I believe Eleanor Roosevelt had it right: no one can make you feel inferior without your consent.
I believe we're meant to laugh at ourselves, otherwise how do you explain mullets, poodle perms and shoulder pads?
I believe Eleanor Roosevelt had it right: no one can make you feel inferior without your consent.
I believe we're meant to laugh at ourselves, otherwise how do you explain mullets, poodle perms and shoulder pads?
I am currently in the Sierras, on the shore of Lake Tahoe with a really bad internet connection, slightly goofy from altitude. This is not so great for trying to post something to Murderati (apologies for any formatting screwups, I’m composing in Word because we’re illegally piggy-backing on the wireless account of someone in a nearby abode who apparently went to UC Berkeley, as the connection is called GO BEARS).
For trying to get work done on my third draft, however, it’s been a blessing. Okay, not so much the goofiness… more the lack of wireless.
Everyone else but my mother goes skiing every morning, and I hunker down on this beige chaise thing down in the living room and spend the day immersed in New York City in 1990—most of this week mentally wandering around the oldest cemetery in Jamaica, Queens, with the fictional doppelganger of a real-life distant cousin of mine named Cate Ludlam and a fictional female homicide detective from NYC’s precinct one-oh-three named Skwarecki.
(credit: Kevin Walsh, Forgotten New York)
Detective Skwarecki got named two years ago, during an auction at my daughter’s middle school. A very kind parent donated some money to the scholarship fund and she has since become a near-daily companion of mine, in an attenuated sort of way. (Is attenuated the right word? They don’t have a dictionary in this condo. Other than that it’s a remarkably amenable and non-tacky place, which is especially nice since I remember Tahoe as being the place bad Seventies architecture goes to die.)
I’m still pretty enmeshed in the first half of the book, at this point. On this third pass, I know Skwarecki a lot better—my version, anyway. She’s speaking too formally in the early chapters for a former kickass varsity field hockey player from Queens, so I’m fixing that.
In fact, she and my protagonist bond in the book because they both swear like drunken tanker captains, and enjoy the hell out of doing so.
I’m stealing a bit of backstory for her from a real-life former cop in Queens, who started out in the late Sixties when female police officers still had to wear skirts and little stewardess caps, and were equipped with regulation purses as holsters.
This lady, her first day on the job, got sent out to some intensely sketchy precinct house in Brooklyn, and the guy at the front desk started swearing a blue streak the minute she reported for duty, at 7 a.m., saying he didn’t want to have to take care of any little girls, etc. He ordered her to go outside and march up and down the sidewalk, “and don’t make any trouble! Don’t even talk to anyone!”
So she did that, this lady named Georgie—age nineteen or so—and after the shift-change ruckus was over, she noticed a man sitting on the curb, head in his hands. She walked back and forth for another hour, and the man didn’t move.
Finally, he began to weep, and she could ignore him in good conscience no longer. She approached him and asked if there was anything she could do to help, only to discover he spoke only Spanish. As there was a small bodega across the street, she went over there to see whether she could find someone bi-lingual to interpret for her, shortly returning with a twelve-year-old boy who spoke English and Spanish.
“Ask him what’s the matter,” she said, and the boy did.
“Mrs., he says he killed his girlfriend.”
“Ask him when,” she said, and the boy did.
“Three o’clock this morning, he says.”
“Ask him where her body is now.”
The boy did, and said, “Mrs., she’s in that Pontiac, across the street. Under a blanket in the back seat.”
“Ask him,” said Georgie, “how he killed her.”
The boy did, whereupon the man pulled a gun out from under his shirt and offered it to her.
Taking a handkerchief from her holster-purse, Georgie took the gun from him.
“Ask him,” she said to the boy, “whether he’d come inside with me.”
The man stood up and followed along with her into the precinct house, whereupon the desk sergeant began yelling at Georgie for disobeying his orders not to talk with anyone or make any trouble.
“I’ve got a guy right here who shot his girlfriend to death five hours ago,” Georgie said. “The murder weapon’s in my purse, and the victim’s body is in the Pontiac across the street. I figured you might want me to bring him in to discuss it with you.”
