Making Sense

My wife and I have an ongoing, but
friendly, argument about which is more tolerable: heat or cold.

I’m a cold guy. My feeling is that no
matter how cold you get, you can always pile on more blankets until
you’re fairly comfortable. With heat, however — real heat — you
can strip down to the altogether and still be friggin’ hot.

The hotter it gets, the more foul my
mood. But with cold, not so much.

My wife is the exact opposite. She
says that during winter, no matter how many blankets she piles on,
she’s still uncomfortable. Her nose and fingers and toes are still
frozen and she hates that.

All that said, I guess it’s a good
thing we both grew up in Hawaii, where it never gets hotter than
about 85 degrees or colder than 60.

But when we were having this argument
the other day, I started thinking about the differences in people,
and it brought to mind something I read years ago about the five
senses and how each of us has a dominant sense.

Some of us might have an extremely
strong sense of smell, for example (like my wife), while others
(like me) are very visual and can barely smell anything. For some it
might be a keen sense of hearing, taste or touch.

What does any of this have to do with
reading or writing?

Maybe a lot. When I write, I find that
I rarely talk about smell in a scene. In fact, while working on this
new book, I’ve had to consciously force my character to think about
certain smells because it helped sell the scene.

Unlike visual details, adding in that
sense of smell didn’t come naturally to me. It wasn’t something that
came out of the writing instinctively. And I assume this is because
I rarely concern myself with smell in my real life.

So I have to wonder. Are most writers
like this? Are they led by their dominant traits?

Or what about readers? Are they
attracted to books or scenes or characters that share their own
sensory preference?

So this is my question to you today.
What is your dominant sense, and do you find yourself favoring it in
your writing or reading?

And, hell, while we’re at it: which do
you prefer — heat or cold?

Brother, Can You Spare A Dime?

By Louise Ure

OK, it’s been around for a while, but I just heard about it. I guess that makes me not just an old fart, but an out of touch old fart.

The grand old board game Monopoly has been reissued in a “Here and Now” version, with a VISA credit card replacing the cash. No longer will you be able to gloat as your opponent’s stack of pubic pink $500s shrinks to a dwindling stack of sky blue $10s. Now players can just swipe their credit cards through the electronic reader that records the earnings and payments and transfers money between them. Where’s the fun in that?

But that’s not the worst of the changes. The venerable old tokens (including my favorites: the top hat, the thimble, and the iron) have been junked in favor of a laptop computer, a New Balance sneaker, a Motorola Razr cellphone, a mug of Starbucks’ coffee, and a bag of McDonald’s fries. Yes, you read that right. A goddamned bag of French fries with a Mickey D logo on it. Just for reminders, you know. In case you get hungry lifting that credit card all the time.

If you pass go in this new version, you don’t collect $200. They call it a “salary” now and it’s $2 million. Who does this Monopoly man think he is? Sumner Redstone?

The Jail corner still has a little L-shaped space on it called “Just Visiting,” but now I suspect it’s for celebrities with less than twenty-four hour sentences. Or maybe for Dominick Dunne to use while he’s penning his Phil Spector stories.

Gone are Park Place and Reading Railroad. Now we have Disney World and the Mall of America. I was glad to see that the Golden Gate Bridge has its own square and you have to pay a cool $2 million if you land on it. But so does Phoenix’s Camelback Mountain, for the same price. WTF? Hey, I’m an Arizona girl, but I guarantee you that it’s gonna cost you more to hang out in San Francisco than in Phoenix.

The two most realistically priced new squares on the “Here and Now” Monopoly Board? “Cell Phone Service $1,500,000” and “Interest on Credit Card Debt $750,000.”

Hell, after landing a couple of times on Income Tax ($2,000.000) and White House ($3,200,000. I think the Monopoly guy is a Republican, so it’s probably not a tax — maybe just a contribution to a PAC) I’d be ready to blow my brains out.

Now, if there were just a little metal token with the NRA logo on it.

And then, to add salty insult to this gaping wound of an injury, my friend Tom sent me a list of things that AOL says will be gone in ten years.

• Record stores

Camera film

• Crop dusters

• Gay bars

• Newspapers

• Pay phones

• Piggy banks

• Telemarketing

• Coin-operated arcades

• Used bookstores

I can understand the rationale for a couple of these. Record stores, camera film, and coin-operated arcades have been eclipsed by new technologies. A number of the others – piggy banks, pay phones and the old Monopoly prices – have taken the hit for the declining value of our money. E.Y. Harburg’s song would have to be written now as “Brother, can you spare a hundred?”

I’d add coin-operated parking meters and local TV news organizations to that list. We’ve gotten to the point in San Francisco where you can reserve a parking space on the street in advance, and pay for it with a credit card. And “local news” is as much an oxymoron as “jumbo shrimp.”

But I take umbrage with some of their other predictions. Telemarketers dying off? Nah, they’re like cockroaches. They may mutate, but they’ll be around forever. There are significant rebellions afoot against them, like Do Not Call lists and the TeleCrapper 2000, but telemarketers are smarter than that. They’ll find a way around all the new rules and attitudes.

