If You Know What I Mean

I’m sitting here in my living on my couch, my laptop on a small table in front of me, my TV (on, of course) another six feet in front of that. Beside me is the book I’ve been reading, and on the recliner to my left the latest issue of SEED magazine, something I’m anxious to get to. And to top it all off, on the arm of the recliner, barely six inches away from me, my phone with full internet access and my daily sudoku puzzle awaiting my attention. Did I mention my brother gave me a Wii for Christmas?

At the moment I’m wondering how I ever even wrote a short story let alone a novel.

Distractions are everywhere, and they are no more evident than when I’m at one of those points in my manuscript that seems to just drag along. Where every sentence…scratch that…every word needs to be wrenched from my keyboard with a crowbar, or, if necessary, plastic explosive.

This all comes to mind because I’m at one of those points now. It happens with every manuscript, but it still annoys me. Each time I start a new novel, I think, Not this time. I have yet to be right.

How do I combat this? How do I keep the distractions out of my way?

I don’t know. I don’t have the answer. I give up.

Okay…I don’t give up. I enjoy writing too much. But even with this enjoyment the distractions are often more than tempting. They way I do it, and the way I think most successful authors probably do it, is to keep a specific schedule.

I think I remember reading in Stephen King’s ON WRITING that he writes for a specific amount of time each day…it might have been writes a specific amount each day…I guess I could go upstairs and get my copy and check, but the TV’s on, remember? And right now there’s this cool documentary about building a manned base on the moon…anyway…King has a schedule and he keeps to it.

I have a schedule, too. Mine is kind of a combination between time and quantity. I get up every weekday morning at 5 a.m., and am sitting in front of my computer by 6 a.m. latest. I’ll write for a couple hours and try to get at least 1000 words. Don’t always make the goal of quantity, but I try to keep to my goal of time as often as possible. Weekends I try to snag at least a couple of hours on one of the days…hopefully both. This is what works for me. This is what gets the stories written.

And the distractions? That’s what evenings are for.

And since it’s evening when I am writing this, you’ll excuse me while I go bowl a game or two on my Wii before I finish that sudoku puzzle then get back to the book I’m reading, because I gotta tell you, 5 a.m. comes around pretty quickly.

What do you do to keep on track?

Brett

January Blues

by J.D. Rhoades

First off, I want to thank everyone for the birthday wishes
sent to me here and elsewhere in the last couple of weeks. They were greatly appreciated—and
greatly needed.

See, my birthday notwithstanding, January’s always  a
tough time for me. I don’t know what it is exactly. Maybe it’s the cold weather
(Yeah, I know, it’s colder where you are. Thanks for the information. I’m still freezing).  Maybe it’s the bare trees. Or the fact that everything
seems to be colored gray, black or brown. Post-holiday let-down may have something
to do with it. It’s most likely a combination of all of the above.

Whatever the cause,
January’s the month when every regret, every fear, every hurtful word ever said
to or by me, every failure, every humiliation and
embarrassment, comes to roost on my shoulder and whisper in my ear. And those
bastards are heavy.
 

I am not, as you may have surmised, a barrel of laughs in
January.

But here’s the thing: I feel like hell, but I’m writing like
crazy. I finally got a handle on the main character in my current work in progress, and it’s taking
the book in a new direction that I really like, one that’s a lot edgier than before. When I can
grab the time, I’m blazing through a thousand-plus  words in
an hour and a half. There are pages and pages of notes in my notebook about not
only the WIP, but a half dozen other ideas for other projects. I’m throwing off ideas like sparks.

It’s not the first time this sort of thing has happened. When I wrote The Devil’s Right Hand, I was tremendously depressed that my
first book had sunk without a trace. I was in a funk. But the words kept flowing.

Nor am I the first person who’s noted a link between
depression and creativity. There’s the long, long list of great writers and
artists who suffered from depression: Hemingway, Van Gogh, Woolf, Tolstoy, etc.
(This is the point where the black bird on my shoulder whispers “you ain’t
them”).

Psychologist Eric Maisel wrote a book called The Van Gogh
Blues in which he theorizes that artists tend towards depression because, more
than other people, they look for “meaning” in their lives, and when there’s not
enough of that, they have a “meaning crisis” which brings on depression. He
doesn’t explain, however, why depression can actually seem to stir creativity. (Or
maybe he does. I gave up on the book after a chapter in which Maisel used the word “meaning”
thirty-two times on one page. I don’t see the efficacy in replacing depression
with severe annoyance). Psychiatrist Kay Redfield Jamison theorizes that many creative people actually suffer from bipolar disorder. So when I answer the question "Why do you write?" by saying "mental illness," I’m only half  joking.

A few years ago, I actually did seek professional help and
went on medication for the depression that was, at that time, eating me alive.
I don’t remember much about that time, which worries me. I do remember that it
was shortly after I gave up the Wellbutrin that I started writing creatively again after not doing it for over 15 years.

This leads me to the inevitable question: Would I trade blissful happiness for
not being able to write as well–or at all?

