Foundlings

 by J.D. Rhoades

As writers, we all hit a wall at some point, that horrible moment when it looks as if the damn thing is never going to get done, it’s a huge waste of time, why did I ever think I was a writer, I wish that giant asteroid would just hurry up and wipe out all life on Earth. etc. And, we’re told, to be a real writer. you have to push on through that wall and finish the work.

But according to  this article in the New York Times on  “writers who abandon novels”,  it seems that  lot of, not just “real writers”, but famous,  talented and respected ones,  have started works they never finished for various reasons.


Michael Chabon leads off, talking about how he abandoned his second novel, “Fountain City,” after five and a half years of work because, he says,  he could feel it  “erasing me, breaking me down, burying me alive, drowning me, kicking me down the stairs.” (Wait, that’s not how it’s supposed to feel?)

Some writers who admit to having dropped projects might surprise you. Stephanie Meyer apparently stopped work on her “Twilight”  spin-off  “Midnight Sun” after 12 chapters were leaked to the Internet because,  she says,  she felt “too  sad.” Whether she was angry about the leak or the quality of the work is not specified in the NYT  article.  Harper Lee allegedly quit work on  her second novel, tentatively titled “The Long Goodbye,” after “To Kill A Mockingbird” became such a runaway success.  “When you’re at the top,” she told a relative, “there’s only one way to go.” Maybe she also got “too sad” after realizing Raymond Chandler had already written a book by  that name.

Well, if these people can admit to abandoning their children, I guess I can. Some of my foundlings include:

DEVILS AND DUST- the fourth Jack Keller novel and the wrap up of the series. where Jack has to go looking for his friend and sometime sidekick Oscar Sanchez, who’s disappeared while looking for his sons who went missing while trying to enter the country.

Reason for abandoning: lack of enthusiasm for another Keller novel on the part of my publisher.

DYING BREED- another “redneck noir”  novel about two young men who grew up in foster care. One turned out okay, one went bad, but the “bad” one shanghais the “good” one into a doomed plan to rescue their mother from the clutches of her boyfriend, a small time drug dealer trying to go big time by ripping off his sadistic boss.  Pretty soon everyone’s in way over their heads, including a couple of cynical DEA agents on the trail of said boss.

Reason for abandoning: My agent said, and I quote: “I don’t love it.” I did end up lifting the twin redneck bodyguards, Liberty and Justice,  and using them in LAWYERS, GUNS AND MONEY, where they’re not quite as evil, but still scary.

THE KING’S JUSTICE-definitely not the sort of thing you’ve come to expect from me, this was a medieval-fantasy post-apocalyptic mystery. Several hundred years ago, a  war that culminated in the magical equivalent of a nuclear exchange killed every wizard on both sides, destroyed most of their armies,  and left a huge swath of territory not only devastated, but polluted by residual and unpredictable magic. Now, in time of peace,  the area is beginning to be re-settled, but it’s still a wild  frontier. The King’s authority is maintained by travelling Justices such as the portly, jolly, and shrewd Master Justice Taras Flinn, who travels from town to town  with his Watson-like apprentice and their valet Jacky (a former thief),  holding court, solving mysteries, and looking for the next inn where he can get a decent meal and a tankard of ale.

Reason for abandoning: I’d put a couple of short Taras Flinn pieces up on an early e-pubbing site called MightyWords and gotten some good feedback, (and a couple of dollars). Then MightyWords went toes-up, I  started writing The Devil’s Right Hand, and that’s the one that sold. (And just a reminder: The Devil’s Right Hand  is now available again for Kindle, Nook, etc. for only  .99 for a limited time).

LIGHTFOOT: this sci-fi adventure featuring a lone-wolf, wisecracking space-freighter captain was abandoned because it sucked. I mean really sucked. It taught me that I absolutely wasn’t ready to write SF. Let us draw a veil over it and speak of it no more.

The New York Times article mentions that sometimes “dead” projects rise again: Stephen King’s recent “Under the Dome,”  for example,  was an abandoned project from 30 years ago that finally clicked.


So who knows? One day one of these projects may see the light of day. Or maybe not.

So, fellow ‘Rati, spill: what abandoned children are sitting on your hard drive? Have you ever looted them for parts, characters, dialogue, etc.  for use on other works? Anything you might ever go back to, or is there a project that you feel needs a stake through its heart to stay dead? Finally,  when,  if at all, do you know it’s time to let a failing project go? 

 

What’s your nightmare?

by Tess Gerritsen

(Once again, I’ll be on the road when this entry gets posted.  But I’ll read the comments when I get home, and I hope you’ll all chime in and tell us which monsters inhabit your dreams at night.)

As crime writers, we spend a lot of time thinking and writing about what scares us, and many of us probably share the same fears, most of them rational — fear of heights, of pain, of something happening to our kids.  But once we drift off to sleep, our fears take on different, sometimes irrational forms.  It’s those literal nightmares that so fascinate me, because we have no control over them.  They emerge from our subconscious, many of them purely symbolic and posing no real threat.  Yet they cause us to awaken in a cold sweat, hearts pounding.

