Cape Fear Crime

by Alex

Today I’m reporting from the Cape Fear Crime Festival, a small but lively festival put on by the New Hanover Library in Wilmington, North Carolina.

As It happens I am not the only Rat here – Dusty Rhoades will be here any second now (in fact we have a drink waiting for him) and Stacey Cochran is here with his minii traveling production studio.

We just finished up a panel on the paranormal. I am beginning to feel less like an impostor, being a supernatural writer on the mystery circuit, as there always seems to be a paranormal track. In fact I feel much less like an impostor at Cape Fear. Wilimington is a port town that I love for its gorgeous historic downtown and boardwalk, and its obvious presence of ghosts. (I have come to believe that Spanish moss is a major indicator of paranormal activity – it even looks like ectoplasm).

Water, of course, is a standard component in hauntings, and psychic trauma (there was a devastating race riot in Wilmington in 1898). I’d venture to say that some locations suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder just as some people do.

Conference magic is working in full force, as a surprise last-minute addition to our panel was Brooks Preik, the author of HAUNTED WILMINGTON, a collection of true local ghost stories. That book has been on my to buy list for weeks, as it’s germane to my next book, and so not only do I now have a freshly autographed copy of said book, I also got to hear the real stories from the font, including a story about a character in my own book. Nothing like research doing itself for you.

And Joe Konrath is a featured conference guest, which in my experience always leads to spirits.

The conference even started out creepily, last night with author Jon Jefferson talking about his and Dr. Bill Blass’s books about The Body Farm in Tennessee, with appropriately trauma inducing slides.

Maybe I’m out to scare myself, but the high rise condo on the beach I’m staying in this weekend is practically deserted. I was having thoughts of THE SHINING on the beach, you know, bad relationship breaks up, take a condo off-season to go get healed, hurricane cuts off road… this weird fog starts rolling in… (anyone else see the trailer for THE MIST, yet? Cannot freaking wait.).

Of course, it is Halloween so I’m allowed to have all these thoughts. Oh, right – it’s my job to have all these thoughts.

Stacey did REALLY scare me during that paranormal panel, though. We were talking about historic trends in supernatural and paranormal literature and he made the very valid and eloquent point that realistic modern ghost stories like THE HAUNTING OF HILL HOUSE came about simultaneously with the rise of Freudian psychology – and explored the concept of ghosts being the past traumas of troubled people. Then he went on to the frightening part. He said that the current trend in psychology is not to focus on trauma or the unearthing of psychic ghosts, but to explore peak experiences and how human beings can live optimal lives.

Well, you see why that unnerved me. That’s a thought that could put me right out of business. Accentuating the positive is no way to scare the pants off of people.

But, as this is a conference, I have no time to obsess on that potentially career-ending thought. It’s on to a panel, Wild Women of Mystery, which, being moderated by the inimitable Konrath, promises to live up to its title.

More later if possible!

How Do I Love Thee?

By JT Ellison

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

The time is finally upon us. ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS has gone on sale.

I spent drop day (Tuesday) visiting ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS in bookstores
around the Nashville area. I talked with my favorite CRMs at Borders
and Barnes and Noble, signed some stock, got a few surprises…(click here for the pictures) but the
entire time I was floating above myself, feeling completely detached.
It didn’t feel real, seeing my book on the shelves. It still doesn’t
feel real. I wonder if that’s because of the pseudonym? Well, that’s a
topic for another blog. Suffice it to say, it’s damn cool to walk into
a bookstore and see your book on the new release table. Blew me away.

I’d like to take my time today to say thank you to all of the amazing people who have helped me, cheered for me, criticized and complimented, and influenced me in the past couple of years.

THANK YOU!!!!! From the very bottom of my heart.

There are several people who need special recognition, people who have been instrumental in seeing me to this point. In order of their appearance in my writing life:

John Sandford, for inspiring me to try.

Hubby, for letting me try.

My parents, for encouraging me when I decided to try.

Writer’s Digest, for giving me the seeds.

Stuart Woods, for telling me that I made the rules.

John Connolly, for listening to a really terrible elevator pitch and not holding it against me.

Del Tinsley, who I met that same night, who has been a constant inspiration, a shoulder to cry on, an unflagging supporter, and an all around amazing friend.

JB Thompson, my wonder twin, who has edited every word I’ve ever written, thank God!
Amo!

The Bodacious Music City Wordsmiths, (Del, JB, Janet, Peggy, Rai, Cecelia, and Mary) for all the advice. And patience with my inability to use the plural possessive correctly. ; )

The DorothyL Listserve, for letting me know I’m not alone.

Publisher’s Marketplace, for showing me what I wanted and setting the wheels in motion.

Joan Huston, my first independent reader, for liking my work enough to read more.

Scott Miller, for giving me a chance!

Holly Henderson Root, for being a Tennessee girl in the midst of all those New Yorkers ; )

Pari Noskin Taichert, who gave me a shot on this blog and always, always had faith.

Naomi Hirahara, Simon Wood, Elaine Flinn, Denise Dietz, Jeff Cohen, Ken Bruen, Alexandra Sokoloff, Louise Ure, J.D. Rhoades, Mike MacLean, Toni McGee Causey and Paul Guyot for putting up with thousands of group emails and being a constant source of friendship and support.