So what about it, fellow ‘Rati? Do you think you write
better when you’re depressed? Is there something seeeeriously wrong with us? Or is it just me?

Shards in Desperance


By Ken Bruen

                      Jan 29th is PATRY FRANCIS DAY

Here be … grace under fire.

Battling with a serious health problem, she stands as a shining example of:
“She may have the illness but goddammit, the illness will never have her.”

Her debut novel, THE LIARS DIARY was and remains one of the highlights of the year.

She has true grit and heroism doesn’t always have to be writ in neon, sometimes it shines brightest from the most unassuming of people.

Her novel sits on my desk and her sheer spirit rests in my heart.

I’m not often associated with gratitude but today, I give thanks for a world that has such wondrous people as Patry in it.

For today, I hope she will know that she is deep and deepest cherished.

                                           ______

February is looming, dark and rapid. Here, that means the Feast of St Brigid, and I know, we have a Saint for most everything but St Brigid has her own cross.  You’re thinking

“Don’t we all.”

Like the drunk staring up the crucified Christ and muttering

“Any chance of me getting a turn up there?’

St Brigid’s cross is made of reeds, and beautifully interwoven and naturally, if you hang her cross in your home, the house will be blessed.

A close friend of mine from the UK moved here recently and rented a house near the ocean.

So, to keep things green if not downright Irish, I got hold of one of the very old St Brigid’s Crosses and gave it to her.

I ran into her a few weeks later and she glared at me. I went

“What?”

She said her house had been broken into, all her valuable stuff taken. I felt it was more St Brigid’s fault than mine but am I going to lay it off on a Saint?

Me life has enough dark shadows without having a Saint pissed at me. I muttered some half-arsed apologies and commiserations. She let me run me course and then delivered her blow, hissed

“They took everything except that bloody cross!"

Had I an answer?

No.

I could have told her the burglars must have been Irish as they’d never steal St Brigid.

That would be like … mi-adh … which is Irish for serious bad karma.

You can take it as gospel , to coin a phrase, that I won’t be sending any crosses to you guys in the near future.

My doctor friend was round yesterday and is one of the few remaining Irish people to still drink tea. Now that we’re prosperous, we’re into designer coffee and tea is rare and rarer.

You can’t fob him off with a tea bag, he wants the whole nine yards, the leaves and the tea pot heated, plus the cups, left warming on the stove.

He also likes scones with lashings of butter. He’s a doctor so am I going to mention cholesterol etc.

He wouldn’t listen

He’s the one who gives the advice and when I finally get the tea gig arranged, he sits back, asks

“So, what changes have you made for the new year?"

Apart from not handing out any more St Brigid crosses, there isn’t a whole lot of resolutions I’ve made. Before I can answer, he says

“Course in your case, change is not to be confused with improvement.”

He can bring his own damn scones next time.

Here are some lines I recently came across


The bluebird of happiness

Sits upon your shoulder

It used to be afraid of you

But now

The bird

Is getting bolder.

For some bizarre reason, I read these lines aloud to the Doc and he goes

“What do they mean?"

I think they’re self evident and say so.

He sighs and among my least favorite sounds is the sigh, especially when it’s directed at me, he rolls his eyes and I had thought that rolling your eyes was something they did in sitcoms.

I ask him

“You don’t like it?”

He gives me his medical look, the one they instill in training, it’s a blend of pity and artificial sympathy with just a tiny hint of impatience and he asks

“Can we expect that you’re now going to be happy?"

God forbid

True to my heritage, I answer a question with a question, go

“Would that be so startling?"

His mobile shrills and he answers then turns to me and says he has to go.

At the door, he leaves me with

“I think those scones were a tiny bit stale.”

I had a scathing reply to this but alas it didn’t occur to me till an hour after he left.

It’s that time of year I give my lecture in the college, twice a year I get to do this and it’s on my doctoral subject.

I get a real buzz from those occasions as it keeps me in touch with my teaching days and I get to stalk the podium, if not exactly like Rilke’s Panther, then at least with a certain amount of glee. The Head of The Department was going to cancel this year as the last time I gave the talk, it was mystery fans who turned up.

I’d been reading David Wolpe’s wondrous book, Floating takes Faith and trying to get my tongue around beautiful words like

Tzaddik

K’dushah

Hayatzer hara

And a line that sings to me

“God” says the Kotzker, “Has plenty of angels. What God needs is some holy human beings.”

My priest friend is beguiled at my friendship with a Rabbi and my fascination with the Torah and tells me

“Every time I think I have you nailed down, you go off in a new direction.”

As a recovering catholic, I tell him

“The more I learn, the less I know.”

I am aware that will piss him off.

It does

He mutters

“No wonder you write such dark books.”

He’s a priest so I let him have the last word, call it my good deed for the day.

The ferocious winds continue to batter the city and when I wake this morning, no kidding, my gates have been blown clean off, I find part of one a few hundred yards down the road and the rest, is, if not … gone with the proverbial wind, then certainly headed towards America.