I’ll bet that most of you reading this have had the familiar nightmare of being out of the house and suddenly realizing you’ve forgotten to get dressed.  Fear of humiliation is obviously what’s at play here.  Which makes me wonder: Do nudists ever have this nightmare?  Does it show up in cultures where people normally run around half-naked?  What’s their equivalent of the humiliation nightmare?

Another common one is the “Oh my God, I never went to class!” nightmare where I’ve got a final exam in French and I know nothing about the subject.  I suspect this nightmare particularly afflicts OCD types like me who are anxious about failing.  The more stressed out I am about work, the more this dream plagues me.  Oddly enough, even though I’ve been a writer for 25 years, I never have nightmares about being late for a deadline. Instead, this nightmare setting doesn’t seem to advance beyond my college years,  

I also have one where my teeth are falling out.  I used to have this one a lot, and I’ve heard from other women who also have it.  I haven’t met any men who’ve had it, which makes me think it’s very much connected to being female.  One theory is that it represents fear of aging.  Others — and I think this is probably closer to the mark — say it represents anxiety over loss of power.  Your jaw is one of the strongest muscles in your body and your teeth are a primitive means of self defense, so losing your teeth equates to feeling powerless.  Which may be why so many women have this dream.  We also seem to dream a lot about being chased.  

While men may also have nightmares of being pursued, several have told me they’ve got a gun with which to fight back.  Which is totally unfair.  Even in our dreams, we women are outgunned.

Then there’s this weirdly eccentric nightmare which seems to be mine alone.  This dream has plagued me since I was very young, and I can’t seem to shake it.  Over the decades, the basic plot has expanded to include members of my family, but it always starts with a view of a clear night sky.  Tiny lights like stars are moving.  Then the stars begin to move in different directions and I realize, to my utter horror, that these are alien spacecraft and the invasion of Earth has begun.  Humankind is about to be massacred.

In a panic, I try to gather up my family, fill the car with food, and head for the wilderness to hide.  I’m very methodical about this in the dream.  I consider which car will go the furthest on a tank of gas.  I consider which food items to pack, how many bottles of water we can carry, which medicines to bring.  I think about sleeping bags and blankets and tents.  But gosh darn it, as usual, I never seem to have a gun.

I know it sounds like the plot of a dozen Hollywood B-movies.  Maybe it was inspired by some horror film I watched as a kid.  Yet all these decades later, it still has the power to make me wake up at night, drenched in sweat.  I don’t know what brings it on.  I haven’t met anyone who’s similarly terrified by alien invader dreams.  But it’s such a powerful fear that even when I’m awake and I look up at a clear night sky, it’s always with a tiny apprehension that this will be the night I see those stars start to move.

And it’ll be time to round up the kids and pack up the car.

So what’s your recurring nightmare?  Is it something peculiar to you, something that no one else seems to have?  What do you think it means?

Seven things I wish people knew about PR

by Pari

Tomorrow morning a high school student is going to join me for a week to learn about public relations and marketing. Today as I looked around my messy office and contemplated what I hoped she’d take away from the experience, I realized that there were a few things I really wanted her to know.

1. Public relations is about relationships with your publics.
Oh, I know I’ve said this before. But it bears repeating because everyone gets so caught up in getting publicity – free interviews on television or the Web, mentions in the newspapers, book reviews – and, frankly, I think a lot of that is a waste of time.

I know for a fact that you can be highly successful without a single intentional media hit.

2.  Word of mouth is still the best form of PR there is.
Of course there are experts who work hard to create “buzz,” to manipulate the public psyche and make the next big thing. They do it through multiple media and with a lot of money and strategy. But the truth is, what they’re really doing is manufacturing word of mouth. The more people talk about something the more interesting it seems.

Here’s the reality: Whether you generate buzz through money spent on advertising and media hits or through getting people you know to be your marketing foot soldiers, the principle is really the same. Get ’em talking about what you want them to talk about.

3. Public Relations is about the truth
You read that right. It applies across the board.
Don’t mislead. Don’t lie. If you do, it’ll bite you in the butt.

I wish more people understood this one.

4. What you think is newsworthy – especially if it’s about you – probably isn’t.
Think in terms of your audiences and know what your audiences need . . . not what you want them to need.

Really. We’re not nearly as interesting to others as we are to ourselves.

5. Be sincere.
I think information consumers today are quite sophisticated. They hate feeling like they’re being used. And they can smell a fake. Don’t give them a reason to plug their nose.

6. Pick the PR methods that make you the happiest.
There are countless ways to do public relations – to get your message out. So there has got to be at least one or two that you’d enjoy doing. Why spend energy on things that make you miserable? Life is too damn short . . . isn’t it?

Here’s my advice (even if your publicist tells you different): if you despise speaking in public, don’t do it. Write emails. Conduct online contests. Do blog tours. If you love being on television or radio, go for it. Make yourself — or your pitch — irresistible to those media outlets. If you like attending conventions, have a blast and enjoy yourself.

