And a Nation Weeps…

And by nation, I mean the Murderati nation as this is my final post on Murderati. I will pause as you dash out for some Kleenex.

Yes, it’s time for me to move on. 2007 has been an incredible year with book releases, book contracts and awards and 2008 promises even more. 2008 will see the release of three books. I hope to secure as many new contracts and write as many new books too.

But for all the success of 2007, there’s been a price and that’s been time. I haven’t had any time for my family and friends, let alone for myself. I’m a reliable person by trade, but not of late. Everyone has gone on the backburner while I worked. So the year hasn’t been all gravy. There have been a few lumps that never got strained out.

I checked back on my resolutions I made at the beginning of the year. I only achieved one and that was to cement a place in New York publishing (which God willing, I’ve done for the moment). The others, not to work so hard, hang out with Julie, learn a new skill, I failed at miserably, not even coming close. I need to do much better in ’08.

To succeed in ’08, I have to drop a few commitments to free up some time. The two important ones are Sisters in Crime and Murderati. I served as the NorCal chapter president of Sisters in Crime. Sisters took up a lot more time than I expected. The chapter faced a number of issues that no one expected and ate into my time. I will remain a member of SinC, but I will be resigning from the board. I’m also dropping Murderati. It is only a weekly commitment, but it does eat into my time. There are a bunch of essays I write that never make to the blog (and with good reason).

So what am I going to do with my additional time? I do want to achieve my failed resolutions of stopping to enjoy the moment, hang with Julie and learn a new skill (I really want to learn how to fence and speak Spanish—I call it my Zorro phase). In addition, I want to get back to my short story writing. I wrote only two shorts this year. I usually knock out twenty to thirty. I want to experiment converting one of my short stories into a stage play. There are a couple of novels that I call hobbies that I want to finish before they become quests. I need to focus on promoting my books. I just didn’t do either book justice this year as I ran from one commitment to another. Again, I don’t know if I’ll achieve all this, but I want to give myself the freedom to do it.

If you’d still like to hear from me, my monthly e-newsletter goes into its 6th year and you’re welcome to join. It consists of observational essays that poke fun at the world and me. Just click the link to sign up.

I know I’m leaving a big hole and it’s going to moderately tough act to follow for whoever replaces me, but I’m sure whoever it is, they’ll do a bang up job.

So cheerio and good luck.

Yours at an end of an era,
Simon Wood

Unsung Heroes

tby Rob Gregory Browne

There are a number of writers who I think
are wonderful, but never get the accolades they deserve. These people
consistently write great books, have enough of a following to keep
doing it, but are unknown or forgotten to most of us — including those
of us who read quite a bit.

One such writer is, unfortunately, no longer with us. More about that later.

His name is Eugene Izzi. He is, quite possibly, one of the best
crime writers ever to put words to paper. His stories are set in a
gritty Chicago, inhabited by bad boys, mob bosses, thiefs, burglars and
hard-assed cops:

The Take
Bad Guys
The Eight Victim
The Booster
King ot the Hustlers
The Prime Roll
Invasions
Prowlers
Tribal Secrets
Tony’s Justice
Bulletin from the Streets
Safe Harbor
Players
A Matter of Honor
The Criminalist

He wrote three books under the name Nick Gaitano: Special Victims, Mr. X, and Jaded.

I have most of these books on my shelf. Eventually I’ll have them
all. I have read many of them, but hesitate to read them all because
Mr. Izzi is no longer with us and I want to make them last. I know when
I open an Izzi book that I will not be disappointed. He’s that good.

Now a word about his death. It was officially ruled a suicide, but
there is some controversy about that. He was reportedly found hanging
from a noose outside his office window, with a disk containing several
pages of a new book — one of the scenes describing a man being hung
outside his office window.

I don’t know if this is true. But there were some who said that Izzi
was murdered by a militia group he was researching. Others said he was
merely doing hands-on research that got out of control.

Whatever the case — while this is an interesting side note, it has
little to do with Izzi’s books. If you are a lover of crime fiction, I
urge you to grab as many of them as you can. My first was Bad Guys. A
work of perfection.

Now, I know that many of you reading this have probably heard of Izzi, or your own favorite unsung hero has sprung to mind.

So please share. Tell us who you think deserves more of the limelight than he or she is getting.

Holiday Lagniappe

By Louise Ure

What are you doing here? It’s Christmas Day, for crying out loud! Go take a walk on the beach. Go play in the snow. Go sit by the fire.