In truth, I’m not even thinking about gates or replacing them, my mind is focused on

Patry Francis.

My hand rests lightly on her novel, my heart sends out its warmest wish.

KB

Ergonomic office furniture.

357pxsnowcrash Neal Stephenson’s Snow Crash is one of my all-time favorite books.  Published during the infancy of the Internet, this cyber-punk epic follows the adventures of Hiro Protagonist, a pizza delivery guy for the Cosa Nostra who also happens to be the greatest sword fighter on earth.  When a deadly computer virus threatens the virtual reality world known as the metaverse, Hiro is called to duty.  The result is a sci-fi thriller full of action, mystery, and razor sharp satire.  Snow Crash is hip, funny, and a whole lot of fun.  It’s also about 440 pages long. 

Stephenson’s most recent offering, The System of the World: the Baroque Cycle, Vol. 3 is 928 pages.  I will NEVER read The System of the World. 

And I doubt I’ll read Stephenson’s Cryptonomicon, which sits on my shelf taunting me.  It’s 1168 pages long.

Don’t get me wrong.  It’s not Stephenson who I’m avoiding–he’s an incredibly bright guy and a fine storyteller.  It’s all those damn pages.

My resistance to bulky books was once a source of secret shame.  I felt people would judge me for it, telling me that I had a short attention span, calling me a victim of MTV.  After all, thick books are signs of intelligence, right?  They say to the public, "I’d rather be reading than anything else in the world."

Since that time, I’ve come to my senses, weighed my options, and did the math.  Sure I could read Cryptonomicon (1168 pages remember).  But instead, in that same amount of time, I could also read…

James Sallis’ Drive (only 158 pages) Gunmonkeys_250_1

Duane Swierczynski’s The Blonde (226 pages)

Ken Bruen’s Magdalen Martyrs (a quick 274 pages)

Victor Gischler’s Gun Monkeys (284 pages)

Max Phillips’ Fade to Blonde (220 pages)

Cover_big I know what you’re thinking.  And you’re right, it is a damn analytical way to look at the joy of reading.  After all, books shouldn’t be about numbers.  Books should be about the experience, about losing yourself in the pages, not about math.  But as a writer, how do I trade the chance to hear five distinct voices, to delve into five unique styles, for only one? 

Of course, in the end it’s a matter of personal preference.  And I admit that some stories simply call for thick books.  In his last post, Mr. Guyot mentioned Larry McMurtry’s Lonesome Dove (960 pages).  I’ve not read L.D. (that’s what the kids call it today, much like the O.C.), but I did read the shorter Streets of Laredo, which was a hefty 560 pages but read like it was 300.  It was a big story with tons of characters, and it warranted a big book.  So McMurty gets a pass.  That’s right; MacLean is giving a pass to one of America’s greatest writers.  I’m sure he’ll sleep easy now.

But I wonder if many of the big books out there deserve the same weight.  How many of these six, seven, eight hundred page bibles could’ve run a bit leaner, and been better for it?  And why is it some blockbuster novelists start out lean early in their careers and get thicker and thicker as they make bigger names for themselves?  Do they have more editorial control and push editors off to the side? 

But wait, there’s more….

Do readers feel they get more for their money when they purchase a thick book?  If that’s the case, do publishers push for more pages from their novelists?

Inquiring newbies want to know.

Personally, I’ve never read a book over 400 pages and said, "I wish it was just ten chapters longer."  My favorite novels were the ones I didn’t want to end, the ones that satisfied me but didn’t leave me bloated.

Gushing

by Pari

Pardon me. I know I should be above this. I’m a multi-published novelist, after all. You’d think I’d be past the pre-book-launch jitters, past the butterflies in the stomach worries that no one will show, beyond the sheer joy of that first big event in a book’s entry into the world.

Well, sorry, folks . . . I’m not.

Last Saturday, Jan. 26, will survive in my memory until it’s wiped out by dementia or death.

I knew the Borders store where I planned to have the launch was going to go the extra mile to make it special; there were going to be the gift-card drawings, the book giveaways, the grand prize. But I had no idea just how much farther the store had decided to go. Still, I spent sleepless nights worrying that only a handful of friends might show up. After all, this is book #3, not the first. I’m no longer a "novelty,’ no longer fresh in the way that J.T. is this year.

On top of that, the publicist at UNM Press had her baby earlier this month. In years past, she’d worked tirelessly to make sure the media was absolutely on top of my launches. The woman who is filling her shoes is very good, but doesn’t have the same super buy-in. And then there was the super-long, super-ambivalent review in the local paper. Most of my readers thought it was just fine. I sure didn’t.

So, I approached the signing with some trepidation. Would Borders be disappointed? Would their–and my — pr work be for naught?

I arrived at the store, carrying a tub of Atomic Fireball candies (WARNING: these things are HOT!), thirty minutes before show time. The first thing I saw when I approached the information desk was   

Socorro_book_launch_lily_bday_cak_2

Yeah. Pretty cool, huh?