7. Do unto others as you’d have them do unto you.
In other words, be nice.
Do your homework.
Be respectful.
Remember to be grateful — and to express that gratitude.

Is there anything I’ve missed? Let me know. I’ll share your pearls of wisdom with my intern . . .

Where do you get your ideas?

by Toni McGee Causey

It’s misleading, really, when we see a final product, especially a book or a film that works because we think, “Of course–that’s the way it had to be.” 

 Ribbon Car (final image)

But truly, it didn’t. There were a million ways for the idea to go wrong, or to get mixed up with another idea (or a dozen other ideas) and become a delinquent, flaw-riddled ne’er do well of a thought, ruining all the hopes and plans of its parent. This happens more frequently than we writers like to admit; we want to keep the magic in front of the reader, not the seams and the dirty sleight-of-hand that cracks the illusion.

Ideas, you see, really aren’t that big of a deal. They’re constantly piled in heaps around us. Everyone comes across story ideas all day long, every single day. That woman who once walked by with a leaf on her nose? There’s a character. Who does that? Why? What other wonky things would she do? (I saw that woman fifteen-ish years ago, and still have not forgotten her. One day, she’s going to walk into a story and belong there, and then I’ll know why she kept perching on the idea pile.) Ideas clutter our brains like so much junk, jangling around, getting bumped and smothered with other ideas, then jostled again and again until two things become neighbors and we start seeing them differently.

I’d been staring out a window at a flag whipping in the wind for several days, when I had the opportunity to go onto the scrap yard where we’re doing some concrete work. This particular scrap yard goes on for acres and acres, with all sorts of industrial items that have been scrapped and are awaiting the shear or to be loaded into a barge, bound for some foundry somewhere. This particular pile is where the crushed cars are stacked, and when I looked through the lens, I only had the sense that there was a possibility of beauty amongst items that are past their prime, dying or decaying. It’s an odd thought, but I took a few wide-angle shots, just to sort of “see” the items, to start filtering out the surroundings and try to focus. 

That’s when I noticed the red in the image, and I walked around the pile until I saw the red car.  Ribbon Car (original image)I loved the way the metal seemed to bend and flow, like a ribbon (flag) in the wind, and I zeroed in on it and grabbed a shot. I was losing the light and we had to go, so it’s a crappy shot with bad exposure, but I knew I could edit it.

And see, that’s really the trick when it comes to art of any kind. It’s not just the idea–it’s the vision. What makes a piece unique and memorable is the artist’s specific vision: what they want to communicate, what story they want to tell. That story doesn’t generally happen in the first draft or without some sort of editing. That editing might occur internally–especially after the artist has some years of experience and knows what they want to look for, how they want to capture it. With practice, they may be able to execute that vision on the first try. Most creations, though, take editing–layers of thoughts, sifting–yes to this, no to that–tweaking here, highlighting there, focusing the emphasis where the artist wants your eye. 

Most people will never see the thousand decisions that go into a story, if it works well. It’ll flow, make sense, be captivating, surprising-and-yet-somehow-fated. As artists, we need to also remember that it’s not terribly likely that we’re going to turn out something that is perfect on the first try. It may take layers and layers of editing before we get the story or the image into the shape we want, to tell the story that we want.

I’m in that place now with the new book. The first draft was done about a month or so ago, and I love three-fourths of it. I do not love one aspect of the ending (and I knew this all along), but I hadn’t quite seen through the debris of ideas to find the single way it had to be told. It took time away from it and then stepping around the pile, zooming in and seeing a specific section of the bigger image before I suddenly knew what I had captured, and therefore, what to enhance. Sure, I wish I had been able to turn out a pristine perfect draft out-the-gate and never have to edit, but that’s not the way I process ideas, so it’s never going to happen that way. I’ve made my peace with it, mostly because I love the editing process. (I love painting and photography for the same reason.) 

Ironically, what started off as a quickie photo shoot turned into something startling to me, which then informed some of the writing I’m working on in a way I had not ever anticipated, so that was a bonus. Plus, now I am (on the side, as a hobby) working on a series of “ribbon” images like the red car above. I think it’ll help me see with a fresh perspective.

So what are your hobbies, fellow ‘Rati? What do you like to do just for the joy of doing it–because you love the process, not because you’re necessarily any good at it. What is it that you love about it? And if you don’t have a hobby, but have been thinking about one, which one, and why?

[By the way, I’m having a contest right now for a free Kindle or Nook, plus some gift certificates. See my site for the news / newsletter / rules. Today is the last day to enter. I’ll be running more of these contests this summer, so sign up for the newsletter if you want to hear about them sooner.]

 

Chic, Fabulous Cara Black

By Cornelia Read

Today it’s my pleasure to interview the magnificent (and chic, and fabulous–see above) Cara Black, author of the Aimee Leduc mysteries, set in Paris. Which is the smartest place to set a mystery series EVER, and I wish I’d thought of it instead of setting my first novel in not-quite-so-intriguing Syracuse, New York.

