GUEST BLOGGER L.J. SELLERS: A DAY IN THE LIFE

L.J. Sellers is an award-winning journalist, editor, and occasional standup 
comic, based in Eugene, Oregon. She is currently writing a second Detective
Jackson story, Secrets to Die For. When she¹s not plotting murders, Sellers
enjoys hiking or cycling through Oregon¹s beautiful Willamette
Valley.



41fv16lpcul_aa240_

A Day in the Life of an Aspiring
Novelist

L.J. Sellers

9:42 am: As I write page 162, I
realize that an entire investigative thread in my new novel is not quite
logical. And there’s no way to massage it or spin it. So I go back to the
beginning and try to pick out and rewrite every reference to this line of
inquiry. Did I get them all? Or did I leave a little silver of foreign material
that will pop up and irritate readers? Now I have doubts about other plot
threads. So I decide to print out all 162 pages and read through them before
continuing to write the story. How many trees have I killed in my career as a
writer and editor? 

12:29 am: Another writer posts on
my Facebook page, “Congrats on the review in Mystery Scene. ‘A thrilling, eye-opening read.’” I am excited. I
haven’t seen this review, and it will make a great blurb. I search Mystery Scene’s webpage, but I can’t
find the review and I don’t have a copy of the magazine. So everyone in mystery
world knows what this review says, except me. And, of course, I worry that the
one line I know about may be the only positive thing the reviewer said. 

3:10 pm: After months of waiting,
my beta reader sends an e-mail with her feedback on the first 50 pages of my
new story, Secrets to Die For. After
commenting, “This is a very worthy story, a page-turner with great potential,” she says, “Try to
SHOW rather than TELL.” Aaaghhhhh! I
like to think that I live by this ubiquitous writing rule. But now I wonder: Do
I even know what I’m doing? 

6:17 pm: After months of waiting, the
book trailer for my recently published novel, The Sex Club, arrives via e-mail. I excitedly click open the file,
ready to be thrilled and amazed. But no, the trailer is weird and confusing.
The girl in the last scene is at least 20, dark-haired, and kind of heavy. She
doesn’t  even look dead. The victim in my novel is 14 and blond and thin and very
dead. I show the trailer to my husband. He hates almost everything about it and
cannot stop talking about how much he dislikes it. I am crushed. I spent the
last of my promotional money on the trailer, and I counted on it selling a few
books. Now I have to compose an e-mail that diplomatically says, “Start over.”
It takes an hour that I don’t have. 

9:05 pm: I receive an e-mail from a
mystery book club leader named Ruth Greiner, who apparently does have a copy of
the Mystery Scene review and says
she’ll never read The Sex Club no
matter how great all the reviews are. She does not say why, and she does not
have to. Just seeing her name horrified me. The antagonist in The Sex Club is a very nasty woman and
her name is Ruth Greiner. How was I to know? Now I have to write an e-mail that
explains how I chose the name—Ruth is Biblical and strong, Greiner is the name
of a street in my old neighborhood. I also try to carefully expresses my
concern for her feelings, but without admitting any liability. I offer to send
her a free copy of my next novel, then feel lame about it. 

10:16: Yet another fun-filled e-mails arrives. This one is from a local author
whom I met at a book fair and exchanged novels with. He says he’s quite sure
he’ll find a publisher for his new novel and wants to know if I’ll read his
book and write a blub for the front cover. This is the first time anyone has
asked me for a blurb, and I’d like to be excited. I’m flattered that he thinks
I have any clout. But I didn’t get past the first page of his other novel
(which started with a rectal search by a large German woman), and this one, he
says, is much more sexually explicit. How did get so lucky? Oh yea, I wrote a
novel called The Sex Club, so he must
think I’m a sex fiend. (It’s a mystery/thriller, really!) So far, his e-mail is
just sitting there, unanswered. But tomorrow is another day, and I’m a creative
person. I’ll think of something.

So…tell us about YOUR day!

 

 

Fame

by Pari

Last night, while flipping channels, I watched snippets of the American Country Music Awards show. I’ll say it: I’m not a huge fan of country. There’s an undercurrent of anti-intellectualism, mocking higher learning, that distresses me. But during the last year, I’ve begun to listen to more of it because of the marvelous story telling in those three-minute vignettes.

On the glitterati stage Sunday night, musicians sang. Fans packed the cavernous MGM Grand, their hands held out as if the air around the performers was holy. They screamed, applauded, swooned and gave standing ovations.

Ah, fame.

Wouldn’t it be cool to have that response when we had book signings? Can you imagine fans so enthusiastic they’d wait days to buy a ticket to a reading?

Most of the writers who’ve earned similar followings were entertainers — singers, actors — or televangelists/preachers, before they ever decided to pen a book. And most of what they write is, ostensibly, nonfiction.

Why don’t novelists earn this kind of rabid devotion? Is it that we’re behind the scenes — that we eschew being recognized — that we’re creators rather than performers?

(Well, hells bells, I’d love the chance to perform!)

Okay, okay. There are exceptions. I bet J.K. Rowling wouldn’t have a problem filling a stadium. Alexander McCall Smith might manage it. Stephen King? Nora Roberts?

Maybe I’m being near-sighted here, but I can’t name a darn mystery author, one who solely writes mysteries, who’d pull in those numbers to a live gig. Not even in Europe, where book events tend to be better attended.

What gives?

Is it that books take more effort to access than sitting back and listening to music? Is it the media exposure factor, that novelists simply aren’t seen enough to make an impression? Is it harder work to sing or act than it is to write a novel (Hell, NO!) Are fiction writers doughy and repugnant (not!) so that large numbers of people wouldn’t want to see them in the first place?

I don’t buy it. Anyone who goes to mystery conventions knows that we’ve got one heck of a talent pool. And I’m not just talking about words on paper here.