Then I was whisked back into an office — away from hubbub — to sample this

Socorro_book_launch_lily_bday_cak_3

Yes, that’s right. The Borders had invented a drink, "The Socorro Blast," for the event. It was a mocha delight with — as you can see — a huge pile of canned whipped cream, drizzled chocolate AND "red hots." It tasted great.

I chatted with the store’s GM for a few minutes while the Sales Manager went out to finalize arrangements. She came back and said, "Pari, it’s packed out there. And, I’ve got to tell you . . . the energy is just wonderful. It’s so positive, joyful."

I felt my shoulders relax a little. This wasn’t going to be a disappointment for the store or for me. Thank goodness.

Then it was time to be escorted out. When we entered the rotunda area, the audience burst into applause. There were people there from every single aspect of my life — from family-friends who knew my mom before I was born to supporters from the Do Jang, from my children’s former teachers to fans who’d driven more than an hour to get to ABQ — and the love in that room almost made me cry. (I love this picture of a small part of the group because everyone is smiling. Imagine 25 solid minutes of that kind of warmth.)

Socorro_book_launch_lily_bday_cak_4

I told the audience that book launches, and signings where the authors speak, are special. They’re like live concerts. What’s said is unique, once-in-a-lifetime. For that reason, I decided to tell them WHY I wrote this particular book, why I focused on intolerance and used humor to make some of my points, how I hoped the book would have a good and strong life.

The long line after the event, the wonderful sales, the hugs and joyous wishes — all are kind of a blur right now. But I’m happy. I think my newest book has had a beautiful entry into the world.

And, you know what? In spite of those uncomfortable nights, in spite of the anxiety, I pray I never lose the excitement and wonder of it all . . .

So, everyone . . . Tell me about your favorite, most moving book event.

___________________________________________________________________________

Tomorrow is the paperback launch of Patry Francis’s THE LIAR’S DIARY. Francis has a particularly aggressive form of cancer and won’t be able to do the kind of promotion I mention in today’s blog. Please, buy her book. Tell your friends. Let’s support ALL the writers we can — whether they’re able to have public appearances or not.

POV — persistence of vision

by Toni

We often discuss point of view (POV) when it comes to writing–both the specific point of view chosen for the work (first, third, etc.) as well as the point of view or voice of the author.  However, whenever I hear the term POV, I also think of the psychological phenomenon of persistence of vision.

Persistence of vision is a phenomenon described back in 1824 by a physician, Peter Mark Roget, who was trying to figure out the mechanism whereby we perceived motion when we saw images in a quick succession. His research was the precursor to years of follow-up study which was seized upon by film theorists as a way to explain why we see motion, or how the still images create the perception of movement. As Joseph and Barbara Anderson point out, Roget and his successors were trying to find the answers to the questions:

Why is the image continuous, and why does it move?   In other words, why do the separate frames appear continuous rather than as the intermittent flashes of light which we know them to be?  And why do the figures on the screen appear to move about in smooth motion when we know they are in fact still pictures?

The Andersons spend a lot of time (and have in the past in other prominent essays) trying to debunk the "myth of persistence of vision" because biologically, the mechanism Roget used (and was expanded upon by later researchers and theorists) was flawed. As researchers, the Andersons are focused on refuting the prevailing myth of persistence of vision and look to several other explanations of why we see movement, but in the long run, I think they miss why people cling to the myth: we see because the images create the opportunity to see. We connect the images–whether it’s because of speed or flow or distance or some combination, we see the images and interpret "motion" because that makes sense from our experience of things-in-motion.

We recognize motion.

Even if it’s something in motion that we haven’t ever seen personally, like a specific person walking across a specific room.

What holds our attention, though… for any length of time… is how we see the images. The angle of the images, the lighting, the mood, the way they’re framed, the context, the tone (coloring), etc., can all work to create what I like to call (and I think I am totally making this up), "recognition dissonance" — where what we see is both familiar (we can tell what it is that we’re looking at) and unfamiliar (we’re looking at it in a slightly different way/angle, etc., or with something that intrigues our visual comprehension or the composition is unsettling enough to make us work to figure out what we’re seeing)… so that we keep looking. Give the same script to two different directors and you’re going to end up with two different films. Give one of those scripts to a great director, and you’ll be riveted.

Okay, so what does that have to do with writing?

When we’re writing, we’re creating the mythology of a world. As the author, we (hope we) have a persistence of vision, a way of seeing the world and communicating that imagery to the reader to help them hook into the images and the characters and stories. We have to bring recognizable things to the reader (sights, sounds, etc.) but with an angle of vision that is uniquely appropriate to that world. It’s a step beyond just creating setting; it’s translating the dream.

If we think about it, there’s no clear reason why we should see motion in film. There’s also no reason why people should "see" the world we create with these discrete words on a page. Words are strung together in such a way that maybe they make grammatical sense, and surely they hold meaning, but for this sentence to create an image that leads into the next sentence which enhances that image and keeps the image alive in the mind… continuous… is a sort of deliberate magic.