I first met Cara when I was a student at the Book Passage Mystery Conference in Corte Madera, California, and then my mystery writing group invited her out to dinner so we could ask her all about her journey to becoming published, and her marvelous novels, and just her fine self in general. She was a tremendously lovely dinner companion, and has become a friend I cherish.

And without further ado… some Q&A about Cara’s latest novel from Soho Press, Murder in Passy…

1. I love your stories about how you pick each neighborhood that will feature in a novel. What drew you to Passy for Murder in Passy?

Sometimes I feel like writing a murder mystery isn’t unlike being a detective. It’s about finding the bits that fit the puzzle of a story I want to write. Passy – in the exclusive 16th arrondissement – still retains a ‘village’ feel despite its haute-bourgeoise reputation.

Passy’s beginnings were humble, a village on the outskirts of Paris where Balzac fled to hide from his creditors. Empress Eugenie, Napoleon the III’s wife, took the waters at Passy. Hector Guimard, the father of Art Nouveau,

whom we have to thank for the wonderful verdigris metal Metro entrances, lived and designed buildings in the quartier.

My friend who lives in the 16th kept badgering me to write about her quartier but for me it was too staid, too chic and not my detective Aimée’s ‘hood.’ But it was discovering that a Basque Cultural Center had existed near the tiny police station (unchanged since the 30’s) along with a long historical presence of the Basques in the quartier that changed my mind. What a contrast in this very conservative and wealthy quartier!

My family and I had spent time in the Basque country,

we loved the culture, the people and the food,

yet witnessed the rubble of bombed farmhouses from ETA’s–the Basque Separatists–militant actions. That made me wonder…what if the ETA–who were very much in the headlines at the time–used a wealthy environ as a hideout. What if this murder struck close to Aimée? 

2. You were joking around recently about Parisian maids in neighborhoods so fancy that the maids themselves wore pearls. I dream of being that chic in my next life. Any tips for this one? I’ve given up on the scarf gene already…

That’s a conundrum Cornelia. I wish I had the scarf gene too. I think, after much observation, scrutiny and obsessing about this, Frenchwoman follow a simple dictum. They buy quality, a few pieces – accessories and staples; the shoes, bag, one good little black dress and jacket, the coat.

It’s all about mixing and matching whatever you have in the closet with a few good pieces – it’s about putting it together, for a formal look the little black dress, a weekend lunch, mixing a stylish tousled thrown-together look with a Vuitton scarf.

That flair, that je ne sais quoi factor…that’s another gene.

3. What are your favorite low-end and high-end places to eat in Paris? I was a big fan of Chartier in my college days for cheap steak tartare and chocolate mousse. These days I like a tiny place called Le Petit Vatel, in the Sixth.

Both pretty cheap. 

Oh yes, Chartier for the ambiance and the price.

Low end is my favorite falafel on rue des Rosiers, L’as du Fallafel.

There’s always a line in the street, The NY Times wrote about it, yet still for my 6 Euros the best falafel outside of Tel Aviv. I’ve been going there since forever.

La Marine–old-fashioned bistro on quai Valmy in the 10th with a bobo hipster crowd–borders the Canal Saint Martin, serves locals too and stays reasonable. Consistently delicious.

Near the Marche d’Aligre, 12th arrondissement, the tiny wine bar le Baron Rouge crates in fresh Normandy oysters–that morning–can’t be beat. 

Vatel, meanwhile, was the guy famed for committing suicide when the fish was delivered late for a banquet for Louis XIV at which he was maitre d’hotel. He also invented creme Chantilly for the same meal. Ran himself through with a sword, apparently.

 They take their food seriously – then and now – these chefs.

4. What are they wearing in Paris, this winter?

Winter white. And black, always. Shearling coats because it’s cold. Knee high boots. The short jacket layered over a tailored blouse, long sweater, tight pants or mini and heels.  

 

5. What are you working on now? 

I’m editing my next book titled Murder at the Lantern Rouge – the story is set in a Chinatown in Paris existing in the medieval northern edge of the Marais.

There’s four Chinatowns in Paris but this one’s the oldest and smallest. The story came from a comment from a man working for the RG (Renseignements Generaux, like our FBI), who told me ‘No one dies in Chinatown.’ 

 

Now when’s YOUR next trip to Paris, Cornelia?

How about tomorrow?

Thanks so much for having me!

Cara

From Alley Cat to Galley Cat

by JT Ellison

Well Hi!

Yes, I am in the deep south. Sophie Littlefield and I are on our Stealing Souls tour – and let me see, what day is it? Friday? That means right about now we are just leaving Memphis heading back to Nashville, and will be doing our 5th event in 5 nights tonight at one of my fave stores, Reading Rock Books in Dickson (7-9 – y’all come!)

Sophie and I have had too much fun for words – working hard, playing harder, visiting with old friends, making new ones. I’ve been so incredibly impressed with every bookstore we’ve visited. Perhaps it’s an occupational hazard, but bookstore folk are terribly gracious and kind. We’ve been lovingly welcomed across the south this week, and we are forever grateful to everyone who’s worked so hard to make these events successful.