Maybe some writers would hate to be that popular. I sure wouldn’t. And I’d love to see that kind of rock star craziness — flicking the cigarette lighters, swaying to the sounds of an author reading a great chapter — for novelists overall. Imagine if our signings generated the kind of super-heated buzz of a Garth Brooks concert, if scalpers routinely haunted the fronts of bookstores because all the tickets had sold out.

What’s your take?
     Why aren’t novelists rock stars? (Or are they?)
     Would it be horrible to be that famous? Would it be horrible for readers if authors WERE that famous?
     What is fame in the first place? Does it matter?

HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY NEWS!!!!!!!!!!!!!! HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY NEWS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Sometimes it’s just great to be mama bear here at Murderati. Last week, I was so upset about Ken’s departure . . .

This week, I’m overjoyed to announce that beginning June 17, author extraordinaire Tess Gerritsen will join us on alternating Tuesdays.

. . . Tomorrow, we’ll have L.J. Sellers as our guest.

Pretty wonderful, huh?

 

the lesser known superpowers

By Toni McGee Causey

 

I must’ve
dug in that big, yellow box for fifteen minutes, the first time. Just could not
believe I wasn’t finding what I was searching for. Damn them. I wasn’t just
looking for the prize. I was searching for
it
. Dug around the outside of the waxy paper bag the cereal had come in.
Slid my hand down the flat of the wide sides first, scrabbling my fingers below
the bottom of the bag, feeling the rough cardboard against my knuckles. And
coming up empty. Then retreated, reorganized. Listening for my mom. Pushed my scrawny
little wrists down the skinny sides of the box, thinking it was wedged there. Still. Nothing.

Surely they
wouldn’t have buried it in the cereal?

Okay, fine.
Shoved my hands down in the cereal. (I don’t know how old I was. Probably old
enough to know that I wasn’t supposed to be shoving my hands down into the
cereal.) (I only did that to the cereals I didn’t like and knew I wasn’t going
to eat) (oops) (Of course, I could have gotten down the big bowl, poured the
cereal into it, searched for the toy, gotten it, returned all of the cereal
back into the bag, bag back into the box, box back into the pantry, but then I’d
have had to also clean out the bowl and put it up and I ask you… you’re
standing there with eight things to do or you know you have a little brother—the
same little brother who thought it was hysterical to DRUM on your door, day in
and day out, 24/7, using your head sometimes as the crash cymbal, yes, THAT
little brother—and you can use said little brother as a fall guy, what would you
do, hmmmmmmmmmm?)

Then, most
of the time, there was the finding the plastic toy, and it was always simply
that: stupid, plastic. Nothing close to the real thing.

I wasn’t
disillusioned. I just knew I hadn’t found it
yet. And it was out there.

I knew that
finding it was just a matter of perseverance.

Looked into
all of the Cracker Jack boxes. (Hated Cracker Jack. I don’t think my parents
realized ‘til years later why I would agree to a box of the damned stuff. My
brother, though, was good for getting rid of whatever I didn’t want to eat.
Younger brother, very handy to have sometimes. Especially if someone is going
to get into trouble for digging in the cereal box.)

Still, it
was not there.

I was pretty
convinced. Some people had superpowers.
They had to have found them somehow.

Tried the
towel pinned around the neck thing. (Turns out, this will not make you
fly.)(ow)

Tried the
wiggle-your-nose-to-make-something-float-to-you thing. (Not highly recommended
to be done in front of witnesses.)

Never
managed anything close to the supersonic hearing, although I am CERTAIN my
parents had this one and have NEGLECTED to mention exactly how they got it. (My
dad has selective supersonic hearing.
I want that.)

Scoured the
hell out of my brother’s comic books, though I was old enough by then to
understand that maybe superpowers weren’t ever really going to happen. (I’m
still not 100% sure I’ve given up all hope.) (My brother, by the way, forgave
me for the cereal boxes.) (Well, last year.) (I think.)

Then one
day, my little brother and my (slightly barely hardly at all younger, ha, she
is going to kill me) cousin, Danette, and I were together while our parents
visited. We’d pretty much exhausted our imaginations, and there were no such
things as video games, wargaming, internet, iPods… (YOU, YES, YOU THERE IN THE
BACK MAKING THE “OLD” JOKES, I CAN HEAR YOU, I LIED ABOUT THE SUPERSONIC
HEARING, DON’T MAKE ME GET MY CANE OUT TO BEAT THE CRAP OUTTA YOU)… anyway, out
of complete desperation to keep them from arguing, I made up a story. I have no
clue what the point of that story was, but in it, we were superheroes (with
some sort of super bus or super car, I was just radical with the transportation
there). And Mike and Danette were quiet. Completely quiet, the entire time, and
if I tried to bring it to an end, they’d ask for more. And then the next time
Danette visited, they wanted the story… first.

I was
hooked. Hot DAMN, a superpower.

Do you
remember that Daffy Duck cartoon Daffy_duck_2
where he’s all determined and snatching
something away from Bugs, claiming, “Mine, mine, ALL MINE,” and it blows up on
him? LET’S PRETEND MY SUPERPOWER IS NOT LIKE THAT. Thank you.
 

Now I
realize that a bunch of other people
have the same superpower, but we are still going to call it a superpower
because that is a LOT cheaper than paying for therapy. And I also realize that
a lot of these other people have this same ability but in the MEGA HUMONGOUS
SUPER WATTAGE size… they are sort of like the Superman with all of the bullets bouncing
off and I’m over here with my little silver surf board thingie and the only
thing I may be able to do is surf around, but by God, I’m going to do it with
enthusiasm, so I’m happy.

