Shall We Play a Game?

by J.D. Rhoades

Okay, the weather’s getting warmer,
the first buds are appearing here on flowering trees and shrubs, my wife’s
recovering nicely from the scare we had a couple weeks ago, and it’s Daylight
Saving time again.

Yes, I’m one of the few people I
know who likes DST, and wishes it could be all year round. I like having some
sunlight left when I leave the office. Having
the clocks change means there’s more time in the evenings to take a walk or a
bike ride, sit out on the deck with a guitar and a cold drink, or whatever. I’m
willing to put up with a day or two of time change lag for that.

On the whole, things are looking
decidedly more cheerful here inside my head, and I’m feeling frisky, and not at all in the mood for a serious post about craft and such.

So let’s have some fun and play a
game. This is one I like to call “iPod Roulette,” and it’s a great way for us
to all get to know each other better (and maybe discover some new music). You don’t necessarily need an Apple iPod
to play it…any Mp3 player or computer music player will do, so long as it has a
“Shuffle” feature that allows you to play random songs from your library. It
goes like this: (1) Hit Shuffle. (2) In the comments, post the first twenty songs
that come up. (You can forward through if you don’t want to listen to all of
them before posting). (3) Be honest.

This last part is crucial. C’mon,
we’re all friends here, and if you secretly have Tom Jones singing What’s New
Pussycat in your music library, no one will laugh at you. Much. Well, okay,
we’ll probably laugh. A lot. But it’ll be warm, friendly laughter, not like
that time when I read my love poem out loud in English class and everyone knew
it was about…never mind.

Ready? Okay, I’ll start:

Van Morrison, Moonshine Whiskey

Todd Rundgren, It Wouldn’t Have Made Any Difference

Clannad, Siuil A Run

Richard Thompson, Nearly In Love

Jimmy Buffett, Tampico Trauma

Adam and the Ants, Goody Two Shoes

Steely Dan, Throw Back the Little Ones

The Wallflowers, 6^th
Avenue Heartache

Little Richard, Ooh! My Soul

Elton John, Take Me to the Pilot

Enya, Wild Child

Jethro Tull, Wond’ring Aloud

George Thorogood, Move It On Over

Buddy Guy, Damn Right I’ve Got the Blues

Muddy Waters, Rollin’ and Tumblin’

Electric Light Orchestra, Telephone Line

Talking Heads, Life During Wartime

Grateful Dead, Black Peter

Randy Newman, Bad News From Home

The Beatles, Hey Bulldog

For those
of you without iPods or other computerized musical players, feel free to weigh
in on how they’re destroying human interaction as we know it. Or gripe about
Daylight Saving Time. Or tell us about your favorite new-to-you music. It’s spring, and I’m in too good a mood to argue.

In A Late Style Of Fire

By Ken Bruen

This sounds like an Irish joke and a very sad one.

170,000 Irish blood donors had their details stored on a laptop and on February 7th, the laptop was stolen in New York.

"Not to worry,” say the blood bank.“It’s encrypted.”

Thus throwing down the gauntlet to every would be hacker out there.

And … all of the donors will be informed by email.

That is a lot of email.

There will certainly be Irish blood circulating for St Patrick’s Day.

Mostly they say, the important thing is not to panic?

My postman who tells me all of the above, says

“Blood will out.”

Is there a response to this, I mean one that bears any semblance of sanity?

The title of today’s blog is from a poem by Larry Levis. If ever there was a poet of connection and separation, he’s it.

He termed “souvenirs," the symbols objects and places by which people interact during their lives.

If you had to name one vital one, what would it be?

For me, it’s always the same, books.

As I prepare to move home again, I gaze with dismay at the mountains of books that cover my study and I can’t take them all with me.

I’m listening to my MP 3, sent to me by Craig and just now, Leonard Cohen is doing “Who by fire."

Pure coincidence, I think, as I finish reading the Levis poem, a line resounding

It is so American, fire. So like us.
It’s desolation. And it’s eventual , brief triumph.

The very essence of the Irish mentality is also in those lines.

I remember at college, a lecturer describing what makes a writer and after a long winded harangue, he finally said
“Fire in the gut.”
Without that, he said,
“Go work in a bank.”

Tony Black, in an email, working on his 2nd book, wrote
“It’s cooking, I’m on fire.”
No sweeter words or better feeling.
God, when it’s hot, when it sings, you think you’ll always have the flame.
Would it were so.

Most mornings, if you can rise to a damp squib, you’re lucky. I don’t think the flame is ever fully extinguished but it sure does dim.

Alex recently wrote an amazing blog about The Price, not only the title of her 2nd stunning book, but the deal we do to get published/reviewed/known.
The price we pay as Bruce sang, and how much you’re willing to give for your craft.

Charles Willeford was asked what was the hardest thing for a writer to do?
“Stay in print," he said.

There was a time I’d thought it would be bliss to be a painter and I actually went to Art college for a year, completed the course and my tutor on graduation asked me
“So, are you any good?”

He was genuinely interested in what I thought.
I told him the truth, I said
“I have a certain technique but talent, no."

He smiled, said
“You’re right.”

