Jersey-licious with Brad Parks

by Brett Battles

Next week my friend Brad Park’s latest novel, EYES OF THE INNOCENT, will be released. This is the second in his Carter Ross series, the first of which, the award winning FACES OF THE GONE, will be available in paperback the same day. Thought today we’d get to know a little bit more about Mr. Parks and Carter Ross and the state of life in New Jersey.

First, if you’re a author wondering how you might raise your profile, and have considered doing a blog tour, but are unsure how to make that happen, here’s something you might be interested in. My good friend Dana Kaye will be hosting a webinar TOMORROW on just how to do that. Click here to find out more information. (http://blogtour101.eventbrite.com/) Murderati readers can receive a $5 discount by entering the discount code: murderati

Now to Brad…

Brad, welcome to Murderati, and congratulations on the upcoming release.

Most authors, if not all, started off as huge readers, and each seems to have had one or two favorites that really influenced their desire to write. So, who is your gateway author, and what was it about their work that grabbed you?

I got hooked by a wizened Florida boat bum named Travis McGee and the man who created him, John D. MacDonald. My Dad was a big John D. fan and, by some coincidence, the “M” part of the family bookshelf was just about eye height to a 13-year-old. I’m not sure what grabbed me as a kid (other than perhaps Travis’s talent with the ladies), but as a grown up I marvel at MacDonald’s ability to imbue his work with sense of time and place — you really feel what it’s like to be in South Florida in the 50’s and 60’s when reading his stuff. But you probably wouldn’t appreciate something like that, Brett, inasmuch as Quinn never leaves his living room.

Ah, yeah, I’ll let you bring that up with Quinn yourself. But I’m with you on Travis McGee. Think I’ve read the series all the way through at least three times. So where did Carter Ross come from? He’s certainly is completely the opposite of you…oh…wait…

Yeah, we’re quite different. For example, while we’re both stiff, starchy, khaki-wearing WASPs with identical physical traits — 6-1, 185, brown hair, blue eyes — it turns out Carter is not left-handed, whereas I am. So, as you can see, any similarities between me and my main character are…

Oh, hell, fine. You got me. I guess the funny thing is, I never really gave much thought to what I was creating in Carter. During my days as a newspaper reporter, I always knew I wasn’t the story, and I think that sensibility was strongly in place when Carter Ross began forming. I was more interested in the story he had to tell than in who he was as a storyteller. So I figured if I made him like me — the most boring white man alive — the reader would find the story more interesting, too. It never occurred to me readers would latch onto the guy. (And, in truth, most of them haven’t — by ratio, Carter’s cat, Deadline, enjoys a 5:1 advantage in reader mail).

A series, was that always the plan?

Definitely. New Jersey in general — and Newark in particular — are dream locales for a crime fiction writer. Virtually every ethnic group, ethnic mob, street gang and category of malfeasance can be found somewhere in the great Garden State. Might as well keep using it. I can’t imagine ever running out of stories for Carter to cover.

Every time I see you a conference I always get the feeling you have a team up in your hotel room making sure you’re looking as sharp as you can before you step out the door. True or false? If true, elaborate. If false, explain yourself.

The BradParksBooks.com crew really does a great job, doesn’t it? I have Manuela on hair — I’d be lost without her. Stephen picks my outfits. And for my money, Hector is the best traveling manicurist in the business (I hired him away from Patterson, take THAT Jimbo!). Unfortunately, budget cuts at the publishing house necessitated letting go of Johnny, my trainer and nutritionist, so if I look a little soft around the middle, that’s why.

I mean, what, you think I want to be one of those authors who rolls out of bed and stumbles down to the conference bar in jeans, sneakers, a long sleeve T-shirt and… oh, hey Brett! Looks good on you, though.

Nice dropping in of the website, very subtle. So I’m told you’re the first person to win a Shamus and a Nero Award for the same book…can’t remember exactly who told me, but…Congratulations. Has that helped you get any respect from your friends and family? Or is it business as usual?

Yeah, every once in a while my wife wanders by the Nero Award — a very handsome brass bust of detective Nero Wolfe — and mutters, “Couldn’t they have given you a check instead?” No, seriously, it was very gratifying to win those awards. And I think it has given me a little extra credibility, not so much with friends (who pretty much know how full of crap I am), or with family (who taught me how to be full of crap in the first place), but with booksellers and librarians and folks of that ilk. It’s a very crowded marketplace, as you know, and awards help you stand out a little bit. Besides, I like how the Nero Award looks on the mantel.

Give us a little lowdown on EYES OF THE INNOCENT. Was there anything specific that inspired the story?

Yes and no. As a journalist, I did a lot of reporting on the subprime mortgage crisis, and the story starts with a character who gets in trouble in part because of a subprime mortgage. I also did reporting about house-flipping and political corruption, and those are in there, too. But it’s not so much anything specific — like one particular story I covered, as was the case in my first book — and more an amalgam of real-life things, which I then chopped up and turned into one big fictional stew.

What’s up next for you? More Carter?

