Okay ya”ll,  listen up, ’cause this one’ll make you think.   

Today’s Guest Blogger is Elizabeth Zelvin. Elizabeth is a New York City psychotherapist whose debut mystery, DEATH WILL GET YOU SOBER, will hit bookstores next week. Her  story, “Death Will Clean Your Closet,” has been nominated for an Agatha award for Best Short Story. Liz ran an alcohol treatment program on the Bowery for six years. She currently practices psychotherapy online.  Publications include two books of poetry and a book on gender and addictions. Liz’s author website is www.elizabethzelvin.com .

I’ll start with the one I usually tell. It was 1983. I had just walked down the Bowery for the first time, south from Astor Place past the invisible line that separated middle class New York from the most famous skid row of them all. The Bowery is just a New York street, but in those days it was also a community with a culture and rituals and an argot all its own. It was a destination for chronic alcoholics from all over the country, made up of bars and flophouses and stretches of gutter the way a small town would have houses and playgrounds and avenues of elms and oaks.

The fourth floor of the notorious Men’s Shelter had housed an alcohol detox unit since 1967. Four New York City cops were assigned to the agency that ran it. In the old days, their job had been to round up guys and throw them in the drunk tank in the nearest slammer. Now they were called the Rescue Team. The cop of the day and I drove slowly down the street. Ten-thirty in the morning. The streets were deserted. Nobody knocking back Thunderbird or Ripple from a flat pint bottle. No one passed out on the curbs or in the doorways. The cop said, “They’ll all be in the bars.”

The bartender knew his cue when we stepped through the doorway, the open door casting a shaft of sunlight in which dust motes danced and the row of men at the bar blinked bleary eyes.  “Fourth floor, fourth floor! Who wants to go?”

In 1993, I came back to the Bowery to run the same agency’s outpatient program. I inherited a program in which some homeless alcoholics had managed to get clean and sober, but nobody ever moved on. Some of them, with two or three years of sobriety, were still attending treatment daily. Among  other innovations, I instituted a graduation.

One of our first graduates was Isaiah. He was a tall, emaciated black man who was a natural leader.  He had a gift for inspiring others, and he took no crap from anybody. Before getting sober, he’d been a drug dealer and a scam artist. To say he’d turned his life around was no platitude, but the truth about what addiction treatment professionals like to call a f***ing miracle.

Isaiah had AIDS. After graduating, he hung around the program as a volunteer, continuing to help and inspire other alcoholics and addicts. His health became increasingly fragile, and eventually he died. We all went to the memorial service at a dinky little mission church where he had volunteered several times a week at the soup kitchen that had kept him alive more than once while he was living on the street. Person after person got up and spoke eloquently about how much Isaiah’s friendship or his example had meant to them. The young white pastor gave the eulogy.
   
    “I knew Isaiah for many years,” he said. “He’d stand on line and I’d hand him a bag of sandwiches, knowing with absolute certainty that he would go right around the corner and sell those sandwiches to buy drugs. I would ask myself, Why do I bother? Looking around today, seeing the tears in all your eyes, hearing the stories people have told about his struggle, his courage, and his generosity, I finally understand why.”

This is a story about recovery from alcoholism, a treatable illness. And that’s the kind of story I wanted to tell in DEATH WILL GET YOU SOBER. Bruce, my protagonist, has plenty of intelligence and cynicism. He does his best to maintain an ironic distance. If he heard Isaiah’s story the way I’ve just told it, he’d probably start playing air violin. Hearts and flowers, he’d say. Thank you for sharing. But dammit, I’m the author; he’s just the character. Bruce does and will recover. DEATH WILL GET YOU SOBER  starts with Bruce waking up in detox on the Bowery on Christmas Day. He is not pleased. As he puts it, “My mouth tasted like a garbage scow, my memory was on lockdown, and I bitterly regretted not being dead by thirty the way I’d always thought I’d be.” But that’s just the beginning.

In my experience, readers tend to bring their own history and preconceptions to a book like DEATH WILL GET YOU SOBER. What are your beliefs about alcoholism? Have you ever known anyone whose drinking bothered you? Have you ever known anyone in recovery? How much do you drink, now and in the past? Have you ever considered it a problem? Has anyone close to you considered it a problem? To what extent do you believe that people can change in any fundamental way?

Thanks, Elizabeth, for being our guest today.
                                        -JD Rhoades

We’re delighted to have Derek Nikitas join us here at Murderati for two Tuesdays in April, while Ken Bruen is off being fêted and wined and dined as Guest of Honor at Noir Con, and Nominee for Best Novel (Priest) at the Edgars. Derek’s first novel, Pyres, also nominated for an Edgar this year, was published in 2007 and met with rave reviews. "Nikitas’ stellar first novel isn’t just one of the best genre debuts of the year, it’s one of the best releases — period," said Paul Goat Allen of the Chicago Tribune. We agree. But let’s see what Derek has to say about it.