And newspapers? They’ll change with the increasing importance of the internet as a news source, but they’ll stick around. So will gay bars. And unless AOL has some new news about genetically altered plants, I think crop dusters are here for a while, too.

The one that really pisses me off on AOL’s list is Used Bookstores. I understand that their distribution methods have changed. The internet has given them a whole new audience for their goods. But to disappear entirely as brick and mortar stores? God, I hope not. There’s no aphrodisiac quite as strong as the mingled scent of dust and old books. And there’s no better way to spend an afternoon than trolling those musty aisles.

You know what ought to be on that list?

• Color-coded security alerts

• The Electoral College

• Reality TV

What about you all? Classic Monopoly or Here and Now? Any additions to the AOL list? Any deletions?

And goodbye old friend:

Angus

June 5, 1994 – October 15, 2007

Name the author

by Pari Noskin Taichert

I love my name. That’s why I’ve used it all of these years. That’s why I added on to it, rather than dropping my surname when I got married. It’s been a point of pride and I didn’t hesitate to sign it to my first book contract.

Pari Noskin Taichert: it’s got everything. You want exoticism? Pari is Farsi for angel, fairy or sea nymph. You want lyricism? I think it fits the bill; it certainly gets the old imagination going. Intrigue? Yep. No one knows where the hell it comes from or how the hell to pronounce it.

About the only thing my name doesn’t have going for it is memorability. There’s nothing there for people to hang their mnemonics on.

I’m not kidding.

A month ago, I was down in Las Cruces at the farmer’s market and met a woman who loves my books. I was giddy with meeting her and she felt the same way about me — once she realized who I was. Talk about a love-fest.

"I was just telling a friend about you yesterday," she said, a’flutter.
"Thank you." I wanted to kiss her feet. Not only had she read my books, she was doing my marketing for me.
"Yeah, I told her not to bother trying to remember your name, but that the titles were pretty easy."

Lovely.

At both Agatha Award banquets, the announcers mispronounced my name. It happens on panels unless the moderator takes the time to email me in advance.

It’s demoralizing to see the disappointment in readers’ eyes when they meet me for the first time. Instead of some gorgeous woman with a long black braid and skin the color of chai, they get a soccer mom. And, bookstore employees tell me they often get requests for "that lady from New Mexico with the weird name." They always know exactly who the customer is talking about.

Frankly, though, I’m tired of it.

Now, I know I’m putting the cart before the horse, the butter before the bread, but when my new series sells (you’ll notice the confidence in that phrase . . .) I’m considering using a pseudonym. Something simple — with initials.

I need a name with some pizazz like the ones you find on this blog. Just look at those initials, those short names or the three-name jobbies with at least one that’s familiar. Holy cow. You’d think I’d have enough inspiration right here.

P.N. Taichert. Nah, the n doesn’t flow off the tongue and Taichert still confuses the crap out of people. P.T. Noskin? That might be better but it’s not very catchy. Pari Jones? Might work. P.T. Jones? That has a certain appeal.

Ah, darn it to Hades, I don’t know. I could use some help here . . .

Got any suggestions? You might just come up with a winner in this name-the-author — literally — discussion. Hey, you might even get a prize.

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

And, speaking of names . . .

I’ll be one of the interviewees on MWA’s Murder Must Air broadcast this Thursday evening, Oct. 18, at 8 pm central time. The topic is promotion and host L.C. Hayden wants me to talk about how to "get your name out there." Hah! I’ll have plenty to say.

The other known guests are: author David Skibbins and PR pro/author Jo-Ann Powers. L.C. says that there’s also going to be a mystery guest for an additional 15 minutes of the show. Can’t wait to find out who it is.

motivational quotes for writers

Very short blog today… when you read this, I’ll probably be flying home from the Southern Festival of Books in Nashville, Tennessee, which is just a fantastic book festival–extremely well-attended. (The volunteers estimate an attendance over the weekend of 25K-30K.) If you ever contemplate attending a book festival and want to try to find a good one? Get thee to this festival, because it rocks.

Our panel was a lot of fun (hosted by the wonderful JB Thompson, moderated by the very talented Tasha Alexander, with terrific and amazing writers J.T. Ellison, Marcus Sakey, and Derek Nikatas), and our subject essentially boiled down to writing advice for various stages of publication, from writing the book to getting through the publishing process. It was a kick for me to hear the other writers’ advice on different subjects–I think no matter where we are in this game, there are always insights and encouragement to be gained from listening to another writer’s journey. Sometimes it’s just nice to know others have gone through the craziness that we go through.

I don’t know if we’ve done this here in a while at Murderati, but I’d love to open the floor to hear what your favorite writing or publishing advice / motivational quote is. I’ll start off with three favorites:

"Write the book you want to read but can’t find." (?)

"One of the perks of being a writer: you can actually kill all the assholes." (Jenny Crusie)

"You have to protect your writing time. You have to protect it to the death." (William Goldman)

I could use a little inspiration as I’m on the home stretch of a polish… so… what are your favorite quotes / advice?

