and Ned Vizzini, moderated by John Sacret Young, on Saturday, April 21, at 10:30 am, in the Andrus Gerontology Center. The panel is called “Page and Screen.” They left my name out of the on-line schedule, but it’s in the printed schedule. I’m also signing Saturday at the Mysterious Galaxy booth at 2:00, the Sisters in Crime booth at 4:00, and on Sunday at the Mystery Ink booth at 11:00, with Gar Anthony Haywood. There will be a ton of talented authors present, so get your books and get ’em signed! Thanks!
… is advice given to every wannabe writer at one time or another.
My advice?
Ignore it.
Let’s face it, everybody else’s knowledge is a hell of a lot more interesting from the outside than from the inside. Sometimes knowing too much about a subject will actively hold you back from letting your imagination take hold and run with it.
David Corbett, for example, worked as a private investigator for many years. While this experience undoubtedly informs and colours his writing, he does not write a series about a PI.
JT Ellison’s bio says: “She was a presidential appointee and worked in The White House and the Department of Commerce before moving into the private sector. As a financial analyst and marketing director, she worked for several defense and aerospace contractors.”
JT writes a series about a Nashville Homicide detective, Lt Taylor Jackson, and medical examiner Dr Samantha Owens, rather than global thrillers with a financial meltdown theme.
Of course, others use their life experiences more directly. PD Martin has a degree in psychology, and studied criminal law and criminology (among other things!). She has written five crime thrillers featuring Aussie FBI profiler, Sophie Anderson.
And Pari Noskin Taichert has worked in PR for many years, as does Sasha Solomon, the heroine of her series.
Alexandra Sokoloff was a dancer, choreographer and singer. But she writes crime suspense novels quite frequently featuring a paranormal theme.
Louise Ure also had a career in advertising and marketing before turning to crime writing. But her standalone novels feature a jury consultant, a blind mechanic, and a roadside assistance operator. How diverse can one be?
Gar Anthony Haywood is also a graphic designer, but writes about retired crime fighting duo Joe and Dottie Loudermilk, PI Aaron Gunner, and standalone thrillers under his own name and as Ray Shannon.
Stephen Jay Schwartz was Director of Development for Wolfgang Petersen developing screenplays for production. A fascinating world of intrigue and glamour, you might think. But he chose to write about LAPD Robbery-Homicide detective Hayden Glass. Although it would seem from Stephen’s blog on research that a lot of what he knows has indeed gone into his character.
For myself, I’ve done a variety of things—including some I’m not allowed to talk about—but for the majority of my life I have been a freelance photojournalist, which has had its share of excitement over the years. And yet the heroine of my crime thriller series, Charlie Fox, is a failed Special Forces trainee turned bodyguard, not an investigative reporter.
Maybe the reason for that is because I know from the inside that my old day-job is not anywhere near as glamorous as people think. Just as I’m sure David would be the first to tell you that PIs do not rush around investigating murders and swapping wisecracks with beautiful mysterious women.
Well, not every day, anyway.
So what makes some writers keep such close ties between their factual and fictional lives, and others keep the two so far apart? And do they rejoice or regret that decision?
And as a reader, are you attracted to a book that happens to revolve around something you’re particularly interested in, or do you steer clear of it, suspecting that the demands of the story may stretch what you know of reality just that bit too far?
This week’s Word of the Week is supercilious, meaning haughty, scornful, arrogant, from the Latin supercilium, eyebrow. Hence a haughty look expressed by a raised eyebrow.
And finally, if anybody is near South Shields next Monday, I will be appearing with fellow crime authors Matt Hilton and Graham Pears at the Central Library Theatre as part of World Book Night — Crime Time. Hope to see you there!
Yes, I know, the vagaries of Wildcard Tuesday have put me up two days running. Forgive me.
I’m giving the keynote address for the Redwood Writers Conference on April 28th, and the theme of the conference is “Taking the Next Step.”
