What’s your personal mythology?

by Alex

There was recently some cyber question somewhere, I think on Backspace, I swear I can’t remember where I’ve been lately, about whether the authors there consciously considered theme when they were working on their books.

I was startled, maybe even stunned, to see anyone at all answer that they didn’t.

Personally, I will abandon a book very early on if I can’t see or feel a theme building in it. And I’m mean, as a writer OR a reader. I’m not interested in books that have no clear, dynamic, fascinating theme.

But how do you build theme?

Obviously this is going to be a topic that requires more than one column, but I think I’ll have a crack at it, because it’s winter, and time for introspection and reflection and those bigger, underlying ideas.

Now, first, let me say I don’t think that you have to necessarily know a theme from the inception of a story, but I think that’s true ONLY because – we all come with our own themes built in, and pretty much ready to force their way into a story whether we like it or not. And once you see a theme working, I think it’s both crazy and a betrayal of your story and audience not to work it.

About ten years ago, I think, there was a cocktail party question going around in LA about “personal mythology”. Now that I think about it, it might have been after some broadcast of Joseph Campbell’s THE POWER OF MYTH, or maybe just after the great man died.

The idea was to get to know a person quickly by asking them what their personal mythology was, and people would answer – “Well, I’ve always felt a little like Charlie Brown.” It was a bit of a misleading term, “personal mythology”, because the questions and answers focused around literary or film characters, and it sounds a little coy when I write about it now, but you could get some startling insights into people from their answers, and it sure as hell beat “What’s your sign?” as a pickup line, because the first thing that comes out of a person’s mouth when they’re not anticipating a question like that is very revealing. For example, knowing that a boyfriend had always seen himself as Luke Skywalker, and why, gave me a lot of perspective into his relationship with his father and what he expected of himself. I think we all see ourselves as mythic figures, and project our myths onto the world. And as authors, it’s a great starting point for building character to identify what personal myths our characters have.

Like, at the time that question was being asked I would say I’ve always felt a lot like Alice in Wonderland – yes, part of it was the enormous squiggly hair and long legs and small feet and the fact that half the people I’ve ever met assume my name is Alice because they’re not really listening when I say Alex (or I’ve never quite learned to pronounce it, maybe….)

And then of course, there are the mushrooms —

Well, all right, never mind that.

And then I could go a little deeper and say that Alice is my personal myth because I always feel like this logical little girl in the midst of a bunch of completely colorful and whacked-out characters. I mean, look, I did grow up partly in Berkeley, after all. My first images of adults and the world were pretty crazy.

And I’ve used Alice in Wonderland imagery countless times in my own writing – I often write from the point of view of a feminine observer who ends up in a special world, trying to make sense of a chaotic Wonderland of over-the-top characters around her, who ultimately has to take charge of those characters and that world. When I write a story like that I don’t necessarily think at the time, “Oh, this is another one of my Alice stories” – it’s so ingrained a theme that I don’t have to think about it, but I sure can see it in retrospect.

That wasn’t my only personal myth, either. Meg Murry in A WRINKLE IN TIME was a big one (after the great Madeleine L’Engle died, the women on WriterAction, our screenwriter board, got into a knock-down drag-out brawl about which of us was REALLY Meg Murry. When you think about it, Meg and Alice have a lot in common – they both go into fantastical worlds and end up – sort of – saving the day. The stakes are much higher for Meg, of course – it’s the whole planet she has to save. But the point of view is startlingly similar in many ways.

While I still deeply relate to Alice and feel all the time that I’m living in Wonderland – a fantastical, not quite real world – I’ve moved on from Alice as a core myth (maybe because I’ve become much less an observer and more one of those characters I used to watch, which I’m not sure is completely a good thing…).

I’ve cycled through other myths, of course – there are really dozens when you start to list them. Ophelia is a big one. I’m obsessed with HAMLET (yes, I know, how original of me!) but it’s not Hamlet I relate to in that world, it’s Ophelia. I’ve always found it fascinating that while Hamlet postures and anguishes and pretends and finally works himself into a state that he can have his archaic and pointless revenge, Ophelia just does everything Hamlet is pretending or struggling or agonizing over. Hamlet pretends to go mad over the death of his father – Ophelia does it. Hamlet ponders suicide – Ophelia does it. While I’m not as self-destructive as Ophelia (although I can’t deny I’ve had my moments in the past), I can absolutely relate to her quiet, unobtrusive determination. Because of the profession I’ve chosen I’ve always been in the midst of a lot of mainly men trying to do what I’m trying to do. In high school I was the only female director in the theater department, in college I was one of very few women director/playwrights, and in my screenwriting career I was often the only woman in a room in development meetings. And while a lot of my male college friends strutted and postured about writing, and got a lot of attention for it, I just quietly did it.

In a very dark way I was thinking of that dynamic for my husband and wife in THE PRICE. The husband agonizes for the entire book over what he knows he needs to do, and creates all kinds of sidebar plots for himself about it – but the wife just does it. (Because you know, that’s what women do).

I could go on and on about how I’m also Persephone, and Beatrice from MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING, and Cassandra, and Dorothy Parker, and Galadriel, but I think you get the drift by now.

And obviously, the point of all these examples is to get you thinking about how considering your own and other people’s personal myths is a great basis for developing deep and interesting and thematic characters, and how that can be a good start on overall theme.

So here’s the game for today.

What’s YOUR personal mythology?

Where Is My Mind?