– Murderati

By Derek Nikitas

When Murderati asked me to substitute-blog for Ken Bruen, I feared at first that I’d have to feign Catholicism, use Irish slang, write in prose-poetic lines, and evince a hearty blend of ruffian and gentleman.  Instead I’ll save us all the embarrassment of a bad impression.

But to evoke Bruenesque brutal honesty, I’d like to discuss literary failure, not a popular subject among writers.  The role of published novelist is new for me, and it’s been wrecking havoc on my precious inferiority complex.  My first novel Pyres dropped only five months ago, but in the two years since I finished it, I’ve reflected a bit.  Since Pyres has been on sale, I’ve heard other people’s reflections, mostly positives, a few humbling negatives.  And I’ve had time to write more and, I like to think, improve.  All this reflection had shed a few stark lights on Pyres. 

I’ve occasionally heard veteran writers with decades of writing credits voice disappointment with a phase or two of their careers.  In On Writing, Stephen King admits displeasure with The Tommyknockers and Insomnia (he also admits he can’t remember writing most of Cujo because he was too drunk at the time).  Even James Ellroy, the most cocksure writer to crow his own work, concedes to steady mediocrity before his breakthrough, The Black Dahlia. 

Writers are notoriously self-critical, it’s true.  Some Greats, like Hemmingway and Plath, have critiqued themselves literally to death.  We suffer writer’s block and revise ourselves into full-blown Carpal Tunnel Syndrome.   We kill darlings and later lament.  We battle a version of post-partum depression over the copyeditor’s notes.  But all that hemming and hawing often goes silent when the book hits the shelves.  The time to gripe is gone.  Rarely will a writer publicly chastise his own published work—and when we finally fess, we wait for the Fiftieth Anniversary Career Retrospective: “oh, yes, my late-70s output could’ve used more polish, indeed.”

Zip it, crybaby—you’re saying to yourselves.  I don’t blame you.  Compelling reasons to shut up abound, the foremost being: nobody like a sourpuss.  And bemoaning one’s product has never been the big secret of salesmanship.  Coyness is nice, but who buys a book because the author panned it in print?  Plus, the self-effacing author has others to consider: agents, editors, publishers, sources, friends and family—every advisor who helped shape the book.  And now you want to claim that shape is cockeyed?  In my own case, bashing my own firstborn risks second-guessing those genius, gorgeous, charismatic Edgar judges (whoever they are).  Their other nominations are bulls-eyes, so who am I to rain on the parade?  What a mope.

Maybe the best reason to muzzle is this: why dwell?  If you’ve upped your game, go write a better book and quityerbitchin.  All excellent points, thank you very much.  Such poignant points that this blog should probably close right here, full stop.

Buuuut… I can’t help myself.  Recently, my mentor and former professor subjected her current crop of students to a mandatory reading of Pyres.  As part of their discussion, they produced a series of questions, which my mentor emailed to me, and which I then answered.  The first couple questions were congenial, as with most interviews (just once I’d like to see an author interview start with: “so what is your deal, anyway?”).  A few questions down, the subtle critiques set in.  The tone was still friendly, but the undercurrent seemed to ask: “don’t you realize you royally screwed the pooch here?”  Paranoia, one of my muses, read between the lines. 

What’s weird is this: I don’t think they ever expected me to acquiesce.  I think maybe a healthy population of readers, myself included, harbor odd misconceptions about how writers stand in relation to their own work.  Do readers think writers see their novels as beyond reproach, that every verb zings and every adjective glows—and if not, then, heck, the failing must be with the reader?  Are readers emotionally invested in this ruse as part of the greater illusion of fiction, ye olde “willing suspension of disbelief?”  Would huge fissures crack through the middles of all our Hobbitons if Tolkien admitted—from the grave, I s’pose—that he should’ve made Frodo a girl?   

Me, I went at it with gusto.  Another of my muses, Shame, took to the helm.  Until these emailed questions, I’d never had the opportunity or inclination to voice my self-reflexive discontent.  It was lovely to be able to say, yes—in retrospect, there are parts of Pyres that suck rotten eggs.  I don’t know how your average reader would catch such a curve ball.  They were probably expecting some clever explanation of mine to obliterate their naïve sense that something was wrong with the book.  They seemed to want me to set them straight.  Maybe now what they’ll want is their money back, or at least some in-store credit.   