But before you go, let me first pass on a few Holiday odds & ends.

First of all, take a look at the terrific Christmas present I got this year from my friends at Mind Over Eye in Los Angeles.

Didn’t they do a fine job?

Thanksgiving is the traditional time of year for gratefulness, but for
me, this week is one of reflection and thanks giving. Of remembering and looking ahead.
A time to say thank you to the readers and booksellers and librarians who give us a try, to the friends who make videos and come to signings, to the publishers and agents who support and encourage our work.

I always start off the new year with such a rosy glow. A promise to outweigh the naughty with nice. To be a better writer, a better
wife and daughter and sister, a better human being. I have such high hopes for 2008. For myself, for our country and for our planet. Come on, politicians, don’t let me down again.

If you have a moment, stop over at Moments In Crime today, too. That’s the new St. Martin’s Minotaur blog where I was posting last week. (I’m blogged out after all that. That’s why today’s post is so short.) Linda L. Richards got holiday duty over there, and it will be cold and lonely unless we join her for a cuppa. Her book, Death Was the Other Woman, promises that whatever drink she serves will rich and dark.

And mark your calendars for January 5. That’s the day that Elaine Flinn has rounded up her posse of questioners over at Evil E to interview me. When she brings the likes of Zoe Sharp, Ken Bruen, David Montgomery, Allison Brennan, Nick Stone, Paul Guyot and Ali Karim together, you know it’s going to be good.

Now, go enjoy Christmas Day. Want to tell us what you’ll remember this Christmas for? Was there one special moment or gift or event or thought?

Any New Year’s resolutions you’re willing to share?

XOXO
Louise

Merry Chanuchristmakwanzaa: Holiday music for all

by Pari

Oh, I know there won’t be many of you hitting the Internet this bright Monday; there’s just too much going on.

Last week, when I was contemplating my blog for today, I thought about coming up with a clever re-write of the Night Before Christmas:

‘Twas the night before Christmas
and all through the mystery community
felonious characters were seeking immunity . . .

You can see why I stopped. I’m just not quite familiar enough with the poem to pull off a parody.

Then, I thought about a post for the rest of us — those who don’t celebrate Christmas. And, well, that seemed mighty ungracious. Ya know?

Then, just when I wondered if I ought to post one of those cutesy cards — with the little kids with the huge eyes, two dots for their noses and tiny puckered lips — a friend emailed me this video.

(On the very real chance that I messed up this whole embedding thing, here’s the link)

So . . .

If you want to play along, post your favorite holiday music links. I don’t care what holiday you want to celebrate, just share your goodies with the rest of us.

That’s it for today.

Enjoy the holiday, if you celebrate it, OR if you’re simply off work.

For those of you who have to work today or tomorrow . . . thank you for keeping the world going while the rest of us lounge around eating that second helping of fudge.

when in doubt, throw hard candy

(aka: The Santa from Hell)

(I’ve been asked to re-post this as a Christmas tradition.)

When the kids were little — I think Jake was three and Luke was seven — Christmas felt like it was going to be slim. Make that downright anorexic. So I was looking for a way to bring a little fun into the season, something that wouldn’t cost much.

I had a brilliant idea. (I should come with a warning label: If brilliant idea occurs, step way-the-hell back for your own safety.)

Anyway. The idea was to have someone play Santa at our house for a pre-Christmas visit. We’d invite all the neighbor kids and their parents and each family would bring a gift for their child ahead of time. I’d hide the gifts away and squirrel them to our Santa, who would come in the house with lots of Ho Ho Hos and joy and jovial warmth and after regaling the kids with whatever it is Santas regale kids with, he’d give out the presents. There would be hot chocolate and apple cider, a beautifully lit Christmas tree in the background. Maybe even singing, if the kids wanted to sing. We would be so sappy, Hallmark would sue. Or throw up, but whatever, it was going to be great.

When I write it out like that, it sounds like a very nice day, doesn’t it? It really does seem normal and sane and I should have known that in my world, “normal” and “sane” do not apply.

It progressed innocently enough… I invited all of the neighbors, who loved the idea, especially since it was a fairly tight season for everyone. The “gifts” to the kids were held to a very low budget, so everything was fair and equal. There was a tree, decorations, lights, apple cider and hot chocolate, brownies, cookies, you name it for a sugar fix, someone was going to bring it. All I needed was a Santa.