With that said, I’m going to share a different kind of blog today. I’m sure y’all have all heard me talk about my precious cat. There aren’t a lot of drawbacks to being on the road, but missing my hubby and my kitty are at the top of the list. That said, I have gotten a ton of work done. Once you read below, you’ll understand why. Sophie is a darling, but she and I may be drafted for the Valkyries, or the Amazons, and she’s not spending a lot of time curled in my lap.

So, without further ado, meet my alleycat, who has turned into a galleycat.

 

I’ve been having trouble working lately. It’s not what you’re thinking – I’m not blocked. I’ve got plenty of ideas. I’ve got lots of time, full days free of encumbrances, all waiting patiently for words to fill the moments. 

No, the reason I’m having so much trouble is my cat.

Jade is a tiger striped rescue who has never let me forget how much she appreciates the fact that I picked her. When I first saw her at the pound, she was five weeks old, suffering from a bad cold. So bad that they were going to put her down. They can’t afford to have sick kittens in the cages; disease spreads too quickly among unloved animals.

They’d named her Tori. She had the most inquisitive, if rheumy, green eyes. I knew immediately I had to take her. I couldn’t let this poor thing get put down because she’d been weaned too early and struck out on her own, a little stripedy runaway. She had gumption, I could see that. Desires, dreams. She wanted a bigger world than the one she’d been dealt. She was a renegade. Perfect.

She was also a five-week-old kitten who was terribly sick. The vet around the corner took her in, nursed her back to health, and she came home with us. A yowling little ball of fur who was the most fiercely independent cat I’ve ever had.

She took up residence on the pillow at the corner of the l-shaped couch and pretty much stayed there for the next several months. She was a sweet, lovely little thing who didn’t like people food, wanted her chin scritchies on her terms, and determinedly made a friend out on my husband, who wasn’t what we like to call a cat person.

I adore her, as you can tell.

We go to special lengths for this cat. When we travel, she has her own personal babysitter who comes over and stays with her, watching television and reading books to her. She absolutely can’t be boarded, she turns into a neurotic, shaking mess around other animals. She’s afraid, afraid! of other animals – so scared that she’s an only child. When my parents come to visit, she takes up residence under my bed, hissing and growling at everyone who dares come near. It’s hysterical, especially since she’s a regular hussy with anyone else who shows up on our doorstep. It’s only my parents, who arrive bearing their own cat and a little dog, that send her into paroxysms of kitty terror.

What must she have seen in those five weeks before we made her our own? What terrors haunted her days and nights? I’ll never know.

So Miss Jade, my fiercely independent, won’t allow herself to be picked up, I am my own cat, thank you very much, cat has suddenly turned into a lap cat.

This is a problem on numerous levels.

First, I use a laptop. Operative word – lap. I’ve been spreading a bit as I age, but I’m not to the point where I can accommodate a cat and a computer. And she doesn’t take no for an answer – she’s going to get in my lap whether I want her to or not.

We battle for several hours in the morning. She curls up while I’m going through my RSS Feeds, then jumps off. Rinse and repeat times about ten. The teakettle will be whistling, and I can’t get her off. Okay, okay. I should say I don’t have the heart to kick her off. It’s been a wintry winter in Nashville, with lots of snow and little sun, and she’s getting older, and her joints get cold. I debated getting her a heated blanket. But it’s nice to have a furball in your lap. She’s warm. She purrs. She gazes at me adoringly when I scratch her ears.

Yes, yes, I know. She’s playing into my ego. I’m enamored of the idea that this cat, who I chose, has also chosen me.

But wow, it’s hurting my word counts.

Jade is also the reason I got published. I worked for the vet who patched her up for three days (I thought I’d be working the desk, but he wanted me as a tech in the back. Bad. Bad. Bad. After my first neutering, I was done.) I was quitting on Friday, and on Wednesday I picked up a large golden and herniated a disc in my back. That led to surgery, and recovery time, and library books, where I discovered John Sandford. The rest, as they say, is history.

Tell me about your critters today! I’ll send one of you a copy of my new book, SO CLOSE THE HAND OF DEATH, which definitely isn’t about sweet, soft kittens, and make a donation to your local animal shelter.

Wine of the Week: a gem from Atlanta, and so apropos for our tour —Chronic Cellars Purple Paradise

Things That Should Be

Zoë Sharp

I’m a chronic maker of lists. I should have a list of lists, really. In fact, before I started writing my blog this morning, while I waited for a head of steam to build up in my desktop, I was making my Daily To Do List. It’s not displacement activity – honest. It’s time management … or something.

 

 

In fact, currently sitting on my desk are several lists. One is today’s, another is a list of jobs that really ought to get done before we go to the States next week, and another is a list of the last few remaining jobs to do on the house.

When I write it down like that, it’s rather sad, really, isn’t it? 

Mind you, the best list I’ve ever come across was in Simon Pegg’s classic rom-com-zom movie, ‘Shaun of the Dead’

 

 

Buy Milk.