In Pyres, one of my characters gets head-injury amnesia.  (I suppose I should’ve given a spoiler alert warning, but this whole notion of showmanship makes me dyspeptic.  It’s just my own silly imagination I’m spoiling on you.  I feel like P.T. Barnum or some street vendor hawking fake jade bracelets that will tint your wrist green.  I was quietly freaked out when one reader told me, “I totally fell in love with Tanya; she made me so sad.”  I’m delighted, but Shame at the helm of my mind chants: “Tanya’s just words! Tanya’s just words!  And some of those words are wrong!”  I must’ve believed and loved Tanya myself when I was writing her, but the flame dies when the book is done.)    

Anyway, amnesia.  Some readers have suggested amnesia is a cop-out, a bad soap opera plot fix.  I wholeheartedly agree.  That amnesia crap is the major weakness of the novel—followed by other minor weaknesses, like clunky point of view shifts, the pretentious fairy-tale tone of the climax, the overkill of similes and adjectives in general.  The amnesia thing is far too convenient and contrived.  It artificially boosts the drama where the drama lags.  It comes as a result of a decision made by a non-viewpoint character, so it’s weak as a plot point—an action for my heroine to react to, rather than a result of her actions. 

But, despite its obvious faults, the amnesia thing became so integral to the plot that it couldn’t be removed.  I tried to compensate by researching real amnesia and its causes, the result of which is slightly more authenticity, but dull pages of a talking-head doctor yammering on about amnesia.  I can imagine a much better novel where Blair (the character in question) doesn’t get amnesia and instead we undertake an in-depth exploration of her psyche, without sacrificing plot.  Oh well.

As a writing teacher, I’ve noticed how often writers are aware of their own mistakes and shortcomings.  But we gloss over them with rose-colored denial or laziness or, frankly, a very good reason: we must let go at some point.  We’ve all got to balance perfectionism against progressing to the next project, particularly when deadlines are involved.  Only a few writers like James Joyce and Harper Lee seem dedicated enough to let one or a couple books constitute a whole brilliant career. 

If your book is good enough to be published, the glasses get an even rosier tint.  All that amnesia stuff seemed just fine to me when St. Martin’s signed on, but time and progress removes such euphoria.  I’ve re
alized, for instance, that a publishing house banks on promise, not fulfillment.  The harshest lesson I’ve learned, yet have known in my heart all along is this: a book good enough to publish is a far, far cry from a book good enough to call a lasting masterpiece for posterity, for immortality.   

I should really shut the fuck up now.  I haven’t finished my second book, no version 2.0 to tout in lieu of the old model.  And worse: readers don’t want to hear this bunk, especially ones who’ve read and enjoyed your book.  They might even read your genuine regret as an attempt to fish for compliments.  “I look fat in this, don’t I?”  This is no pity party, really.  I know there’s stuff to admire in Pyres, and self-criticism should be kept to oneself.  Put on a happy face, and all that.  Readers like to be lured by fantasy, by worlds total and perfect unto themselves.  They don’t want some jerk whispering nearby: “it’s all smoke and mirrors, just some schmuck behind the curtain.”   

Aw, heck—can I go so far as to suggest that a writer’s negative self-critique might be of value?  After all, it’s tied to a vow to do better next time.  It’s an indication against stagnation, against “phoning in” the next book by ceding quality to formula or an impending deadline.  You might think this talk is rather self-defeating and morbid, and you might be right.  It’s a terrible marketing scheme.  But let’s face it, I think The Secret is the biggest load of crap I’ve ever heard, so I don’t know jack about the market.  Admitting to recent past failures liberates, since the alternative is to admit my best is behind me.  Recognizing my literary faults is how I improve.  It’s how I can hereafter stand guard against plot contrivance and excessive figures of speech and description, among the thousand other faults that my prose is heir to.  It’s what keeps me reaching for better than before.

So how about it?  Any confessions regarding past sins of prose, even minor ones?  Or virile roars from those who’ve sired only the most pristine of literary offspring?  Or perhaps renewed vows not to dwell on the past like this here slouch?  Dig in.   Oh, and in the tradition of Ken, your title has been brought to you today by the poet John Berryman.

DN

Going to the Dark Side

They say that if you keep writing crime fiction, you will
inevitably write darker. But they never tell you why. As someone who’s gone
down that road, I’d like to try out an explanation.

But first, thanks to the Murderati gang, especially J.T., for
this opportunity.

Over the past 6 years I’ve written four books that – while
not cozy – feature an amateur sleuth who’s a video producer. The situations
Ellie Foreman finds herself in aren’t light, but she has a dry sense of humor
that helps keep her grounded. More important, she has a support system and
family structure that, in some ways, curtail her behavior as well as the arc of
the plot. The danger and chaos she confronts — whether it’s neo-Nazis, the Russian
mob, or terrorists – are short-lived. By the end of each book, her world order is
restored. She goes to sleep without any demons plaguing her or her family.