J.T. Ellison

Have I ever mentioned that I have a truly terrible memory? Well, if I have, forgive me. I’ve obviously forgotten. I kid you not, I am the epitome of the absentminded professor, especially when it comes to remembering books I’ve read and movies I’ve watched. I’ve always admired people who can trot out remembered first lines of books, who can remember everything they read. I mean, I can, sort of, but I generally need some sort of mental prompting to get there.

It’s never been a big deal. Almost a joke really, something hubby can trot out at parties to tease me with. Harmless. J.T. Ellison channels inner ditz, blind squirrel finds nut, news at 11.

But now I find that I can’t remember what I’ve written as well, which can be mighty embarassing. I was at dinner over the holidays with a friend who was reading the book. He told me he was right at the spot where Baldwin goes to Virginia. I stared at him blankly, thinking Huh? Virginia? There’s no murder in Virginia in the book. To prove that I’m a complete imbecile, I proceeded to tell him that. You must mean Georgia, or maybe North Carolina, I said. He looked at me like I’d grown three heads and said, no, pretty sure it’s Virginia. It took me a moment, then it connected. DUH! I set a huge murder scene in Roanoke.

In a flash, all the research I’d done, the scene, the plot, the point, the why all hit me. It wasn’t a minor point in the book, either — dump site, grassy field, helicopters, news vans, interviews, a hotel crime scene, another girl missing… Sheesh. Of course I had a murder in Virginia. Good grief, where is my mind?

I laughed it off at the time, but this is a serious issue. It happened with the edits of my second book. I got my ed letter and there was a comment about a secondary character — and I thought, who’s that? Ten seconds later it connected again, just like the Virginia thing, but man. How can I not know my own work by heart?

I just know it’s going to happen out on the road, on a panel, at a signing, and I’ll end up looking like a complete fraud because I can’t remember all the details in MY OWN BOOK, the one I rewrote a thousand times. Either I’m going mad, or I have a legitimate memory issue.

The day after my dinner faux pas, I picked up a book I’d bought at the airport. I’ve been salivating over the trailers for ATONEMENT, and was determined to read the book before I saw the film. Christmas frivolity behind me, I curled up with a cup of tea, preparing myself for a journey of the highest order. I neglected to read the back cover . . . okay, I’ll admit it, I rarely read the cover flaps and copy, simply because I like to be surprised. I’ve bought the book, why chance ruining something for myself?

I was two pages in when I felt the oddest sense of familiarity. Predisposed to it, I told myself, having just finished THE NIGHT CLIMBERS, a story redolent of Donna Tartt’s brilliant THE SECRET HISTORY. I kept reading. Five pages in I decided I’ve had just about enough of writers openly copying the form and function of each other. I mean really, how many books can you open in a country estate with the children preparing a play? Seven pages in I stopped, annoyed as hell at myself. I had a sneaking suspicion that I’d read this book before. But how could that be? Surely I’d remember the title of such a book? Onward I pressed, promising myself that if there was a broken . . . damn, there it was.

Grr… Full stop. I checked the copyright, pulled up IMDB, read the movie synopsis, then sat, shaking my head. I’ve read ATONEMENT. I LOVED ATONEMENT. Somehow, I completely blanked the story of ATONEMENT, and I’m so clueless that I have been watching the trailers over and over and never put the two together.

I don’t know whether this is a blessing or a curse. Yes, I can reread books and rewatch movies. Get more bang for the buck, right? What I don’t understand is how some I remember with such clarity, and other I can’t get past the sneaking unease of déjà vu.

So as a test, I tried to remember what my first blog post of 2007 was. Surely I could remember my first foray into my debut year . . . not. I had to go look it up. What I read was eerie. Downright creepy. I’m repeating my first week of January.

Last year I was upset by the death of Gerald Ford. This year I’m horrified at the assassination of Benazir Bhutto. Last year I was starting a new book. This year, you guessed it, I’m starting a new book. Last year I was examining the art of procrastination and concerned about having to work on multiple projects at once. This year I’m trying to wrap my head around the promotion schedule I’ve set for January (5 events, the teaching gig next week, plus launching the Killer Year anthology, a guest blog stint at Moments in Crime, an essay, an interview and hello, I still have to feed Randy and do laundry. What the heck was I thinking?) and juggling the down time I need to get started on this book with the errant expectation of people who like to make sure I’m still alive that I ever want to leave my house.

Gaaaaaahhhhhhhh…………..Maybe I don’t have a memory issue. Maybe I’m just on sensory overload. Too much work, too little time. I was able to complete and shelve two MAJOR projects that ate into all my free time last year, and now I know what to expect from book launches and sales and all that, so I won’t be utterly preoccupied with that. And to my credit, I did read ATONEMENT when it originally published, while I was still down from back surgery and not all the synapses were firing due to a lengthy run of anesthesia. Not a great excuse, I know, but a legitimate one.

After living almost half my life with a man who has the gift of perfect recall, I have realized that trying to remember is simply the universe’s way of playing a cruel joke on me. I’m much better off in my little dissociative cocoon, happily rereading books I’ve looked forward to for months and forgetting the endings of movies I’ve seen four times. The real world is too scary for me. I will go on making my lists (if it doesn’t get written down, it doesn’t happen, trust me) and spluttering through my imperfect mind.

So, a poll to start the new year:

Insanity – blessing, or curse?
Have you ever read a book, gotten to the last page and then realized you’ve already read it?
Do ginko and crosswords really ward off dementia?
Should I read ON CHESIL BEACH, which I’ve heard described as a smaller version of ATONEMENT and I’m sure I haven’t already read?

Wine of the Week: Faustino V 1998 Rioja Reserve A brilliant, brilliant wine.