The readers of Murderati, for allowing me to vent, muse and grow as a writer on a weekly basis.

Barbara Franchi and Sharon Wheeler, the fine editors of Reviewing The Evidence, for giving me my first online job.

Duane Swierczynski, who sent me to Rara-Avis and Demolition.

Bryon Quertermous, who published my very first short story.

Tribe, for letting me flash him.

Linda McFall and the whole crew at Mira Books, for buying the books!

Adam Wilson, for tirelessly answering all my most mundane and naive questions.

Brett Battles, Jason Pinter, Robert Gregory Browne, Toni McGee Causey, Bill Cameron, Gregg Olsen, Patry Francis, Derek Nikitas, Dave White, Marcus Sakey, Sean Chercover, Marc Lecard, Sandra Ruttan, Phil Hawley and CJ Lyons, who made Killer Year an unbelievably rewarding experience.

Sarah Weinman, for teaching me so much about the industry, and being a great writer to boot.

B.J. Bourg, for sending me my first check.

Lee Child, John Connolly, Allison Brennan, MJ Rose, Alexandra Sokoloff, Jim Born, Tasha Alexander, Kristy Kiernan, Julia Spencer-Fleming, Robert Fate, Joe Konrath and Pari Noskin Taichert, for taking the time to read the manuscript of ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS and kindly lending their endorsements. You guys rock!

Another special shout out to a couple of folks:

Tara Kelly, who designed the coolest cover on the planet.

Heather Foy and the marketing team at Mira, for all their amazing work.

Tasha Alexander, for being the ultimate sounding board, teacher, inspiration and procrastination buddy, plus introducing me to Thai food. xo

Tom Robinson, my incredible publicist, for putting in so much time and effort on my behalf.

Lee Child, for being the classiest mentor a girl could have and a true inspiration to my writing.

There are many more people who have helped, encouraged, poked and prodded. Some are in my acknowledgments, some are people I’ve met along the way. Most of all, I want to say thanks to the other writers out there. I am honored to share shelf space with you at last.

And to my future readers: I hope you enjoy. Dear God, I hope you enjoy.

If you’re anywhere near Nashville, we’re having a launch party on November 1st, 7:00 p.m.
Past Perfect, 122 3rd Avenue South (at the base of the Shelby Street Bridge and the Schermerhorn Symphony Center) We’re having a wine tasting and food, Richard Stooksbury and the
Glaring Mistakes will be playing, and the book will be for sale. Come
and say hello!

Seriously, be there or be square. And if you’d like to receive my quarterly newsletter, go to the newly revamped website and sign up. I’ll also be out and abut promoting ATPG, so check out the tour schedule here.

It all changes today. As of now, I’m a published author. It’s an amazing feeling. It’s also terrifying as hell. This journey has been the most gratifying of my life. I hope I do y’all proud over the upcoming years.

Wine of the Week: Since this is a special occasion, I’m going to break out a bottle of my favorite, but too nice to drink daily, wine. Might as well honor the heritage yet again — 2002 Tenute Silvio Nardo Brunello

NOT GETTING AWAY WITH IT

“How could I kidnap a child and get away with it?” I asked.

This was probably the wrong question to ask an FBI agent right out of the gate. The agent’s expression turned grim and his answer was clipped and a tad aggressive. “You couldn’t. We’d catch you.”

“Yeah, but,” I said before he interrupted me.

“No buts. We’d catch you. When a kid gets snatched, we drop everything. It becomes top priority. You wouldn’t stand a chance.”

I’ll admit it was at this point I started to panic. Not because I thought the Feds weren’t going to let me leave the building, but because I saw the novel falling apart around me. A child kidnapping is a key factor. A kidnapper with a grudge comes after the family of a newspaper reporter. I thought it was a good idea. So did the publisher. They’d paid me an advance on this very storyline. In the space of five minutes, my concept was in tatters before it was written because the FBI knew better.

I thought the storyline was going to be tough to pull off, but not this tough. I quickly outlined the scenario for the book to demonstrate my master plan for counteracting law enforcement procedure. I waited for him to applaud me for my criminal genius. He didn’t.

“We’d still catch you,” he said.

I wasn’t too downhearted as I didn’t care if my antagonist got caught, as long as he got caught on page 347 and not page 10. I put my frayed plotline to one side and we talked kidnappings—procedures, old cases, likely outcomes, etc. As I listened a single thought rose to the surface. It’s bloody hard to get away with a high profile crime. As far as I can see it, as soon as the cops get a hold of the case, you (the criminal) are toast.

The problem is, it is impossible not to leave a trail. It doesn’t matter if you go hi-tech or lo-tech. There’s a trail. As I listened, I could envisage a snail-like physical trail left behind by my fictional kidnapper and the cops following it all the way to his lair.

I couldn’t see a way around the problem. A kidnapper, being a kidnapper, needs to make contact with the kidnap family. Phones are a nightmare these days. Landline or wireless, they’re easy to trace. Digital seems to be the criminal’s worst enemy. The technology’s strength is its weakness. As easy as it is to use, it’s just as easy to locate.

Going old school doesn’t help matters either. If the kidnapper sends a letter, he’s going to need a return address for return correspondence. That doesn’t even cover the issues of how easy it would be to trace the sorting offices the letter went through to narrow down the sender’s location. Document specialists can lift all sorts of forensic evidence off paper.