In the spirit of all the changes rocking the marketplace, I originally titled my talk, “Beyond the Book: Writing Opportunities in a Multi-Platform Era.” I thought I’d discuss the need to be narratively nimble these days, with skills that can encompass not just novels and stories but scripts as well—not just for TV and film but computer games—basically revisiting themes I addressed here on Murderati back in December.
But then I looked at some of the seminars on tap for the conference. One is titled “Indie Publishing,” another “Tomorrow’s Publishing,” one addresses “Blogging as a PR Tool,” another “Googling for Promotion,” one deals solely with Facebook and the conference concludes with a panel on ebooks.
What, I asked myself, could I possibly add to this excellent offering of information without being conspicuously redundant? (Quick answer: not much.)
As I was pondering this conundrum—and what else, realistically, does one do with a conundrum?—I glanced at an article in the New York Times Magazine titled “Why Talk Therapy is On the Wane and Writing Workshops Are on the Rise.” It’s by the prolific, brilliant and mercurial Steve Almond, with whom, ironically, I’ll be sharing faculty duties at but another writing conference, this one on the Mendocino Coast, which will be held July 26-28 this summer.
What I particularly loved about Steve’s piece were these two observations:
I recently began leading a workshop composed of students in their 50s and 60s. All have children and busy careers. And I sometimes wonder, as I look around the room, what at this late stage they’ve chosen to write at all. I fear that perhaps I’m giving them false hope. But it’s hard for me to remain cynical when I think about their motives. What they’re seeking is exactly what I wanted: the refuge of stories, which remain the most reliable paths to meaning ever devised by our species….They are hoping to find, by means of literary art, braver and more forgiving versions of themselves.
And as for why the Web doesn’t supply a means of gratifying our need for self-expression:
But the Internet, while it might excite the desire for creative self-expression and sudden acclaim, does little to slake our deeper yearnings. What we want in our heart of hearts is not distraction but just the opposite, the chance to experience what Saul Bellow called “the arrest of attention in the midst of distraction.” We want to be heard and acknowledged. It’s the difference between someone “liking” our Facebook update versus agreeing to listen to our story, the whole bloody thing, even and when it runs up against the bruising revelations.
I’ve just completed a manuscript titled The Art of Character that Penguin will be publishing in January 2013. In it I maintain that the only way to a deeper understanding of your characters is through an exacting and unsparing examination of yourself.
And though in my workshops I almost always focus on craft, and find my students in particular crave and benefit most from discussions of structure, there always remains an element of the personal in the stories they want to tell. Their protagonists invariably share many features with the person telling the tale.
I think there’s a common purpose in our heroes and ourselves. I think the heroic journey is one in which a braver, more loving—and I would add, wiser—life is the true underlying desire. And by writing as truthfully and as deeply as we can, we share in that journey.
I think Almond’s insight that “We want to be heard and acknowledged” is based in the simple need to be loved, which is to be seen for who we are, not who we’re expected to be.
Many of us are obliged to reach outside our families for that love, that chance to be seen more honestly, more openly, more acceptingly. There’s no guarantee that will ever happen.
But in the lonely work of writing we make an attempt to fashion ourselves into a truer version of who we are, combining who by necessity and habit we’ve been with who by effort and insight we hope to become. We learn to balance the generous with the judgmental. And hopefully, by sharing our work with others and reading theirs in turn, we earn our right to be seen by looking on others more fairly and thoughtfully.
Writing allows us to rise a little more in spirit, by combining acceptance with ambition. We cannot deny who we are, wounds and warts and wants and all, but we can’t deny the better self we strive to be either. In crafting our heroes, we implicitly recognize the need to be a little more than we’ve allowed ourselves to be, recognize that the fault lies within, as does the remedy.
When my wife, Terri, died, I was assaulted with well-meaning advice on how to deal with the loss, a lot of which was largely beside the point. But I saw in those attempts to be kind and caring a message I did indeed need to hear: I couldn’t live with a ghost strapped to my back.