And then, in the words of the fictional Skwarecki (because this is about cops in New York, after all) “the boys upstairs stole that fucking collar right out from under me.”
I met Georgie in the office of the Queens District Attorney, where I heard the story from an admiring colleague of hers, a great college pal of mine named Eric Rosenbaum, who prosecuted Special Victims cases for over a decade—cases of horrific rapes, unconscionable child abuse—the kind of grim, awful, stomach-turning acts we would all of us like to believe our fellow humans incapable of. And Eric took a seventy-per-cent pay cut from the white shoe firm he started out at, just after law school, to do it.
Here is a random thing… last night I had the strangest dream (cue Pete Seeger). I was wandering through this bamboo forest in Big Sur with a gang of people,
and we were lost, trying to get back to the river, and at some point someone in the dream said to me, as we were climbing up this really long bamboo ladder through all that green, “you need to go read Romans 10:10.”
Which is kind of funny because I knew they meant the bible passage, when I heard that, but at the same time thought of 1010 WINS AM in New York, the news and traffic radio station (which reports on so many homicides and stuff during the morning commute that my soon-to-be-ex once said “it was a whole year before I realized ‘bodega’ was NOT the Spanish word for crime scene…”)
And I remembered the thing about Romans 10:10 when I woke up at five a.m. (even though in the rest of my dream I lost my car on a mountain in the rain in North Carolina and had to scramble across a slimy river bank with a flood coming in the middle of the Big Sur bamboo forest {have I mentioned they don’t actually HAVE bamboo forests in Big Sur? I’d morphed it from one I used to hike through as a kid above Honolulu} and meanwhile keep my little brother’s towel from falling off {he was about five years old again} and then ended up back in Syracuse at my old apartment {though of course it didn’t LOOK like my old apartment at ALL}, where my soon-to-be-ex had thrown hot coffee all over my family china. And,well, hey, as my soon-to-be-ex once said, “dreaming is surrealist television.”).
So, being suddenly wide awake at five a.m.–the sun not yet up over the peaks of the Sierras and with my internet connection working, mirabile dictu— I Googled “Romans 10:10” (because, hey, who am I to look a surrealist-television horse in the mouth, right?)
Here it is, chapter and verse, King James version:
For with the heart man believeth unto righteousness; and with the mouth confession is made unto salvation.
So, you know, I’ve thought about THAT all day…. even though from a New Testament POV, that sentence is telling you it’s not enough to have faith in the resurrection of Christ in your heart, you have to step up and say it out loud, which is not really where I’m coming from, in a theological sense. I think for me it resonates as something I’m trying to do with writing crime fiction, which is speak up for justice—for fairness—the kind that’s all too uncommon in real life.
When my friend Eric went home and told his family that he was going to become a prosecutor in the DA’s office, his dad said, “so, you’ll be busting poor mostly black and Hispanic people in Queens,” and Eric said, “No, I’m going to be seeking justice for poor mostly black and Hispanic victims in Queens–especially children–and I can live with that.”
I’m writing this novel based on a real-life case that happened in Queens in 1990. A three-year-old boy was beaten to death by his mother’s boyfriend, in a welfare hotel near LaGuardia airport. They put his body in the motel-room mini-fridge for a week, before hiding it in the abandoned jungle of Prospect Cemetery, the oldest burial ground in the borough—dating from 1660.
Twenty years ago, my cousin Cate Ludlam was clearing brush there with a group of high-school volunteers, and they discovered little Andrew’s skeletal remains. She ended up testifying at the trial.
I would like to make some confession from the mouth about what that crime has meant to me, since the first time I heard Cate describe what had happened, twenty years ago during a party at my friend Ariel’s parents’ apartment–or at least a confession from the keyboard.
I can’t do what Eric does, or Georgie, or even the fictional Skwarecki.
I don’t know how to keep hurt like that from happening to any other children. I don’t know how to make it right—how we can change things for good so that the defenseless aren’t hurt. But I want us all to talk about it… think about it… speak up about it. I want our passion for justice to go from our hearts to our mouths to reality.