Okay, I’ve just proven to myself that memory is linked to desire. I came up with the name without having to look in my notes. I’ve been excited to share this one since we had it over Christmas, and I fell in love with the heady scent of snapping black cherries and vanilla — a very nice little wine. Hubby said that it was "impetuous, and if it were a baby, I’d spank it." He’s funny like that.

P.S. — With apologies to the amazing Ian McEwan. ATONEMENT was truly wonderful.

Believe

2008.
2008.
2008.

I’ve been practicing writing it down for a few weeks now. It seems every year whenever I have to write down the date I’ll spend the first few months writing the previous year by mistake. Sometimes I’ll get he hang of it fairly quick only to revert inexplicitly in June or even July. Neuro pathways get crossed for no obvious reason at all.

But 2007? Yes, 2007.

I never had a problem writing 2007 down. From January 1st I was on it. Never a mistake. Never a crossed out ’06.

See 2007 was a special year. Like a couple of the other Murderati bloggers – Rob, Toni, & JT – 2007 was the year I debuted as a published novelist. It was something I’d been dreaming about since I was in Mr. Hodge’s sixth grade class back in the High Desert of California. Honest. I’ve wanted it that long.

As has happened to many of us, perhaps most – and perhaps is still happening to many more of us – life got in the way. School, youth, doubt, family, career…they all threw up roadblocks that I let stop me, sometimes for a month, sometimes for a year, and sometimes for several.

Then I finally got my act together, and really began concentrating. I finished a novel. It was actually my second, the first having come ten years earlier. It was great to get back in the groove again. I knew that with my concentration back, publication would soon follow. So I prepped a batch of queries and fired them off. When the majority of those came back as form letter no-thank-yous I didn’t worry. I just checked them off the list and moved on to the next batch.

In total, I sent out 72 queries: 54 form rejections, 3 bad address, 5 no response, and 10 requests to see material. Out of the 10 who requested more, 5 passed and the other 5 I never heard from again. I know all this because I kept a spreadsheet tracking progress. Yeah, pretty geeky of me.

But again, I didn’t let it deter me. I credit my mentor, the late William Relling, Jr. He taught me that it wasn’t easy, and that sometimes you just had to say maybe this wasn’t the one and it was time to move on to a new story.

So I did. I wrote another novel. Truth be told, I began it while I was sending out queries on the other one. That was another hint from Bill. Keep moving forward, always have a project your working on.

When I finished, I sent out queries again. I didn’t keep quite as good records this time, or if I did, I must have hid them someplace I can’t remember. Nonetheless, I’m sure I sent out about the same amount. And, as it turns out, with basically the same results.

This time I couldn’t help but feeling a little discouraged. I’d written a book I thought was pretty good, and I’d had a lot of very positive feedback on it. But it looked like I was going to have to put it on the shelf and start something new. I did start something, a book I was going to call NOT FOR US, about a writer who got feed up with being rejected and who goes to confront the person who rejected him last and accidentally kills him. It was a black comedy…with an emphasis on satisfying revenge.

But not long after I’d started, my mentor unexpectedly passed away, and I lost interest in the book. Because of Bill’s passing, I came into contact with an old friend and writer, Nathan Walpow. Years ago, when I’d written that first novel, Nathan and I had been in a writing group that Bill had run. Now Nathan had several novels published. When I told him about my frustration with all the rejections – an aliment I was well away all authors share – he offered to help me out. At that time he was being published by a small, well respected house called Ugly Town. He told me to send them the manuscript for the novel that I’d gotten the latest batch of rejections for to them, and he’d put in a good word for me.

So naturally I did. What happened next was…well…a whole lot of nothing. For almost eleven months I hear nothing. I reverted to what I knew Bill would have told me to do, that is write another book. Then one evening, while I was sitting at Starbucks doing edits on my newly finished book, I got a phone call…no, not a phone call, THE phone call. Ugly Town wanted my novel.

I was going to be published.

Only that wasn’t the end of the story. Six months later, just three months from when Ugly Town was going to release my novel, they had to suspend operations. Being a small publisher is never an easy game. I thought I was back to square one, but I wasn’t. Jim and Tom at Ugly Town didn’t kick me out the door. Instead they got a hold of an editor friend they had at Bantam Dell and pitch my book to her. Long story short, Bantam Dell bought my contract, and subsequently gave me a three book deal. That book that I almost shelved was obviously THE CLEANER.

So not only did I know every day of 2007 what year it was, 2007 is a year I will never forget. For God’s sake it was hard enough to get there.

For all of you out there still chasing that first deal, I don’t recommend using the path I took, but you should note that there are many paths to get there. But the two most important things you need to always remember is patience and persistence.

Patience and persistence…and then hopefully you’ll have your own year that you will always remember.

Thank you Pari and JT and the rest of the ‘rati gang for inviting me to play.

Murderati Newbie,

Brett

Pain and Adverbs, or Pinning the Butterflies

by J.D. Rhoades

Something Alex said in her post on Saturday set me to thinking. “I’m one of those authors,” she
wrote, “who really doesn’t like writing all that much. It has its moments,
sure, I’ll give you that, but I don’t skip to my computer every morning with a
smile on my face and a song in my heart.”

I read that, and I went, “yeah.”
Because I often feel the same way.

A commenter expressed some dismay
at Alex’s sentiment: “it’s tough to read that you really don’t like writing
that much when I would give my left toe to be able to write more!” And,
ironically, I also said ‘yeah,” to that. I’d love to have the time to write
more, and then actually do it. Even though it’s sometimes almost physically
painful.