Ring Mum.

Dodge Zombies

 

 

I even have a printed-out shopping list of all the stuff we regularly buy, grouped together according to section, so a trip to the supermarket has become a case of crossing off the stuff we don’t need rather than remembering the stuff we do.

It’s not that I have a really bad memory, it’s just very selective – in the same way that given nine good points in a review and one bad one, it will inevitably be the bad one I can recall word for word. I do have a tendency to remember something once, and then because I’ve remembered it rather than actually done whatever it is that I needed to remember to do, I promptly forget it again.

Most of my To Do lists contain stuff that, in reality, I know I need to do, but seeing it in black and white – or green fountain pen in my case – and then being able to put a line through it when it’s sorted, gives a sense of satisfaction out of all proportion to the task.

Mind you, a friend recently suggested that I keep a Done list instead – enabling me to look back at the end of the day and see what I’ve achieved rather than what I failed to do. This is a very nice idea, but doesn’t help when I suddenly remember at 10:30 pm that I really should have booked the car in for service, or posted a cheque.

Of course, what I could do is have a both a To Do and a Done list, but I think that would get out of hand very quickly, don’t you?

What about you, ‘Rati? Are you listers or non-listers? And if you’re a non-lister writer, do you also not like to outline? I wonder if there’s any connection.

Some lists, I wouldn’t like to be without, though. Over the last few years, we’ve put together a packing list, which includes everything from passports and currency down to the stick-on in-car bracket for my phone, which is also our sat-nav. At the end of each trip, I add stuff on that we needed but didn’t take, and cross stuff out that we took and didn’t need.

All this daft organisation will – with any luck – help us to pack for this month’s US mini-tour for FOURTH DAY using only two carryon-sized wheelie bags. The only complication is that I’m attending two conventions – both the Tucson Festival of Books (March 12th/13th) and Left Coast Crime (March 24th-27th) which necessitate a frock or two, and a pair of heels. Fortunately, I only ever buy dresses that scrumple up. 

A bigger packing problem at the moment, though, is the weather. We were lulled to expect pleasantly warm temperatures. Instead, I hear of rain in San Francisco (OK, so maybe that’s no great surprise) and SNOW in Tucson. That wasn’t in the game plan at all. I haven’t had so much packing confusion since one year when we went skiing in New England and then carried on down to Daytona Beach for Spring Break. It’s the only time I’ve been to Florida and taken a fur hat.

It doesn’t help that I’m a wuss when it comes to the cold. I admit it. Take the time we went to Death Valley. We drove in along mile after mile of arrow-straight road, past signs that said, ‘Do not leave your car!’ and ‘Take water with you!’ and ‘Much danger, Will Robinson!’

 

 

And when we got there? I was chilly and had to put on a sweater.

Everyone told us Arizona would be mild and balmy at this time of year, unlike last June when we were there last, when it was hot enough to dry the spit on your eyeballs. We also lived up to our Mad Dogs and Englishmen reputation by walking around in Houston at high noon. Even our own shadows were trying to hide from the heat.

But the hotter it is outside, the more every building cranks up the air-con, so as soon as I get inside, I freeze. Ho hum. 

So, I’ve really no idea what to expect in Scottsdale and Tucson AZ, or San Diego, LA, Lancaster, Sacramento or the Bay Area CA, or Albuquerque and Santa Fe NM.  Any pointers welcome. Remember those carryon bags. We can’t afford to take stuff we’re not going to use, but I really don’t want to shiver, either!

 

 

What about you, ‘Rati? What’s the best or the most useless item you’ve ever taken on holiday with you?

This week’s Word of the Week comes courtesy of a writer friend, Kate Kinchen, and is another of those words that doesn’t exist but should do. It’s sarchasm, which is the gulf between one who speaks in a sarcastic tone of voice, and one who doesn’t get it.

PSA RERUN

I’d like to first thank Allison Brennan for stepping in for me two weeks ago.  Her excitement about Justified is infectious and I can hardly wait for the day I can finally start watching Season II.  Not only did she do a kick ass post but she was gracious too.  She said that I allowed her to take my blog turn because I was in deep deadline.

Allison, it was more like I was in deep doo-doo up to my eye bags, and you provided a straw through which I could breathe.  Thank you, friend.

Although The End of this latest book is in sight, it’s still pages away so I ask that you permit me to rebroadcast in part a post (edited) from nearly 2 years ago.  It’s not as clever as Pari’s PSA from last Monday but I’m hoping it might persuade some of my fellow 50-ish friends to get off their butts, literally, and take action. In the past several weeks, the importance of good health has been made painfully clear to me.


100 Feet of Joy

I had been putting it off for several years. 

Not that I was afraid, mind you. Such things don’t really scare me a whole lot. But most of the people I spoke to who had been through it told me that the truly awful part was not even the event itself.