Carter Ross Nos. 3 and 4 are written and waiting to go. I also have a Young Adult that my agent is shopping (it’s called “Secrets High School,” and I promise there are no vampires in it). Once I’m done with my tour for EYES OF THE INNOCENT, I might try a stand-alone. Or maybe I’ll start a series about a guy who I’ll call a “cleaner.” He works for this agency and, well, I don’t want to get into details, but do you think that’ll work?

You just try it, Mr. Parks. I’ve already done the research, so if you go missing you’ll never be found. Just saying…

Thanks for stopping by Brad!

Thanks for having me. And, hey, if you want Stephen to, you know, work on your wardrobe a bit, I’m sure he’d be happy to help.

Appreciate the offer, but I’ll pass for now.

All right, Murderati, if you have any questions for Brad, let ‘em rip!

(Reminder to anyone in Los Angeles on Monday. It’s Mystery Bookstore’s final day, and there will be a party starting at 6 – if not earlier – and going until whenever. Rob, Steve, Alex – I believe – and I will all be there along with a lot of other writers and fans. Hope you show up too.)

Music, Music Everywhere

by J.D. Rhoades

As I’ve mentioned before, I’m one of those people who likes to have some music on when I write. For one thing, having the headphones on is good for drowning out the other noises in the house. There’s also something about music that tickles the creative lobes of my brain and stimulates better writing.

One of the things that’s really delighted me about the Internet in recent years is the way it’s expanded access to music. I’ve discovered dozens of new artists through friends posting their favorite music on Facebook or their blogs. Sites like Amazon.com, Rhapsody and iTumes have made it easy–perhjaps too easy– to buy music and download it to your Mp3 player or computer with one click of a button.

But even beyond that, I’ve discovered a number of ways to find and enjoy tunes on the Web. Some do charge a subscription fee, but the majority are free. So, for those of you who may not be familiar, I’d like to share with you some of the stuff I play through the computer while I write and/or goof off.

I’m not trying to start one of those endless and tedious debates over Apple’s hegemony, but I honestly don’t understand why anyone bothers with iTunes when there’s Rhapsody. You can buy and download music at both places, but Rhapsody, for a modest monthly fee (10-15 bucks a month, depending on your plan), allows you to “stream” literally millions of songs–everything from classics to recent major releases– to your computer, as many times as you like. One plan allows you to download and play music on a variety of Rhapsody-compatible portable players for no extra charge. All you have to do is plug the player once every 30 days to renew the subscriptions. If you want to burn tracks to a CD, you do have to purchase them, but it’s only 99 cents for most tracks. The Rhapsody software also plays your already existing MP3 library.

If you want to hear a mix in a specific genre or style, check out Pandora.com. You sign up for a free account, and then create “stations” based on your preferences. Plug in a specific artist or song and something called the “Music Genome Project” will find it, play it, then find songs with similar attributes and play those. As I write this, I’m listening to my “Neville Brothers” station, which treats me to (of course) the Nevilles, along with artists like Little Feat, Jimmie Vaughn, The Subdudes, etc. I also have a “Deathcore Metal” Station, a Chicago Blues station, and many more. You can spend some money and upgrade the service, but I find the free one suits me just fine. It’s also available for streaming through a variety of Wi-fi enabled BluRay players.

If you want to be the DJ, there’s always blip.fm. Sign in, search for a song you want to “blip”, and use it to start your own playlist. As you get more familiar with it, you can meet and subscribe to other DJs whose music you like, gather your own listeners, and save songs you hear to your own favorites. There’s even video if you want it. .

If you really want to stretch out and be adventurous, let me recommend shoutcast.com, It’s another free service that provides you with access to online radio stations across the world. Some of the feeds are live from broadcast stations with a ‘net presence, some are homegrown stations created by hobbyists. You can get Top 40, Country, whatever you’re into, but the worldwide natrue of the stations lets you search for and easily find some interesting stuff. For instance, I’ve lately found myself listening a lot to Serbian pop music from Radio Desetka in Belgrade. Wonderfully cheesy.

One of my favorite memories of my college days was hanging around and doing the occasional fill-in shift at the college radio station, WXYC-FM. College radio at the time was a blast. Volunteer student DJ’s, freed from the tyranny of commercial playlists, would play damn near anything. True, the results could be a little hit or miss, but that was part of the fun. One of my favorite jocks from those days, a guy named Keith Weston, has preserved some of the spirit of those days with his website, Deeper Into Music. The website’s banner promises “obscure songs mixed with familiar chestnuts,” which about sums it up. It’s a great mix of some of my favorite bands from back in the day mixed with some very tasty modern indie rock. Check it out.

So tell us, dear ‘Rati: where, if at all, do you go to find music on the ‘net? Any goodies you’d like to share?