Finding someone with a Santa suit wasn’t quite as easy as I had expected; most of the people who have them are booked for all of December, and it was two weeks before Christmas and looking a little bleak. And forget getting one of those guys for free. Like I was crazy for thinking this was the season of giving or something. Of course, the kids already knew that Santa was going to come to our house for our party, the specific date was set, so there was no going back at that point. (Could you look a bunch of 3 to 7 year olds in the face and tell them Santa wasn’t showing up? If so, here’s your application to Mercenaries-R-Us and Osama’s on line two.) So. Had to find a Santa. Was getting a little scared as the day approached and there was no Santa to be had.

Then a member of our family, who we still speak to even after this event, suggested a certain older friend-of-the-family. I had met this FOtF several times, and he’s a little… erm… warped. He is very very sweet, but also sort of odd, disjointed, but in a quasi-live-in-a-fog sort of way. Jovial, though, he had down pat. He had the rotund belly, the jolly round cheeks, the perfect Santa nose. The thing that worried me was that he was incredibly bashful. And when he did speak, he was extremely quiet. I couldn’t remember him putting together two whole sentences in a row, unless you call smiling and nodding a lot “sentences,” but at this point, I figured, what could it hurt?

Now, in retrospect, I understand why the heroine always goes down into the dark basement when she’s heard a noise, there’s a serial killer known to be in her neighborhood, someone who’d been stalking her and had keys made to her house, and yet she goes anyway, armed with only a pony-tail clasp and Malibu Barbie lipstick. She was thinking what could it hurt?

Our house was tiny, so the plan was for me to hide the bag of toys at our back door for Santa to grab, then he’d go around and come in the front door, where everyone was gathered in the living / dining room area. Tree lit? Check. Apple cider? Check. Hot chocolate? Check. Sugar high toddlers on the ceiling? Check. So many people packed in there, we were going to need pregnancy tests soon? Check.

But no Santa.

An hour goes by. The kids get higher and rowdier and the adults get fidgety and gossipy and God only knows how many families we managed to break up on that one night. Meanwhile, Jake (three) wandered off to the kitchen. I could see him (very very tiny house) from the dining room, when we heard a noise outside. A distinctive ‘HO HO HO” noise. At last.

Everyone turned expectantly toward the front door. I didn’t want Jake to miss this, so I ran into the kitchen to scoop him up, when suddenly, the back door BURST open with Jake not a foot away from it, and in bound Santa, HO HO HOing at the TOP OF HIS LUNGS, and RUNNING, people. RUNNING. There was NO ROOM TO RUN so Jake turned away from this screaming giant red monster and beelined it back to the living room, which meant he went OVER me, over a few other people standing in the way and did Santa stop? No, no he did not. Santa ran smack over me, over a few other innocent bystanders, and to top it off, the whole running time? He was throwing candy. Hard candy. And I don’t mean “lightly tossing it to the cute little four-year-old standing there with her jaw open in abject fear….” No. I mean hurling it, 95mph over the plate there, Babe, pinging parents, knocking out a couple of random elementary kids and everyone started dodging and diving for cover and did he STOP? No. No he did not. He kept whizzing that candy and HO HO HOing and running (now in circles in the living room) and kids were screaming, Jake was crying, Luke was hiding, I was still on the floor in total shock, and when he did stop, finally (I think Carl tripped him), he started with the presents. Not a single jolly word did this man speak. He pulled out presents, asked the kid’s name, and the really smart kids hid behind their parents, because he HURLED the gifts at their heads. Hurled. I’m not kidding you.

By this point, there was hot chocolate and apple cider everywhere, there were a couple of wet spots on the sofa I didn’t want to identify, most of the kids were wailing and trying to climb their nearest parent and on top of everything else, Santa had managed to drop one of the kid’s presents outside… though I had the presence of mind to realize what had happened and I had a stand-by gift ready (in case one of the parents forgot) and so that was solved. When he finished slinging the last present, did he SIT DOWN and calmly tell lovely stories to the kids to keep them from growing up to be SERIAL KILLERS?

No. No he did not.

He started up again with the running and HO HO HOing and throwing even MORE CANDY. You’d think the man was on a float and we were thirty feet away, and when he finally finished careening over a couple of kids who hadn’t been trampled on the first go-round, he sprinted to the back door and ran out into the night.