I’d done a few paintings and gave them to friends who were gracious enough to say thanks and nothing further.

A month ago, one of them turned up on e-bay and I’d love to say it was going for a small fortune. The only word that really applies is small.

My grumpy priest was round the other evening, one of those bitter cold nights, your breath making clouds of, if not unknowing, certainly of desperation.

Flattering me is not one of his traits but he did manage
“You make a great fire.”

It’s true, turf and the tiniest hint of peat, it lights up the whole room, you could almost aspire to contentment. Throws odd shadows along the bookcases and you’re glad you don’t have any real reason to head downtown.

He said
“I’m perished.”

Which not only tells me he’s freezing but is a heavy hint to get the Jay out.
I make it with cloves and sugar, brown sugar, not of the Rolling Stones type I hasten to add, and the real trick is ensure you have heavy tumblers. Literally add weight to the enterprise.

He gets on the other side of that then picks up my notebook, looks at some lines I’ve scribbled down

… the slightest comprehend If slight-indeed
As such
The comprehension.

He has no compunction about reading whatever is to hand and I’m putting it down to long friendship as well as sheer nosiness. I wait and then

“What does that mean?"

I’m not sure yet and tell him so

He is holding out the tumbler for another and says
“I suppose we’ll find it in the next book when you have another lash at the clergy.”

He is standing in front of the fire, so close that I’m half afraid his pants will burn. Burning a priest will do wonders for my rep but not much for my friendships.

He spots the Louisville slugger in the corner, goes over and takes a swing of it, says

“Now that’s a handy yoke.”

He reads the inscription on it and asks
“Who do you know in Ohio?”
Before I can answer, he says

“Tis nearly as good as a hurly."

No higher praise

And dare I say, he knows I have a hurly because he gave it to me
In lieu of communion perhaps.

Then, as is Irish habitual, he veers off in another direction, asks

“How’s the young wan?"

My daughter
I say she’s doing good and almost like him more till he adds

“I haven’t seen her at mass?"

I go and get him a refill

He nods when I hand it to him and comments

“You’re not having one?"

I say I’ve work and he laughs

“Sure that writing isn’t work.”

I give him my best smile as that usually makes him nervous.

Alex comes into my head and I ask him

“What do you think of the devil?"

I can see by his expression he thinks I mean the government then realizing what I really mean, he tosses off his drink, gets his coat and at the door, leaves me with

“As long as he isn’t thinking about me, I’m leaving him to his own tricks."

I’d meant to tell him about Rabbi David and his latest email where he wrote
‘Shrouds have no pockets.’
But it will keep
I’ll let it … simmer.

My daughter was going out with friends last Friday and for the first time — she is fifteen — she had eyeshadow, lip gloss and it shrieved me heart.
I know the whole gig about father’s not wanting their little girls to grow up and go out into the world and Jesus, maybe run into the likes of me.

I could see by her serious face how essential my answer would be when she asked

‘What do you think Dad?"

I lied
I lied big
I said
“You’re gorgeous."

After she’d gone, I stood in the hall and if I wasn’t such a hard ass, I’d have wept

I kept telling me own self
"This is like a cliché, father’s always react so."
Damn cliché didn’t ease one bit the agony in me soul.

I finally moved and said aloud what I’d promised my friend Lou I would, I say
"The very meaning of the word Grace, is, a free gift."

My surrogate sister, Kathy in New York, is having a real tough time and I resolve to get to the church and light her candle

The email brings Lisa from Delaware agreeing that "The Blessing” by James Wright is her favorite poem by him.

I try to count me blessings and would love to have just one that isn’t in disguise!

Mainly I wish, and I know how selfish it sounds but fookit, I wish my daughter was five years old all over again.

Me home looks like a battlefield in the process of selling it and the killer is the books. I give a ton away but there are obviously signed copies from friends that mean more than money.

To make me smile on all of these shenanigans, C.J. emails to say … you want to make the sale go smooth, bury a statue of St. Joseph in the garden!

Of course I have St Joseph, and I do have a shovel, one that the troops use in Iraq, sent to me by Craig, I have a garden but do I have the … suspension of disbelief, vital to burying a saint?

I just know I’ll get caught

See the headline

"OBSCURE MYSTERY WRITER ARRESTED FOR BURYING SAINT IN GARDEN!"

As I pass through the sitting room, where St. Joseph is perched, I can’t look at him, I’m thinking, “I’m on the verge of burying you buddy."

I head for the garden and sure am going to miss the basketball mini court I’d built for Grace.

There is a nice plot (sic) under me one oak tree and as I survey it, I mutter
"C.J. … hell of a woman."

Of Fairy Tales and Folk Tales

by Naomi Hirahara

My mother she butchered me,
My father he ate me,
My sister, little Ann Marie,
She gathered up the bones of me
And tied them in a silken cloth
To lay under the juniper,
Tweet twee, what a pretty bird am I!

–"The Juniper Tree" by the Grimm brothers

My mother doesn’t like the cover of the Japanese version of my second mystery, GASA-GASA GIRL. The publisher doesn’t understand my book, she wrote in an e-mail. Looks like something for teenagers.