The only thing left open to the kidnapper is face-to-face meets and that’s fish-in-a-barrel time for law enforcement.

It doesn’t matter how you slice it, if you kidnap a kid for ransom, you’re going to get caught.

Eventually, with a little a devious ingenuity plot-wise and some character flaws, I built a plotline that worked, but the Q&A with the FBI was a tipping point. I’m a good guy, but it made me question myself and whether I would ever cross a legal line. I can’t say I won’t, but I can’t rule it out. Circumstance may dictate otherwise. However, the more I write and the more I research crimes for my stories, the more honest it makes me. In spite of how smart I think I am, I’d get caught. I’ve seen the inside of police stations, courtrooms and a prison and I quite honestly can say I don’t want to be arrested, I don’t want to go to court, and I definitely don’t want to go jail. I wouldn’t last a day in the big house. This smart mouth would get me into all sorts of trouble.

So a simple question about kidnapping helped turn me into a more law abiding person. It’s my fiction that’s just plain criminal…

The book is now done and Paying the Piper hits bookshelves on Tuesday. Obviously, I’m quite excited. The book has picked up some nice trade reviews, especially from Publishers Weekly. I couldn’t have asked for better. I think the book turned out well. I just hope the FBI do too…

Yours on the verge,
Simon Wood
PS: I’m going to be out and about for Paying the Piper, so I maybe coming to a bookstore near you. If you’d like to know where, check out my calendar.

Serendipity

by J.D. Rhoades

Serendipity-the effect by which one accidentally discovers something fortunate, especially while looking for something else entirely.

The Internet is a great place for experiencing serendipity. Like, for instance, while researching idea for this newspaper column, I ran across a few truly twisted items which I knew you folks, writers and readers alike, would appreciate.

Some of you have already seen the amazing human head knife block:

It’s the perfect way to insure that your next dinner party will be your last! Invite guests into the kitchen to marvel at this beauty, and it won’t be long before you’re enjoying that blessed solitude that’s so necessary for creative endeavor.

Unfortunately, it appears to be a design project by one Irene Van Gestel and not available for sale. But damn it, it should be!

Then there’s the Great Slumber Blood Puddle pillow:

The Great Slumber Pillow will supposedly be available soon, courtesy of FromKeetra.com. The manufacturer cannot guarantee, however, that your spouse or significant other will ever forgive you for this gag.

For the would be Buffalo Bill in the household, there’s the computer bag and jacket made of fake human skin…at least we hope it’s fake.

We definitely do not recommend wearing or taking these to any high school or college class, unless you have a powerful desire to be seen in handcuffs on the six o’clock news. I’m betting med students, on the other hand, will find it a laff riot.

According to the Website at skinbag.net, these
"Organic objects in synthetic skin" convey "pacific values aiming at individual blossoming." Okey-dokey.

It’s a gun! It’s a mouse! It’s a computer mouse shaped like a gun! If sitting in front of a screen all day makes you feel that life lacks action and danger, the Cybergun from The Sharp Edge is the gat you’re looking for!

What fun and odd crime oriented stuff have YOU stumbled across on the Interwebs?

On Break The 12th Lament

By Ken Bruen

First lament

October made
No Autumn resolutions
Praying for
No single promise made
Success and blundered aspirations
Beat me blind

Time was, I was writing the lamentations

I was a teacher, doing good and heading for dizzy heights

Then a clusterfook of stuff happened and I literally dropped off the face of the planet

Months later, seemed like years, I resurfaced in Brixton

They used to say it was the UK version of Watts

It was certainly simmering

A real good place to hide

I’d written me first crime novel and sent it to the outlaw press, the then cutting edge of mystery, Serpents Tail

They’d published Derek Raymond

That’s all I needed to know

I was in bad shape

My mind was seriously fooked

You could buy anything in Brixton, long as you had the cash

I’d bought a Sig Sauer, the basic Model 220, 9 mm, carried nine rounds in the magazine

It was far from new and had black tape wound tight on the grip

Most nights, I’d sit in the one room kip I rented on Coldharbour Lane, not a spit away from Electric Avenue, made infamous by Eddie Grant’s hit.

Coldharbour Lane, that I’d washed up in such a place, the irony of the name was not lost on me

Most nights, I’d play The Pogues and The Clash and drink two tumblers of Jameson, never more, and then I’d play Russian Roulette

Sounds melodramatic but I just didn’t care

One of the graces of my life is I’ve always been blessed with remarkable friends

They came to me one damp wet Saturday, ignored the Jay on the table, told me of marginalized kids who nobody could or would teach

Marginalized

What an ugly word

But that’s what they used

Kids who’d been abused in every which way evil bastards can devise

Bottom line, would I take … pun intended … a shot at teaching them

Like I had so many offers

My novel was with Serpents Tail for a year … before they accepted it

I said OK, mainly to get am … rid of them

First day, I felt the old tremor of excitement of teaching, only a faint echo, barely able to recall the days when I loved it

There were 13 kids before me, all black and surly

They stared at me, not with hatred but complete indifference, another white fooking liberal asshole

2nd Lament

Blown Irish-ed Print
… broken by the London flat
Lone living cuts the style bleaker
To make one call
Intimidated
Fear carves the simplest tasks

My years of teaching had given me the ability to face most any class and just go into auto pilot and do the biz

Wasn’t going to cut it here

The usual clichés, the usual horseshite just wasn’t going to fly

Improvise

The very essence of teaching, least for me, I’d once played The Clash for a group of Japanese students

Gangsta rap or a sawn off was about all that was going to gel now

Or …

The truth

I went with that

Said

"I’m fooked."