The back door slammed and the whole house hushed for a moment in stunned silence. Parents looked at me like I should be locked up, and those were the nice polite expressions, comparatively speaking. Then the shrieking began, and the confusion (toys had been dropped and stomped on by Santa on his way out) and there was just no way to rescue it. I’ve never seen a bunch of people leave a party faster in my life.

But I tell you what. Whenever someone would say to those kids, even years later, that they “better be good because Santa was watching”… man, they’d straighten right the hell up. And I don’t think a single one of them touched hard candy for years.

So tell me… what traditions have you experienced in Christmases past that didn’t exactly go as planned?

A Very Merry Solstice

by Alex

(Everyone out shopping? Yeah, I thought so…)

Ah, the holiday season. What better way to spend the end of the year, than in spiritual reflection, decorating trees, buying perfect presents for loved ones, sending out cheery holiday cards and newsletters, drinking champagne and eating fabulous little cookies, indulging in the free DVDs that the evil corporations continue to send striking screenwriters because force majeure be damned, the Oscars must go on…)

Right?

Um.

Wrong.

This Holiday season, if I don’t do at the very least five pages a day WITHOUT FAIL I will not make the deadline of my next book. Not even Christmas Day off for me.

(Michael says – “How long are you going to keep doing this to yourself? “ But how am I doing this to myself? Nobody tells a grocery store clerk or a bank manager or postal worker – “Oh, you don’t have to work today. Why do that to yourself? Let’s go see a movie.” Well, actually, people probably DO say that, but if such advice is actually followed, the result is dismissal and disgrace and homelessness).

Now, in some ways it’s not such a loss, for me. For one thing, I’m not actually a Christian, and I don’t have children that I need to halt everything for, and my family is very laid back about all holidays in general, and I hate malls, and as long as we see Sweeney Todd this weekend, Michael’s not going to complain too much (mostly because I can keep him quiet with all the free DVDs). I must say it’s annoying to have to do the more obligatory Christmas things without getting the benefit of time off from work like everyone else, but I knew this job was dangerous when I took it.

But there is one part of the holiday season that I can celebrate at the same time that I’m doing my pages, and that doesn’t grate on me because I’m missing out on all the fun. And that’s today. It’s Winter Solstice.

As we all probably know, technically, the solstice is the beginning of winter in the Northern Hemisphere and summer in the Southern Hemisphere. It’s the longest night and the shortest day of the year.

We also all probably have heard that ritual celebrations practiced at Christmas go back to pre-Christian times, and we’ve co-opted many solstice traditions (like Yule logs and Christmas trees and the lighting of candles and the birth of the sun – or son) for Christmas. The celebration of solstice extends across pretty much every culture.

But I particularly like the magic aspect of solstice. In pagan tradition, the year is divided into quarters, and the two solstices and the two Equinoxes are the most powerful times of the whole year. Whatever you do during these times gets a certain extra push from the universe. I find that invariably to be true. Your dreams are more powerful, money arrives in the mail, you solve that problem in Chapter 10.

Seriously. For authors, for example, this is a fabulous time to write – your productivity is through the roof. I didn’t just get some kick-ass pages done on my book in the last few days – I also have been cranking the pages out on the novella I’ve been putting off because of panic about the book. Every research book I’ve picked up has been THE EXACT BOOK with the EXACT information I needed to move to the next chapter. I just feel stronger and more capable about everything.

Running around buying gifts is one thing, fine, but the days just before and just after Solstice will invariably turn up some real gifts, cosmic gifts. Pay attention and see what shows up for you, and if you feel like it, share.

I wish everyone Happy Christmas and everything else that you celebrate, but especially this year, an extra Solstice something for all.

Now, back to work.

Or, you know – shopping.

That Magic Moment

by J.T. Ellison

There comes a time in every author’s life when they have to make a decision.

An editorial decision, that is. A moment when your editor says, "What do you think about this?" and you have to decide one way or another whether you want to listen. It can be very, very hard to hear that a change may be necessary. I imagine there are authors out there who go into a complete tailspin when they receive "input." But good editorial input is like having opposable thumbs, it makes life a whole lot easier. I’ve been blessed so far with the suggestions and critiques I’ve received, and I’m not terribly uptight when it comes to changing aspects of my work. But that has everything to do with being surrounded by the right people.

If you were on Facebook this week, you might have seen a status update from me that said "JT loves her editor." I’m wasn’t trying to suck up. I was telling the truth. I do love my editor. She’s brilliant. And she can play me like a harp. She knows me. She gets me. And she has the vision to strengthen my work with just a few strategically placed plucks.