But when I first saw it, I loved it. Immediately. It’s in manga style, with cartoon characters. My amateur sleuth, a seventysomething Japanese American gardener, is grappling with some young man while his tomboyish daughter stands holding a smoking gun.

The cover alerts readers that the book inside may be a fairy tale. No, I silently respond to my mother’s electronic comment, this publisher totally got the book.

************************

Inevitably at some writers conference, book event, or blog, there will be an author who explains that it’s best to write what you know. I always cringe when I hear that remark and double cringe when another writer counters that writing what you know is the most boring thing ever.

You see, readers will look at me and firmly place me in the "writing what you know" camp. After all, my main character in my series is inspired by my father and all the men I wrote about while I was a reporter and then editor for a Japanese American newspaper for more than 10 years. It’s a very quaint and precious behind-the-scenes story but is nowhere close to evoking the oohs and aahs of let’s say, a white guy writing about a geisha in the mid-twentieth century. Because certainly he did the hard lifting, while I must have sat there and documented what was right in front of me, like a teenager with a Super 8 camera (I know, I’m dating myself.)

But writing any kind of fiction is just that — writing lies for entertainment and illumination. Doesn’t matter if the subject matter is close and all around you, or back in the distant past or future or in another country or world. When you sit down at that computer or desk, what you’re doing is creating a new universe — it can be one that is very similar to the one you live in, but it cannot be the exact same reproduction. Characters that are based or inspired by real people cannot be tied down to reality — there will come a time in your manuscript that they will loosen their rope ties or break their metal shackles and go on their own way. It just has to be.

Anyway, what do we really know? Do we totally understand our friends, parents, children, spouse/partner and even ourselves? (If we did, there would be a lot less substance abuse, divorce, child neglect, and family discord, I’d imagine.) Can we imagine what loved ones are feeling, thinking at all times? Have we shocked ourselves at how we’ve reacted during a time of crisis? Those of us who write about familiar characters, settings and locales may be recreating what we THINK we know. But it’s indeed just one interpretation.

For those in the mystery genre, plot also forces us to be universe creators. Whether we write traditional mysteries, thrillers, police procedurals, noir stories, or PI novels, we are actually treading in to the arena of folk tales and fairy tales. Because how in the world can our amateur sleuth — a common baker, p.r. professional, or gardener — keep tripping over those dead bodies? We know your average FBI agent doesn’t have that kind of non-stop exciting life (I’m sure there’s a lot of paperwork that needs to be filled out on antiquated computers). We’ve heard how most crime labs are destitute and to process one DNA test might take the length of a whole season of CSI. And private investigators — talk about mundane work!

Yet in our hands, these people become something else on the page. I’m convinced their stories are our society’s contemporary folk and fairy tales. Just check out Grimm’s fairy tales; they are definitely more noir than fanciful. Some impart lessons; others are just gruesome. Some are light and humorous. All present an alternate reality, where a common villager can transform into something quite extraordinary.

***********************************

As I’ve mentioned on blogs and speaking engagements, my father, up to this time, hasn’t read any of my books in the series — and now there are three of them. Even though he was born in California and has lived here for most of his life, he feels more comfortable reading Japanese.

I say "up to this time," because things have changed with the Japanese translation.

Instead of waiting for my author’s copies from the Japanese publisher, I run to the local Kinokuniya Bookstore in Los Angeles’ Little Tokyo as soon as I hear that Shogakukan’s version of GASA-GASA GIRL has come in.

My first stop afterwards is to my parents’ house. My father grabs the book out of my hand before I’m barely inside. He rushes to the light and examines the front and back covers and goes straight to the end of the book, where there’s a five page essay on me and the series.

"The person writes that she’s hoping for more books on Mas Arai," he reports.

There will be, I say, as I’ve just forged a deal with a new publisher. (This time hardcover, yay!)

He then asks me what’s going to be the heart of the fourth book.

"Drugs," I say in Japanese.

"Drugs?" My father frowns and considers this topic. "This guy’s a gangster," he then proclaims.

I wonder if I’ve insulted my father — perhaps guilt through literary association — but when I look more closely at his bespectacled face, I believe that his eyes are glimmering.

The next time I see him, he has finished the book. "Kora," he says. Hey! "You wrote my story."

But you’ve never been in New York, the setting of the translated book, I tell him.

He doesn’t seem to hear my words. When I leave, he walks onto our cement porch. "Our friends are waiting for the next installment," he says. "They are wondering what will happen next."

_______________________________________________________________________

WANT TO LEARN MORE ABOUT CHARACTER AND UNIVERSE BUILDING?
S.J. Rozan and I will be leading a workshop, "Credible Characters, Credible Worlds," at MWA’s inaugural two-day Crime Fiction University during Edgar Week. Our session will be on Tuesday, April 29, at 2 p.m. at Lighthouse International in New York City.

Interview — CJ Lyons

Toni here — I’m winging my way home from the wonderful Left Coast Crime and had interviewed the wonderful CJ Lyons for today’s blog. Please give her a warm welcome!