Confessions of a Failed Tiger Mom

by Tess Gerritsen

A few years ago, I had the pleasure of sitting on a literary panel with Jed Rubenfeld, a soft-spoken and charmingly self-deprecating novelist whose debut historical thriller, The Interpretation of Murder, had just been released. After the panel, he invited me to an address in uptown Manhattan, where his daughter was giving a violin recital, which unfortunately I couldn’t attend. I thought it an unusual invitation to get from a fellow novelist — until he told me that his wife was Chinese. And then I thought: “well, of course,” and the invitation no longer seemed at all surprising to me. Because I’m the daughter of Chinese parents, and lord knows, I endured a childhood of countless violin and piano recitals, to which everyone my family knew was always invited.

Rubenfeld’s wife is now in the news, and in a big way. Her name is Amy Chua, she’s a Yale Law School professor, and she’s just released a memoir called Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, about being a Chinese mother. She also wrote an essay that appeared in the Wall Street Journal, which resulted in a storm of publicity and criticism about her rather strict style of parenting. That essay has generated over 7200 comments and counting, some of them from people who call her an abusive control freak. I haven’t read the book yet (although I’m looking forward to it), but based on what I’ve seen of newspaper reviews, Chua’s book is funnier and more thoughtful than the essay makes it seem, and Chua’s two daughters have reportedly matured into happy, talented young women. Yet the criticism continues, because the American public is both astonished — and somewhat appalled — by Chua’s hard-driving parenting. For instance, her children were not allowed to:

• attend a sleepover

• have a playdate

• be in a school play

• complain about not being in a school play

• watch TV or play computer games

• choose their own extracurricular activities

• get any grade less than an A

• not be the No. 1 student in every subject except gym and drama

• play any instrument other than the piano or violin

• not play the piano or violin.

For most Americans, that looks like a shockingly autocratic list of demands. All I can say is, welcome to my childhood.

When I was growing up in California, all the Asian-American mothers I knew were Tiger Moms. Every single one of my childhood cohorts played the piano or violin or both. It wasn’t as if my parents said, “You want to play the piano?” Instead it was: “Your first piano lesson will be on Tuesday.”

So now I play the piano and the violin.

I was also told, like Chua’s kids, that anything less than an A was an unacceptable grade in school. Then, after my parents found out that there was an even better grade, called an A plus, they were no longer satisfied with a plain vanilla A. My grades all had to be A pluses. Except for physical education class, which was an exception that Chua also made for her kids. Chinese parents don’t really care whether their kids are jocks, and they consider team sports a complete waste of time. However, if it’s an individual sport where you can shine and make them proud — such as figure skating or gymnastics — that’s okay.

As for sleepovers? Dates with boys? No way. My dad absolutely forbade me from dating until I was a senior in high school. That doesn’t mean I actually followed the rules. Chinese kids learn early how to get around those rules.

I’m glad that my parents weren’t as strict as Chua when it came to some school activities. I was allowed to perform in school plays, which was my biggest pleasure in high school. I acted, wrote, and directed, which helped me learn the basics of drama — lessons that helped me as a writer. I’m also grateful that my parents let me watch TV. I can’t imagine a childhood without “Star Trek” or “Gilligan’s Island” or — hanging my head in embarrassment — “Mr. Ed.” Those were cultural touchstones that made me into a real American.

But in so many ways, mine was the classic Chinese-American childhood. For the most part, I’m grateful for it. I’m grateful that I play the piano and violin, that I was accepted at a top university, that I earned my medical degree.

But there’s also a dark side to growing up with tiger parents. I’ve heard from too many Asians whose dreams of careers in the arts were thwarted by their parents. One 45-year-old computer engineer wrote me, mourning the fact he was now too old to pursue a fashion career. “I have only one life, and I’m spending it at a job I hate. Because it’s what my parents wanted for me.” I heard the story of a young man whose parents wouldn’t let him pursue a singing career, and instead demanded he became a doctor. The day he earned his medical degree, he called his father and said, “I’ve done what you wanted. Now I’m doing what I want.” And he became one of the top opera singers in China.

My own childhood, with its emphasis on staying home alone and studying, probably led to my continuing feelings of social ineptness. I still feel awkward in cocktail parties. Small talk is beyond me. I never learned to be comfortable in social situations — and I wonder if other Asian Amerians feel likewise.

When it came to raising my own children, I have to admit, I’m a failed Tiger Mom. My husband is Dutch, and you know how lenient those hang-loose Dutch are. Anything goes! I managed to hang onto a few Tiger Mom practices. My older son plays the violin and my younger son plays the cello. I never asked them if they wanted to play an instrument; I just told them it was time to start. But all the rest of it? Demanding they practice their instruments? Get straight A’s? Get into Harvard? Way too much work for this laissez-faire mom. Instead, I’m the mom who waited in line with my kids for the midnight showing of “Star Wars, Episode I” and wrote them this excuse note for school: My sons couldn’t make it to school yesterday because they were exhausted from watching the premiere of the new “Star Wars” movie, which I felt was an important cultural event. Yes, I really wrote that note. My sons still talk about it.

As a Tiger Mom, I failed. I’m no good at demanding obedience from anyone. And my boys have been allowed to pursue their own dreams, even if those dreams are wildly impractical.

After all, it’s what I did; I wouldn’t expect them do do any less.