A moment

Then they laughed

Laughing was as strange to them as to me

One kid, gap toothed, with the eyes of wounded angel, put up his hand and when I nodded

He asked

"What did they do to you?"

I told them

And so began my return to humanity

Those damaged kids healed a damaged adult

If you mentioned a book to them, they’d knife you

I re-wrote my crime novel to suit them, their streets, their jive, their melody

And snuck in a poet by the back door

When the book appeared, it was one of those moments, when the clouds part and you the see the light is nigh flowing in, those lost children running along the corridors, asking in delight

"Who’s this dude Rilke?"

My best review

Ever

3rd Lament

To score revitalized
The 100 points
In others’ condescension
A damn … they give
On sixpence turn

Six months later, the riots came

Cars, shops, homes burning, armed cops in riot gear making baton charges on Coldharbour Lane

It was not a real good time to be white

I was coming home around 10:30 in the evening, treading careful, watching the alleys and my back when on Railton Road I walked smack into a mob carrying baseball bats, knives and one guy even had a golf stick

No. 9 iron if I remember correctly

They moved on me and then one of the leaders said

"It’s the fucking Irish guy, the teacher dude."

And they split in half, allowing me to walk between them

I got back to my tiny flat, sweat cascading down my body and knew I had to write the 12th Lament

It didn’t work, the music was gone and even now, I know the lines, I even know the tone, but the magic, the magic had broken

Last year, I was in London for a launch and one evening went to Brixton, like everywhere, it was unrecognizable from the area I’d known

On a street corner, I thought I recognized the wounded angel, those eyes I’d never forget, grown now of course and nearly a man, I approached and before I could ask, he went

"Wanna score?"

I shook my head and he near spat

"Then get the fuck outa my space."

Tom Troubadours Blues, the very first line unreeled like a cobra in my head

… wasted and wounded …

Odd, I’ve lost my zest for Rilke

Go figure

Did ya know . . . ?

by Pari Noskin Taichert

There’s a lot I don’t know about a lot of things.

Most of the time, I’ll brazen my way through a scene I’m writing and eventually do enough research to ensure my premise won’t knock a reader out of the story.

This was the case last week. I’d pushed through several chapters and began to think that I might be really, really off base. So, with the help of the handy-dandy Yellow Pages, I found listings for local home/corporate security businesses. My story line required a high-end place, maybe with a store front, so that I could see some of the hidden cameras up close.

Many of these services had online presences and their websites gave me a little feel about their clients and expertise. From there, I selected the one that most intrigued me and picked up the phone. A nice, neutral receptionist answered. After explaining the following request might be a bit odd, I launched into my standard pitch about being a mystery writer and wanting to get my info right.

The receptionist asked me to hold. I played a couple of games of spider solitaire and waited. A young man came on the line and proceeded to answer my queries. He then offered to show me some equipment — his business doesn’t have a store front — if I wanted to come see.

Oh, baby. What an opportunity.

The next morning at 9 am, I pulled up to one of those purposely nondescript buildings, the kind you find in industrial parks around the country. The kind you’d never remember after you left. The door was locked. The nice receptionist clicked on something out of view and let me in. She also brought me a great cup of coffee. The young man with whom I’d spoken used a magnetic key to let me into a conference room with a gorgeous rosewood table, sat me down in a plush leather chair . . . and opened his world to me.

Covert cameras, digital versatile recorders, computer interfaces — he answered every single one of my questions. He took me into secured areas so that I could see some of the systems first hand. He brought out a video camera no larger than the last joint on my little finger and told me how and where such an instrument could be hidden. He showed me all the security cameras in his own building and then took me into another secured room where I could see the recordings. He used a joystick to move one of the cameras outside and we looked into a building about 1/3 mile away; I actually could see what the people inside were doing. It was creepy, fascinating and wonderful all at once.

One of the unexpected pleasures of writing fiction is that I get to learn all kinds of things that I never thought about before. I love going into food processing plants, agricultural research centers, government buildings and talking with experts about what they do. I’ve done it for years in my nonfiction — but fiction now affords me many of the same perks.

And, they’re ALWAYS a gas.

I hope in the comments you’ll share:
Readers: What are some of the most interesting things you’ve learned while reading a novel?
Writers: What are some of the most interesting things you’ve learned while writing your novel (or short story)?

I can’t wait to read what you’ve got to say . . .

Writing Programs

(from Toni)… While I hold my brand-spanking new granddaughter, Angela Grace (a whopping 4 lbs., 9.5 oz., born 3 weeks early but doing fantastic), I want to encourage you all to pick up Derek Nikitas’ amazing debut, Pyres, out this week. Here’s a little about it:

When a folklore professor is shot dead in his car, the crime smashes together the lives of three disparate women: his anguished teenage daughter, a detective facing her own family’s collapse, and the pregnant former-junkie girlfriend of the killer. These three women must choose where to aim their last shots at redemption, even as they face a gang of barbaric thugs who torch homes and lives for a thrill.