We’ve just finished working on the second Taylor Jackson novel. Yesterday, to be exact. The book is about to go into production, which means we backed into a hard deadline. As of now, the books is done and has been sent to copyedit, so there is much rejoicing in the Ellison household today. I’ve already received the cover art, a cover so amazing that I’m sitting on it for a few months so we can make a splash at the right time. It’s that good. Talk about people who get me, the Mira Art Department knows my mind better than I do. I give them a couple of nudges toward the direction I want, they come up with sheer genius.

Back to the editorial decision.

I always look forward to my edits. I find the process fascinating. Simply put, I write a book, do three revisions, let other people read it, read it again myself, thinking it’s the best I can possibly write and THEN submit it to my editor.

And that’s where the magic occurs. My editor suggests a tweak here, a change there, more information, less detail, sugar, spice and everything nice. When I was doing the edits for All the Pretty Girls, check that, when I thought my edits were done, my editor came in with a suggestion at the 11th hour. It was a tiny little suggestion. Minor. Minimal. I thought about it, plugged it into the manuscript, and voila! it became a novel. I hate to overuse my cooking analogy, but that’s just what it’s like. You add all the spices, let it cook, and though it tastes wonderful, something you can’t put your finger on is missing. You might even go so far as to serve the dish… then a guest says, hmmm, needs salt, and you’ve got it. Eureka. A dash will do, you taste it again, and it’s perfect. Simple, yet satisfying.

And that moment is pure bliss.

I had one of those transcendent moments Wednesday night. I submitted my revisions, my editor read through them, and she came back with a relatively minor question that rocked my boat. I don’t want to tell what it was because it goes to the crux of the story, and I’d rather not give it away just yet. She asked the question, and I didn’t have the answer. I wrote her back and said I would have to think about it and WHAM! Just as I clicked send, it hit me. The answer was already there, in the manuscript, ripe for the picking. It literally took two lines to make it come to the forefront. Crazy.

That’s what a great editor can do for your book. I made the changes. When I hit send again, I was giddy. I’d found the salt.

The past few weeks have seen several debates regarding self vs. traditional publishing. All arguments aside, I’ll tell you why I would never self-publish. Yes, I’m looking for a mainstream audience. Yes, I love the distribution models, the access to bookstores, all that jazz. But it’s the editing that I would miss.

There’s a symbiotic relationship that grows between a writer and editor. Your agent’s job is not only to place the book you’re trying to sell, it’s to match you with an editor that fits your temperament. I think it’s vital to be paired with an editor who gets you. Who can be as excited, laid-back, cheery or morose as you are. Someone who can be your polar opposite when you’re down, and knows when to reign you in for your own good. Someone who can understand when the time is right to talk to you about making changes, who won’t step on your feelings or your dreams, who knows when to push and when to pull back.

And yes, your relationship with your agent must be harmonious as well. It’s terribly difficult to be at loggerheads with your agent. They are your cheerleader, your priest, your conscience and everything in between, and it’s vital that the lines of communication stay open, that you stay open, and they stay open. This business of being reluctant to contact your agent about an issue because you don’t want to waste their time is nonsense. You need to be a cohesive unit, and that takes communication. But send them cookies. Often. Send your editor some too.

So as I float today, thrilled to pieces that I’ve found that elusive morsel that I didn’t know was missing, I ask you. Do you have any great catches that your editor made for you? I’ll lead it off. Mine once pointed out that cannibals don’t use pixie dust to shrink heads. Talk about mixing metaphors…

Wine of the Week: 2000 ODDERO BAROLO Rocche di Castiglione Falletto It’s halfway down the page. If anyone can get their hands on this stateside, let me know. The website I’ve linked to is my present to you — a bevy of wonderful, top-notch vino.

—————

Since I will be disappearing for the week of Christmas, taking a long overdue vacation from the Internet, the writing world, and everything in between, I wish you a Merry Christmas — and if you celebrate something else this season — peace, joy and goodwill for the New Year. See you next Friday, though I’ll be remote.

—-RATI in the Media—

Our own Robert Gregory Browne will be on Kim Alexander’s Fiction Nation, on Take Five, XM 155 on
Saturday December 22nd at 6pm, on Sunday December 23rd at 10:00am, and
on Monday, December 24th at 3:00am, and on Sonic Theater, XM 163 on
Thursday, December 27th at 3:00pm. All times EDT.