In the mood . . .

by Pari

I’ve long been fascinated with the deep myths we carry about what writers are and aren’t. One of my favorites was very difficult to shed: the vision of myself in a freezing garret somewhere in Paris, circa 1920, with an espresso in one hand and a Gauloise in the other. My hair would be short, oily and wild because of the many times I grab it . . . pull at it . . . run my fingers through it . . . The mood would be one of mad creativity and struggle – torture almost – as I midwife brilliance out of each ink-dipped quill scratch upon a thick sheet of paper.

Yeah . . . I know.

The reality of how I write is much less romantic: I turn on the Notebook, sit my butt down and go. The phone rings. The dogs need to be let out. Oh, it’s time to pick up the kids! Wow, I’ve got to get this brochure written; that media contact made for a client; call others for donations for a third; here are the fifteen emails for Left Coast Crime; need to make a decision. Is it the right one? Oops! I’ve got to make dinner. Who’s washing the dishes? Taking out the garbage?

Still I manage daily to further the fiction word count. A writer needs to write; I’m writing.

But lately I’ve been going through an extremely intense emotional time. It’s guaranteed to last beyond Left Coast Crime – maybe for the rest of my life – and I’m finding a new challenge in my work. One I’d never thought about before.

You see, my mood doesn’t match the story I want to write and I think it’s influencing my work in a way I don’t want. But I love the WIP and don’t want to abandon it right now. And the reality is that what’s going on personally/emotionally isn’t going to be a quick fix, it might never be fixed. In that case, the whole idea of postponing the work for the right time is moot.

So what do I do?

For now I’m forging ahead. I console myself with the knowledge that editing will probably be my friend in this case. Or, if I’m lucky, I’m wrong about the influence of this sadness on the story. Perhaps writing will stand well enough in spite of – or because of – this period of flux.

So my questions today are these:

1. As readers, have you ever come across a piece of fiction that felt like the storyteller wasn’t in the story? That it was somehow inauthentic – not because of skill, but precisely because of something deeper and much less tangible?

2. As writers, have you ever experienced what I’m so insufficiently trying to express: a time where your emotions just don’t mesh with the work but you’re unwilling to stop writing it?

And an apology: Because of what’s going on, in addition to work and Left Coast Crime, I’ve been very quiet on the blog . . . haven’t been participating in the conversation much at all. I see this being the pattern until early April. Please bear with me. After LCC, I’ll surely be more active here again.

girl power

by Toni McGee Causey

There’s a difference between being cocky and being confident, but young girls aren’t often taught that the latter is theirs to have. The messages that abound in our media are often confusing and contradictory; with the advent of the divas all over TV (can there really be that many idiot so-called housewives who think they will ever come out looking good on one of those shows?)… and the wailing toddlers wearing tiaras on reality shows throwing Superbowl sized tantrums, and the bride shows that reward outrageously bad behavior, and the tremendous pressure to be sexy and alluring long before anything like that should even be a part of their conversation–we’re telling girls that they’re still objects, and whiny, bratty ones at that, but as long as they look good, they, too, can be famous/popular/rich. And that nothing else really matters.

These messages carry over so firmly into adulthood, that we rarely, as women, feel good saying, “I did that well,” or “I’m confident that effort I made was great.” If we’re confident? Someone inevitably thinks we’re up on our high horse and that we need to be knocked down, and we get that message so freaking often as girls, that it’s hard to just be quietly confident as an adult woman without second guessing oneself all of the time. (Did I look like a bitch when I said that? Did I sound like I was too full of myself? Did I, in other words, just turn myself into a target? I cannot tell you how many times that has run through my head when I have done something well, and knew it, and mentioned it.). [Deborah Tannen’s YOU JUST DON’T UNDERSTAND underscores this, how girls socialize at a young age to try to make everyone “equal.” Very interesting book.]

I think girls are often taught to feel like misfits in our own bodies–we aren’t celebrated for what we can do (which we might have some control over), but are often celebrated (or berated and ostracized) for how we look (which we have very little superficial control over). [I could rant for hours on this alone. I deleted it. You’re welcome.]

And then sometimes you see a video where you see something you know you wouldn’t have seen even twenty years ago, and you think, it’s very possible girls are getting the message after all: be yourself. Be active. Do. You are impressive. Especially when an entire stadium of men–at the Army/Navy basketball game–end up giving them a standing ovation.

Girl power. It rocks. It gives me hope.

If you’re female, what lessons do you wish you’d learned as a kid? What would you go back and tell yourself, if you had the chance?

If you’re male, what misconceptions do you think women have about what men think about women? What would you say to your daughter to help them deal with the obstacles they may face as they grow up?

Getting Lucky

By Cornelia Read

Sometimes I wonder about the phrase “getting lucky,” or even the single word “lucky.” The connotations are positive, even though the type of luck one’s discussing is never actually specified.

Which seems like maybe a bad idea.

It’s even a bit like one of those “leverage your synergies” business misuses of words that have most annoyed me, over the past ten years or so: using the word “quality,” unqualified, and presuming it means “high quality.”