But don’t just take my word for it — Derek’s got some fantastic writers singing his praises here.

Derek’s guest blog is terrific as well:

THANKS TO THE MENTORS

Hey, Derek Nikitas here. Thanks to the Murderati regulars for inviting me to write this post on the week my first novel, Pyres, is released. In the spirit of thanks, I’ll blog about college creative writing programs, by way of thanking those writer/teachers who made me. Much of what makes my writing “mine” is owed to those who have nurtured me over the years.

Writing programs are more ubiquitous and popular than ever. They can be expensive, and, if we’re talking grad (MFA) programs, they can take years to complete. And for the genre writer, the most egregious complaint is that such programs denigrate genre writing, even ban it from workshops in favor of “literary fiction.”

Yes, writing programs take time and money, but choices abound. You can do what I’ve been doing: spend four years as an undergraduate creative writing major, three more years as an MFA student, five more years toiling in relative isolation, and then four more years in a creative writing PhD program. But I wouldn’t recommend such a course to anyone unless s/he were absolutely sure s/he wanted to teach creative writing at the college level, as I do. In that case, a dozen years of writing instruction is pretty much a necessity, and still not a guarantee of employment.

But even a few writing courses can be a great benefit for a fiction writer. Who knows? One course might be all you need, especially if you get the right instructor. There are community writing course all across the country, or university courses that allow non-matriculated enrollment. For the more adventurous, there exist intensive, immersive writing retreats like the Sewanee Writer’s Conference, the Breadloaf Writer’s Conference, etc., where you can work in a close-knit group all day for two-week stretches. In “low residency” MFA programs, student writers can study with instructors from a distance, exchanging manuscripts and comments via email (once or twice a year, you travel to a central location for a few days to meet with your fellow “low res” students and instructors).

In short, there’s nothing to suggest that a traditional three-year MFA program is exactly what every writer needs. But personally? I needed it. I’ve benefited immensely from a wide variety of instructors because I’ve learned something valuable for all of them. My first teacher, Wendy Brenner, taught me that good writing is not utilitarian and cliché, but conscientious of poetics—hungry for the fresh image, the striking figure of speech, the moving evocation of mood.

Clyde Edgerton taught me all about structure and revision and theme threads, everything I needed to successfully construct a novel. He also taught me to view my characters from the inside out—to be more like a method actor, to become my characters—instead of judging them analytically from the outside like a Victorian omniscient narrator. Bob Reiss, a sometimes-genre writer himself (under the pseudonym Ethan Black), taught me harsh lessons about adherence to story logic, outlining, suspense and momentum, and focus. Josh Russell, my most recent teacher, has given me valuable instruction about narrative economy and maintaining consistent voice.

Teachers can help you confront more quickly, more consciously, the hurdles you must overcome as a writer. The same is true for great books on the practice of writing (and great works of fiction), but there is something to be said for the personalized commentary you get from your instructor.

Some writers are concerned about becoming too influenced by formal writing instruction. But all writers are themselves a bundle of influences drawn from what they’ve read and enjoyed and carried away with them. The great thing about teachers is that they’re an interactive influence; they keep track of your specific progress and guide you through your specific hurdles. All my instructors have become a part of who I am, but the variety of their approaches has given me a range of ideas and practices. Hell, some of them have vehemently disagreed on fundamental issues like whether or not a novel should be meticulously planned ahead of time. This is just another argument for taking several classes with several instructors, all of whom will have different approaches.

Genre writers are often skeptical of writing programs because the programs tout literary fiction much more loudly than genre fiction. True enough, mostly. I’ve taught a few introductory, undergraduate creative writing courses and noted that, like me, most novice writers are interested in writing genre. Compare this to the students who actually graduate from creative writing programs, the vast majority of whom are “literary” writers—either because they’ve been convinced to abandon genre or because the diehard genre writers had abandoned the program.

For better or for worse, I’m not about to scold creative writing programs for ignoring or sidelining genre writing, especially in introductory classes. I’m a genre writer, but I’m now a published writer because I was forced to write literary fiction for several years. It’s not because I think literary fiction is better (or worse), but because writing literary short stories kept me focused on those elements of writing that I truly needed to practice: language, depth of character, mood, point of view, etc. Novice genre writers tend to be all “story,” all “setting,” or, worst, all “philosophy.” They don’t seem to want to write so much as they want to be J.K. Rowling or Philip K. Dick. They become so maniacally focused on their clever plotting or fantasy world-building that they simply can’t focus on the formal and aesthetic skills that will make them better, more unique writers on a sentence-by-sentence level.

Forcing apprentices to practice new and difficult skills, I believe, will allow them to eventually return to their genres with a much greater ability to tell a clever story well and with a fresh approach. And, hell, if they come to appreciate literary fiction too, I don’t see a problem. The world regularly produces great writers whose stories haunt their readers, but who don’t get wide exposure because their books are not easily marketable inside a genre niche. In the last couple weeks I’ve read two amazing new books—Joshua Furst’s intense The Sabotage Café and Jeff Parker’s hilarious Ovenman—both of which tell great stories outside of any defined genre.