Kim Alexander has been doing some amazingly cool interviews. Check out her whole backlist here, there’s plenty of familiar names.

Something I Don’t Want For Christmas

Christmas is just around the corner and it’s a time for giving, but there are some things I don’t want—bad reviews to be exact. I was thinking about reviews the other day. Well, not exactly thinking, more like obsessing. Despite my rough, gritty exterior that you’ve come to know and mildly like, I’m quite squidgy inside, so the idea of getting a bad review is likely to make me cry or hide under the duvet until someone compliments me. So I started to think about what would be a nightmare review. Here’s what I hope never to see written about my books this Christmas or at any time:

“A great bathroom read—very absorbent.”

“It’s one hell of doorstop.”

“Out of all the books I’ve read this year, this was one.”

“Once read, never remembered.”

“This book made me switch on the TV.”

“It was grate!”

“This book is very put-downable—a policy that should be applied to the author.”

“An author to track down—and do bad things to.”

“It made me hate my ability to read.”

“This was a real page burner.”

So those are some of my nightmare reviews. What are yours or what ones do you wish you could have written for other people’s books? (No names or titles, please).

Yours hoping for everything I deserve this Christmas,
Simon Wood

The Strangest Place You’ve Ever Done It

by J.D. Rhoades

Stephen King wrote in his book “On Writing” that the most
valuable thing you can have as an author is a door you can close—and the will to close
it. "Most of us do our best," he writes, "in a place of our own."

Me, I’m a bit different. (I knew you’d be surprised). I don’t have an office in my house. We do have
the main desktop computer (the one my son named “Bob”) in a large alcove near the
front door. It’s next to a nice big bay window, but that’s the computer the family
shares and its close enough to the
kitchen and living room that I can hear conversations and the TV. But that’s okay, because as it turns out, most
of my writing is done on my trusty laptop, anyway. So I can most often be
found in the bedroom, propped up on the bed with the laptop on my knees. Or if
the weather’s nice, I take it out on the back deck. As I mentioned in a post a while ago, I’ve
also written in vacation house bedrooms during the heat of the day. If the
house is just too noisy, there’s always my law office, but I usually only write
there if I start at the end of the workday.

Often, a chapter or a column or a blog post will start at the office, get e-mailed to Bob the Computer, finished there, then maybe dropped back onto the laptop through the home wireless network and polished out on the deck while Nick uses Bob to play The Sims.

I’ve mentioned this to some other writers, and they’re
horrified. How, they ask, can you write without a room of your own? Actually,
I’ve said a couple of times, I do have a room of my own. It’s between my ears.

It helps that I usually have music playing, either through the computer itself
(I hear some of the damnedest things on Shoutcast web radio) or through my MP3 player. This also
horrifies a lot of writers I’ve mentioned it to, who claim they need quiet to
write. But I have two rowdy teenagers in the house. Absolute quiet is not an
option, even on the back room.

But not everyone requires an office with a closed door. William Kent Krueger says he composes in a cheap notebook at
his local coffee shop. J.K. Rowling wrote the first Harry Potter book in a cafe. (John Scalzi, on the other hand, tells us in the title
of his book on writing that You’re Not Fooling Anyone When You Take Your Laptop
to a Coffee Shop). Don Winslow reportedly writes in a tent pitched in a grove
of trees on his property (Either he does the first draft in longhand or he has
one hell of an extension cord). Scott Turow wrote Presumed Innocent on the commuter train as he rode into work at his Chicago law firm. Harlan Ellison used to stage events where he’d
bang out a short story in an afternoon while displayed in a bookstore window.

So….where’s the strangest place you’ve done it (writing, I
mean?)

Bronach Agus Bringlodi

By Ken Bruen

We’ve been having storms like you wouldn’t believe. On the seafront, the waves have reached heights of near 45 feet, that’s 13.4 m. I’ve stood transfixed at the ferocity and sheer magnificence of them. And of course, two surfers went out there and the Coast Guard had to risk their lives to rescue them. Down at the docks, another fishing boat was lost and the wives keep a lonely vigil. The fisherman don’t learn to swim, believing if the sea wants you, it will indeed claim you.

Fatalism?

All I know is that the sight of those women devastates me.

The title of this piece translates as

Sadness

And

Dreams

Bronach, pronounced … Bro-knock, is so much more than sadness though. In Irish, it’s like a soul sickness, a melancholia that reaches down over hundreds of years and Bringlodi, pronounced Bring-load-e, is simply dreams.