Meanwhile,
having not completely given up the idea that there still may be another
superpower out there that I have that I’ve missed, I’ve thought about this.
(Yes, the fever is fine, why do you ask?) Those superheroes, with their cool
superpowers—they suffered. They had a
lot of angst. Sometimes they didn’t realize just how valuable their superpower
was, even though others could see it clearly. Which got me to thinking that
maybe I actually have a superpower,
but it’s just not something that I realize
is a superpower. Because God knows I have angst! Plenty of it! It would fit the
pattern! All was not lost! So I thought long and hard about the things I’m
really exceptionally good at, and my list looks something like this:

1) Able
to detect anyone even thinking about
drinking the last diet coke in the house

2) Able
to shove an entire two rooms’ worth of junk into ONE closet, and still find
stuff

3) Um.
Hmm. Wait… wait. Hmmm. Did I mention the diet coke thing?

Okay. Well.
Maybe not.

But how
about you? Did you want a superpower as a kid? And right now, what is your
superpower? (I know you have one.)

~*~

CONTEST: just stop in and say HI or name your superpower (or name someone else’s, it’s all good).

Remember, it’s CONTEST MONTH — every commenter on today’s post will be eligible for a signed copy of BOBBIE FAYE’S VERY (very, very, very) BAD DAY as well as a hot-off-the-press, not available in the stores ’til the end of the month BOBBIE FAYE’S (kinda, sorta, not exactly) FAMILY JEWELS. Excerpts from book 2 are now up HERE. Winner from this week to be announced on next Sunday’s blog.

WINNER FROM LAST WEEK — Lisa Richardson! (Can I just tell you all how blown away I was? I know it was a holiday type of entry, but I wanted to thank every single one of you who took the time to stop by and email. I was floored.)

Like last week, I put the names in a hat and my neighbor chose. So Lisa, please email me at toni [dot] causey [at] gmail [dot] com with your
address and I’ll get your signed copies mailed out to you this week!

Creating suspense

by Alex

I know, I know, huge topic. And I’m sure many others have done it better, but I’m not being satisfied with what I’m reading, so I’m blatantly using my post today partly to beg links to good articles (compile links, I mean…) and attempt to discuss what I myself know or suspect about creating suspense.

This is the first thing I tell people who ask me about suspense:

You have to study, analyze and teach yourself to write the kind of suspense YOU want to create.

Because there are all kinds of suspense. Many thrillers are based on action and adrenaline – the experience the author wants to create and the reader wants to experience is that roller-coaster feeling. I myself am not big on that kind of suspense. I love a good adrenaline rush in a book (in fact I pretty much require them, repeatedly). But pure action scenes pretty much bore me senseless, and big guns and machines and explosions and car chases make my eyes glaze over. What I’m looking for in a book is the sensual – okay, sexual – thrill of going into the unknown. How it feels to know that there’s something there in the dark with you that’s not necessarily rational, and not necessarily human. It’s a slower, more erotic kind of thrill – that you find in THE TURN OF THE SCREW and THE HAUNTING OF HILL HOUSE and THE SHINING. So although I can learn some techniques from spy thrillers or giant actioners, studying that kind of book for what I want to do is probably not going to get me where I want to go.

There’s also the classic mystery thrill of having to figure a puzzle out. There’s a great pleasure in using your mind to unlock a particularly well-crafted puzzle. I love to add that element to my stories, too, so that even though the characters are dealing with the unknown, there is still a logical way to figure the puzzle out.

So to create suspense, the first thing you have to identify is what KIND of suspense you want to create. Most stories use all three kinds of suspense I just talked about (and others – really I’m just scratching the surface), but there will be one particular kind that dominates.

A useful thing to do is to make yourself a master list of ten books and films that are not just in your own genre, but that all create the particular kind of suspense experience that you’re looking to create yourself. There are particular tricks that every author or screenwriter uses to create suspense, and looking at ten stories in a row will get you identifying those tricks. If you’re reading a particularly good book, you get so caught up in it that you don’t see the wheels and gears – and that’s good. So read it to the end… but then go back and reread to really look at the machinery of it.

What tricks am I talking about? Well, let’s see.

To my mind, the most basic and important suspense technique is ASK A CENTRAL QUESTION with your story.

Of course, every good story is inherently a suspense story, because every story is predicated on the storyteller creating the desire in the reader or audience to find out What Happens? And writing mysteries as we all do (mystery/thriller/suspense), our genre has a built-in suspense element by its very nature – the built-in question – “Who done it?” (Or in my case, as Dusty says, “What done it?”)

So the very first place that a book creates suspense is on the meta-level: in the premise, that one line description of what the story is. That story line (flap copy, back jacket text) is what makes a reader pick up a book and say – “Yeah! I want to know what happens!”

– When a great white shark starts attacking beachgoers in a coastal town during high tourist season, a water-phobic Sheriff must assemble a team to hunt it down before it kills again.

– A young female FBI trainee must barter personal information with an imprisoned psychopathic genius in order to catch a serial killer who is capturing and killing young women for their skins.

– A treasure-hunting archeologist races over the globe to find the legendary Lost Ark of the Covenant before Hitler’s minions can acquire and use it to supernaturally power the Nazi army.

Any one of the above can also be phrased as a question: Will Clarice get Lecter to help her catch Buffalo Bill before he kills Catherine? That’s what I mean when I say the central question of the story.

Now, there’s a whole hell of a lot of suspense in that story question – unlike in, say, the movie we saw last night: WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS. Does anyone going into that movie think for one single solitary second that Cameron Diaz is not going to end up with Ashton Kuchner? No suspense in that premise at all.

But in a mystery, or thriller, or horror story, someone could die. Anyone could always die. Even the main character can die – at least in a standalone. And I would argue that third person narration in a mystery/thriller is always going to be more suspenseful than first person, because even if your first person narrator DOES die in a surprise twist at the end, the reader hasn’t worried about it for the entire book.