I didn’t spend too much time writing mystery stories in grad school, but that’s because I was working on other skills. I wrote an unpublishable “literary” novel for my thesis. It took me years of working on my own, toiling in my basement, to write a novel that truly reflected everything I’d learned and everything I’ve wanted—including an appropriation of mystery and horror genre conventions, because such books are what made me want to write in the first place.

This is not to say that my MFA was a waste, not in the least. In my writing courses I was given the essential raw materials I needed for the years following my MFA when I learned how to re-integrate them with my interest in genre writing and mold them to my own personal specifications. Writing programs offer no guarantees—in fact, most of the folks who enroll in them will never publish a book. You have to meet them halfway with your own vision and your own drive—but they’ll show you how to get there faster. Either that, or they’ll lead you to a destination you never dreamed you could find.

Who knows—maybe I didn’t need to learn all that stuff about language and atmosphere and depth of character—or maybe I would’ve learned it all over a longer stretch of time, like many writers do. Maybe I still might’ve figured out how to write a marketable novel. Most successful mystery writers—almost every last one of them—never got an MFA and couldn’t be bothered because it never seemed necessary (Dennis Lehane, with his degree from Florida International University, is the only one who comes immediately to mind). I even sometimes wonder if what I’ve learned has somehow handicapped my chances for fame and fortune because, as the Library Journal review of Pyres said this week, my debut novel “may not appeal to readers of formulaic crime fiction.”

A criticism? I don’t know: the rest of the review offered more praise than I deserve, and concentrated on what I’d done to “take risks” with the genre. I certainly don’t think I’d want to be told that my novel is perfectly formulaic, like a paint-by-numbers poster. Sure, formula can be great: I enjoy the fact that no matter where in the country I buy my Wendy’s square cheeseburger, it taste exactly the same. But who finishes a books and says, “ahh, that was beautifully formulaic.” For that matter, who writes a book and says, “Eureka, I’ve discovered the perfect formula! The cash cow! The lowest-common-denominator blockbuster!”

Wait—don’t answer that.

When I first started writing, I wanted to imitate my favorites and I wanted to get rich doing it. If my writing instructors didn’t teach me anything else, they taught me to first accept the fact that almost nobody gets rich writing fiction. More importantly, they taught me that the deeper, more lasting writerly wealth is the knowledge that I’ve given a piece of my soul to create something that satisfies my need to express myself uniquely, not formulaically. Is it wrong for a writer to want readers to ask themselves, “What the hell is this wacko up to? What is this?”

I love genre, but I love it not as an end in itself. I love it as a boundary within which a good writer can create something rich, surprising and fresh—like James Ellory and Ken Bruen do with style and language, like Marcus Sakey and Dennis Lehane do with moral and character complexity, like Denis Johnson and Tom Franklin do with imagery, like Joyce Carol Oates does and Dave Goodis did with character psychology, like Hammett and Chandler did with voice. I don’t know whether I’ve succeeded at anything or not, but if I’ve taken any tentative steps toward such an achievement, it’s because of what I learned from my teachers, and I thank them for everything.

Spiders from Mars

by Alex

Ah, October. My favorite time of year. I love the wind. I love the leaves changing (even when it’s only about a half a percent of the trees in Southern California.). I love the lengthening shadows. I love the feeling of urgency and anticipation. Fall winds bring me great things, and this year is no exception.

I don’t love the sudden emergence of spiders, but aside from the year that we had an hysteria-inducing giant red spider invasion in LA due to El Nino, I have learned to deal with it, in my way. Um… most of the time. There is one particular spider which has made a gigantic nest (and I do mean nest, this thing is as big as a small bird) in between a window and a storm window in the living room. It rarely ever emerges into sight but when it does I am either mesmerized or paralyzed with terror – I haven’t been able to identify which. It is behind glass, and so far I have not prevailed on the Alpha Male in my life to DO SOMETHING about it, because…

Well, to be honest, I’m not sure why. For one thing, I know he’d just kill it. Alpha Males are all about the direct approach. But it’s more than that. I leave it because it’s some kind of self-test, I think. Of nerves. Maybe it’s partly a research experiment – I’m taking note of my overwhelming emotions toward this creature to use them later in my writing.

But even more than that – this – thing – is just too big, and black (did I mention it was black? Black as tar. And it has the thickest legs I’ve ever seen on an arachnid – legs perfectly capable of kicking through a storm window…) for me not to think it’s some kind of cosmic sign, some vital life lesson to be learned.

(It really is walking the edge, though. I feel certain I would not survive a face-to-face encounter. If I ever suddenly disappear from Murderati, now you’ll all know why. The glass broke.)

The point is, spiritually, I have something to learn from this spider.

But what?

There are certainly no end of spider myths in world mythology. It’s one of humankind’s most enduring archetypes. You all probably remember (at least vaguely) the Greek story of Arachne, the weaver who challenged the goddess of weaving to a weaving duel.

So is it a lesson of vanity? I’m challenging the goddess? Or doomed to live forever in my own web (caught up in another book, that’s just a sounding a little too familiar…)

Witches talk about all things being connected by the web of life, an analogy that has always seemed to me a little, well, sticky, but maybe it’s something I should pay more attention to.