First off, CJ, congratulations on the wonderful debut this week
of LIFELINES—which I not only read and loved, but I see a lot of people agreed
with me.

Publisher’s Weekly describes it as a “spot-on debut….a
breathtakingly fast-paced medical thriller,” Lisa Gardner called it a
“pulse-pounding adrenaline rush” and our own friend of ‘Rati Allison Brennan
said that LIFELINES is “A fantastic and wild journey through the fast-paced
world of a big-city ER…an all-around great read.”

Let’s start off with a little about the book – can you tell
us the premise? What was the inspiration for the story? Is LIFELINES a
stand-alone or will there be more books in this fantastic world you’ve built?

>>LIFELINES is the first book in a series centering on
the women of Pittsburgh’s Angels of Mercy’s ER. It deals with the most dangerous day of the year: July 1st—Transition
Day.

You see, for teaching hospitals, our calendar starts on July
1st. That’s when the new interns—yes,
the bumbling fools who were mere medical students on June 30th—hit the
hospitals and start taking care of patients.

Add to that the age-old American traditions of drinking
yourself stupid and blowing up explosives and/or guns while celebrating
Independence Day and you have a sure-fire recipe for disaster.

I remember my own Transition Day. Brand new, still not unpacked or moved in,
barely finding the hospital parking lot (it was two blocks away in a
gang-riddled, not-so-nice neighborhood) much less figuring out my way around
the hospital and I’m suddenly on call, responsible for three floors worth of
very sick kids!

No one died that night, not on my watch….for which I’ve
forever been eternally grateful. I don’t
take credit for it—I think it was more likely because of the always-excellent
nurses who were well aware of the dangers July 1st posed their tiny patients.

Of course, in my novel, things don’t go quite so well for my
main character. She loses a patient—the
wrong patient, the Chief of Surgery’s son. And she has no idea why he died….

I know that you are an ER doctor as well as a writer – and
clearly, you capture the entirety of that world so crisply, that anyone who
wants a behind-the-scenes look would dearly love. If there’s anything you miss
about medicine, what is it? We can see how the world of medicine has influenced
you as a writer… but how has the world of writing influenced you as a doctor?

>>I miss my patients—there’s something pretty
fulfilling about working with kids. They’re so resilient! Leaving my
practice to make the leap of faith and follow my dream of becoming a writer was
probably the most difficult decision I’ve made.

Medicine has been very good for my writing. Despite working three jobs (I put myself
through med school) and the crazy hours, I really got serious about my writing during
medical school, joining my first writer’s group and attending my first writing
workshop. I was actually able to finish
a science-fiction novel during medical school—now safely tucked away until I
have the strength to read it and see just how bad it is!

But writing was also been wonderful for my practice of
medicine. Knowing the importance of
asking why, of understanding the motivations behind patients’ actions, how to
tell a story—and listen to a story—all made me a better doctor.

Tell us a little bit about how you started writing? Do you
write fiction, non-fiction… both? And if both, tell us a little bit about the
other writing projects you’ve done.

>>I’ve been writing pretty much all my life. It’s an addiction and I’d need a 12 step
program to stop <g> Being a
doctor, I’ve had to write a lot of non-fiction, everything from peer-reviewed
research articles to paramedic protocols to grant proposals and textbook
chapters.

Right now, in addition to my fiction, I’m writing a lot of
patient education articles and have even done several patient education
DVD’s. It’s a nice way to stay up to
date on current research and give something back now that I’m not practicing
medicine right now.

Tell us a little about your writing world and habits – what
kind of schedule do you keep? How do you handle juggling more than one project
at a time? What inspires you?

>>I’m totally undisciplined as a writer—rebelling
against all those years of carrying a beeper and being forced to follow a
strict schedule as a physician, I guess! But those years also taught me how to write quickly when I do have time
to write, so it all evens out.

As for juggling things—multi-tasking and taking control of
chaos is the definition of emergency medicine <g> I get bored easily and so, always have
several projects going at once. For me,
it helps me maintain my focus—for others doing that might be distracting and
overwhelming. You need to figure out
what works for you.

What inspires me? Waste. Injustice. People taking the gifts they’re given in life
for granted.

As much as I enjoy writing about relationships and falling
in love and nice things like overcoming great obstacles, most of my work is
about wanting to fix things, to change the world.

So when I get angry about something, that sparks my passion
and inspires my work.

And finally, what’s the best life advice you’ve been given
or that you like to pass along?

>> To paraphrase Tim Allen and Winston Churchill:
Never surrender, never give up!

Whatever your dream is, believe in yourself and go for it!

If you’re a writer, forget about what other people tell you
to write or what’s selling. Find your
passion and follow your heart—that’s the story readers want. One filled with passion, one that reveals
your heart.

Where do stories come from (part three zillion)

by Alex

I’m at LCC in Denver this weekend, along with what seems like a staggering number of ‘Rati, really fun, although I’m shocked and bummed that Rae isn’t here – your name is being tossed around all over the place.

This afternoon I’m on a panel on "Where do stories come from?" with the interestingly diverse group of Donna Andrews, Jane Cleland, Penny Warner and Mike Sherer. I never get tired of this question (and apparently neither do conferencers) so I’m thrilled to be able to indulge in this conversation with some of my favorite authors.