No, they said, it’s the preparation that will kill you…

I went for a check-up several months ago and was ordered by my doctor to get a blood test.  A few days later, my doctor’s office calls and the nurse says, “Your tests were all fine, except you’re anemic. The doctor wants you to get a colonoscopy.”

Oh, joy.

But I was overdue. As I said, I’d been putting it off for several years.

I went in to see the gastroentronologist and he described the procedure to me, and for those who don’t know, a colonoscopy is basically when the doctor sticks a camera up your ass and takes movies of your colon. All of it. From top to bottom.

But no sweat, right? I’ve known people who have had one, and they all said they were put to sleep. Didn’t feel a thing.

“We won’t be putting you to sleep,” the doctor tells me.

“Say what?”

“You’ll be given a mild sedative that will calm you and make you a little drowsy, but I’d prefer you to be awake so we don’t have to worry that you’ll stop breathing.”

“Say what?”

“Oh, and don’t worry. I very, very rarely puncture the colon wall. My track record is quite good.”

“Say the fuck what?”

That isn’t the conversation verbatim, but that’s pretty much how it felt. 

I was really not looking forward to prep night. The worst thing, I was told, is that the stuff you have to drink tastes so awful that it’s nearly impossible to choke it down. And you have no choice but to drink it. The doc needs you COMPLETELY cleaned out or he can’t go forward with the procedure.

Finally, prep night came and I dutifully mixed up a liter of MoviPrep and, as instructed, I downed a glass of it every fifteen minutes until it was gone.

And you know what? It wasn’t bad at all. I’ve tasted much worse, believe me. Hell, a gin and tonic tastes worse to me.

So I had no trouble at all downing the liquid other than the simple fact that I felt like a bloated buffalo. The last glass was chugged in one gynormous gulp and I gagged a little toward the end, but a quick mouth rinse and I was fine. It was certainly not even close to being as bad as everyone said it was.

The next morning, at 4:30 am, I had to drink another liter of the stuff and spend more alone time. Then around noonish, feeling clean as a whistle, it was off to the clinic for my date with destiny.

I wasn’t really nervous. The nurse who took my blood pressure will attest to that. For some reason hospitals and clinics and the like don’t really scare me. I figure I’m there for something that could potentially save my life, so what’s to be nervous about?

A few minutes later, they finally wheeled me into the operating room (or whatever the hell you call it) and hooked me up to a couple machines. Then the nurse gave me a couple shots of some stuff that was supposed to make me sleepy.

Which it didn’t. Not one bit. And as I turned, I saw this technician walk into the room carrying a coil of what, I swear to God, looked like about a hundred feet of black garden hose.

And that’s when I REALLY got scared. Holy shit, I thought. THAT’S what’s going up my ass.

It’s a miracle I didn’t faint. But what’s even more of a miracle is that, despite the fact that I was wide awake, I did not feel a thing.

Oh, a slight bit of cramping and discomfort when they had to turn a corner or two, but for the most part, it was the proverbial walk in the park and — get this — I watched it all on TV.

I don’t know what drug they gave me, but it was certainly made by someone who knew his stuff. And I can say, without hestitation, that I have one of the most handsome colons I’ve ever seen.

The whole thing was completely fascinating.

And, fortunately, I was given a clean bill of health.

So, what, you may ask, does any of this grossness have to do with writing? Well, I can guarantee that this material will, at some point, wind up in one of my books. I don’t know when or where, but it’s bound to work its way into a story somehow.

That night, I started thinking about possible scenarios. Imagine if they hadn’t given me any drugs before uncoiling that 100 feet of joy?

Anyone remember the dentist scene from Marathon Man?

What if, instead of a dentist, the interrogator was a gastroentronologist?  I can just see him hovering over the hero, the nozzle of that hose poised and ready to make entry as he says:

“Is it safe?”

Moving Clouds

 

By Louise Ure

 

Alafair was right yesterday … the weather does affect us in inestimable ways. It was 109 degrees when I left Sydney and it snowed here in Tucson Sunday, for the first time in decades. (Of course, it’s70 degrees here today, but why let a good whine go to waste?)

I’ve returned to Tucson to finally settle my mother’s estate. She died two years ago this week, but the whole family got caught up in other – and in my case, more dire – circumstances and we couldn’t get things settled until now.

It has been decades since I’ve been here for longer than the expected four day Christmas visit. This time, although it’s fraught with potential conflict, I have the time to see the whole extended family, to eat at all my favorite restaurants, and to drive up to the foothills to see the snow if I want to.

My family numbers in the hundreds here, although there are probably only six or seven surnames involved. (No jokes about white trash marrying cousins of the same name, please. We have lots of males in the family and they in turn married into big families and sired lots more males.) But it’s the women in the family that hold it together. The women who care for the generations before them and behind them, who safeguard the memories, who tell the stories, who dust off the pictures. I celebrate them all.

If I knew that the bombs would blast on a certain day, I would make sure to gather this whole extended clan of siblings and cousins and nephews and in-laws. Among us there is a farmer, a rancher, a chicken breeder, a scientist and a teacher. There’s also a judge, a bookkeeper, a house builder, a songwriter, and a couple of nurses. In going through all the old family papers these last couple of weeks, I see that I am not the only or even the best writer among us. Taken as a whole village, the people I am related to could recreate the world.