Question du jour: What kind of justice would you most like to see in the new year? And I mean something that’s what your heart believeth unto righteousness, not politics. Give us the utmost message would you most like to speak from your conscience to the universe’s ear, and see made manifest.
Here’s mine:
Happy, happy, happy 2009 to all of you and everyone you love. May it be the best year ever, and may all of your wishes come true.
by JT Ellison
Happy New Year!
I've been casting about for days trying to decide how to open the year. New Year's Resolutions – been done, and then some. Reflections on 2008 – ditto. Revamping the writing process – DONE, DONE, DONE. Then it hit me. What I wanted to talk about today. It's something I've been missing.
You've heard me talk about the group ad nauseum, and with the paperback release of our anthology, we've come full circle. No more debuts. No more anticipation of releases. We've all moved on – into our second, third, fourth books. Our debut year is well and truly over, and our post-debut year is behind us as well. It's hard to fathom, actually.
One of the random biographical details that I share with my main character Taylor is the fact that I was a semi-reluctant debutante. (She was a completely reluctant debutante, but that's a different story.) During that time, my reluctance disappeared and I embraced the reality wholeheartedly, because it was flat out fun. We had a two-year commitment – our debut year, and our post-deb year. The debut year was full of classes and parties — midnights hiding behind statues in foyers, sneaking kisses with boys who had "potential," afternoon teas at lovely estates, slick boats, fast cars, darkened subways and sleazy bars, broken hearts, torn dresses, too much liquor and a few emergency room runs. It was a blur of silliness and fun, the last moments before we became "responsible" adults.
The post-deb year was when we made that transition. We were expected to mentor the upcoming debutantes – teach them all the little tidbits that we'd learned from the post-deb class before us — not to get throwing up drunk when in the presence of royalty, don't sleep with the escorts unless they give you a ring, write your thank you notes within twenty-four hours so you don't forget, start practicing your curtsy a few months before the big night, because the incidence of pulled hamstrings and quadriceps muscles is higher than during pro football season. You know, the little things.
Killer Year was surprisingly similar to my real debut. There were lifelong friendships made, secrets shared, help, support and never ending kudos for the smallest accomplishments. There was a real sense that we were doing something special, unique, and we all benefited. All of us.
But the most exciting part is the fact that the spirit of the organization continues. ITW has made Killer Year's concept into a permanent reality – helping all their debut authors realize the wonderful dream that is cooperative marketing, friendship and support, all under one umbrella organization- The ITW Debut Authors.
So instead of looking back to 2008, I'm going to channel the spirit of the post-deb. I thought I'd take my very first Murderati post of 2009 to give a shout out to this exceptional group of debut writers. The ITW Debut Class of 2009, to be exact. These are the upcoming writers who you may not have heard of yet, but you most definitely will by the end of the year.
And away we go…
Kay Thomas – BETTER THAN BULLETPROOF, (Harlequin Intrigue) January 2009; BULLETPROOF TEXAS (Harlequin Intrigue) April 2009
Roger Smith – MIXED BLOOD (Henry Holt) March 2009
Kate Carlisle – HOMICIDE IN HARDCOVER (NAL) February 2009
Don Helin – THY KINGDOM COME (Medallion Press) March 2009
Robert Rotenberg – OLD CITY HALL (Farrar Straus and Giroux) – February 2009 (UK), March 2009 (Canada & U.S.)