Not everyone has this problem, or has sympathy for
it. Garrison Keillor once amusingly if unkindly wrote that, if you think writing
is hard,

“Get a job. Try teaching eighth-grade English, five classes a day, 35
kids in a class, from September to June, and then tell us about suffering.

The fact of the matter is that the people who struggle most with writing
are drunks. They get hammered at night and in the morning their heads are full
of pain and adverbs. Writing is hard for them, but so would golf be, or
planting alfalfa, or assembling parts in a factory.

Keillor’s right, of course.
Writing’s easier than, say, than working with hot tar on a sunny summer day in Florida. Or teaching eight grade English for that matter. But there are still days I have to drag myself to it.

So why do it? And how to explain the
contradiction of writing being both exquisitely painful and joyful at the same
time?

Well, as I so often answer when
asked about motivation and why I write, “You can’t rule out mental illness.”
But that’s a flippant answer to a serious question, so I’ll try a little harder
to explain.

I once read an interview with a writer (and I wish I could remember who) who
compared the act of writing to hunting butterflies. You’re out there, and it’s
a lovely day. You’re surrounded by all this beauty, and you’re amazed at some
of the things you see flying around.

But eventually, you have to chase
one of the little buggers down with the net. And when you do, you pop it in the
killing jar and pin it to a board. Once it’s there, it’s still pretty. People
may come and look at it, and ooh and ahh, and sometimes you may get kudos for a
new and previously undiscovered butterfly.

But it’s never the same as when it
was fluttering free.

And that’s how writing feels to me
sometimes. The things I see and hear in my head sometimes get my blood racing
and make my eyes light up. But then I have to sit down at the computer and pin
the lideas onto the board, or in my case, the page. And it’s never as
good as it was in my mind. At least to me.

Oh, it’s getting better. I’m
getting more proficient, I hope, at getting the words to match what’s in my
imagination. And that’s one of the things that keeps me coming back to the keyboard.

The other is, if I don’t hunt them down and catch them, these damn butterflies fluttering around in my head are going to make me nuts.

Best wishes for the New Year to you all…

Forlorn Angels

By Ken Bruen

It’s lashing down with rain, sleet, wanna be-snow, and I’ve just left my daughter to school. She was laughing as I left her.

No better sound in the whole world.

I get home and the builders are here, knocking a wall that the local authorities have informed me has to go.

I make them coffee and Fintan, the leader of the crew, both hands wrapped around the steaming mug, wanders in to my study and goes

“Jesus wept, how many fookin books have you?’

A lot.

He asks

“Have you read them all?”

Jig time.

I want to tell the truth

“Some of them twice.”

But I go with

“Naw, they’re for show.”

He looks at the open laptop and is fascinated, says

“Is that the new book?"

I nod and he drains the coffee, comments

“You seem too ordinary to be a writer!”

I take this as the height of praise.

Fintan got me the very first dog I had in the new house, a collie, named Houston. And no, Charlie, this is not a shot at you, it’s in fact, admiration.

William James wrote that if you want to see spirituality, look into the eyes of a dog.

Houston was a pure bundle of affection.

I loved him to bits.

He caught that virus we had last year and it killed him.

Broke me heart in smithereens.

Even now, I put me key in the door, I expect to hear him come bounding to meet me.

I’ll never get another.

Their loss is too hard.

I’m listening to The Cowboy Junkies, the track, Misguided Angel, now there is a song to make you yearn, but for what?

It’s that time of year for Tax Returns, artists don’t pay tax in Ireland, and like an Irish joke, Def Leppard have lived here for 20 years purely because of that. I was granted the exemption after submitting my first novel, titled Funeral. But you still have to fill out the forms, see if you are liable for PRSI.

This goes towards your eventual pension.

I’m going through the various papers, singing along to The Junkies and out falls an old poem, the writing is barely legible.

I can hear the builder in the kitchen, making more coffee and he has expressed amazement that one cup is my limit. I’d easily drink a pot but my heart rebels.

The last few lines of this old poem go

… You breathe

The very content here

Towards where

Each future lilt

Will move me

Most of all

Will see you

Song–disguised

… as yet

And then I remember vividly when I wrote it, I was living in Japan, smitten with a Japanese girl and dreaming impossible shite. I was top of my game with the teaching gig and truly enjoying it and of course, TEFL, depends completely on results and at that time, by all that’s Holy, I was on a streak, batting them out of the ballpark.

Time too when I believed that the world was not as it was, but as I saw it.

Mika, the Japanese girl was always giving me presents, it’s what they do and I had given her a Celtic Cross to wear around her neck. I was already preparing to leave, Saudi Arabia was paying top dollar for teachers and I had the years of experience they wanted.

Mika know I was catholic and was trying to understand the intricacies of it, I had told her, it’s simple

Shitload of guilt

And

Anything that is fun … is a sin

The night before I left, we were drinking hot Sake, and those babes go down smoother than a priest’s promise.

She gave me my going away present, beautifully wrapped.

I’d a nice buzz building and opened the package, an exquisite carved Dark Angel.

And she said

“Dark like you.”

She knew me better than I’d figured.

Later, in some rough times, I was standing on a bridge, and the dark angel held tight in my hands, I unclasped my fingers and the angel slowly fell into the torrent below, bubbled on the surface for a moment and then was swept away.

Rilke wrote

Each angel is terrible

I forgot about angels and yeah, alas, Mika too, and was packing me battered bag to move yet again, from India at that stage, and my mind was, if not cluttered, at least full of schemes. The bus to the airport was jammed and I was squeezed beside a very robust woman.