Some regional manager of sales blathers on and one about how “This is a quality product/job/experience,” without bothering to wonder what KIND of quality. I mean, shitty quality? Mediocre quality? Quality that elicits multiple gagging noises from all the other people trapped in the conference room while the guy’s fucking Powerpoint presentation drags on and on?

This is why I refuse to watch “The Office,” by the way. My daughter keeps telling me it’s wonderful, and I keep saying, “look, if I have to spend upwards of eight hours a day in a room full of inarticulate assholes throwing ill-sharpened darts of political expediency at one another, the least I should get out of it is health insurance.”

And then she says, “What the hell are you talking about, upwards of eight hours a day? The show’s an hour long.”

And I say, “yeah, but that’s not how long it FEELS.”

She is routinely not amused. Go figure.

Meanwhile, I have been getting lucky lately. Good lucky. Lubricious lucky. And auspiciously “my editor actually kind of likes the first draft” lucky–all at the same time.

(Um… not, like, simultaneously. Just, generally within the same loose time FRAME.)

Which, hello, doesn’t suck. Hugely doesn’t suck. (okay, maybe sometimes… um…)

Yeah. This after five years of no lucky.

(Hint:

Take this image, and then draw a huge red circle and slash over it.)

That would be how not lucky. For five years. Well, except for that one night with the Irish guy I used to… ahem… yeah. Not going there.

(Look! Something shiny! Behind you!)

Where were we? Oh yeah. The last five years of my not-lucky…

So, time for visual aids… here’s what the last five years of my life have been like, in pictures. (Because it is 3:43 a.m. and I have been, ahem, getting lucky. The good kind.)

It started becoming like this, first:

And there had already been a lot of what felt excruciatlingly like this:

Which didn’t exactly improve.

And then the real estate market went to shit:

And meanwhile the whole marital situation was like this:

No, actually, more like this (if Elizabeth Taylor had been entirely blameless and Richard Burton had become a shrill Fox-News-Republican asshole):

Which at least made us both pretty goddamn happy when it got to this:

And then there was a lot of this:

Which sucked hugely, and didn’t make anything feel LIGHTER or anything, as you might expect.

And meanwhile I had moved 3000 miles away from a place I’d spent nine years accumulating excellent friends in, which felt like this:

Only without the boat. Or even any sled dogs, for shit’s sake.

And meanwhile I was trying to write one of these:

Which most days made me feel like this:

(Hint: I would NOT be the person pictured standing in the doorway with oven mitts on… And I watch this even less than I watch The Office. Which is to say NOT AT ALL.)

Except I would have been puking this:

So progress on the work front was pretty much this:

Which I’m sure made my edtior and agent feel like this:

Which of course helped me write better and faster. Not.

In fact, I ended up consoling myself with a lot of this:

And other fine online viewing.

Even though I was totally worried about my dwindling supplies of this:

And then I really had to finish my first draft for my lovely, long-suffering editor:

Which actually worked out, and meanwhie there has been a good bit of this lately:

Um, except for the whole “actually, one of us is NOT a chick” thing.

(And neither of us being named “Britney,” either. Thank GOD.)

So, now it’s 4:20 (heh) and I’m going to go to sleep.

Please wish me more luck. Good luck.

And as for you, dearest ‘Ratis… Got Luck?

Scent of a Woman

by JT Ellison

Shalimar.

Quick. What’s that make you think of? Can you smell it?

Shalimar on cold fur, whispering against my mother’s skin as she came to tuck me in after an evening out at a fancy ball.

Shalimar means Temple of Love in Sanskrit. And really, isn’t that why we use perfume and cologne? To attract? To comfort. To leave behind a memory? I am fascinated by what people choose to dab themselves in. It’s so much more than smelling pretty, really, it’s more about who you are. Your scent says a lot about you. So don’t laugh when I say this is probably the most intimate post I’ve ever done on Murderati.

I don’t wear much perfume these days. Instead, I’m a dedicated fan of La Vanilla, which is a rollerball delivered essential oil of vanilla. It is yummy. Delicious. When I wear it my husband tells me I smell good. That’s good enough for me.

But I’ve tried my hand at a number of perfumes over the years.

I started out with the age-old classic, Love’s Baby Soft.

I remember how special I felt when I graduated to White Shoulders.

Then on to Charlie, which I always felt vaguely silly wearing.

Anäis Anäis, my first teenager girl perfume.

Tresor, my second teenage girl perfume.

Joy, which trumped all of the above and was without a doubt my signature scent from about fifteen to thirty.

Chanel no. 5, which they’ve sadly just changed the formula on.

Gio, which, to my utter horror, was discontinued and parades now as Aqua di Gio, a pale imitation of its scrumptious predecessor.

Arpege, which I still wear on occasion, but has a tendency to make drunk men corner me by the bathrooms and tell me I smell pretty.

Philosophy Amazing Grace, which I do still wear. Mostly in my hair, at the beach, for some reason.