Of course, we’ve got our fair share of ne’er-do-wells and dope dealers and scalawags, but that’s what makes it interesting.

In all my visits these last few decades, I’ve stayed at hotels here and maintained a polite but friendly distance from my three siblings. They didn’t have room for us to stay, and it felt intrusive to me. This trip we’re all staying together. We rise together and go bed together. And in between, we eat too much and laugh at jokes both old and new.

I have rekindled my happiness in making calabasitas and chorizo in my mother’s kitchen. I have once again recognized how important my siblings are to me.

In the 1970’s, trying to describe my brothers and sisters, I wrote a short essay about how each of or them would react to a boulder in the road ahead of them. I wrote that my eldest brother, Bill, who died of cancer at 29, would not have noticed it, intent on an architectural challenge he was working out in his head. My only sister, the other half of the coin to my lack of empathy, would have placed hands on the rock to understand why it was there and try to love it out of the way. The middle brother, a scientist and thinker, would have fashioned a giant lever to move it aside. And the baby brother, faster with fists than with rationale, would have beat against it until both he and the boulder were depleted.

They have not changed since then, nor has my opinion.

But we’re laughing together again. And together, whether it’s with love or a lever, we’re going to get this god damn boulder out of the way.

Tell me a story about families, ‘Rati. Either the one you have or the one you wish you had.

With a Shiver in My Bones Just Thinking About the Weather

by Alafair Burke

Today I woke up with “Like the Weather” by 10,000 Maniacs in my head.

Why?  Well, I always have some song in my head, and better the sweet crooning of Natalie Merchant that yesterday’s brain virus, which was this:

(Oh, that was kind of mean, wasn’t it?  You’re going to be humming that all day, aren’t you?  Bieber Fever…crazy contagious, yo.)

Sorry.  Okay, back to “Like the Weather.”  I haven’t thought about that song for at least fifteen years, but, because I have the peculiar (and so far completely unmarketable) ability to identify an 80’s song to fit any situation, I found myself thinking about those lyrics this morning.

The color of the sky as far as I can see is coal grey.
Lift my head from the pillow and then fall again.
With a shiver in my bones just thinking about the weather.
A quiver in my lips as if I might cry.
Well by the force of will my lungs are filled and so I breathe.
Lately it seems this big bed is where I never leave.
Shiver in my bones just thinking about the weather.
Quiver in my voice as I cry,
“What a cold and rainy day. Where on earth is the sun hidaway.”

Seriously: Where on earth IS the sun hidaway?

I try my best not to whine. I realize I’m one lucky chick with one privileged life.  But damn if Mother Nature ain’t on my sh*t list these days.

Not since growing up in Kansas, where folks would gather on the porch with transistor radios until the tornado warnings sent them scurrying to the basement, have I spent so much time as this winter thinking about the weather.  Cold.  Grey.  Snow.  Slush.  Rain. Repeat.  Pretty soon it will be frogs, then hail mixed with fire, and eventually zombies will be involved. 

I hate this winter’s weather so much I’m trying to figure out how to kill it in my next book.

Because here’s the thing: Like that cute little barefoot Natalie Merchant, I am affected by the weather.  I shouldn’t be.  My job is indoors.  Most of my favorite city activities are indoors.  In theory, I don’t even need to go outside.

But somehow my body knows that it’s trecherous out there.  And when it’s trecherous, I get lazy.  I made myself go to the gym today, but my legs were moving halftime on the treadmill as if to say, “What do you expect, woman?  It’s raining out there.”

I can’t even write.  My brain’s a little foggy.  My eyelids are sort of droopy.  Somehow the sound of rubber tires on those wet Manhattan streets is so loud I can’t concentrate.  It’s so dark outside I can’t get enough light.  At least that’s how it feels.

But give me a dry, sunny day, and I’m the Energizer Bunny on crystal meth.  I’ll jump from bed, do a double work-out, and jam on my laptop for a couple or few thousand words.  I’ll tidy the apartment, run my errands, open my mail, and pay my bills.  I’ll take a shower and brush my hair.  I’ll even smile at strangers without scaring them.

These days… well, let’s just say it’s a good thing you can’t see me or my apartment right now.  Pretty sights, neither.

I gather I’m not alone in my primal connection to the weather.  Just ask Natalie Merchant. 

But despite old song lyrics and that urban legend about suicide rates in Seattle, I know some people who hate the sun and love the rain.  People who are energized by snow.  People who love clouds.  Maybe it’s just how we are wired. 

What’s your story?  Are you affected by the climate, or are you able to tune it out?  If you are affected, which weather reports float your boat, and which send you back into bed?

If you liked this post, please follow me on Facebook, Twitter, and/or my newsletter.  In the meantime, I’ll be trying to cheer myself up without Mother Nature’s help.  I was like, baby, baby, baby no… baby, baby, baby…