In that SILENCE OF THE LAMBS story set up, we know Catherine could die – in fact, any number of additional victims could die – because it’s a thriller and we’ve got a particularly monstrous killer holding her. Clarice could die, too – in fact, throughout the story, we are always at least subconsciously aware that Clarice is disquietingly similar to Buffalo Bill’s previous victims: she is young, white, Southern, from a struggling family.

All this is STAKES – a critical element of every story. What do we fear is going to happen?

A good story makes the stakes crystal clear – from the very beginning of the story. We know right up front in SILENCE OF THE LAMBS that there’s a serial killer out there who will not stop killing young women until he is caught or killed. How do we know that? The characters say it, flat out, and not just once, and not just one character. Harris makes us perfectly, acutely aware of what the stakes are. The story ups the ante when a particular victim is kidnapped and we get to know her – we really don’t want THIS particular, feisty victim to die.

In RAIDERS OF THE LOST ARK, the government agent who comes to hire Indy to find the Ark of the Covenant says that Hitler is after it, and Indy and his colleague, the archeological experts, tell us the legend that the army which has the Ark is invincible. That’s really, really bad. Huge stakes. And it is spelled out with crystal clarity, in dialogue, with accompanying visuals of ancient text – in the first 15 minutes of the movie.

It might even be the number one rule of suspense – You need to tell your reader what they’re supposed to be afraid of. Not just scene by scene – but in the entire story, overall. You need to let the reader know what the hero, or another character, is in for – or the whole world is in for – if the hero doesn’t do something about it.

And if that’s the number one rule, then the photo finish number two rule is – You have to make the reader CARE. Because if the reader doesn’t care about the characters, then they have no personal stake in the stakes.

No, I’m not going to go into all the techniques of creating a character that readers will care about – different post!

But here’s one technique that also goes to creating suspense: stack the odds against your protagonist. It’s just ingrained in us to love an underdog.

In SILENCE, the protagonist, Clarice is up against huge odds. She has many personal obstacles. She’s a woman in a man’s world, young, a mere trainee, she has big wounds from a troubled childhood. She also has many external opponents, like Dr. Chilton, the Senator and more minor characters within scenes – not to mention that Dr. Lecter is not exactly being cooperative – he’s got his own agenda, and he’s a master at playing it.

In RAIDERS, Indy is up against Hitler (through his minions). Indy is awfully heroic and expert and, well, hot – but he’s still the underdog in this particular fight.

A lot of suspense stories use children, women, or characters with a handicap to stack the odds against the hero. Okay, it sounds manipulative, but suspense IS manipulation. And just because a technique is manipulative doesn’t make it any less effective when it’s done well: Think of WAIT UNTIL DARK (blind protagonist) , REAR WINDOW (wheelchair-bound protagonist), THE SIXTH SENSE (I swear I went to that movie just to make sure that little boy made it out okay), THE SHINING.

Another suspense technique that can be built in on the premise level is the TICKING CLOCK. Building a clock into the story creates an overall sense of urgency. In SILENCE, we learn (very early) that Buffalo Bill holds his victims for three days before he kills them. So when Catherine is kidnapped, we know Clarice only has three days to save her. We know this because the characters say it. Beginning writers seem to be afraid to just say things straight out, but there’s no reason to be coy.

Harris does the same thing in RED DRAGON – that killer is on a moon cycle so the hero knows he has only a month to track this killer down before he kills another entire family. Again, we know that because the characters tell us so – repeatedly.

Harris is actually the master of the ticking clock – he has a particularly clever one in BLACK SUNDAY: a terrorist attack is being planned to take place at the Superbowl. Well, we all know it would take no less than the Apocalypse to get sponsors to cancel or postpone the Superbowl, so Harris has both locked his characters in to an inevitable event, and also created a clock – come hell or high water, it’s all going to come down on Superbowl Sunday.

Again, a ticking clock is manipulative, and you can make an argument that it’s a less effective technique these days because it’s been overused, but that just means you have to be more clever about it. Make it an organic clock, as in the examples above. In RED DRAGON, for example – having the killer be on a moon clock is very creepily effective, because not only is this a real characteristic of some serial killers, Harris has built a whole symbolic image system into this story – he uses animal imagery to depict this killer: describing him as a baby bat (with his cleft palate), emphasizing his biting, giving the character a desire to become a dragon. The moon clock is part of the image system, and the killer seems much more monstrous.

Now, all of the above are suspense techniques on the meta-level. Once you’ve created a story that has the elements of suspense built into the overall structure, you have to start working suspense on the scene level, moment-by-moment. And here’s where I find a lot of books really lacking in the kind of suspense I personally crave, which is about making me feel the physical and mental effects of wonder and terror. And that you have to do by working a scene over and over and over again. You need to direct it, act it, production design it, cast it, score it. What is scary in the physical environment, in the visual and in the symbolism of the space? How can you use sound to create chills? What is going through the character’s head that increases the danger of the experience? How do you use pace and rhythm of language to create the equivalent of a musical soundtrack (the prime purpose of which is to manipulate emotion in a viewer?)

You have to layer in all six senses – what it looks, smells, sounds, feels, tastes like – as well as what your characters sense are there, even though there’s no physical evidence for it. You have to create the effect of an adrenaline rush. I think a huge weakness of a lot of writers is that they either don’t understand – or they’re too lazy to convey – the effects of adrenaline on the body and mind. You know how in a good suspense or action scene the pace actually slows down, so that every detail stands out and every move takes ages to complete? Well, that writing technique is actually just duplicating the experience of an adrenaline rush – your heart is going so fast and your thoughts are coming so fast that everything around you seems slowed down. You react to things faster because your metabolism has sped up so you CAN react faster and possibly save yourself.