Despite that list, I’m incredibly picky when it comes to scent. Patchouli makes me sneeze. Red Door gives me an immediate migraine. Obsession was just so, well, obsessive. Most perfumes seem too loud, too forward. And when it comes to men’s scents – forget about it.

My man wears this great subtle cologne that no one can smell but me, because you can’t smell it unless your nose is literally up against the skin. (He’s going to kill me for that. I foresee Randy being sniffed at close range at the next conference bar…)

But I’ve dated them all.

Polo – Sorry, boys, but GAG ME WITH A SPOON. Granted, Polo used with a modicum of discretion probably wouldn’t be bad, but for some reason, men loved to drown themselves in it. There was one guy in high school who you could literally smell coming from two halls away.

Royal Copenhagen – okay, that’s more like it. A subtle, powdery scent.

Davidoff Cool Water – I am so not going there… but I do still have the clear glass heart Christmas ornament he gave me. Shhh….

Drakkar Noir – It sounded so freaking cool – I wear Drakkar – but the guys who did were utter Guidos or on the wrestling team. I always wondered how that felt, being pinned to the mat by a guy wearing Drakkar. Well, how it felt for the guys. Ahem.

My Dad was an Aqua Velva Guy. I am immediately sent into his arms any time I smell it. Same with Old Spice and my grandfather.

But Shalimar… wow. A classic. We were watching MAD MEN the other night, the first season, and Joan’s roommate asks her is she’s wearing Shalimar, and I was thrust back in time, to the mirrored perfume tray on my dresser, chock full of lovely glass bottles. To the feeling of being a woman, fresh from the shower, dabbing perfume in my pressure spots – inside the wrist, inside the elbow, behind the knee, behind the ear, between the breasts. Seeing my olfactory palate change as I matured.

There’s something so indefinable, yet so concrete, about how a woman smells. And no matter what, those smells are attached to memories. Good memories, bad memories, indifferent memories. Memories that make us laugh, or cry, or feel vaguely ashamed.

Think of the pheromones we put off naturally, the undetectable aromas that attract a mate. Think of how we spent so many years disguising them, drowning out our natural scent in favor of smelling like a flower. To what end? Attracting bumblebees?

Well damn. That just makes me think about Spanish Fly.

I thought I’d drag you down memory lane with me. But there is a point to all of this. Tell me about your favorite scent, your favorite cologne, from now, or then. A scent that evokes a memory. Something that you love, or hate. That makes you tingle inside, or draw back in disgust.

And I’ll do a random drawing for a galley of my new book, SO CLOSE THE HAND OF DEATH.*

Ready? Go!

Wine of the Week: Zen of Zin Good wine depends on scent. It’s part of the experience. Your nose makes your taste buds work properly. This one is yummy – cherry and strawberry; spice vanilla and orange peel. And if I’m not mistaken, a little bit of earth overlaid with Pacific Ocean breeze. Those Sonoma Valley Zinfandels are unmistakable.

*I’ll announce the winners on my personal blog, Tao of JT, Sunday night, and leave a note here in the comments. If you’ve already entered over there, please don’t double dip. I’ll do two separate drawings so it’s fair to everyone.

Problematica Technica

Zoë Sharp

I believe I may have mentioned it before that I don’t like making mistakes. It bugs me to realise that I’ve left some small error in the final version of a book that I just know people are going to spot and giggle about. And occasionally they do.

I’ve been doing quite a bit of reading over Christmas, and finally got around to finishing the final part of the Millennium trilogy. Wonderful books once I got into them – I can entirely understand their popularity – but chock-full of factual errors, including one involving how a TASER functions which was a major part of the plot.

But anyway …

If you watch any kind of TV cop shows, it’s easy to see where a lot of writer’s mistakes come from – Hollywood. I’m a bit of a fan of TV cop shows, I admit. A couple of episodes of NCIS or CSI, or Without A Trace are what I need to wind down before I head back up to the computer to put in another late-nighter. But it’s purely entertainment, not research.

Because we don’t have ‘live’ TV we watch stuff on DVD instead, which means we can watch old and new series almost back-to-back. For this reason we happened across an old episode of CSI where the plot centred on illegal street racing, a la The Fast And The Furious, and a new episode of NCIS: Los Angeles which also had street racing as its backdrop.

Why is it that so many people get car stuff wrong in books and on screen? I mean, I can understand gun errors. Not that many people have seen a real gun up close, never mind handled or fired one. I didn’t think there was any thriller writer out there who still talks about flicking the safety-catch off a Glock, but I’ve been surprised recently.

And I have to say that the movies don’t help. I’m amazed how many TV cop shows have somebody run out of ammunition at a vital moment, and only realise the fact because they keep pulling the trigger on their semiautomatic and it goes ‘click’ repeatedly. Now, anybody who’s shot a semiautomatic knows that when the magazine is empty, the slide locks back (see pic below and please excuse silly grin – I don’t get to play with firearms much these days). Squeeze the trigger and nothing happens. No ‘click’. Not even once, never mind repeatedly.