That, in the end, was the message I took away from my grief: I had to find a way to live when the most important person in my life—my best friend, my lover, my bride—had been devoured by a savage, indifferent disease.
And after the battles with despair and rage I decided that each day I would try to be a little braver, more truthful, more forgiving. I thought if I kept it that simple—three virtues: courage, honesty and love—I might be able to manage it. And I’d live up to Terri’s example, for she was the bravest, most devoutly honest and most selflessly caring human being I’ve ever met.
But in the eleven years since she passed away, I’ve learned how tricky honesty can be. The unconscious makes liars of us all. We want what we have no business wanting, and trick ourselves into thinking our motives aren’t just pure, but noble.
Our egos are weak-kneed imposters, even when the will is strong and our insight keen. There is always a shadow trailing behind, reminding us of all we left unsaid and undone.
And all too often we face situations in which there seems to be no true or honest choice to be made, only two or more alternatives, each freighted with potential for pain as well as happiness. And so we don’t march confidently into the right decision, the true and honest choice. We wander a little further ahead, keep our eyes open, and hope for the best.
Instead of being honest I’ve tried, as pompous as this may sound, to be a little wiser each day, by which I mean accepting as well as truthful. I try to be aware of how I’m kidding myself, and rise to the challenge of being a bit more clear about why I’m doing something, while remaining aware that I can’t escape my blind spots. I try to seek a bit more balance, between solitary and social, determined and relaxed, firm and forgiving. Wisdom is the commitment to honesty combined with the humility of knowing that one day I’ll look back on any given decision and think, on one level or another: Who did I think I was fooling?
Bravery too can sound overly grand, but it has to be measured by the fear it overcomes. Sometimes it’s as simple as being disciplined instead of lazy, or staying at the keyboard even as the nasty cackling voice within tries to convince me that nothing I write matters, and in any event will never be as good as I hope. As I’ve become more aware, I’ve sometimes been amazed how often in any given day I have to push past some fear of judgment, rejection or anger to accomplish even a minor task. And if that’s the little braver I become that day, well done.
I’ve seen this same evolution in my protagonists, watched as they strive on the page to reach some place where their courage, their love, their hope for wisdom means something. And thanks to Steve Almond’s piece, I’ve begun to address this in my classes—not overtly, I don’t want to scare anyone off. But I realize my job as teacher is not just to make sure my students know where the midpoint of their story is. It’s to help them in some small way join the hero in his quest for a better, fuller, saner life.
As with therapy, there’s always the risk that by shutting ourselves away in the cocoon of self-examination we’re in fact tricking ourselves. If writing is mere self-scrutiny it can help me get my bearings, but there’s still a real world out there, full of people to engage and care for, challenges to meet, and our all-too-real mortality to face. I’m neither as unique as I pretend nor as alone as I fear.
That’s why I stress to my students that, despite what one often hears, we don’t write for ourselves. Even though so much of writing takes place in solitude, a writer who writes for himself is scribbling to a ghost. We want to be heard and acknowledged, and that requires that we make our interior lives clearer not just to ourselves but to others.
And the paradox is, the more we trust in story—the more we subsume our need for acknowledgement to the craft needed to write well—the more likely it is we’ll succeed. When we let our characters speak for us that delegation of duty humbles us, reminding us that we’re part of a long tradition and that storytelling is a fundamentally social enterprise.
Stories provide a prism through which the writer and the reader can observe each other without the glare of narcissism. The indirection provided by story allows me to reveal, and my reader to witness, what the hero is trying to show us both.
I believe that’s why stories are, as Steve Almond says, “the most reliable paths to meaning ever devised by our species.” They work at the level of image and emotion, they require discipline and skill, and no matter how fanciful or grand they oblige a sense of humility and responsibility.
Or at least that’s what I intend to say to the attendees at the Redwood Writers Conference. The next step—with each word, each page, each working day—is always to be a little braver, a little wiser, a bit more loving.
So—do you agree that writing workshops have supplanted talk therapy? If so, is this a good thing, or a god-awful thing?