In my third book, AN
IMAGE OF DEATH, I introduced a character from a different world than
Ellie’s. Arin was from Eastern Europe, and her life fell apart when the Soviet Union collapsed. Her husband became an arms
smuggler and disappeared. Her best friend was drawn into sexual trafficking. Arin
was forced to make choices just to ensure her survival. She became an illegal
diamond courier who ended up making a good living from illegal activities. Anything
to feed her son and herself. At the time I thought Arin was an anomaly. A one-time
thing.

She wasn’t.

As I read more about crime, both true crime and fiction… as
I watch the “if-it-bleeds-it-leads” news stories, I’ve come to believe that the
act of bad things happening to good people – like Arin —  is more random than not. Victims of crime become
victims because they’re simply in the wrong place at the wrong time – not
because of some grand design.

Sure, you can argue that someone who lives in a gang-infested
neighborhood is more prone to a drive-by than someone in the affluent suburbs…
or that the house with snowbird owners is more likely to be robbed than a house
whose occupants are present. But the selection of the person who is shot, or
the home that’s targeted, is essentially a random act. It depends on a number
of factors, any one of which might suddenly change. The drive-by victim might
be at the grocery store, rather than on the street, and thus survive. The home targeted
for a robbery might be occupied by a son or daughter home from college and so
escape theft.  The actual doing of the crime
can be as flimsy as a feather quivering on air currents.

Even orchestrated conspiracies — the stuff of great
thrillers – in which plans are conceived over months, years or decades – are
often thwarted at the last minute by a random event or observation. Remember
the film (the original version) of The
Day of the Jackal? De Gaulle turns
his head just as sharpshooter Edward Fox lets loose with a shot. A random head-turn
vanquishes the evil and saves France.

The fact that disaster is only a hairs-breath away… that the
worst could happen to anyone at any time, given the circumstances, is a powerful
driver, and I realized wanted to explore a character who understands that.

Enter Georgia Davis, my protagonist in EASY INNOCENCE.
A cop for
years (Like Arin, she was introduced in AN
IMAGE OF DEATH), she’s now a PI. She has baggage. And secrets I’m just
learning about. But her greatest strength is that she implicitly recognizes the
fragility and vulnerability of life.

My friend (and fabulous writer) Michael Dymmoch likes to quote from the film Shakespeare
in Love. She always says that everything will work out if you persevere, work hard, and are talented
enough. Although Michael is talking
about writing, Ellie subscribes to that theory. She’s an optimist. She even
tries to control her universe. She would never dwell in the dark. For her everything
can be fixed.

Georgia doesn’t have any illusions. She knows it’s useless to try and control life. Of
course, it helps that she has a less than sanguine view of human nature. She
doesn’t doubt the cruelty that goes on behind closed doors — even in beautiful
surroundings. She realizes that because it’s random, evil can never be
destroyed permanently. In fact, she embraces that randomness. She is still committed
to fighting it and railing against the injustice it triggers, but knowing it
will always be there in one form or another is part of her world view.

It’s a dark view of the world. But it’s a compelling one. After all, we are all
gapers, aren’t we? What’s the first question we ask after a senseless crime or
accident? Why? How did it happen? When we hear the answer, maybe we shiver, or our
stomach lurches, or we give our kids an extra hug. But we know, at a very basic
level, that life is random. That we don’t have control. That we can’t prevent
it.

That’s why I’m writing darker these days. To plumb the
depths of that randomness – to see how it affects characters in my imaginary
world. Maybe it will even teach me how to accept it in the real world.

But enough from me. Readers, why do you read dark? Or not?
Writers, why do you write it?

Libby’s 5th novel, Easy Innocence is a “spin-off” of her award-winning Ellie Foreman series. Libby also edited the acclaimed anthology Chicago Blues. Originally from Washington DC, Libby has lived in Chicago for 30 years and finds the contrast between the beautiful and the profane in that city a crime writer’s paradise. She lives on the North Shore. Her next work, a stand-alone thriller called Set the Night on Fire takes place in part during the Sixties.

P.S. — A wine suggestion, from a friend of Murderati — Chateau Souverain Alexander Valley Cabernet Sauvignon 2004. Yum! Coppola bough the Alexander Valley vineyard in 2006. I’m not sure how that will change the appellation, but it’s worth a try in the later years as well. Many thanks to fellow scribe Chuck Driskell for the suggestion.

And a boatload of thanks to Libby for standing in today. Don’t forget, Simon Wood joins us next week!