Of course, there are oddities. I had one character using a SOCOM Mk23 covert pistol in one book. This is designed for taking out sentries. When the suppressor is fitted, the gun has a slide lock that prevents the ejection of the brass, so the noise of the mech working does not negate the silencing of the shot.

But I digress …

Back to cars. Just about everybody’s driven a car, or seen one, or sat in one. But I can’t believe the writers for one of those cop shows I mentioned came up with the idea that fitting a new experimental-type of battery to a car would cause it to, a) go like brown smelly stuff off a shovel, or b) explode for no apparent reason. I confess that don’t remember a great deal else about that particular episode because I was too busy laughing.

And, for heaven’s sake, vehicles do NOT burst into a dramatic fireball after a few rounds fired into them. Most times, you need to blast away with incendiary rounds before the damn things even start to burn. Erm, not that I’ve tried it, of course …

They don’t blow up from being pushed over cliffs, either. And if the engine is turning over without the engine firing, it’s NOT the battery at fault. Shooting out the radiator will not cause the car to stop instantly, either. Speaking as someone who’s had their radiator holed by a disintegrating fanbelt, you can get quite a few miles before the engine temp climbs to the point where you have to stop and let it cool down, but you CAN limp home if you’re careful.

Medical clangers are even more prevalent. My favourite go-to guy for all queries of a forensic or medical nature is Doug Lyle – DP Lyle MD. Doug is the author of numerous mystery novels as well as forensic books, and I recently came across an old issue of the MWA newsletter where he listed the top ten writer’s medical and forensic mistakes:

The Quick Death: “No one dies instantly. Well, almost no one. Instant death can occur with heart attacks, strokes, extremely abnormal heart rhythms, and cyanide and other ‘metabolic’ poisons. A shot to the chest or abdomen leads to a lot of screaming and moaning, but death comes from bleeding and that takes a while.”
The Pretty Death: “I call this ‘the Hollywood death’ – real dead people are ugly, pale, waxy and grey.”
The Bleeding Death: “Dead folks don’t bleed. When you die your heart stops and the blood no longer circulates and it clots. Stagnant or clotted blood does not move.”
The Accurate Time of Death: “Determining time of death is neither easy nor accurate. It is always a best guess and is stated as a range and not an exact time. In real life, the ME would say that death likely occurred ‘between 8pm and midnight’ but that might make him appear wishy-washy and Hollywood likes its heroes to be smart.”
The One-Punch Knockout: “The hero socks the bad guy’s henchman in the jaw. He goes down and is apparently written out of the script because we never hear from him again. It’s always the henchman because the antagonist, like most people, requires a few solid blows to go down.”
The Disappearing Black Eye: “If your character gets a black eye in Chapter 3, he will have it for two weeks, which will likely take you through to the end of the book. He will not be ‘normal’ in two days. On a good note, by about day seven your female character may be able to hide it with make-up.”
The Quick Healing: “If your character falls down the stairs and injures his back, he will not be able to run from or chase the bad guy or make love to his new lover the next day.”
The Untraceable Poison: “No such thing.”
The Instant Athlete: “Your PI drinks too much, smokes too much, and eats donuts on a regular basis. He will not be able to chase the villain for ten blocks. Two on a good day.”
The Instant Lab Result: “The world is not like CSI. In the real world, the same test can take days, even weeks. And the coroner will not likely release a report until the results are confirmed.”

Obviously, I’m paraphrasing, but if you want the full run-down you’ll just have to go out and buy one of Doug’s excellent books, such as FORENSICS FOR DUMMIES. I highly recommend it as a fixture for every crime writer’s bookshelf.

So, what mistakes have you come across lately, on page or screen?

And just so you don’t think I’m being entirely without humour today, here’s a wonderful sketch with Ronnie Corbett and Harry Enfield: My Blackberry Is Not Working!

This week’s Word of the Week is culverin, which was an early form of handgun; later a type of cannon with a long barrel of relatively narrow bore, used in the 16^th and 17^th centuries, also culverineer.

The Secret Life of Jack the Bear

by Rob

After months of indecision our family finally said goodbye in October to our 17-year-old chow-schipperke mix Jack.

And while we know putting him down was the right thing to do, there remains at times a bit of doubt and a fair amount of guilt.

After all, was it really that hard to get up several times a night to pick him up off the floor because his hind legs were essentially useless? Was it really that hard to pick him up a dozen more times during the waking hours, even if he was usually atop Jack-poop or Jack-pee that needed to be cleaned up? Was it really that hard to jump up to run and carry him outside when we could tell he was about to go potty yet again?

No, that part–while absolutely no fun and definitely not missed–wasn’t that hard. After all, he needed us to help him do these basic things.

What was tough was knowing how much pain he had to be in. While he still ate and seemed happy to be alive, what kind of life was it, really?

But what was especially heartbreaking was looking into his eyes knowing that although he wasn’t our old Jack, he was “still Jack.”

The Jack who loved to have his ears rubbed.

The Jack who–when told to “take care of Betty,” our black lab who loved to escape through our apparently useless fence and roam, roam, roam–went galavanting with Betty instead of making sure she stayed home. (In his defense, our instructions weren’t clear–he did take care of Betty while they were adventuring.)