Does a writer ever truly write just for herself? Doesn’t she on some level have to? If she worries too much over how her audience will respond, doesn’t she risk becoming over-cautious and dull?
Has your writing life obliged you to be braver, wiser, more loving?
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Jukebox Hero of the Week: Levon Helm is in the late stages of cancer. I can’t imagine the music of my life without his voice. This song, “When I Go Away,” seems an almost too fitting farewell:
No less a literary light than John Banville has said of today’s guest:
Len Wanner is the perfect interrogator, subtle, accommodating, and incisive, and these interviews elicit many layers of deep, dark, and vital intelligence.
For several years now, Len’s website, The Crime of it All, has provided fans of top-notch crime fiction a venue for some of the most insightful, interesting and informative author interviews and book reviews available anywhere.
To give a little insight into Len’s interviewing style, here’s a particularly intriguing question he’s put to more than one guinea pig—um, I mean, subject (including guess who):
Does the crime writer sit at the table of literature like a transvestite cousin at a family gathering, where he is silently pardoned while his fabulous hat is studiously ignored?
Well, I had nothing so wonderfully off-kilter in mind when I decided to turn the tables. I just wanted Len to have a chance to speak for himself for a change. Here’s where we got to:
* * * * *
This is your second set of author interviews. How does this one differ from the first—simply in the authors included, or did you have a different perspective or purpose in mind for these?
Both, I hope, but let me start by saying ‘thank you’ for offering me a role reversal and ‘sorry’ to your readers for accepting your offer. Who cares about the interviewer, eh? Well, let me give you my version of: “Enough about me, back to me.”
Speaking of role reversals, long before I started doing interviews, I walked in on Ian Rankin doing a television interview in his favourite pub. He was surrounded by preoccupied men, chained to their purpose by microphones thirsty for answers, and more preoccupied men still, chained to their pints by questions no longer relevant. We had never met, but I fit the bill. The director asked me to stand beside Ian to make him look of average height and sobriety. He turned around and I introduced myself: “You don’t know me, but I’m doing a PhD on you.” Classy. Acknowledging the unintended nerd-flirt with a laugh, he replied: “Is that what it’s come to?” Classier.
A few years later, I decided to extend my dissertation to the work of 30 Scottish crime writers. Interviewing them seemed like a good idea, so I read every interview I could find and questioned about 300 authors, including yourself, about their techniques and topics. When I thought I was ready, Ian gave me an interview for my first collection. Now he’s written the foreword for my second collection. Along the way, I came to appreciate The Paris Review Interviews and my ambition extended beyond academia. I’ve since tried to make The Crime Interviews do for crime fiction what The Paris Review Interviews have done for literature at large.
Why don’t you give our readers an idea of which authors are included in the first book and then this most recent book. How did you decide which authors to pursue and include?
The line-up for volume one is: Ian Rankin, Stuart MacBride, Karen Campbell, Neil Forsyth, Chris Brookmyre, Paul Johnston, Alice Thompson, Allan Guthrie, and Louise Welsh.
The line-up for volume two is: William McIlvanney, Tony Black, Doug Johnstone, Helen FitzGerald, Quintin Jardine, Gordon Ferris, Craig Russell, Douglas Lindsay, Ray Banks, and Denise Mina.
I’m working on a third volume with another dozen writers, to be published later in the year. In each volume I’ve tried to include big names as well as big talents to represent the depth and breadth of contemporary Scottish literature. International bestsellers like Ian Rankin, Stuart MacBride, Quintin Jardine, and Denise Mina are well known without being known well, so I’ve interviewed them in the company of their peers, which I hope to offer an introduction to your new favourite writers as well as an in-depth reunion with those you thought you already knew.
You have become the interviewer of choice for authors hoping for a more in-depth examination of their work. Why do you think that is?