The thing is,there are so many answers to the question, and I suspect we all have different answers to the question depending on who’s asking, and on how much sleep we have had, or, you know, other variables. And call me humorless, but I don’t really find it funny when authors answer glibly, "At Walmart" or something similar, although it’s true that you can always pick up a character or two for the storage bin cheap in line at one of those places.

I think, in no particular order, that sometimes there’s a particular aspect of ourselves that we want to explore, or a fantasy we want to work out (possibly instead of destroying our lives and everyone around us by doing it for real. And don’t ask me why I would want to live out fantasies as dark as what I write.

Sometimes a character will work itself into my consciousness first and start nagging to be written about, but for me that’s usually after I start with an overall story idea or thematic thread, like "I want to do a story that’s an erotic triangle between a woman with a troubled past, a cop who thinks she’s an indulgent prima donna, and a very, very bad man… and then the characters will start to grow out of the situation.

I have said before that I think authors are generally working just a handful, maybe as few as a half dozen, personal themes – over and over and over again (as I wrote about a few weeks ago, THE PRICE is only one of my deal with the devil stories.). I also keep working out themes of violence and gender and how men and women react differently to violence, or force the pairing of an unlikely man and woman in a crime-solving situation and have them have to use specifically gender-related skills to the solving of the case. The soul-crime of sexual abuse and sexual violence is another big theme for me, and so is the more supernaturla theme of opening doors that shouldn’t be opened and having to deal with the consequences of that opening.

Sometimes an idea presents that is just obviously a story, like my third book, which is actually such a great idea that I’m reluctant to talk about it on the Internet – public domain and all. But at the time that story seed presented itself to me, I had already done years of research on the overall subject, so maybe (or apparently) I was more ripe to recognize the idea as a terrific story than someone just casually reading about it for the first time.

But I’m not entirely sure that when people ask authors – "Where do you get your ideas?" that they’re not really asking THAT so much as "How the hell do you ever put a story together?"

Because yeah, you can sometimes identify a seed idea that acts like the grain of sand that irritates an oyster enough that it starts the process of adding layers that become a pearl. That’s one metaphor for it all. But I also think that writers keep vast warehouses of story ideas, snippets of character, dialogue, themes, locations, professions, character quirks, sexual dyanmics – that are not just sitting passively on these warehouse shelves, but that are actually constantly shifting and turning and rubbing against each other and sometimes they stick and magnetize and suddenly you have a premise or subplot. At any given moment I’ll have half a dozen to a dozen story ideas in various stages, and occasionally I can feel ideas collide in that warehouse and become a greater magnetizing force that will attract other elements and eventually snowball (to now hopelessly mix about seven metaphors, but that’s what the process feels like.)

But no matter how much I talk about story being my first motivator, writing is ultimately ALL = about the people for me – the characters. At a certain point I get invested in the people I am idly fantasizing about and that’s when a story shifts into high gear. Because from then on, no matter how hard writing can be, you need to bring those people into the world – the sense of responsibility is enormous, some shadow of what parents must feel. You’re solely responsible for their existence and that’s what keeps you going, keeps you writing to the end and through all the subsequent revisions, that responsibility.

Or that’s just me.

I’m looking forward to hearing what everyone else has to say.

What’s it for you?-

The Upper-Bottoms Wedding

by J.T. Ellison

I’m a true Taurus, which means in addition to being exceptionally bullheaded, I find slapsticky humor hilarious. But I also appreciate the subtle, cerebral stuff. It boils down to this, highbrow, lowbrow, subtle, crude, sexy, sexist… make me laugh, and I’ll love you forever. I love to laugh.

One of my favorite sure bets is on Monday nights, when Jay Leno does his headlines. I know this is the second time I’ve mentioned Leno lately, and don’t worry, I also love Letterman, and Conan, and we all know how I feel about Mr. Yummy (Yes, it’s the Scottish accent coupled with the humor. Sue me.)

ON Leno, though, there is something about the typos in headlines, the deadpan delivery, even the in-your-face innuendo of the wedding announcements that just cracks me up. I swear, the Upper-Bottoms wedding just slayed me. WHO doesn’t read these things aloud when they’re putting them together? I know, it’s protocol to have the bride’s name first, but my goodness, save everyone the trouble and switch the names already. Of course, on that one, it would just end up as Bottoms-Upp.

And I wouldn’t get my juvenile jollies if people actually paid attention.

I’m a huge fan of bloopers, too, and gag reels, people getting tongue-tied and embarrassed. I’m just one of those easily amused people, I guess.

So why don’t I find reported instances of my own typos at all amusing???

And not just not amusing, but a personal affront on my soul???

Part of it comes from the fact that the reported instances of typos in ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS are my fault. The second issue is the notifications come with such breathless glee. And the third insult to injury is that they’ve come from my family. Yes, you read that right. The very people who are supposed to turn a blind eye to my shortcomings have been the first to point the proverbial finger. I haven’t had any strangers write to me with problems. It’s all come from within. Makes me feel like I’m still in junior high.