One of the things I think about as I write is not only "what is the right detail for the image here?" but "will it keep the image flowing, will it keep the forward motion of the story, will it break or keep the mood?" The last thing a writer wants to do is to have a moment where the flow stops, like a broken film strip, flapping in the projector (or, to update, a scratch on a DVD). The reader stops, the continuous image is broken, and it’s easier for them to put the book down.

I think writers tend to do (or want to do) the above naturally–it’s a part of creating that unbreaking story. We’re mythmakers, and everything we write goes to the creation and sustaining of that myth, and we learn it by trial and error. But we can’t forget that part of the reason why the reader connects to the story through these bits of alphabet is because they want to see the world. We’re creating an opportunity and they are supplying the faith. It’s our job to give them something unique to look at, to hold their attention, to both recognize and intrigue their curiosity. If the world I create (the setting, the people) could be plunked down into someone else’s setting, then I’ve failed at creating that dream, that worldview that is unique.

Some writers out there are so damned good at creating those worlds, that the imagery last for years and can be recalled as clearly as if the reader had actually, physcially been in the location of the story, witnessing it unfold. I have a long list of writers who’ve done this, but I’m curious about you… who have you read who creates this sort of vision, this sort of world? Who are the mythmakers you admire?

— a side note… I am omitting about a zillion points on the psychology and physiology of recognition and how that relates to film. I can geek out, but I’d like more than two people to finish reading this.

–second side note… In addition to Pari’s novel THE SOCORRO BLAST being out right now, don’t forget Louise Ure’s THE FAULT TREE and, coming out TUESDAY, THE 29TH, friend of the ‘Rati’s Allison Brennan’s first in her new trilogy, KILLING FEAR. Three unique worldviews, three unique visions, all fantastic. Seriously.

Contemporary home office furniture.

A little while ago I mentioned splitting into two writers and developing a pseudonym.  Since I started writing, I’ve straddled two genres.  I’ve had one foot in the world of crime and the other in horror.  Instead of a cross-pollination of readers, I confused everyone.  Mystery readers thought I wrote horror and horror readers thought I wrote mystery—and editors thought I should stop bothering them. 

Ever since I mentioned splitting, I’ve been beavering away at trying to sell some of my darker stuff.  I have several pieces I’ve been pushing hard.  They would make for the perfect springboard to launch my other identity. Well, I made that breakthrough sale.  Next year will see the release of a very dark prison-set horror novella entitled, The Scrubs.  The story incorporates a fictionalization of London’s Wormwood Scrubs prison.  I’ve invented a dark mythology around the prison based on its name.  I’m very proud of the story.  Julie thinks it’s one of most visually impactful things I’ve ever written.  I certainly think it’s one of the most imaginative things I’ve done.  Bad Moon Books picked up the rights and will be releasing the book as a limited edition trade paperback and a hardback collector’s edition next year.  I’m quite excited.  I’ve always considered myself limited—but never in book form.  J

So, now I can officially split personalities.  I’m sticking a fork in the road that will go in two directions at once and readers out there can either follow one or both roads along with me.  I’m pleased with the decision.  I’m not keeping my two identities secret.  I’m not ashamed of my horror writing.  I just want to end the confusion.  Essentially, I’m branding my work.  If someone wants horror, go here and you’ll find it under this label.  If someone wants crime, go there and find it under that label.  I hope those that know me will want to seek out my two sides.  Those people who don’t know me won’t know the difference.

So, if I’m splitting, who am I going to be from now on?  Well, seeing as all but one of my published books have been in the mystery-thriller world, I’m sticking with Simon Wood for my criminal fiction and it’s my horror identity that will be new.  So please give a warm—yet dark—welcome a new voice in horror, Simon Janus. 

I stuck with Simon as a first name as I find it’s a bugger to sign a different name.  Janus is the perfect name to break out with as a pen name.  If you know your Roman mythology, Janus is the two-faced god.  That goes hand in hand with my life in two genres.  Also, Janus is the god of new beginnings.  The month of January is named after him. Oh, this is too perfect.  This really sums up what I’m doing here.  This is fate on a bagel.  Finally, Janus sits snuggly on the shelf just before King and Koontz.  Hmm…coincidence?  I’ll let you decide, but I will say this—sometimes I can be very premeditated.

So when I think dark, I’m Simon Janus.  I think it works.  What do you think?  It has a ring to it, doesn’t it?

Yours coming at you from two sides,
Simon Wood
PS: Next week, Chris Grabenstein will stand in for me and Bryon Quertermous the week after, while I break the back on a new project.  Be nice to them.  They’re doing me a favor.

What dreams may come

by Alex

I always tell the students in my writing workshops that if they’re not writing down the dreams they have, every morning, they’re working way too hard.