Carl Jung’s interpretation of a spider (he was speaking about spiders in dreams) is “a symbol of wholeness due to its circular shape.” “The spider and his web may be calling for an integration of the dream[er]’s personality leading to greater self-awareness and resulting in feelings of completeness”.

Spiders are also traditionally a symbol of feminine power – both constructive and destructive feminine power – the weaver of the world in India, the Spider Grandmother in Native American mythology, and of course the black widow as the ultimate expression of destructive femininity in our own culture.

I know some women who embrace the image… but I’ve never felt very comfortable with it. Frankly, I think I scare enough men already. But perhaps comfort is not the point. In fact, I’m assuming it’s not the point, because we’re talking about a SPIDER. Comfort has nothing whatsoever to do with it.

In Native American spirituality, a power animal, or Medicine animal, or Guardian Spirit, is one that has made itself known in dreams or visionquest at least four times, each time in a significant way.

Well, I haven’t had any dreams about the – you know – and I haven’t been on any visionquests lately, but I’d say I’ve seen the – it – at least four times, and every time is certainly significant if you count my elevated pulse.

So I think I’m going to take a deep breath and accept it as my power animal, for now, and see what I can learn from it.

That is, as long as the glass holds.

What about you all? Any unlikely guardian spirits, or interesting archetypes, visit you lately? Do you ever pursue them and see where they lead?

How Much Is Too Much?

J.T. Ellison

Self-promotion. It has become a dirty word.

We writers are curious beasts. Some of us are hell bent on competition. Some are in constant promotion mode, plugging themselves without a care in the world. Still others spend all their time talking up other authors, celebrating the success of their friends. None of these alternatives are necessarily better, but you have to wonder which path lets you sleep at night. Lao Tzu said: "When you are content to be simply yourself and don’t compare or compete, everybody will respect you." I think this is especially true when it comes to publishing.

On this penultimate Friday before launch day, I’ve become especially attuned to the vagaries of self-promotion. It doesn’t come naturally to me. I’m much more comfortable talking up other people’s work. Yet if I’m going to be successful, am going to make my mark, I have to do some self promotion. Yuck.

Writer’s Digest had an article in the October issue about a young turk named James Boice who is opposed to doing promotion for his book. Opposed as in he wants to go the Cormac McCarthy J.D. Salinger route — write a damn good book and let it stand on its own merits. No promotion, hell, not even an interview. He finds the concept of standing in front of a group of people discussing his work nightmarish. Boy, can I relate. I read this "interview" with the reluctant author and went "YES!" I want to be him. I want to say to the whole world nope, not gonna play. Not gonna climb out from under my rock.

But I don’t have a choice, do I? Really, let’s be honest. You have to do some promotion of your own work. As distasteful as it may feel, it’s a given in this day and age. The trick is to know when you’ve become an obnoxious bore and the person or people you’re addressing have mastered the illusion of rolling their eyes back into the deepest, darkest recesses of their brains while still maintaining a smiling facade. Dear God, don’t let that ever happen to me.

So where do you draw the line? For a debut author, how do you know when enough is enough?

I see book promotion as dating. When you go out on a blind date, just how much information do you give your partner? Do you spill your most intimate secrets within five minutes and let them know you’re ready for marriage, 2.5 kids, two yellow labs, a house in the suburbs and a Mercedes for Christmas? Or do you let them get to know you gradually, hold back your true feelings, fears and desires? Do you verbally vomit out of sheer nervousness (I worry this will be me) or do you play coy, let them come to you?

I have to tell you, it’s relatively easy to read people. Body shifting, glancing away, checking the time, looking like they may want to interrupt are all excellent non-verbal clues that you’ve outstayed your welcome. And more often than not, they aren’t really that interested in you. They may be interested in your work, or the topic on which you’re speaking. But have they really approached you after a signing or a panel to hear you talk about yourself? Or are they searching for that nugget of information that they want to glean out of your experience? Or do they just plain want something from you?

I had an . . . interesting conversation with someone recently. Let’s call her Jane. Jane was interested in getting a story out to the public, but was concerned about intellectual property rights. No matter how many times I told Jane that this just wasn’t a likely scenario, that editors and agents are LOOKING for a brilliant story, but don’t want to co-opt it for themselves, she wasn’t hearing me. She kept coming back to the worry. I quickly realized that there was nothing I could say to alleviate this fear. I tried to cut my losses, because at that point Jane had eaten up fifteen minutes of my time with a question I couldn’t answer correctly. Sensing she’d lost me, Jane blurted out the premise of the story. Now, it may or may not be a good idea, but at that point, I’d stopped listening, was smiling politely and looking for a way out.

And I felt terrible, because this person had asked my advice, I wasn’t giving a satisfactory answer, and I probably lost a potential reader because I didn’t know what else to do. I never stopped smiling, never once intimated that I wasn’t interested, but after a certain point, you realize that nothing is going to work and you have to be willing to walk away. And at that point, the idea of saying don’t forget to buy my book becomes entirely reprehensible.

By the way, in case I didn’t spell that out correctly, Jane was WAY over-promoting. Making her story into some mythical experience that the whole world was going to want to snap up wasn’t just unrealistic, it was naive. But I couldn’t tell her that either. Sometimes people need to learn for themselves.