In all seriousness, this is a real issue. Many lists get into discussions about all the editorial errors in books these days. The complaints are numerous, the blame widely spread. I thought I’d take a moment and talk about how those errors come into being.

I just finished my "Author Alterations", otherwise known and galleys or page proofs, for my second book. I know the manuscript was relatively clean. I’d been through it at least three times, my independent readers caught errors, my editor caught a few. Then it went to copyediting. The copyeditor makes all the changes she or he thinks are appropriate, and the author is left picking up the pieces. My first go-round with copyedits was brilliant. The second wasn’t as simple. Writing books set in the South can be difficult, simply because we use phrases and vernacular that’s grammatically incorrect. Modern usage of language has changed. Writing has become less formal in many ways. So if you score a CE who is a stickler for proper grammar and usage, and who doesn’t know your style, it can be a nightmare.

So I undid a lot of the changes she made (STET is a girl’s best friend) and sent the manuscript back. A note here for the newbies. One — when you get your first set of copyedits, you don’t make the changes to your electronic manuscript, you make them directly onto the paper. Yes, it’s a bit archaic, but that’s the way things are. A sweet friend saved me from that very mistake my first go-round, so take it as free advice. Two — and this is a BIGGIE — make a photocopy of your copyedits. That way, when your proofs come back, you can check to make sure your CEs and STETs made it into the final product.

And herein lies the rub. Between copyedits and page proofs, the manuscript is typeset. Which means it’s reentered into a document in full. Which means there will be errors that weren’t in the copyedits. It’s just one of those crazy things. I know a few houses have moved to an electronic CEs and PPs, but mine hasn’t. Which means my author alterations not only include reading through for errors, I need to make sure all my CEs made it into the final product. It’s time consuming, but I care about making sure there are as few mistakes as possible.

After all of that, the manuscript is finished, sent off to proofreaders for a final read-through. And mistakes still make it through. After I was informed of the two errors in ATPG, I went back and looked. One was a typo, an extra A, the other was an action. Baldwin turned off the television twice in two pages. And I’m not making excuses, I should have seen them. The proofreaders should have seen them. The copyeditor should have seen them. But they didn’t. And that, unfortunately, is life. I hate that my book is out there with a couple of typos. Drives my OCD butt mad. But what can you do?

I did my absolute best to make sure 14 is clean, but it’s out of my hands now. I don’t get to see it again. I can’t take one last pass through to make sure everything is perfect. And to be perfectly honest, I probably wouldn’t catch anything more. I’ve read that book at least five times now, and the mind plays tricks on you. You reach a point with these novels that you can recite passages by heart. You know what you mean, so your mind tells you it’s correct. I have high hopes for my proofreaders. And I’ll live with the consequences.

But it won’t stop me from enjoying other people’s mistakes. All hail the typo!

So as a readers, how much is too much? Will you abandon a book that has too many typos? And the writers, what tricks do you use to eliminate these problems?

Wine of the Week: 2006 Deltetto Langhe Arneis, a Geerlings & Wade special.

P.S. I’m here in Denver at Left Coast Crime. A great time is being had by all. I’ll check in as much as I can!

Must Try Harder …

by Zoë Sharp

Coincidences happen every day. They’re a fact of life. And while there are a few of us who still firmly believe that instances of déjà vu are nothing more than a glitch in the matrix, they happen, too, often in a way that’s really quite corny. I’m rapidly coming to the conclusion that real life is a lot more badly written than an average novel.

Can you imagine sitting down with your agent or editor, and explaining to them the idea for your next book. A courtroom drama that unfolds after a beautiful eighteen-year-old model is found murdered just yards from her front door after a night out with friends. She’s been stabbed seven times and brutally raped. The police question her boyfriend, but his DNA doesn’t match that found on the body and the case goes cold. Then, nine months later, a man is arrested after a scuffle in a pub. His DNA is taken as a matter of routine and fed into the system. Twelve days later the police arrest him for the young model’s death and he goes to trial. In court, his defence is that he found the teenager lying on the ground and assumed she was passed out drunk so he, "took advantage of the situation", not realising she was dead until afterwards. Yes, you tell your agent, this is going to be his defence, under oath, in a court of law.

Or, what about a serial killer? There are a lot of them in fiction, it seems – far more than in real life. So, you decide to write a serial killer book. Your killer is going to murder five prostitutes in a single mid-sized English town over a forty day period. One other woman is going to have a lucky escape when the killer is interrupted. But rather than have him totally baffling police with the total lack of clues, forensic scientists are going to lift a full DNA profile from three of the bodies, which he carelessly dumps on dry land rather than in water. Not only that, but they’re also going to match 177 clothing or textile fibres from the killer’s home to his victims.

The killer’s car is going to be seen kerb crawling the local red light districts, and blood is found in the back of it. Oh, and by the way, the police will already have his DNA on file after a minor robbery he committed five years previously. His defence in court? Our old friend coincidence. Yes, he did indeed frequent the red light districts, and by amazing chance did indeed have sex with all the girls in question, on the very day they disappeared, but everything else was one big fat coincidence. Or fifty of them, I believe it was, during one period of cross-examination by the prosecution.