A. Scott Pearson – RUPTURE (Oceanview) February 2009
Bob Burke – THE THIRD PIG DETECTIVE AGENCY (The Friday Project / Harper Collins) March 2009
Paul Tremblay – THE LITTLE SLEEP (Holt Paperback) March 2009
Rhodi Hawk – A TWISTED LADDER (Tor/St. Martin's) April 2009
Jaye Wells – RED-HEADED STEPCHILD (Orbit) April 2009
Rebecca Cantrell – A TRACE OF SMOKE (Tor Forge Books) May 2009
Christy Reece –
RESCUE ME (Ballantine Books) – May 2009; RETURN TO ME (Ballantine
Books) – June 2009 ; RUN TO ME (Ballantine Books) – July 2009
Stuart Neville – THE GHOSTS OF BELFAST (Harvill Secker) July 2009
Grant McKenzie – SWITCH (Bantam Transworld UK) July 2009
Jeremy Duns – FREE AGENT (Viking) July 2009
Sophie Littlefield – A BAD DAY FOR SORRY (Thomas Dunne) August 2009
Diana Orgain – POSTPARTUM DETECTIVE (Berkley) August 2009
JJ Cooper – INTERROGATED (Random House Australia) August 2009
Hank Schwaeble – DAMNABLE (Berkley/Jove) – September 2009
Norb Vonnegut – TOP PRODUCER (Thomas Dunne) – September 2009
Sharon Potts – IN THEIR BLOOD (Oceanview) September 2009
Cynthia Robinson – THE DOG PARK CLUB (Thomas Dunne/St. Martin's) Fall 2009
Pretty amazing group of authors, huh? Talk about a force to be reckoned with. I can't wait to see what they do.
I'd be remiss if I didn't include two more of 2009's debuts. My friend Andrew Grant – EVEN (St. Martin's Minotaur) May 2009, and a fabulous book that I'll be blurbing: Stephen Jay Schwartz – BOULEVARD (Tor Forge) Unknown Release.
So tell us, 'Rati faithful. What books are you looking forward to this year???
Wine of the Week: Since I took a trip down memory lane for this post, I'm going to make a general suggestion this week, Lambrusco, a wine that's gotten a bad rap in the past. We had a bottle of Lambrusco over Christmas, and it was excellent – tart and fizzy, just the right compliment for a heavy turkey second-coming (that's our redux of the traditional Christmas feast.) We had the old faithful, Riunite, almost as a joke, but it was quite good. Eric Asimov has some more suggestions for you here. Salut!
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R.I.P Donald Westlake
Such incredibly sad news. The many tributes can be found here.
So the easy thing today would be to do a list of resolutions. Yeah, well, I can’t think of any so maybe it’s not that easy.
Since today is New Years Day, I seriously doubting there’s more than a couple people even reading this today. Honestly, I might even forget to go and check. I don’t blame anyone. A lot of us will have hangovers and/or will be spending the day watching football and/or will be doing things with our friends and family. Who wants to spend New Years reading blogs? (That’s no diss on blogs, just, you know, it’s a holiday.) So if you’re not reading this, I forgive you. Of course, you have no way of knowing that.
So I’ll start with a question for those of you who are reading along. A question written in the form of a request:
If you are reading this today, New Years Day 2009, in the comments below please mark yourself present. As a bonus, feel free to add a resolution you have for this year. Seriously, if all you want to do is leave a comment that says only “Present”, that is a-ok with me. Think of it as taking attendance.
And since this is bound to be a bit of a light day, I thought we’d go for some entertainment instead of a lengthy post. Sound good to everyone?
Great. Bring on the music!
First up:
And the Snow Falls by James Wetzel
An old favorite of mine that I first heard while working in Berlin in 2001:
On More Time by Daft Punk
Love this next band, but they’re independent enough to probably hate the fact I love them:
Teddy Picker by Arctic Monkeys
Enjoyed this video and song, some of you probably have to:
I Will Follow You into the Dark by Death Cab for Cutie
Just ran across this and loved the singer’s voice:
Pressure by Paramore
And one of my all time favorite bands and songs:
Beautiful Day by U2
HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE! HERE’S HOPING WE ALL HAVE A TERRIFIC 2009!
Be warned. Whenever you see a blog post of mine that has the word RANDOM in it, that means I have absolutely no fucking idea what to write about. Usually I can slog through and come up with something at least a notch above coma-inducing, but today I'm stumped.
I know, I probably shouldn't admit that. But it's the eve of a new year and maybe if I'm honest at least one day out of the 365, I won't burn in Hell.
HA. Dream on, Rob.
Speaking of new years…
I went to sleep last night and when I woke up this morning an entire freakin' year had passed.
WTF?
How exactly did that happen?
I was planning to do a "best of" for the year 2008 today, but the problem is that I can barely remember 2008. Of course, I can barely remember what I had for dinner last night, so that tells you something about me.