She got off first at the terminal and I saw on her seat, a black angel. I called after her, said

“You left this behind.”

She looked at it, shook her head.

I’m not saying the angel was returned to me …

Two years ago, I placed the black angel on the grave of my beloved Aine and a woman kneeling at the next grave, looked at it, said

“What a forlorn angel.”

I said nothing.

Back to now and the builder messing round in my kitchen, turned on the radio, it was an Abba tribute show and yup, here they came with

“I believe in angels.”

I went out to hear the words more clearly and asked the builder,

“You believe in angels?’

He gave me the look, scoffed

“Are you fookin codding me?’

A priest once told me, that angels walk among us.

I thought he was full of it.

Now, I see ordinary decent people with the most horrendous lives and yes, they are the one’s who walk among us.

Burdened, hurting, and in every kind of bad situation, the one thing you could never say is

“They are forlorn.”

I won’t be listening to the Junkies for a while again.

Fintan is preparing to leave and I’m reading the lines of Eramus

“It is the chiefest point of happiness that a man is willing to be what he is.”

Fintan’s picked up a book on my desk, The Devil’s Right Hand by our own Dusty Rhoades

and he asks

“Any good?’

I say it’s just mighty and he goes

“I don’t read fiction.”

I dunno about Dusty but I feel that is a crying shame.

Footsteps Darkly Past

By Ken Bruen

And with new days
You slip
Another faded trace
Of joy, they deem as yours
And in the dying envy
They grasp so near
You’ll catch a fleeting glimpse
To conjure back
A clear but solemn day
That sees you thread, an
All too known path
Through words that
Never mean again
Unless
To veil
Your fitful pride
That leads to my but softer curse
Of being forever damned
In troubled fate

I hope you had a wondrous peaceful holiday

And the New Year brings everything you would wish for those you love

The above poem was written in extremis.

Meaning, I was in bits.

And my agent fired me, telling me, the best you can hope for is cult status, translate as

No reviews

Discouragement hits me two ways

One … initial depression

Then

Defiance

The voice in me head that asks

“Are you going to quit?”

The answer that thankfully comes

“Like fook.”

I’ve been reading Tom Piccirilli … he has a whole shelf on my bookcase

And one of his titles could sum up my agents/publishers theme song

… Fucking Lie Down Already.

Tom has wondrous stories about the publisher’s reaction to that title.

Such writers as Tom are the true grit of our calling.

In Irish there is a saying

“Is maith an t-alannan an ochras.”

Hunger is the best sauce.

No truer words.

I hope you had a wondrous Christmas and you received everything you could wish for and then some.

Our Lotto was the 2nd largest in it’s history, 13 million Euros and a farmer in the West of Ireland scooped it, no need to ask how his Christmas went.

One of Ireland’s top models, aged 24, died from cocaine and two days later, three young men, none of them yet 20, died the same way. They were just ordinary guys and what this showed that coke was no longer the drug of the rich or the privileged. The papers and Goverment went into panic mode and a survey showed that all the public toilets in the country tested positive for cocaine usage. Used to be the working stiff’s form of coke was Vodka and Red bull but now they had the, excuse the pun, access to the Real Thing.

The Irish Times proclaimed

‘Country awash in cocaine.’

A few days before Christmas, I was asked to speak at the Public Libraries party. Sweet irony this as for years they refused to stock my books, citing, “Crime writers are not our brief!”

Any notion I had that librarians were conservative and staid went right out the Christmas window. They party … like devoted banshees and when I tried to take my leave at 1:00 in the morning, they said they were only warming up.

The Head Librarian saw me to the door, asked

‘Did you know your books are the most stolen ones?”

Long as she didn’t think I was the thief.

I dunno if the title of most stolen author is a compliment or a lash.

Christmas Eve, I had a jar with The King of The Tinkers, I gave him a bottle of Black Bushmills and he gave me one of their hand-carved crosses with the inscription, in charcoal, NA BAC LEAT.

Literal translation … ‘don’t mind them’ or ‘don’t give them a second thought.’

He was referring to a recent onslaught of personal attacks and I told him, I was well accustomed to that. He took a long swallow of his Guinness, looked at me, said

“In the final analysis, it is between you and God”

Paused,

added, with a froth mustache from the pint, giving him the appearance of a sage

“It was never between you and them anyway.”

Which by one of those wondrous coincidences, happens to be one of my favourite lines from the prayer of Mother Theresa.

David, my Rabbi, in his newsletter had written about dreams and how we should treat the dreams of others.

I imagine getting The King of the Tinkers, David and Tom Piccirilli together for a pint and you know, I think it would be near as perfect a trinity as I can envisage.

I had told the King about Tom’s two dogs, named Lord Byron and Edgar A. Poe and even showed him a picture of them. He said

“You have to love a man who loves dogs.”

Shane Mc Gowan was 50 on Christmas Day and he gets my comment of the season vote, when asked what he thought of the Spice Girls, he said

“That’s what happens when you allow free speech.”

It’s this time of year my Mum and Dad died and it ties in with my drink with the King.

Day of my Dad’s funeral, the tinkers came to the funeral and gave me a horse as a mark of respect … Jesus, of all the times I wish I had a field.

Christmas Day, the main crib on Eyre Square was torched by persons unknown and all that remained was a smouldering misshapen manger.

The locals blamed coke.

Me, I’ll try to think he needed the heat, rather than ‘What Burns Within’

Warm mighty welcome to Zoe Sharp and Brett Battles to the crew of Murderati.

As this is Jan 1st, may I borrow from Tony Black, Donna Moore, Al Guthrie … and wish you Happy Hogmany.