I’m starting to do interviews about THE PRICE, which comes out next month, and I got that question yesterday: “Where did the story come from?” And because you tend to forget how you started your last book, and pretty much everything else about it, when you’re tearing your hair out over the new one, I had a moment of, “What the hell?” And my mind was scrambling for some intelligent thing to say about my thematic obsession with the secret deals that we make with ourselves about the things we want, but what came out of my mouth instead was, “I dreamed it.”

Which shocked me speechless for a second, and then I remembered. That’s right. It did start with a dream. A series of dreams, actually.

I love that about interviews… they teach you so much about what you’ve written and why you wrote it.

I didn’t dream the whole book, or even the whole idea of the book, which I understand happens to people all the time – and I believe it. But certainly I dreamed the seed that grew into the book.

This is an extremely sad story, but this is what happened (in real life). A friend of mine and his wife had just had their first child, and she was born with a hole in her heart. She lived the whole of her two months of life in the children’s ward of a Boston hospital, and her parents moved into the hospital to be with her. When she died, her parents were too distraught to come home to all the unused baby furniture and clothes, so a bunch of their friends packed everything up for them, and because I have a huge attic, we put it all upstairs in my house. That night I started having dreams of a beautiful little five-year old girl who was not alive but not dead, either – somewhere in between. And that was the beginning of the book – that little girl haunting me in my dreams.

Now, who’s to say why it was that little dream girl who crystallized all the rest of that heartbreaking real-life situation into a book? No one would read the dreams I had and recognize them as the book that came out of that, which really isn’t about that little girl at all, important though she is in it. Maybe I needed to feel the girl first because I don’t have a child of my own and I needed to put myself in the position of her parents to write the book I was going to write.

But there are certain dreams you have that are just so vivid that you KNOW they’re the start of a book. I don’t know if this is true of all authors or artists but it is true of many of the writers, musicians and painters I know: your dreams work just as hard on your ideas as you do at your desk in waking life. And particularly as a writer of the supernatural, I depend on those dream images to give a certain unreality to real-life situations – and to give a certain inevitability to my unreal situations.

I know that this new book is finally clicking into place because I’m starting to dream it, or rather dream I’m in it, and let me tell you, it’s a relief to have my subconscious take over for me, because I was getting tired of doing all the work myself.

I meet a lot of people who say they don’t dream. Well, that’s impossible – dreaming is a vital life function. What they mean is they don’t remember their dreams. Since dreams are so elusive, you need to actively court them to keep them on the surface long enough for you to remember. I’ve kept a dream journal since I was fifteen or sixteen. The more you write them down – even just a word or a feeling that you remember – the more they will start to stay with you. And this sounds strange, but it really works – if you wake up from a dream that you can’t remember, but you know you were just dreaming – try rolling gently back into the position you were actually sleeping in. Many times the entire dream will pop right back into your head, like magic. I don’t know how that happens, but it works like a charm.

And I swear, if you don’t keep that pad and pen, or tape recorder if you prefer, right next to your bed, you will not remember as much. Your dreams seem to need to KNOW that you are committed to remembering them, or they won’t let you remember.

In fact, if I get on a kick of writing every dream I remember down, then I remember pages and pages of dreams, six or seven a night – so many it would start to cut into my work time if I wrote them down.

So you have to find a balance. Or maybe I could get my dreams to do entire books for me if I wrote all that stuff down. Who knows? I wouldn’t be at all surprised.

So of course my questions for the day are – Do you remember your dreams? Can you share an example of a book or story that came from a dream? And do you have any tips about dreamwork in general? And for bonus points – have you ever had precognitive dreams?

A Block of Parmesan and a Pot of Darjeeling

J.T. Ellison

It’s been one of those weeks, so let me beg your forgiveness up front.

I’ve been nestled in my chair, hard at work, moving only to cut nibbles off a block of Parmesan cheese and brew copious pots of tea. Never distracted, that ‘s me. I WISH!!!

I’ve realized that I’m much too caught up in "current events." Current Events was one of those items you’re graded on in elementary school, then morphs into a class in junior high. I excelled at Current Events. Excelled. I’m a news junkie as a result, and now I realize I’m a media whore as well. The death of one of my favorite actors, Heath Ledger, stunned me into immobility on Tuesday. I sat and stared at the television, stared at my laptop screen, stared into space. I "experienced" the moment, along with millions of others. It sucked.

And it’s funny, because I’ve broken myself of the habit of having my television on all day tuned to the news stations. I never turn the TV on during the day anymore. My Mom called to tell me Thompson had pulled out of the Presidential race, so I skimmed the web news sites that I frequent. The Breaking News about Ledger came up, so I turned on the TV, in shock. Something in me kept waiting for them to say it was all a mistake. I waited, and watched…

Three hours later, hubby arrived home. My laptop was burning hot in my lap, I had four windows open that I was refreshing every few seconds, the TV was blaring, and I was still in total shock. Just then, they broke in to show Ledger’s body being wheeled from the apartment building. I thought I might just throw up. I kept going back to TMZ (TMZ, y’all. I was in a bad way) to see what tidbits they had uncovered. They got most of it wrong, as did all the news services, but little bits of truth scampered out. I resisted the urge to email a friend who works in the ME’s office in New York, just to say if he saw the body to say a prayer over it for me.