You’re very kind to say so, David, but a guess is the best I can offer you in answer to the first part of your question. Perhaps the authors you refer to can tell that my purpose is not to catch interviewees off guard, but to capture the fullest possible account of their writing lives: Who they are, what they have done, and how they do what they do best. I offer an occasion beyond their own books where a writer with something to say can hope to be heard, be it to create the definitive portrait of the artist or a deft contribution to his or her ultimate portrait. And since I try not to answer my questions myself, my interviewees may have the added satisfaction of creating, to a large extent, self-portraits.
I think unless you love conversation, you may unintentionally turn your interview into a questionnaire and your interviewee into a statistic. If I deserve your praise, I credit my family’s Streitkultur, which, in the absence of an English translation, is sometimes paraphrased as the ‘atmosphere of constructive debate’. I’d like to think I’ve since come to appreciate the implied meaning, which is to embrace the courage of your doubts.
You make writers feel very much at ease talking about subjects and aspects of their work that may feel unclear or uncertain even to them—and these are often the most fascinating parts of the interviews. Writers seem to feel free to conjecture, imagine, correct themselves, and generally explore. Has this just been because of the unique rapport you have with these authors, or do you deliberately try to let them know they can let down their guard and speak openly and freely?
Again, the first part of your question is hard to answer without asking the interviewees you think have shown such faith in me. So David, why did you feel very much at ease talking about subjects and aspects of your work about which you may feel unclear or uncertain?
(Answer: Not to be cheeky, but no one has ever asked me questions like that before, and I felt compelled to give thoughtful responses, which took me to places I just hadn’t thought about all that specifically before. I felt grateful for the opportunity.)
As for the second part of this question, I’d like to think that mutual interest, genuine curiosity, and sustained attention combined let most people speak openly and freely, but a lot depends on rhythm, which is why I try to build interviews, rather than be seen to dominate them. Perhaps the 20 interviewees in my collections were aware of our shared concerns: character development, narrative arcs, and unexpected turns.
You also go into greater depth concerning the artistic ambitions, the sociological implications, and the political nuances of each writer’s work than a great many other interviewers even attempt. Why do you think others shun these sorts of subjects, and why do you so consistently pursue them?
Because those who consistently pursue them don’t get a lot of by-lines. Newspapers, whether off- or online, give pride of place to exposés, Q&As, and reworded press releases, rather than artistic ambitions, sociological implications, and political nuances. Following hot on the heels of market forces, the audience’s expectation has dropped so low Pierce Morgan has his own TV show. The alternative, as ever, is publication in book form, but I suspect few interviewers are tempted by the extra effort and lack of financial rewards.
I certainly wasn’t. I was tempted by the prospect of impressing my lady friend, who is doing a PhD in Anthropology. I still am.
It’s clear that you believe the crime novel has more to offer than a ripping good yarn or the proverbial brisk read. What is it about the crime novel that you think lends itself to a deeper understanding of current events, how did you come to this viewpoint, and which authors do you think are particularly good at it?
Let me answer this question with a quote from a recent review I wrote:
“Why is David Corbett the next big American novelist? Because he knows what he’s doing. At a time when most men of letters think they owe it to themselves to be easily bruised, Corbett knows he owes it to his readers to be unique, understanding, and unafraid. Setting his sights on a world beyond his own is not colonial complacency but simple strength. He lets us see unfamiliar places and perspectives with the same humble sensitivity with which he lets us see our shared violence and suffering. He is at home in life, and even in his darkest moments he shows us the difference between imitation feeling and the real thing, the stuff that will singe your soul or make you wish you had one.”
(Note: The interviewer is blushing.)
How did I come to this viewpoint? I read a lot.
Which authors do I think have advanced the crime novel? My list includes William McIlvanney, Friedrich Dürrenmatt, Michael Chabon, David Corbett, James Sallis, Ken Bruen, and Louise Welsh.
Do any of these most recent interviews, or parts of the interviews, stand out in your mind as particularly gratifying or interesting?
They all stand out in my mind, because I found out why…
– William McIlvanney likes Montaigne, the passion of commitment without offence, and a place where the attempt at intellectuality cohabits with the utterly banal – dislikes using computers, boring himself, and the Scottish moment of being found out.