I’m realizing that this is going to have to be two posts – at least! – but here’s my last thought for this one. I think one of the best things a writer can do to learn how to write suspense is to take some acting classes. Learning to experience a story from INSIDE one of the characters – literally, inside that character’s body – will make you much more proficient at creating a physical, sensual experience for your readers.

So yes, if you have links to particularly good articles or sites on how to create suspense, please share! Authors, what are your favorite suspense tips and techniques? Who did you study to learn the fine art of suspense? And readers, who are your favorite suspense authors, and do you have a favorite KIND of suspense?

The Acknowledgements

Long, short or somewhere in between, the acknowledgment section of a novel is one of my favorites parts of the reading experience.

I’d like to thank…

Hero Worship

by J.T. Ellison

I’ve mentioned this story before, and I’m sure it won’t be the last
time I talk about it, but I had another one of those "MOMENTS" this week, and thought we could talk about what it means to have a hero.

My reemergence into the world of fiction was
something of an accident, one that began with picking up a Labrador
retriever and blowing out my back.

The subsequent year of post-surgery recovery meant long hours of sheer boredom, lots of hard work, and a new love affair with the written word. I’ve always been a reader. I tried my hand at writing in school and was discouraged, or lazy, or maybe a bit of both. Writing, you see, is actually hard work. I think I took the easy way out when I listened to my stupid professor. She was right in one way — not that I’d never be published, but that I wasn’t ready to be a professional writer. Not then. Going off to grad school in a different discipline gave me a wonderful perspective on the world, and a husband, for which I am eternally grateful.

But I always felt something was missing, that I wasn’t in the right place. I had glamorous jobs, rubbing elbows with the people who were changing the world, and none of them were at all satisfying. Nothing fit. Granted, I was too much of an idealist to succeed in politics, but I was drifting. When we moved to Tennessee and I couldn’t land a job right away, then my back blew, there was a sneaking sense of relief. I could start over. Reinvent, in a new town, with new friends, and exorcise all my old, lingering dissatisfactions with my world.

I can safely say that despite the pain and suffering (I couldn’t bend at the waist for 6 months) I don’t regret that surgery in the slightest (or the damn dog I picked up that caused the rupture), because if that hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t be on the path I am today. Surgery meant downtime, which meant reading. I’d always felt vaguely guilty before — reading was my first love, but if I wasn’t "doing" something . . . Now, I had no choice but to lay in the bed and read. Crime fiction was my go to, and I devoured everything I could get my hands on — and what the library had to offer.

And I found John Sandford.

And with his books, I had a resurgence of my desire to write. And more than that, he gave me the courage to shoot for a completely new career in my early thirties.

I decided to try again. I had a character — a female Lucas Davenport of sorts, and I gave it a whirl. It didn’t work so well, so I sat down with MIND PREY and literally took it apart — deconstructed the first six chapters or so and saw some light at the end of the tunnel. So not only did this man inspire me, he TAUGHT me too, and that’s no small thing.

And I became a writer. It really was that simple, or that hard, however you’d like to look at it. Inspiration, hard work, add water and voila — a career is born. I think it’s seems easy in retrospect. This actually was my MO — throw myself into something wholeheartedly, research and learn and try. But before, I always, always lost interest. With writing, I find myself a ridiculous workaholic, putting in stupid hours because I love what I do. It’s huge, finding what you’re meant to be. Some people find it through their children. Some find it through philanthropic ventures. And some of us find it in writing.

My MOMENT? I met John Sandford this week. And yes, the hallelujah chorus sang a verse. John_sandford_davis_kidd_nashville_

Sandford was charming, and vulnerable, and such a consummate professional that I again felt that
overwhelming "Why do I do anything on the computer but write?" feeling. To top off his talk, I actually met him, shook his hand, told him he was my inspiration, (and made a little joke — I didn’t know whether to thank him or not, considering I’m doing two books a year…)  and thankfully he’d actually been prepped and knew who I was. He even gave me a compliment, which made me float. I went home trembling. I don’t get fired up like that very often, but I was literally vibrating with excitement at meeting him and finding him to be such an incredibly nice guy.

I’ve had two weeks of this nirvana. I was in New York for a bit of Edgar fun. I saw my dear Lee Child, met my new crush Arthur Phillips, had a lovely conversation with Michael Chabon, and spent good twenty minutes talking with Nelson Demille and his lovely wife. I mean, come on, already. This is ridiculous dream stuff, isn’t it? I’ve now met all of my major literary heroes save one, and she (Karin Slaughter) is coming to Nashville in a few months. I’ve had the opportunity to talk with my favorite authors, interact, express my appreciation for their work, even meet their editors, the men and women behind the men and women. I’ve had the opportunity to see good friends again at these events, make new ones, and in general, reaffirm my path. Heady stuff, I tell you.

But I felt truly blessed to tell the man who is the reason I’m here today that he had a profound influence on me. It was one of the coolest moments I’ve had thus far, in a long line of exceptionally cool moments.

Here’s the thing. You don’t have to be a writer to meet your literary heroes. As readers, we can meet them. We can write to them (see Pari’s excellent column on that here.) We can interact in a whole new way because of the websites and message boards. I know I’m not the only one who gets excited about meeting authors. I’d love to see more people participate in our community.

We’ve had a record week at Murderati, full of highs and lows, from Toni’s wonderful post on Mother’s Day to our sad news about Ken’s departure, from Zoe’s word play to Rob’s poignant tribute to his dad.  You, the reader, have made this worthwhile for all of us.

So… today’s question, which shouldn’t come as much of a surprise. Who is your literary hero? And did you ever have a chance to meet him or her?

With a big hat tip to Dan Hale for today’s column — Dan and I were talking about meeting heroes, and he introduced me to one of mine in New York… so thanks, Dan!