In so far as dreams are ever simple.

I was telling Elaine Flinn about these words recently and she loves them as much as I do, they have a resonance that is beyond articulation.

Which led me onto me gig of lighting candles.

As I do for friends who are undergoing pain, stress or trauma. Alas, there is only one church remaining in the city where you can light the candles in the old style. The rest have gone, if not digital, certainly electronic. You put your Euros in and press a button and a light comes on. Reminds me too much of a celestial slot machine, Vegas without the noise.

I need the traditional route, the long taper, you light it then put it to the wax candle and the whole ritual is strangely comforting. They say a candle is a prayer in action.

No debate from me.

If it’s a really special case, I light a green candle, no, not because I’m Irish but the green candle has deep significance in Irish history.

I did that recently for a friend who said

“I don’t believe in all that crap.”

I said

“I believe for you.”

I’m thinking of Sandra’s novel, What Burns Within.

Didn’t fly.

She scoffed, said

“You’re the last person I ever expected to be religious!”

I tried to explain that I believe religion is for people who are afraid of going to hell and spirituality is for those who’ve been there.

Said so

And she countered

“How do you know if someone is spiritual?’

Usually, if they firmly believe they are spiritual, they’re anything but.

And heaven knows, I seem to be a constant target for the spiritual muggers, they figure I need saving and they’re right, I do.

From them.

Like humility

You claim to be humble, you ain’t.

There are three simple questions to determine if you’re spiritual:

1. Are you wanted
2. Are you needed
3. Are you loved

It’s quite astonishing the number of people who will deny one or all of those.

But lest I get too deep here, there is a wonderful song by Amy Winehouse with Mark Ronson titled, Valerie. Sent to me by my close friend Tony Black. His novel, PAYING FOR IT, has a line of true Bronach, a dying father saying to his son

“I thought I could win you round by being hard on you … it was all I knew. I got what I wanted by being hard, a hard player I was … I thought you needed the same.”

My daughter and I jive to Valerie.

You guys call jive, swing.

Her sheer gurgles of delight as I swing her round the kitchen is as spiritual as ever I need to know.

One of my close friends here, said

“Jaysus, I can’t picture you dancing.”

I want to ask

“And why should you?”

Plus, it’s a given that Irish guys don’t dance, way too macho for that shite.

Few things give me more joy than watching people dance. Time back, when line dancing was hot here, I was in me element.

Few years ago, in Mexico, I was with some friends who asked me how I’d like to spend the evening?

I said

“Line dancing.”

They told me it was passé.

I said there must be someplace that still had it and they finally admitted that a biker joint, just outside Cancun did but it was a risky venue.

Just what I wanted to hear.

It was certainly atmospheric, the Harleys outside, one particularly beautiful Soft Tail custom, gleaming in the lights from the bar, and inside, a motley crew. We found a table and got the Tequila with the worm in the bottom of the glass.

We didn’t order it, they brought it over, plonked it down and gave you the look.

There were actually two types of drink available.

You could have it with or without the worm.

There was a heavy vibe in the air, I felt like I’d wandered onto the set of “Dusk till Dawn” and asked my friend if there was ever any trouble?

He said no as everyone was packing.

I said

“Except me.”

He shrugged it off, said

“Act like you are, swagger when you go for a leak.”

Right.

And knowing my history, someone would surely call my bluff.

I skipped the swagger.

The band were terrific, a blend of Cajun, Tex Mex and Country.

If I could have just got an Irish lilt to it, it would have been awesome.

Just recently, I’ve had a recurring dream. I’m walking with a lady and Ye Gods, I’m happy. I wake and I can’t recall her face, her name, just the feeling.

Craig Mc Donald in his debut novel quotes a line,

“You’ve got to find what you love and let it kill you.”

Head Games indeed.

Phew.

My wondrous Rabbi in Beverly Hills emails me about the nature of love and the true spirit of the human condition.

I think of that as I re-read Louise’s blog about her amazing gesture for her dying brother.

All of this drags up some lines from a poem I never finished

In distance- once

Your face, I might

Untied

From complications

Have gentle

Almost touched

My wish for 2008 is that Bill Crider’s wife is healed and well.

You guys say, Happy Holidays

We still say, Happy Christmas.

It’s so much more resonant in Irish and so, to you all

La Nollaig leat go lear

Thing is, I truly mean it.

Sin an sceal