So, no criminal masterminds at work here, then.

Tragically, both these cases are real life. Mark Dixie has just been sentenced to life for the rape and murder of Sally Anne Bowman in Croydon, South London. Steve Wright has just had a similar sentence passed for the murders of Tania Nicol, Gemma Adams, Anneli Alderton, Annette Nicholls, and Paula Clennell, all working in Ipswich, Suffolk. Both these men may well be very sad, twisted – even downright evil – individuals, but what makes them all the more pathetic is that it almost seems like they couldn’t be bothered to put any effort into planning their crimes.

In books, serial killers connect with their victim in some way – even if it’s only inside their sick little minds. They stalk their victims, photograph them, create little shrines to them for the detective to uncover – usually illuminated by a single swinging lightbulb. As writers we simply can’t rely on the same level of random chance, coincidence and happenstance that seems to occur time and again in real life. We have to make our villains more – I hate to say it – larger than life.

More human, even.

Some writers complain that occasionally they’ve taken an aspect of real life and inserted it into a novel, only for that to be the part that readers pick out as being the most unbelievable bit. I know if I presented either of those two scenarios to my agent, she’d point out the plot-holes and bat them right back at me. Must try harder.

So, my question is this. Are there times when you experience something, or see it on the news and say to yourself, "If I’d written that in a book, nobody would believe it …", and how much coincidence and happenstance will or won’t you accept – both as a reader and a writer – in fiction?

This week’s Word of the Week really ought to be mesmoronic, as mentioned in my comment to Louise’s blog, but we made that one up so it doesn’t really count. Instead, it’s actually outfangthief, which is the right of judging and fining thieves pursued and brought back from outside one’s own jurisdiction.

For those of you who live in the US and can pick up XM 155 satellite radio, you might be interested to know that I’m on over the course of this weekend. I was interviewed by Kim Alexander, host of Fiction Nation. The times you can listen in on Take Five XM 155 are:

Friday 3/7 11:30pm

Saturday 3/8 6pm

Sunday 3/9 10am

Sunday 3/10 8pm

Monday 3/11 midnight

And on Sonic Theater XM 163

Thursday 3/13 3:30 pm

All times are EAST

The Great Beyond

by Robert Gregory Browne

When I was fifteen years old, my uncle had a heart attack and died.

A few minutes later, a stubborn doctor brought him back to life.

When he was asked about those few minutes, my uncle refused to talk
about them. I sensed that whatever happened to him “out there” must
have scared the hell out of him.

This was the beginning of my fascination with the near-death experience.

NDE is not uncommon. Millions of people around the world claim to
have experienced it, most of them reporting the usual trappings we’ve
all heard about:

Out of body travel. Tunnel. Bright light. The presence of long-departed loved ones.

Many tie this to a religious experience, but these elements cross
all cultural and spiritual boundaries. Scientists have suggested that
what NDE survivors go through is merely a kind of death dream caused by
chemicals in the brain, but it seems odd to me that most survivors
dream pretty much the same thing.

It also seems odd that many of the survivors are able to report what
doctors and loved ones have said in the room – after they were
clinically dead.

Based on my uncle’s refusal to talk about his trip to the great
beyond, however, I’ve long had the feeling that the experience as
described is not universal. For some of us, there is a darker version
of the journey. A scarier version.

And that idea, of course, attracted me as a writer.

When I think of my book, KISS HER GOODBYE, which comes out in paperback next month, I look at it as
essentially a crime thriller. It’s the story of an ATF agent whose
daughter is kidnapped and buried alive, and the unusual lengths a
desperate father has to go to in order to save her.

All the elements of a crime thriller are there, but I also wanted to
give the reader a slightly different experience, one that allowed me to
explore some of the questions about near-death and the afterlife.

These are questions we all think about from time to time. What’s out
there? How will it affect me? Will it be painful? Exhilarating? Scary?

Most people are frightened by it. Call me weird, but I think of
Death as simply another step in the adventure, wherever it may lead.
And while I don’t look forward to any pain associated with dying, I do
think Death itself will be an amazing journey.

But that’s me.

I’m curious to know what you think. What’s waiting out there for you?

Music First, Words Second

By Louise Ure

I had a chance to visit my husband’s family on a recent trip to Seattle. Always a dicey proposition. “Psst,” someone hissed as I passed the front bedroom. A hand snaked out the scant two inches of open doorway. “I thought you’d get a kick out of this.”

I took the offering with a thumb and forefinger. Bruce’s brother does all his shopping at flea markets and garage sales, and you never know what he’ll come home with. This time it was a gem.

A CD called Miss Calypso, performed by a woman I knew for other talents: Maya Angelou.

Who knew? It started me thinking about other writers – both mystery and general fiction — who started off in life as musicians. First came the tune. Later they added words.

It seems natural that songwriters would later turn to novels.

Leonard Cohen. Jimmy Buffett. Kinky Friedman. I guess three verses and a chorus were no longer enough for them.

But there were lots of other musicians as well. Ralph Ellison (Invisible Man) was a trumpet player and pianist, with a love of jazz.