Wine of the Week: 2006 Finca Vieja Tempranillio — La Mancha, Spain. Plummy, easy-going and very young.

P.S. I’m leading a reading group discussion about ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS at Shelfari’s Suspense and Thriller group. Please come by and join in the fun – these reader opinions fascinate me!

What’s My Name Again?

by Zoë Sharp

I’ve just written that title down and realised that actually it would be a good one to do about pseudonyms, which wasn’t actually my intention. After all, a writer’s name is vital. It is who we are. And speaking as one who often gets both parts of my name misspelt – an extraneous ‘e’ tacked onto the end of Sharp and pick where you like for people to put the dieresis. I’ve even had those who hover one dot over the ‘o’ and the other over the ‘e’, just to hedge their bets.

Anyway, I digress. Where was I going with this again? Ah, yes, I know – memory! That was it! I remember now …

I’m the first to admit that I have a dreadful memory. Faces? No problem. I even recognised an old colleague from a local paper we briefly worked for in northern England twenty years ago, who I spotted sitting on a bench at a theme park in Florida, so not quite in context then. But names? Hopeless. I regularly go upstairs and forget what it is I went for. And shopping without a list is a nightmare.

So, I was intrigued to be recently reading Tricks of the Mind by Derren Brown and come across the section on dramatically improving your memory. Derren Brown, for those of you who are not aware of him, is part illusionist, part psychologist, and all showman. The Guardian newspaper described him as, "Clearly the best dinner-party guest in history – he’s either a balls-out con artist or the scariest man in Britain." His various TV series over here have dumbfounded and entertained in equal measure, and while the knowing style of his book has taken a bit of getting used to, the information contained in it is just fascinating.

And why is this relevant here? Because, if I understand him correctly and extrapolate accordingly, fiction writers should have the best memories ever. Elephants should be as fickle goldfish compared to us lot.

Why? Because we exercise our imaginations on a regular basis.

Ye-es, it foxed me to begin with, but stick with me on this one, OK? And do give this a whirl. I tried the example in the book and was amazed that it worked flawlessly.

You see, Brown claims that most people, given a list of twenty disparate, unconnected words, can recall about seven with any degree of accuracy. He gave such a list and suggested that you read it through, and then try and jot down as many as you can recall, in the same order. I took the liberty of substituting my own words. Or, rather, so I wasn’t subconsciously picking words that I might find easy to remember, I asked someone else to do provide the list for me. And here they are:

bicycle

cabriolet

fridge

rollercoaster

muckspreader

pincushion

blotter

hemlock

Shakespeare

thingamabob

nonagenarian

Rolex

Skyline

filter

cauliflower

grandfather

cuckoo

tortoise

carpet

blitzkrieg

So, having read through them, look away from the screen and try and write them down, in the same order they’re listed here. How did you do? If you got past seven, you’re Marvo the Memory Man and you don’t need to read any further. Put it aside for a bit, and then try again, without re-reading the list, but in reverse order this time. Ah, now that’s a stumper, isn’t it?

How it’s done, according to Brown’s method, is create a link from one word to the next by producing an image that connects the words. A vivid image, with smells and emotions attached to it. If the image is of something that stinks, sniff it. If it’s funny, find it so.

The elements need to interact in some way, and each little scene needs to be odd enough to be memorable. Some people, apparently, don’t like visualisation and claim not to be very good at it, but we’re writers, for heaven’s sake. We spend our days making stuff up – that’s what we do.

So, here’s my own list of connections between the above words:

bicycle/cabriolet

A group of Edwardians in striped blazers and straw boater hats, riding along on their bicycles, very slow and stately, but in case of rain they all have cabriolet tops they can raise over their heads, with big curved hinges on the sides like an old-fashioned pram, and tassels along the front.

cabriolet/fridge

A nice little VW Cabriolet, gleaming in white, all colour-coded, and when you climb inside it’s still white like you’re sitting in your fridge, with wire racks and dairy products on the shelves and a light that comes on when you open the door. There’s a big bottle of milk strapped to the passenger seat. The air con keeps it frosty cold.

fridge/rollercoaster

You open the door of your fridge and a rollercoaster track unfurls out of the salad drawer, complete with screaming passengers, and goes careering round the kitchen, making it impossible to sneak down for a midnight snack without waking the entire street.

rollercoaster/muckspreader

The farmer next to the amusement park hates the people who ride the rollercoaster making all that racket, so he always drives his muckspreader along the hedge next to the bottom of the first drop, and sprays them all with cow manure as they hurtle past. Particularly nasty if you’ve got your mouth open as you go.

muckspreader/pincushion

Someone’s come up with a new way of recycling cow manure, which instead of being scattered is reformed inside the muckspreader into neat round pincushions, the size of pillows, which it deposits in a neat orderly row as the farmer drives his tractor through the local ladies’ sewing circle.

pincushion/blotter

The only trouble with the cowpat pincushions is when you stick a pin in them they let out a great cloud of stinking vapour and leak a nasty greeny fluid all over the place, which you have to soak up by putting a blotter under the pincushion wherever you go.

blotter/hemlock

An ingenious murderess decides to soak the blotter on her husband’s desk in hemlock, so he will be gradually poisoned as the hemlock leaches out and into his hands whenever he works late into the night.

hemlock/Shakespeare

The entire cast of a Shakespeare play toast each other with hemlock-laced glasses of wine, thus dying tragically at the end of the first act, not realising that the leading man is a method actor who has genuinely dosed them all with real poison.