But, seriously, where the hell did 2008 go? Or 2007 for that matter.
I can remember 2005 very clearly. That's when I got my first publishing deal. And a few weeks later, when I spoke to my editor, he told me the release date for KISS HER GOODBYE would be February of 2007.
And I gotta tell you, it took forfuckingever for that particular month and year to roll around. I grew to be a very crotchety old man in that time. My kids grew up and their kids grew up and their kids' kids — oh, you get the point. I waited several lifetimes for KHG to be released.
But get this.
Because of scheduling conflicts, by the time my second book (WHISPER IN THE DARK) comes out, an entire TWO YEARS will have passed since the release of the first one.
Yet those two years seem to be a mere blip on calendar.
Again, I say, WTF?
(That is, by the way, an actual question. So please include your answer to WTF? in your comments below.)
The Power of Validation
I have been struggling, struggling, struggling with my fourth book, which is tentatively titled DOWN AMONG THE DEAD MEN.
This one has truly been killing me. Almost as much as the second one did.
Which is why it's been very nice to have validation of that second book. After great reviews in the UK, I just got my Publisher's Weekly review for WHISPER IN THE DARK and there's a nice little red star next to it.
Now, I've gotta tell you, getting a starred review from PW has made my year. Ask anybody. Really. I can't stop talking about it. I've grown even more obnoxious than I was before, if that's possible (shut up, Brett. You, too, Bill).
But having that little bit of validation has done a wonderful thing for me. Suddenly the new book is going like gangbusters. Words, paragraphs, pages, chapters are flying out from under my fingers. And I know I shouldn't say this either, but they're pretty damn good.
PW has given me a much needed kick in the ass and for the first time I'm actually WANTING to work on the book. It took me forever to get here, but here I am. Eee-haaa.
And On a Totally Unrelated Note…
When you're writing a sex scene, what word, if any, do you use for penis? What about vagina?
I could give you a twenty page list of slang terms for each, but somehow none of those terms seems appropriate. When I come across such words in a scene, I can't help but start laughing. They just take me right out of the story.
Sure, you can actually use the words penis and vagina, but those have to be about the two most clinical, unsexy words in the world. So, tell me, what's a good substitute?
His burning hammer of love?
Her forbidden cove?
Seriously, how does one write this shit without pitching a giggle fit?
And on that note…
I'm outta here. Sorry for the suckfest, random or otherwise. There's a new year coming, so go out and celebrate it and I promise to do better in 2009……..
Uh-huh. Sure, Rob.
by Tess Gerritsen
by Pari
Writing is a dangerous profession. Neither Kevlar nor Teflon, fire retardant nor bubble wrap, can keep us ink-stained wretches from harm.
In spite of the peril, Dear Reader, we pursue our craft because we must . . .
and because we love you.
Over the years, I've maintained a private catalogue of a few of the potential hazards of this deceptively sheltered job. I hope, by mentioning them here, that I can in some small way make the world a safer place.
Papier Slitus
You've heard the expression, "blood, sweat and tears." Well the blood comes from folding, grabbing or pulling a piece of paper too quickly. The sweat and tears are self-explanatory if you're dripping all over a full manuscript or galley.
Prevention: Wear gloves. Latex works better than wool.
Lingus Slitus
Who knew that licking envelopes could be fraught with danger? Lingus Slitus is always painful. The fact that so many agents still insist on snail mail queries is a crime. It puts would-be scribes at peril every day.
Prevention: Wear a condom on your tongue. Even this isn't 100 per cent effective; abstinence is the only sure way to prevent this injury.
Scrivitori Spasmaticus Minorus
A spasm of the wrist or fingers wherein excruciating paralysis inhibits motion for brief moments of time. A secondary feature of this injury is numbness.
Prevention: Rotate wrists and wiggle fingers for a few minutes during each hour of writing.
Scrivitori Spasmaticus Majorus
A more serious condition than its cousin above. This is a spasm of the writer's creativity: A.K.A. deep brain freeze, writers' block, creativity interruptus. Often accompanied with groans, moans, posturing and dwelling past successes, this injury can also result in extreme head banging against hard surfaces.