Hubby, not greeted at the door with the customary slippers and a martini, wandered into the living room looking lost. I assume he looked lost, that is, because I didn’t look up from the computer screen. I was much too busy refreshing, replaying the stretcher rolling, imagining  Ledger’s gorgeous body in there and all the people who loved him being subjected to this insane treatment of his last day on earth. Imagining how I’d feel if I DID know the lump in black. Throwing up was again an option.

Hubby broke the spell. He frowned and said, "I see the copyedits are going well."

Oh, yeah. Did I mention, I’m doing copyedits??? Sandwiched in between two out-of-town appearances on back-to-back weekends, leading into the Killer Year signing next week. No excuse, but still…

I had given up for the night anyway. Something about this kid dying just rocked me. I don’t know him. I’ve never seen him in person. I’ve never met anyone who knows him. Yet as I watched the coverage, I knew deep in my heart that he wouldn’t be happy with all the fuss. An intensely private media person, Ledger was being publicly dissected, and I was furious for him.

That’s when I realized I’d fallen into the black hole myself. I hate the idea of this kind of media frenzy. yet I watched, pointed and clicked with bated breath all afternoon. Shame on me.

Shame on all of us. Why do we let these vultures, the paparazzi and the media, perpetuate this insane culture of excess, celebrating, CELEBRATING, when kids go down the wrong path. If you’ve got money and fame, by God we’re going to hear about your escapades. When you die as a result, well, that’s ratings gold.

Sigh.

I dragged myself back to the page on Wednesday. It’s late Thursday now, and I’m nearly done. I’ve been lost in Taylor’s world for two days, and am starting to feel that incessant curiosity about the real world leave me.

So how do copyedits and Heath Ledger combine into a cohesive blog post? Well, they don’t, really. This has to be the first week in a long while that I just didn’t know what to write about. I’m a bit burned out on the blogging front, I’m afraid. It’s one of those weird moments when you realize you just don’t have anything to say.

So let me share what I’ve learned this week.

1. Don’t take anything for granted. In life, in art, in our hopes and dreams. It seems more and more that you need to be tortured to be an artist. I vote for less torture and more art. Try to live life to the fullest, because it is a frail beast.

2. When you’re copyediting a current book, you need to make sure that the changes being addressed are consistent with your last book. I imagine the further into the process you are, the worse this phenomenon gets.

3. I have zero grasp of the plural possessive. I lay the blame squarely at the feet of Mrs. Grasso, who made me read Animal Farm instead of teaching me how to use a damn apostrophe.

4. No matter what, Fate will make sure that there are four or five tree-trimmers in your neighborhood running chain saws and wood chippers whilst you try to copyedit. Gaaahhhh!

And now, some announcements.

Kim Alexander from XM radio’s Fiction Nation kindly interviewed me about All the Pretty Girls, Killer Year, and life in general. That was a fun phone call, let me tell you. Her review is up on the Fiction Nation website, and the interview can be heard on Take Five, XM 155 on Saturday January 26th at 6pm and Sunday January
27th at 10:00am and 8:00pm, and on Monday January 28th at 12:00
midnight and 3:00am. You can also hear Fiction Nation on Sonic Theater,
XM 163 on Thursday January 31st at 3:00 pm. All times EST.

I’m guest blogging for Tasha Alexander this week and next while she gallivants in Istanbul. We’re having a cocktail party just for her, so stop by and say hi.

Patry Francis’s THE LIAR’S DIARY comes out in paperback Tuesday. Please give it a try — it’s a brilliant book. Honestly, if it doesn’t make Oprah’s pick this month I’ll be shocked.

Marcus Sakey’s second novel, AT THE CITY’S EDGE, came out on Tuesday. He’s written another wonderful book, and I highly recommend you give it a try.

And of course, our labor of love, KILLER YEAR: Stories to Die For, dropped on Tuesday as well. Guaranteed to make you sit up and take notice, the stories from both debut and experienced writer’s are stellar, and the essays by Lee Child and Laura Lippman are worth the price of admission.

Thanks for putting up with me this week. I promise a stellar column to make up for it.

Wine of the Week: Copious amounts of whatever red is close to hand.

KIDDING! How about a yummy Spanish — 2004 Ostatu Crianza

P.S. As I was putting this column to bed last night I received some terrible news. My English teacher from high school, the one I’ve mentioned here was my inspiration for becoming a writer, lost his oldest son Dave in Iraq last week. I have a few boys over there, and I pray for them constantly, but this one is a real blow. Dave Sharrett was a hero, a young man who joined up in 2006 because he knew it was the right thing to do. He was a sweet kid, one I remember as Bean. I can’t believe he’s gone, and this whole post now feels eerily prophetic. I debated long and hard about deleting it entirely, but that wouldn’t change anything. Please keep the Sharretts in your prayers today. 