Shakespeare/thingamabob

Will Shakespeare finds himself momentarily lost for words and invents a new one – thingamabob – which instantly becomes all the rage in Elizabethan England. Queen Elizabeth I instantly demands he produce one, by royal command, and he has to cobble something together or lose his head.

thingamabob/nonagenarian

Nonagenarian little old ladies can be easily identified by the fact that they’re each followed about by a thingamabob, which is a little bouncy squeaky thing, like a cross between a space hopper and a tribble, which won’t leave them alone. There they all are in the park, swatting at these troublesome thingamabobs with their umbrellas.

nonagenarian/Rolex

When anybody reaches the ripe old age of 90, their nonagenarian status is celebrated by awarding them a Rolex watch. The only trouble is, it’s a big garish one, plastered with diamonds, and the streets are filled with old folk dressed up in flashy watches and gold chains like gangster rappers.

Rolex/Skyline

All Nissan Skyline sports cars comes with a Rolex attached to the front of the bonnet so the driver can time themselves as they lap the Nürburgring in Germany. It’s also used as a means of handicapping the faster ones. The quicker you drive, the bigger watch you have to have, thus not only increasing drag, but also preventing the driver from seeing where they’re going, and slowing them down. At least they know exactly what time they crashed.

Skyline/filter

As a party trick, someone drives their Skyline around the inside of their filter coffee machine, like a fairground wall of death. Round and round they go, until they’re almost vertical up the sides, kicking up great rooster tails of coffee grounds and leaving tyre tracks in the paper filter.

filter/cauliflower

After heavy rain sluices cauliflowers into the drains, you have to insert big filters to stop them clogging everything up, otherwise they create the most awful stench of rotting vegetation.

cauliflower/grandfather

When your grandfather gets on a bit and loses his teeth, the only thing he can eat is mulched up very well-pureed cauliflower, which you have to cook for him in giant vats until it goes grey, and then put through a blender, at which point he packs it into his cheeks like a hamster. Grandfathers only have to be fed once a week using this method.

grandfather/cuckoo

Grandfathers are not acquired in the usual way, but introduced into the family nest like cuckoos, in the hopes that they’ll be cared for like the other family members. Of course, grandfathers can be bigger and more aggressive than other relatives, and often push them out of the nest using their Zimmer frames.

cuckoo/tortoise

Swiss cuckoo clocks are using tortoises instead of the more traditional birds to call the time. At the top of the hour the doors open and a tortoise emerges, very, very slowly, on the end of a spring. It can take these clocks several days to strike noon and midnight.

tortoise/carpet

To keep your tortoise warm in winter, you cover his shell in carpet, preferably shag pile, so there’s all these tortoises ambling about with multicoloured carpet stuck to their backs.

carpet/blitzkrieg

Brings a whole new meaning to carpet bombing. There’s the archetypal RAF squadron leader with handlebar moustache and flying helmet, piloting his plane through flak-ridden skies over war-torn Europe, waiting for his bombardier to give the word that he can release his load of Axminster and Wilton. Once away, these rolls of carpet plummet through the clouds in a lightning attack on the terrified populace.

I have to say that Derren Brown’s own list – and the explanation of the links between the words – was probably much better and far more amusing than my own. But you get the idea. If anyone can come up with sillier or more vivid connections, please feel free. But let me know how you get on. Because, it’s rather nice to know that this fertile imagination we have can be put to other uses, isn’t it?

Oh, and before I forget, this week’s Word of the Week is eidolon, which is an image, a phantom or apparition, a confusing reflection.

Legacy

by Rob Gregory Browne

The last time I saw him, he looked as if he were sleeping.

 

But then I realized that there was an unnatural stillness there.  No gentle rise and fall of the chest, no sounds but the muffled cacophony of the hospital ICU unit just beyond the closed door.

 

What struck me was how small my father looked.  He was naked, except for a tiny modesty cloth draped over his midsection.  The tubes and wires that had been attached to him for the last few days had been removed, but he was still surrounded by machinery that dwarfed him.

 

I kept looking at his shoulders, thinking how long it had been since he had hoisted me onto them with an “Upsy-daisy,” telling me to duck as we passed through the doorway into my room, where he’d deposit me onto the bed and tuck me in.  But the shoulders I was looking at weren’t really my father’s.  This wasn’t really my father at all.  He was gone.  Had vacated the premises, leaving behind only this oddly childlike shell, a familiar but soulless vessel that would never again open its eyes and smile at me.

 

Now, here it is, over thirty years later and three days past Mother’s Day, and as much as I love my mother, it’s my father I’m thinking about.   Mostly because of what he’s missed since the day he died.  What I’ve missed sharing with him.

 

My marriage.  My children.  My successes and failures.

 

Pretty much my entire life.

 

My father had a gift that I’ve always envied:  the ability to walk up to anyone, anytime, and start a conversation.  The ability to be instantly charming, never forced, always genuine, with a warmth and humor that made whoever was in his company feel accepted.  He was an unpretentious man, not a deep thinker but always interesting.  He spent the last years of his life — his late fifties — struggling with emphysema, unable to cross a room without huffing for breath.

 

And thanks to a neglectful doctor, the disease finally took him.

 

When I was seventeen years old, I wrote my first television script.  I had long wanted to be a novelist, but had somehow gotten it into my head that I should write for TV.  Probably because the scripts were short and full of white space, and dialog came naturally to me.

 

When I was done with that script — an episode of Harry-O — my father read it, loved it and immediately started making phone calls. 

 

Anyone who has ever tried to break into Hollywood, especially the world of television, knows that it’s nearly impossible to get someone to read your screenplay.  Yet two days later, my father had the name and address of one of Harry-O’s producers, along with a promise to take a look at what I’d written. Within a few weeks, I got a letter back from the producer telling me that he thought my work had a lot of potential but that I had to be careful not to “overwrite.”  Keep it lean.  Shorten the dialog.  Have your characters get to the point as quickly as possible.  And don’t try to explain everything.