We believe here that whatever you do on New Year’s day is what you’ll be doing for the rest of the year. Guess I’ll be blogging then.

To paraphrase Yeats, may I wish you all that whoever treads on your dreams … treads very lightly and that what you wish for the ones you love most, you receive your own self.

The final line I’ll leave to Tom P.

“He always stressed the truth of love, but never understood what that meant. The truth of love is that you accept what’s wrong and ugly and tainted in your lover.”

( From The Fever Kill)

With bright eyes, we look forward to . . .

by Pari

What a wild year it’s been. A day spent looking at posts from Murderati 2007 yields too much: manuscripts completed, books published, awards, nominations, struggles, strikes, births and deaths. At times, we’ve bared our sorrows to you. At others, we’ve twittered with the laughter of success.

We’ve seen ‘Rati come and go due to work loads, family commitments and just the need to do something new. And, in our time-honored tradition, we’re welcoming two new contributors in 2008 . . .

Starting this week, Brett Battles and Zoe Sharp will enrich our world with posts on alternating Thursdays. Brett begins on January 3.

Murderati continues to amaze me. Even with as fluid as our mix can be — with ten scribes and at least that many voices — we somehow manage to have a distinct essence. Even more astounding is that we continue to build such a strong, intelligent and sharing community.

While perusing entries this last week, I’ve enjoyed reading about how we each, differently, approach the coming of a new year. The gratitude that J.T. sung on Friday is flush with newness and joy. Alex broached another facet of the writer’s life in her exploration of passion and effort, of speed and quality, the work of being a writer when life isn’t all starry eyes and rosy cheeks. And, then, Toni asked us what risks we planned to take in the new year.

I wondered what I could add to this end-of-the-year conversation . . .

Unlike some of the ‘Rati, I love making resolutions — even if they aren’t met. I don’t feel a failure for only writing 1 and 1/3 manuscripts instead of three. It’s all right that my new series isn’t the one I thought I was going to write last December 31. Sure, I missed goals, but this has been a good year, one of professional and personal (yeah, weight loss is on my list again) growth.

For some reason, I’m NOT beating myself up. As a matter of fact, I’m feeling incredibly optimistic. Who knows where this new road will take me? Maybe it’s the advent of my new book hitting the world in January, that goofy sense of anything-can-happen that we feel before the reviews start coming in. Perhaps it’s that we’ve passed the Winter Solstice and the days are getting longer again. I don’t know.

And guess what? I don’t care. I’m not interested in analyzing it today.

What I want to read in the comments on this last day of 2007 is simple: tell us about some of your victories, your accomplishments in the last year. Share a happy something you’ve planned for 2008.

Let’s bid 2007 farewell with joy.

To all of you, every single person who makes Murderati the pleasure that it is . . .

To everyone who
writes
reads
buys books
talks writing
struggles with the Muse
tells friends about books and short stories
supports creativity in any way . . .

Thank you.

May your 2008 be blessed with love, happiness, good health and abundant success.

i hope you dance

(no idea what happened to the code to make it unreadable this morning, yikes)

When I was twenty-two, a woman ran her red light as I was going through the intersection, and there was no place to go. I managed to turn the little truck I was in so that her engine didn’t plow directly into my door, but I can still hear the squealing of the tires as we slid toward one another, the screaming of the metal as our world collided and everything went black. I came to with a crowd gathered around my totaled truck; my doors were locked and no one could get in. The paramedics were on their way and my two-year-old son screamed from his mangled car seat. People told me later that I destroyed the metal of the safety bar that held him in place–just ripped it apart with my bare hands. I only remember checking to make sure he wasn’t pierced or cut, and he seemed fine, though it would take the emergency room doctor an hour to reassure me.

I wish I could tell you that I completely changed that day, and that I lived life as if every day was my last, but I’d really prefer to not have lightening strike me dead and give me bad hair.

It did, however, make me go ahead and start submitting my writing for publication. I sold not long afterward, my first article to the local newspaper. When no one crucified me for thinking I had some sort of ability to write and, geez, get paid for it, I did it again. And after that, I was completely hooked, no matter how difficult the target.

Risks.

We can’t be writers without them. We can’t put words and stories together without risking failure.

Later on, my screenwriting professor (I’d gone back to school by then) had a pet saying about criticism that used to get on my nerves. It was, "They can kill you, but they can’t eat you." I pointed out to him one day that of course they can kill you and they can eat you–just as long as they do it in that order, though, I’m fine.

This year, I’m going to write in a second genre, and that feels like a risk. (I’ll also be writing the third Bobbie Faye book as well.) It scares the hell out of me, because I don’t know yet if I can pull it off. But I do know this: I’d regret it later if I didn’t try. I want to set the bar higher, quality-wise, for both books, and I want to learn. The whole prospect is terrifying, because what if I just fuck it all up? What if I aim higher and fall appallingly far?

Well, it won’t kill me. (I think.)

And the potential growth is worth the risk. Like the song lyrics say:

"If you get the choice to sit it out or dance, I hope you dance."

This summer, I stood in the back of a little country church, the white walls a stark contrast against the summer green woods surrounding it. My aunt was laid in front. Most of her life, she lived in cranky desperation. I don’t think I ever knew her to be happy.

She was funny, though.

It was listening to her and my mom tell their funny stories that taught me the cadence of humor. When we visited and stayed late into the night, I used to pretend I was asleep so I could stay in the room long enough to hear the grown-up stories of the people they knew. My aunt could make a phone book funny. It is very hard to pretend you’re asleep when you have tears streaming down your face from laughing.