I knew from the first that working one on one was my strong suit, and I love to do this. Talking to people while I’m signing their book is sheer joy for me. And I’m starting to like another aspect of self-promotion — panels. I did my first in New York this summer at Thrillerfest, and was surprised at how comfortable I was. This realization played itself out again this past weekend at Southern Festival. I had a ball on my two panels. With my experience fresh in my mind, I attended Jim Born’s panel with Steven James, and really took the opportunity to learn. If you haven’t been to panel to watch Jim Born speak, shame on you. He gives the best panel ever. He’s funny, and engaging, and self-deprecating, and is a wonderful writer with amazing experiences guiding his work. I learned a lot from Jim this weekend, as well as my fellow panelists, on how to seduce instead of promote. Great lesson.

I know I’m babbling on here, but this is a subject I’ve been fretting about for months. My book comes out next week. I am indescribably proud. The accomplishment has been made into a life changing experience because of all the people out there who have been willing to give me their time and effort, who have patiently guided me through the morass. I know which writers I want to emulate when I’m on the road, or doing a signing, or appearing at a conference. I just hope I can do them proud, and not trip into the dreaded BSP because of my enthusiasm. And a warning, next week, I may do just that. Only once, I promise.

So share with me,`Rati brethren. How much IS too much?

—————————–

Alright, enough of the serious stuff. Here are some of my favorite shots from this past weekend at the Southern Festival of Books. A great time was had by all! I have to admit, in a weekend of nothing but huge highs, the highlight was Jim Born showing Kinky Friedman my book, and carrying it around in his back pocket. Now that’s friendship! (BTW, just after that, Kinky called my husband Spartacus. If he only knew…)

After our great panel, Sex and Violence: Is too Much Ever Enough? Tasha, Marcus, Robert Hicks and I hammed it up and did a couple of interviews for the local news. If Al Gore hadn’t won the Nobel, we would have made it to air…

Killer Year takes on Nashville! From left to right — Derek Nikitas, Marcus Sakey, me, Tasha Alexander, and Toni McGee Causey were guests of the Middle Tennessee Chapter of Sisters in Crime. Our panel, Tips and Insider Secrets to Getting Published, was well attended and could have gone on for another couple of hours.

And the best photo of the weekend. Hubby shows Marcus his version of The Blade Itself…

To compliment our coverage, more great news!

My dear friend Derek Nikitas launched his incredible debut novel, PYRES, this week. Full disclosure, I loved it so much that I blurbed it. Here’s my opinion:

"Nikitas’s story is literary and smart. His effortless prose and genre-melding style is reminiscent of John Connolly, his ability to tap into the
disturbed teenage psyche as masterful as Lisa Carey. PYRES is a must read. I couldn’t put it down."

So go out and get this amazing book today!

—————

Wine of the Week: 2002 Dunham Selection VIII Cabernet Sauvignon

Is It Safe?

I was thinking about the perception of safety the other day. Julie doesn’t like it when I leave the front door unlocked when we’re in the house. She doesn’t want anyone storming the castle gates while we’re at home, so she puts her faith in a deadbolt. A two inch slug of steel not even an inch in diameter will keep her from harm. She doesn’t worry (but probably will after this blog) that there’s nothing stopping evil doers from chucking a rock through any of our floor to ceiling windows and entering the house that way.

I started thinking about other safe things in our lives.

When the little red man tells me not to walk, I don’t. The little red man knows all about danger. That’s why he’s red. When I ignore his advice, my heart rate is up a few beats.

Down on the BART system, a row of yellow bricks tells me I’m safe from the speeding trains if I stand behind the yellow bricks, I’m safe. And I do feel safe. The moment I stand on those yellow bricks, I feel queasy. I’ve put myself in danger. A train could hit me. Someone could bump me and send me sprawling onto the electrified rails. Those yellow bricks have some power behind them. It’s really silly. The bricks have no power. My safety can’t be measured by the width of a row of yellow bricks. There’s so much other contributing factors that can take their toll on me.

How many of us fear earthquakes, tornadoes, being struck by lightning or an in-law coming to stay? While these things exist, there’s little chance of them affecting us?

I look around me without my safety goggles on and reexamine my environment. There are so many things I perceive as safe. Harm won’t come to me because I am not putting myself in harm’s way. Theoretically, that is. But boy, isn’t it a tenuous belief system? I am safe on the sidewalk because sidewalks are safe. There’s nothing to say a car won’t plow into me or I won’t trip and fall into road, but I don’t think about these things because the sidewalk is my talisman.

It all comes down to perception. If I perceive danger everywhere I go, then I will see danger everywhere. Perception is reality. If I think safe, then I am safe. I guess there’s a little bit of the Pavlov’s dog syndrome at work inside us all.

I quite like it when my thinking goes off the rails like this. I cross my eyes and I see the emperor without his clothes on. This is useful when it comes to the stories I tell. I like to unpick a character’s world until it unravels by attacking all the things that these people hold dear. Basically, I break down their perceptions and belief system. Life is a tightrope and I like to twang the cable while there are people on it—fictionally speaking that is.

I hope I haven’t given of you worriers out there something worry over. If I have, don’t. Now, sleep tight and I’ll see you in your dreams.

Yours unflinchingly,
Simon Wood