Am I Missing Something?

by Zoë Sharp

We don’t have TV. Not connected to an outside means of receiving broadcast programmes, at any rate. This state of affairs is not entirely from choice, but more down to the topography of the valley in which we live, which means terrestrial TV is a non-starter. We also have a clump of very large sycamore and ash trees at the southern end of the garden, complete with preservation orders attached. I don’t mention this on the off-chance you happen to be a keen arboriculturist, by the way, but because they stand precisely where a satellite dish would need to point. According to the engineer who called not long after we moved in, we might just about get a signal in the winter, but as the dish relies on line of sight, by the time the summer foliage was in full bud, all we’d see on our TV screen would be snow.

On the one hand, it’s quite nice not to have the distraction of an evening that drifts past in front of the haunted fish tank. We have a tendency to go back into the study and work. On the other, it’s amazing just how many people’s conversational opening gambit is: "Did you see that episode last night of …" and we have to shake our heads sadly. We’ve also been able to throw away the initially suspicious and increasingly accusational letters from the TV licensing authority, demanding to know why we don’t have one, because they’re pretty sure we must be hooked up to an aerial somehow.

Instead, when enough people recommend a TV series, we buy the boxed set on DVD and watch that, and it works out well. No adverts, no missed episodes because you forgot to set the recorder, and no inopportune phone calls that always seem to coincide with the most exciting bits.

So, recently we’ve been enjoying two popular US crime series, which we’ve watched pretty much one after another. There are certain similarities between the two, never more so than in the two seasons we’ve just seen. Both shows are loosely concerned with the detection of crime through forensic means, and in both of them one of the characters has been writing crime novels on the side. And, wouldn’t you know it, both characters have achieved instant best-seller status, to the point where one was given a Mercedes by her publisher, and the other was able to go out and buy himself a Porsche Boxster before the first royalty cheque arrived.

And in both series a copycat killer took the grisly methods of murder described in each book and started using them in ‘real’ life. There are usually three such killings, each more bizarre than the last, and the characters are caught up in the usual race against time to catch the copycat before he/she strikes again. Oh, and, naturally, in both shows the debut writers almost instantly acquire a deranged fan as a stalker.

This is all well and good, and I can accept – not readily, perhaps, but I can accept – that people are routinely able to go out and buy $50,000+ motor cars with the advance from their first novels. And, yes, there are certainly some strange people out there who latch on to anyone they deem to be a celebrity. That isn’t what annoys me most about these scenarios.

It’s the fact that, in both cases, the authors use thinly disguised versions of their friends and work colleagues as characters in their books, often changing their names only very slightly, never mind their physical descriptions and characteristics. All done, of course, totally without their prior knowledge and consent.

The thing that gets me the most about all this is that these TV shows are written by writers. They know the rules as well as any of us, don’t they?

Now, maybe the laws of libel are less stringent in the US than they are in the UK (yeah, right!) but in this country you can’t go around basing your characters on recognisable people, and you have to be pretty careful not to accidentally use the name of a real person, regardless of intent. In other words, if you pluck a name apparently out of thin air for the child molester in your next novel, and give a rough approximation of his description and address, you’d better hope that no-one of the same name or appearance has been seen innocently hanging around outside their local nursery school, or you stand a very good chance of ending up in court.

When I wanted to include a fictitious major drugs company in the next Charlie Fox book, I ran the name Storax Pharmaceutical through Google to see what came up. (No matches, fortunately.) I use a random name generator website for most of my character names – particularly the villains – although I once suggested we should become literary assassins and offer to kill off someone else’s nemesis, somewhat in the style of Strangers on a Train. But only in print, obviously.

I’ve only ever included three real people in my books, and they all asked for it. No, they really did. The first was librarian Andrew Till, who always wanted to be included, so became an FBI agent in First Drop. Then Frances L Neagley bid to be a character in the charity auction at Bouchercon in Chicago, and Terry O’Loughlin bid for the same purpose at B’con in Madison. I’ve tried to include little snippets about each person that are personal to them, but the rest is pure invention. Fortunately, Frances liked what I’d done with her in Second Shot, And I’ll no doubt lie awake at night worrying about Terry’s reaction to Third Strike until the book comes out this summer.

But I’m intrigued to know what precautions everyone else takes. Do you do Internet searches on your proposed baddies to see what comes up? Has anyone ever approached you and said, "Hey, that’s me!" Even if it wasn’t remotely like them?

On a final note, I’d like to mention Patry Francis, whose debut thriller, The Liar’s Diary, comes out on January 29th. Patry is undergoing treatment for an aggressive form of cancer, and so won’t be able to tour the book’s release in person. Let’s hope the wonders of ’Tinterweb do the job of promoting it for her. Best of luck!

And on a final, final note, I love the idea of JT’s Wine of the Week, but I’m not a big drinker, so I thought I’d have a Word of the Week instead. This week’s word that caught my fancy is arcanist. From arcane, meaning secret or mysterious, an arcanist is someone who has knowledge of a secret manufacturing process, especially in ceramics.