She loved those paint-by-numbers kits. When we visited, there would be a couple dozen completed pictures leaning against the kitchen wall, surrounding the room. She never framed them, and seemed to have no appreciation for them once she was done. I think she liked doing them in about the same way others will do a crossword puzzle. Everything she chose to do, though, was low-key, without risks of being critiqued on ability. That was reflected across her life, and I wondered if she’d risked a little more, tasted something extraordinary, would she have found more joy?

She had a gift for making people laugh, for seeing the absurd.

I wish she’d taken more chances.

What I finally learned is that, for me, I can’t regret the things I tried and did my best for, even if I fail. I can’t allow myself to worry what other people think or if it’s the right choice. Like anyone else, I am a champion at wondering what the hell to do sometimes, industry-wise. When careers are on the line, risks can seem gargantuan. But really, in the long view, they’re not. We probably won’t die, and with that, there’s always a chance to try again. It may be painful as hell, but we’d never know the joy if we didn’t try. Cram as much living into now as we can, because this is it, this is all we have.

So how about you? What are you going to try to do this next year? What’s worth a risk to you?

Wrap-up

I suppose, given the timing, this should be one of those year-end summary, New Year’s resolution blogs.

Sigh.

JT (see yesterday’s blog) is in the holiday spirit (that is, the spirit we’re supposed to be in during the holidays). By now I highly suspect that’s her natural state.

I am – not so much.

I’m very glad she said all those nice positive things yesterday. In fact, if you’re in a positive mood I highly recommend that you just read or reread her post. Really. Please. Here.

Now, I couldn’t agree more that this is an amazing community, and we all should be grateful every day. Coming from screenwriting – well, just the fact that authors don’t cannibalize each other’s work for rewrite money would be enough, and what you get on top of that is like a free lifetime pass to Mt. Olympus.

No, the community is just fine. Everything’s fine. It’s me.

I have always had trouble with the few days between Christmas and New Year’s Day. I always feel like there was something crucial I was supposed to do this year that I forgot. When I was a child this was more a metaphysical state. As an adult you discover there actually are things you have to do within a specific (tax) year that can really mess you up, which compounds the more metaphysical angst.

I have this angst every year, regardless of the world situation (which I’m not even going to get into – I’ve been in a state of suspended animation since the year 2000) or other factors like the writers’ strike (which is a constant cloud these days, even though I myself am most fortunately contracted for another two books, for which I am grateful beyond words).

This angst has nothing to do with the year I had, which was unbelievably wonderful, for all those reasons that JT wrote about yesterday. And chances are, if I were writing this post in the middle of a conference or tour, or even farther along in my current book, I’d be really up. But I am not farther along in my current book. I’m in the state that even the staggeringly prolific Mary Higgins Clark calls “trying to claw through a mountain of solid rock with my bare hands.”

Yeah, that about covers it.

And the really scary thing is, this particular part of “the process” can go on for months.

Ugh.

(Have I said Happy New Year, yet? Yay!!)

Anyone who’s read my posts for any period of time quickly picks up that I’m one of those authors who really doesn’t like writing all that much. It has its moments, sure, I’ll give you that, but I don’t skip to my computer every morning with a smile on my face and a song in my heart. Like Dorothy Parker, what I really like about writing is finishing.

Yet, I choose to do this impossible and not very fun thing. The thing I’ve found is that if you just start, you eventually find the hypnotic state in which pages get done and the story progresses and if you do that for a few months in a row, books somehow get written.

I’m partly saying that to myself, not you all, because I’m at the point that I’m not entirely convinced that (this book getting written) is going to happen, and I have to keep reminding myself how it works. But I’m partly saying it because maybe it’s important to say once in a while that writing isn’t necessarily a fun thing to do. It can be done when you’re low energy and full of metaphysical angst. It can be done when you’re angry and in despair. It can be done when you don’t feel at all connected to what’s coming out on the page. The number one rule of professional writing is that to get it done, you have to do it.

(Good God, what was I trying to say, here? Oh right. Year-end summary. Resolutions.)

I know the resolutions I’m supposed to make. Do more yoga. Update my website. Be a better daughter/partner/sister/friend. Get on the NYT bestseller list. Save the world.

You know. Like that.

But as an author, the one resolution that I can’t get out of my mind, that sums up what I’ve learned this year and feels like the sort of guidepost for next year, is – Write Faster.

Maybe what I mean is “Write More” – as in, DON’T do so much promotion. Now that you know what’s more effective, do half of what you did and spend that time writing. Less marketing, more product.

But when I think about it, it always comes out “Write faster.”

Because what I’ve realized, this debut year, is: for readers, a year is too long between books. By now there is no way to misinterpret that feedback. Unlike with screenwriting, there’s a compact between an author and readers. While as an author (as opposed to a screenwriter) you have more freedom to write what you want, you are also writing to reader demand in a much more intimate way.

Bottom line, what I’ve learned this year is that writing more, writing faster, is part of the job. That’s what’s going to take me to the next level of this new career I’ve chosen. It’s going to keep me the readers that I’ve been privileged to get, and get me more. If that sounds acquisitive, it’s because another thing I’ve learned is that readers are amazingly acquisitive people. They’re possessive of their books and of their authors. And why not? Books are just as much material as they are immaterial – which is why even an amazing device like the Kindle is a long way from winning readers over. They want their books, in their hands. Now. And that’s a fact.

So I guess the cause of my metaphysical angst this almost-New Year’s is that even in the middle of the clawing-through-a-rock-mountain-with-my-bare-hands-state, I am aware that I have to do more, faster, if I’m going to thrive as an author.