– Tony Black likes ladies’ race cars, men’s men, and exams – dislikes symbolism, bagpipes, and interviews.
– Doug Johnstone likes strong women, strong whisky, and strongly worded reviews – dislikes long books, literary ponderfests, and having his picture taken while playing his guitar on Portobello beach.
– Helen FitzGerald likes Allan Guthrie’s ovaries, complicated women, and the kind of unhappy family Tolstoy wrote about – dislikes the Catholic Church, learning Italian, and being called ‘Mrs’ Fitzy.
– Quintin Jardine likes cowboy hats, director’s cuts, and Spider-Man – dislikes writers’ conventions, dead chauffeurs, and splitting infinitives.
– Gordon Ferris likes e-books, libraries, and emails from readers – dislikes whodunits, CSI, and the ending of Casablanca.
– Craig Russell likes the year 1956, German music, and touching his research – dislikes over-writing, German eBay, and eavesdropping waiters.
– Douglas Lindsay likes barbershops, Bob Dylan, and Dyson air blades – dislikes jumping the shark, early Christmas festivities, and society.
– Ray Banks likes transgressive writing, The Big Issue, and Jacques Barzun – dislikes community theatre, performance art, and (other) circle jerks.
– Denise Mina likes conflicting her readers, family days out with political protest groups, and the clown army – dislikes Derrida, prize committees, and protagonists who are right.
So Murderateros: Is there a question you’d like to put to Len?
Is there an author you’d like to suggest for an interview, or a particular interview you’ve read that you found particularly gratifying?
Do you think crime fiction is the transvestite cousin …?
* * * * *
Jukebox Hero of the Week: I handed selection over to Len this week, and he chose this mini-film for James Grant’s “My Father’s Coat,” complete with appearances by William McIlvanney and tartan noir superstar Tony Black, both of whom are interviewed in Len’s most recent collection:
I’ve been thinking a lot about travel lately, doing things like seeing how far the drive would be from Albuquerque to Quebec. I’ve been searching for cruises to the Arctic Circle — in the middle of winter — to chase the Northern Lights. I’ve been fantasizing about sleeping in ice hotels and tree houses, about stumbling on a shadow puppet performance in Bali, about taking a train up the coast of California and staring at the night sky in the middle of Yosemite.
Travel for me has always meant freedom. Even more it’s a way to shake things up, to have adventures and feel fully alive. Somehow, when I’m away from the very familiar, I tend to be much more open to experience — to meeting people, staying up late and sharing life stories, and marveling at the freshness of each new turn on the road — and I love that stretching of self!
I haven’t taken a long trip in ages, certainly not alone. And now that I’m working full time and have all of these obligations in my life that demand schedules and consistency, I want to break out and explore.
It’s natural to bristle at self-imposed constraints, to feel restless.
But what do I do with this?
Trips to Santa Fe and other fun locations in NM are still too familiar. I want to do something outrageous! Incredible. Life-changing. And I haven’t an idea of what that really might be.
Oh, yeah. There’s the matter of money and time. But those don’t have to be major concerns, do they? I bet there are places to see and visit that would be incredibly wonderful and wouldn’t break the bank.
There’s also the issue of traveling alone now that I’m old enough to understand danger. The situations I put myself in when I was a teen and in my early 20s make me writhe with horror now. And as a mother, I would be appalled if my kids did anything even close to hitchhiking from Tours to Marseilles at 15 years old or accepting rides across this country with strangers.
I’m a friggin’ mystery writer, for Heaven’s sake! My mind can go to really dark places really fast.
So . . . I need your help today.
Give me some ideas of great places to travel as a solo woman, places that are different enough from my arid and gorgeous NM to feel like I’ve really made a change. Or, tell me about tours and tour companies that are out of the norm where I can meet interesting — and interested (in life) — people.
Do you have a favorite trip or adventure you can recommend?
Who knows, I might even write a story about it . . .
;)