The Jack who led a secret life for years before we discovered the truth.

While talking to our elderly neighbor several years ago, my wife learned that Jack would go to the neighbor’s house, where they’d visit with each other until she told him it was time to go home. Then he would get up and leave. Every day. For years.

Were it not for that chat, we would never have known, because Jack was always home when we came home. Every day. For years. Lying around. Usually asleep.

Then there was the time we came home to find a child’s handwritten note that said, “Your dog saved my life!!! He ran across the street and chased away a big dog that was scaring me!” Jack the Hero. Jack the Hero who was home that day when we came home. Lying around. Asleep.

Like Jack, we all have a secret or two.

Mine? I write under a couple of pseudonyms. And because a man has to keep some mystery about him, I won’t tell you what they are. I know, I’m a bastard.

Now it wouldn’t be fair to ask you to give up your secrets since I didn’t. But if you are so inclined, how about telling us something about yourself that we don’t know? Hidden talents? Most embarrassing moment? Your pseudonym?

It’s OK, you’re among friends. We won’t tell anyone. 😉

Levels of Compassion

By Louise Ure

I’ve learned a great deal about myself this last couple of weeks and an equal amount about levels of compassion.

I’ve spent the last week in the middle of the Queensland floods. Untouched by them if the truth be told, but smack dab in the middle of it all.

Five of us had travelled to the resort town of Noosa to stay in the $8 million vacation home of a friend. Balconies on all four sides. Teak decks and plantation shutters. A riverfront setting with a private boat dock and just a five minute walk from the beach and all the shops.

It bucketed down rain for five days straight. Real Singapore-style monsoon rain … a wall of water with crashes of thunder and shudder-inducing lightning. But that was fine. We could read good books stretched out on the lounges or brave the rain for a fine meal down the road. We were isolated. We were oblivious.

I entered an orgy of eating duck. Duck rillette. Duck prosciutto. Duck terrine. Duck pate. Duck and rosemary pies. Crispy skin duck. Duck confit. Duck Marylands. I became so besotted with duck that I could have paddled back to San Francisco with my own little webbed feet. It was an idyll. A perfect vacation hidden behind a wall of falling water.

Until the owner of the house called to ask if his house was floating away. “Turn on the TV. It’s a true inland tsunami and more than sixty percent of Queensland is underwater.” Think about that. Sixty percent of Queensland is larger than France and Germany combined.

We did. And we finally saw what the rest of the world had been watching for the last two days. Cars hauled backwards over a bridge of rushing brown water. Houses unmoored and crashing against concrete abutments. Parents who managed to push both children up onto a roof before being swept away themselves. A thirteen-year old boy who had pleaded with rescuers to take his little brother first and got his wish. I imagine open-mouthed screams from the people in those houses as lives changed and ended in the blink of an eye.

We were mesmerized … and terrified. These were scenes from only 60 or 90 kilometers away. Our little river behind the house fed into their rivers. The rain falling on us fell also on their shoulders. And yet … and yet … we were a world apart. A literal island that felt no such pain. Yes, the river rose, but not enough to swamp the house. Our streets ran gutter to gutter with water but soon emptied back to the sea. Our shops and restaurants were all still open (and serving duck) even though the roads to both the north and south were cut.

It was then I started to think about levels of compassion. For me, hearing about a great disaster is the most remote sort of compassion, a calm narrator’s voice on the radio provides great distance between me and the pain.

Reading about disasters brings it closer to home. For some reason, my imagination is spurred by specific, written descriptions that bring the sadness to life. Obviously, that kind of empathy is what we strive for in our own writing.

Watching images of the disaster makes it even more real for me. I’ll never forget the images of that little blue sedan rushing backwards in the roiling water. Or the two horses still tethered to a post who so desperately tried to keep their noses above the rising water.

The next level of impact for me is to hear about the impact on a friend or family member who is going through it. Whether it’s a diagnoses of cancer or the matter-of-fact recitation about the flood waters swirling, if it happens to someone you know, it becomes more real.

And the only thing closer than that is when it happens to you.

This time it didn’t happen to me. Or to anyone I know. But the images and words alone had the power to make me grieve. We all wanted to help, but the roads to the north were impassable. And in truth, I’m not sure that any volunteer effort I could have offered would have indeed helped and not hindered their already wonderfully coordinated efforts.

Friday, when we were more sure that the roads to the airport would be open, we drove south to Brisbane. Taking off just north east of the city, there was much brown water where city streets and parks should have been.

Virgin Blue took flood relief donations on board. Four in our party contributed almost 30% of the plane’s total. At that paltry sum, maybe I should have started my levels of compassion barometer a little lower. Or maybe these other folks on the plane were the real volunteers who had just taken off their gum boots and rain slickers and were resting their heads against soft cushions for the first time in a week.

If you’d like to help with the relief effort, the web site for donations is: http://www.qld.gov.au/floods/donate And remember that 13-year old boy who valued his brother’s life above his own.