Prevention: Show up. Write through the spasm, but take the pressure off. Remember, not everything you create must be brilliant during the first, or even eleventh, go round. Poe and Doyle had their bad days too.
Lardus Butticus
From lithe to pear shaped, writers' glutteuses become maximus from sitting long hours each day.
Prevention: Get up, damnit! Take a walk. Dance. Jog. Pace in your living room. Just do it for at least 30 minutes daily.
(Caution: Worry is NOT a form of exercise.)
Onlinititis
An excessive attachment to blogs, social networks, computer games, virtual worlds, email, iPhones (and other telephonic devices), text messaging, websites, internet research, listservs — resulting in diminished creativity, literary lack of resolve, paltry productivity.
Prevention: Turn off the f*cking electronics! ALL of THEM! Go ahead. Be inaccessible. It's all right.
Relish the quiet. Give your mind the peace to hear its own music.
Ego Bombasticus
The pernicious condition of being self-impressed.
Prevention #1: Read other writers.
Prevention #2: Read all of your reviews.
Ego Inthepitsticus
A potential side-effect of the above-mentioned preventions for Ego Bombasticus. This condition results in a total lack of confidence in one's own abilities.
Prevention: Get over it and WRITE. If you're right and your work is crap, the only way to get better is to keep at it. If you're wrong and your work is good, you'll find out soon enough.
Today, I implore you. Please do your part.
Help identify other hazards so that all writers may benefit from your experience.
Forewarned is forearmed.
___________________________________________________________
Happy New Year to all of you who've made my experience here at Murderati such a tremendous joy. May 2009 surpass your highest hopes and never descend to your deepest fears.
"Football coach Ara Parseghian said: 'A good coach will make his players see what they can be rather than what they are.' I would be remiss if I did not first thank my editor, Charlotte Herscher, who not only showed me the potential of this story but let me find my own path to The End."
2) Sit on the book. Take at least a week away from the story and work on something completely different–a short story, an article, a proposal, or the first pages of the next book.
3) Revise on hard copy–edit, clean, hone, delete, add, tighten.
5) Send to my editor and eagerly await her editorial letter. Because I know that whatever I write can be stronger.
So here we all are in that lost week between Christmas and New Year's – the week I think of as "The Crack" (nothing dirty or illegal,the term is from the Mary Poppins books actually, and bonus points for anyone who gets the allusion).
by JT Ellison
Merry Christmas!
I hope your day was lovely, and if you don't celebrate, you had a
good Hanukkah, or Festivus, or Boxing Day or Kwanzaa.
Now, for the PSA, aka BSP:
I got so caught up in my new "methods" that I neglected to share some rather important news. My third Taylor Jackson novel went on sale this past Tuesday, December 23. I feel like a right eegit for not sharing this news last week, so forgive me. I don't know what it says that I wasn't on top of this… it's the holidays, we're all preoccupied, I was way more worried about getting my edits turned in for EDGE OF BLACK, I'm a blithering idiot… whatever the cause, the fact remains. JUDAS KISS is available wherever fine books are sold. PW gave it a starred review, Romantic Times gave it 4 1/2 stars, it's a top pick at Romance Reader at Heart… and if that's not enough to convince you, it's only $6.99.
I'm doing a brief tour, and would love to see some of you out on the road.
Here endeth the PSA aka BSP.
Since I'm on vacation, at the beach (YAY!) I thought I'd wrap up the
series on my writing life with a discussion of tools and tips for
better organization, less stress and an all-around happier writer.
In a slight departure for David Allen's GTD, I decided to separate
out my creative and my business. Here's how I define it –Business is
online. Creative is what I physically write.
And that's really it.
The picture below
is one of my favorite gifts received this year, from my wonderful
critique partner cum adopted sister JB Thompson. Isn't that great?
So, a twofold question today. Did you get anything for Christmas or Hannukah that you especially loved? And what are your favorite tools?
Wine of the Week: A gift from the Italian side of my familia, shared over Christmas dinner. This is one of the finest wines in the world, #6 on Wine Spectator's Top 100 of 2008: 2004 Pio Cesare Barolo