Mystery writer and presidential daughter Margaret Truman had a singing career before a writing one. The critics were kinder to her books than they were to her vocal talent.

Ed McBain was a pianist, too, but I’m sure glad he later turned his attention to fiction. The world would not have been as fine without his 87th precinct stories.

How about thriller writer Greg Iles? Guitarist, vocalist and founder of the band Frankly Scarlet, Greg only turned to writing when he realized that the life of a traveling musician wasn’t right for a family man.

James McBride (The Color of Water)
is musical theater composer, songwriter and sax player. He’s still making music today, although I’m delighted to see that he describes himself first as an author and second as a musician in his publicity material.

Bill Moody’s still doing gigs in San Francisco’s North Beach.

Ridley Pearson is an orchestral composer and folk song writer.

Hal Glatzer uses his vocal and guitar skills on the page as well as out loud.

John Lescroart has got a new CD out (Whiskey and Roses) as well as a new book (Betrayal).

It’s an international phenomenon, too. The 2006 Australian Idol winner, Damien Leith published his first novel, One More Time, last October. And Norwegian writer, Jo Nesbo, who created a detective with the unfortunate name of Harry Hole, is both an economist and a musician.

Best-selling Japanese author, Haruki Murakami (After Dark) owned jazz clubs in Tokyo and performed for years.
A recent New York Times interview with him provides perhaps the best reason there’s such a dramatic link between musicians and writers.

“Practically everything I know about writing … I learned from music. It may sound paradoxical to say so, but if I had not been so obsessed with music, I might not have become a novelist. Even now, almost 30 years later, I continue to learn a great deal about writing from good music. My style is as deeply influenced by Charlie Parker’s repeated freewheeling riffs, say, as by F. Scott Fitzgerald’s elegantly flowing prose.

Once, when someone asked Thelonious Monk how he managed to get a certain special sound out of the piano, Monk pointed to the keyboard and said: ‘It can’t be any new note. When you look at the keyboard, all the notes are there already. But if you mean a note enough, it will sound different. You got to pick the notes you really mean.’

I often recall these words when I am writing, and I think to myself, ‘It’s true. There aren’t any new words. Our job is to give new meanings and special overtones to absolutely ordinary words.’”

In a recent blog post over at Hey, There’s a Dead Guy in the Living Room , Sharon Wheeler talked about hearing a soundtrack for books she reads. So that’s my musical question for you today: Do you hear a song or a singer when you read certain works? Is there such a thing as a soundtrack to a book?

And is there any logical link between musicianship and writing?

Where’s the funny part?

by Steve Brewer

When I was in high school, I was friends with the starting center on the basketball team, a perfectly nice guy who’d somehow been born without a sense of humor.

He wasn’t stupid or slow. He just didn’t get jokes. You’d tell him some joke you’d heard on TV, and deliver the punchline just right, and he’d stand there blinking, while the silence grew more awkward. Finally sensing the joke was over, he’d say, "Where’s the funny part?"

Every time.

We all deluged him with jokes, trying to find one that would crack him up, the one that would hit whatever funny bone everyone else had missed.

And he’d always say, "Where’s the funny part?"

I think of that guy sometimes when I’m writing. Not as an imaginary target audience; Lord no, I’m sure he still doesn’t know where the funny part is, and who needs that? But I look at what I’ve put on the page and I think, "Where’s the funny part?"

Usually, there’s something. Some little wordplay, a snip of dialogue or a twisted image that makes me smile. Once in a while, something that makes me laugh out loud. I’m always my first audience and, naturally, I think I’m funny as all hell. Probably no one but me gets all the intended jokes, but readers sometimes cite funny stuff in my books and invariably they’re things I’d meant completely seriously, so it all evens out in the end.

I try to write the type of books I like to read (and doesn’t that shift subtly from year to year), and the books I most enjoy tend to have funny parts. So I slip humor into my stories, especially my seven-book series with private eye Bubba Mabry, and my scores of loyal fans seem to appreciate it.

I’ve written a lot of standalones, some funnier than others. My most recent, "Whipsaw" and "Cutthroat," are corporate thrillers set in the San Francisco Bay area. Very little comedy leaked into those stories. I thought they were pretty good tales, fast-paced, me trying something new, spreading my wings, blah, blah.

Reviews and reader reactions were mixed. Nothing wrong with these stories, but (you guessed it): "Where’s the funny part?"

Who am I to argue? Not everybody can throw comedy into the mix and get away with it. Not everyone can vent in print and make people laugh. I should count my blessings.

There’s a lot of humor in my latest thriller ("Firepower," currently being shown around by my agent). And I’m working on a hillbilly noir that features a flying Corvette, a kidnapping gone wrong, in-laws, tattoos, sex, a lot of marijuana and a bar called The Busted Nut. The novel is set here in Redding, in what I like to call the Ozarks of California, and my wife assures me it will get us tarred, feathered and run out of town on a rail.

Some people have no sense of humor.

Murderati

MURDERATI examines critical themes, historical archetypes and trends in publishing, marketing and the life of the published author.