Depressing?

Well, not really. Impossible, maybe, but not depressing.

Despite my metaphysical angst, I know what I need to do. I don’t know how yet, but the first step is acknowledging the facts.

Can I do it? Sure I can. All writing is impossible to begin with, so all I’m doing is adding another level of impossibility. No problem.

It’s going to be an interesting year.

Wishing everyone every good thing.

Really.

Love, Alex

It’s a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood

by J.T. Ellison

My last post of 2007. What a year it’s been. For me, a year of firsts, of friendship and learning, of discovery and joy. I may go so far as to venture that it’s been the most exhilarating, scary and humbling year of my life. It was certainly the busiest. All the work, all the stress, all the books written, read and recommended, the conferences, the highs and lows, all were influenced by my community. You.

Have you ever seen the movie "We Are Marshall?" If you haven’t, you should. It’s wonderful. There’s a scene in the movie where Red and Jack go to West Virginia University to ask Bobby Bowden if he’d be willing to show them how to run the Veer Option offense. They go to a rival coach at a rival school to ask help for an offensive package that WVU was famous for. And class act Bowden laughs at their audacity, then opens up the film room, offers them anything and everything they might need. When I saw that last night, I was reminded of our world.

I’m in constant awe at the intellectual generosity of the writing community. The comments in blogs that give snippets of praise, the vocal enthusiasm, the notes behind the scenes, the marketing advice, the virtual cheering section that exists among people who have met telepathically through the written word… if you stop to think about it, a true celebration of our cerebral largesse is overdue.

As a community, I think we should take a moment today to thank each other for another wonderful year of words.

For short stories submitted to the ezines who can’t pay, and for the editors of these magazines for their tireless efforts. For the paying markets, still publishing the cream of the crop. For blogs examining marketing, or writing, or just plain silliness. For the most part, we advise and instruct, share and celebrate, and don’t take ourselves too seriously. There have only been a few attempts to launch the idiomatic World War III, and they always fail. This is a good thing.

Let’s celebrate cooperative efforts between debut authors, and the amazing kindness of established authors who take the time to read and blurb their cohorts. All hail the masters of the genre, who lead by example, who sit on the boards of our writing organizations, who prove that hard work, perseverance and humility equal success. Let us go forth into this new year with their example in mind.

Three giant cheers for the editors, who labor silently behind the scenes, shaping our books into the novels that can change the world, or at least give a reader hours of pleasure. Who tweak and push, attend conferences, lecture and teach.

Let’s say thank you as well to the overworked agents, who are constantly on the lookout for the freshest voice, the newest story, the dream client who spends their time writing and doesn’t complain about deadlines.

While we’re at it, let’s all focus on becoming that dream client, that dream writer, the one who meets their deadlines with a smile and remembers to say thank you to the people who make it all happen.

Kudos to the art departments, and the marketing departments, the foreign rights departments and the publishing houses, for getting our beautiful books into the stores. Thanks to the film agents, for tirelessly seeking options for our titles.

Let’s send our best wishes and heartfelt good lucks to the not-yet-published authors, the ones laboring where we all were at one point. Trying to land an agent and a deal is stressful, so let’s give them some karmic intervention and advice — keep on writing. We always need new blood.

The list wouldn’t be complete without the booksellers, large and small, indie and corporate, who hand sell our books to the readers, set up our signings, reorder our titles, and make such a difference to our sales.

And of course, we can’t forget the readers. Because without the readers, we don’t have a true intellectual transaction. On behalf of all the writers, thank you for buying the books, posting reviews to Amazon and B&N, or your blog, sending writers notes to tell them their book made a difference to you in some way.

Why does this bountiful community exist? In addition to the well-oiled machine that is the production side of writing, we have this unbelievable open-source community. There so many writers who are generous with their time, their advice, their words of praise. Have you ever stopped to think about just how much information is out there, ripe for the picking? How many sentences have been written to help another author maximize their sales? Not only is it important to the readers, trust you me, a well-placed word from a writer you respect can do wonders for your writing mind.

So why do we blurb? Why do we teach? Why do we blog? If you think about it, here at Murderati we’ve given you 629 original posts on far-ranging topics, from navel gazing to interviews, with more than a few gems. 89 weeks of free advice, inspiration, heartache, confession, career advice and humor. That number is staggering to see, considering.

Understandably, close friendships have formed. Respect for the medium, for subgenres, for the daily grind all pale in comparison to the fierce camaraderie that we have here, between the authors, the commenters, and the vast invisible readers who silently absorb our words. I know that there’s nothing as rewarding as seeing another writer, on a different blog, quote something we’ve discussed at Murderati.

I know the reason I’m involved here, and it isn’t for the accolades. I think our purpose is to help counteract the solitariness that is inherent to writing.

So, in these last few days before the new year, I urge you to sit back for five minutes and contemplate what an amazing, incredible, compassionate and downright generous industry we work in. Take a moment to send a note of thanks to someone who made a difference for you this year. It might just make their day.

I’m not one for resolutions, but this year, I’m making one or two. There have been people who influenced me, who cheered me, who edited and advised and comforted. I resolve to pay it forward. How about you?

Happy New Year!

Wine of the Week: One of my favorite Christmas presents was a huge coffee table book called The History of Wine. Which means I’ll be able to sample and recommend an infinite amount of vino in the new year. So to get started, a 1998 Domaine la Crau des Papes Chateauneuf-du-Pape. Opened two years too early (such sacrilege) but c’est la vie.

R.I.P. BB