 

This was wonderful advice and encouragement that I never would have received if it hadn’t been for my father.

 

A few months later, I finished my one and only attempt at writing an episode of The Rockford Files, and my father once again went to work.  This time, while at the local race track, he ran into one of the Rockford co-stars and convinced him to read it.  Nothing ever came of the gesture, but to this day I marvel at my father’s salesmanship.

 

What I’ll always carry with me, however, is how proud of me he was.  I can think of no greater gift a parent can give a child than the gift of pride.

 

Which is why it’s so hard whenever I reach another milestone in my career.  He would have been so proud when I won the Nicholl.  Would have been bursting with it when I made my first deal with Showtime.  Would even have been excited to know I was writing episodes of Spider-Man for Fox Kids. 

And all these years later, working on my fourth book for St. Martin’s, my father would be calling everyone he knows just to boast about me.

 

My father’s pride is his legacy.  The part of him that most resonates with me whenever I think of him, even when I have a hard time picturing him beyond the small, still figure on that hospital bed.

I suppose I could have waited until Father’s Day to say all of this.  Especially when we’re still so close to the day we’re supposed to be celebrating mothers.  But my mother is alive and well and has always shared in my successes —  and for that I’m grateful.

 

But this morning I’m compelled to talk about my dad.  Because, for me, every day is father’s day.

 

And my only hope is that when I’m gone, my children will feel the same.

Funeral Music

By Louise Ure

“That’s it,” I told my husband last night. “That’s what I want you to play at my funeral.”

We were watching The Great Escape for the 161st time, and I finally realized how important that soundtrack was to me. It’s a tune of no consequence, in fact a bit too martial and full of rosy-cheeked optimism, but it makes me happy whenever I hear it. It’s the tune I whistle when I’m alone.

When my mother turned 75 (almost a quarter century ago) I mixed a tape of all the songs I remember her singing around the house –the songs that were the soundtrack to her life. “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree” for her courtship with my father. “Blue Bayou” for finding her True Love late in life. “Summertime” because she’d never left the heat of Arizona. “Up Against the Wall, Redneck Mother,” for some now inexplicable reason.

What other music would define my life?

I know I’d include the soundtrack to the Perry Mason TV series.


When I moved to France, my mother sent me a Care Package so that I wouldn’t feel so alone: a paperback mystery, a box of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese, and a loop audio tape of the Perry Mason theme song. It was my lullaby.

I’d have to include “Looking For Love In All the Wrong Places,” to commemorate my wild years.  And “Brown-Eyed Girl” for the relationship that song reminds me of.

And finally, Israel Kamakawiwo’ole’s haunting medley of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” and “What a Wonderful World.” An anthem to all things important and all things gone.

And now we have another important thing gone.

My Tuesday partner, Ken Bruen, has decided that he can’t be blogging on a regular basis anymore. In truth, I don’t know how he found the time to begin with, with all the writing and goings-on in his life.

I know I speak for all of us in saying how much we’ve looked forward to his posts. I treasure the time and love he’s given us, even though he often made us cry. We will miss him like a lost limb.

We have a wonderful new Tuesday regular in the wings (Pari will tell you more about that later), and a few guest bloggers in the meantime (like next Tuesday’s LJ Sellers, author of The Sex Club), but today we say goodbye to a warm and wonderful Murderati friend. Maybe … if we ask very sweetly … he’ll come back from time to time with another tale of angels, or serendipity, or grace.

So, my Rati’ friends, what would your funeral music be?

And if you were to pick a farewell song for Ken, what would that be? I’ll put the whole list together on a CD and send it to him.

LU

Since this month I am a fan

by Pari

"Is it possible to gulp a book? That’s what I did . . . "

So began an email to me the other day. It was from a woman in Germany and had arrived at my website amid a flurry of spam.

We writers spend a lot of time worrying about, and looking at, our reviews. The ones that stick with us the most — at least from what I’ve observed — are the negatives, the nasties and disgruntleds.

But what about "fan" mail? Are those notes, the ones that readers take the time to compose and send us, worth less? Sure, they’re private. They’re not printed in newspapers or posted on Amazon, but why don’t we celebrate them more? 

When I get one of these lovelies, it’s like a piece of candy that lasts and lasts. I even have a file where I put these gifts. On days when things are bad, when I wonder what the hell I’m doing trying to write, I go to that file and feel vastly better.

I also write fan mail. I’ve been sending notes since middle school. My first letter was to Leonard Bernstein. He didn’t respond and I didn’t care. I wanted to thank him for his musical Mass. In the ensuing 35+ years, I’ve thanked too many authors to count; a couple of movie stars; musicians; a talk show host or two (I sent a huge one to David Letterman for demonstrating such respect for writers during the WGA strike); and a few cartoonists. Some have responded — Madeleine L’Engle, Lois McMaster Bujold, Lynn Johnston. Some haven’t. Who knows if every one of my thank-yous even arrived on the targeted person’s desk?

It doesn’t matter to me. The important thing is to be grateful and to express that gratitude to the people who’ve evoked it. Call it increasing the quotient of good vibes in the world.

Back to the mail I’ve received: Every note, letter and email makes me feel wonderful. More than any positive printed review, these heartfelt and personal communications mean a tremendous amount to me. They’re the reason I write for publication rather than keeping my manuscripts to myself.

So today, let’s talk fan mail
1. Have you ever written a fan letter? To whom? Why?
2. Have you ever wanted to write one, but didn’t know how or where to find the person? (I’ve wanted to write Alice Hoffman for years. Maybe contacting her publicists would work . . .)
3. Is there someone from history you’d like to thank?
4. Writers: what’s the best fan letter you’ve ever received?

It’s Monday. Most people complain of the blahs. Join this conversation today and let’s see if we can generate enough great feelings to carry us all through the rest of the week.