Arsenic and…. well, mainly arsenic

by Alex

This author life takes you into some weird places. One place I never thought I’d end up is on Court TV. But this week I did a segment for that show, with two of my favorite mystery authors, Margaret Maron and Sarah Shaber – we were interviewed discussing a recent, notorious arsenic poisoning case, which I really have to share with you.

Here’s the story, ripped from the headlines:

In 2000, Eric Miller, a 30-year old pediatric AIDS researcher at UNC Chapel Hill with a lovely wife and one-year old daughter, went out bowling with three other men, including Derril Willard, Miller’s wife’s supervisor at Glaxo Smith Kilne laboratories in Raleigh. The four shared a pitcher of beer, after which Miller complained of stomach pains. He kept bowling, but later that night was in such pain that his wife, Ann Miller, took him to the hospital, where he was kept overnight. Miller was released from the hospital, but continued to sicken, and died a few days later.

An autopsy revealed significant levels of arsenic in his system.

(Okay, we’re mystery writers and readers, right? I’m sure your little twisted minds are racing.)

Now, apparently arsenic is not just a powerful, if illegal, pesticide, but also historically a popular spouse removal compound in North Carolina, and so there’s actually a state law that any arsenic poisoning that a hospital comes across must be turned over to law enforcement for investigation, as this case was.

So fairly quickly, police found:

– quantities of arsenic at the laboratory where Ann Miller and Derril Willard worked and

– phone records that showed over 50 calls between Ann Miller and Derril Willard (also married, also with a baby daughter) in the two weeks before and after Eric Miller’s death and

– e mails on both parties’ hard drives at work that strongly suggested a “romantic relationship” between the two.

Police went to Willard’s home to question him, and after they left, he shot himself to death.

That’s not too vague, right?

Now, that week, before the questioning and suicide, Willard had hired a prominent attorney, and had apparently implicated “a third party” in the death of Eric Miller. The police not unreasonably suspected the widow Miller had some part in this whole tragedy, especially, let’s face it, considering that for hundreds of years arsenic has been the murder weapon of choice for women who did not at the time have the option of divorce, and also, it had been uncovered that Willard had not been Ann Miller’s first infidelity, but that she had had at least two affairs since her marriage.

But – Willard’s attorney, Richard Gammon, refused to divulge what his client had confided to him on the grounds of attorney-client privilege.

Thus began a three-year court battle that worked itself slowly up to the North Carolina Supreme Court, over whether or not attorney-client privilege extends beyond death.

Finally, the NC Supreme Court ruled that since the confidences of Willard neither implicated him in the murder nor jeopardized his family nor his estate, that the attorney, Gammon, was compelled to divulge Willard’s statements.

And Gammon’s statements revealed that Willard had confided that Ann Miller had injected arsenic into Eric Miller’s IV while he was in the hospital.

Meanwhile, Ann Miller had moved to Wilmington, on the coast of North Carolina, and married a Christian rock musician (somehow I especially like that part).

Now, even though Gammon’s recitation of Willard’s statements was hearsay, it was damning enough to arrest Ann Miller on $3 million bond. She had engaged the top defense attorneys in the state, Wade Smith and Joseph Cheshire. And finally in 2006, after negotiations with the state prosecutor, she pled guilty to second degree murder and received a sentence of twenty-five to thirty-one years, which she is currently serving.

Now, this whole story is one of those that, as a mystery writer, you read and think – “WOW”. And then – “No way. No one would ever believe it – it’s almost too – TOO.” But then as you keep reading, it sort of works on you.

I mean, first of all – WHAT WERE THEY THINKING?

Okay, so there was a hot affair (at least I hope so, sheesh.). But, um, why in the name of heaven did they feel they had to kill this guy? This was the year 2000. Raleigh’s a blue city. These were educated, well-employed people. Wasn’t divorce invented so women wouldn’t HAVE to kill their husbands?

And I haven’t dug so deep I can confidently answer this, but there really doesn’t seem to be a money motive.

So – what? It was pure lust? Pure, murderous lust? Or maybe this is me, but I keep thinking that both of these people had very, very small children. Were the stresses of early parenthood so great that they went a little, well, insane? And could only think of the most direct way out?

Certainly they were not thinking this thing through. At all. They were having an affair, not covering their phone or e mail tracks, and POISONING HER HUSBAND. Over a period, of, it’s been speculated, looking at the levels of arsenic in Eric Miller’s body – months. Maybe as long as six months.

Were they sociopaths, just unable to think of anything but their own immediate gratification? Narcissists, thinking they couldn’t be caught? Just plain lazy, thinking arsenic was easier than lengthy custody battles? Was she an evil and hypnotic Black Widow who lured men to their deaths? (Apparently the lead police investigator called her “mesmerizing.”)

And, let’s just consider this. The new husband? The Christian rock musician? He marries a woman suspected of multiple infidelity and poisoning her first husband?

And oh, even better in some ways – when the police come to arrest Ms. Miller-Kontz– she has a new job at…. A pharmaceutical company.

A suspected poisoner. At a pharmaceutical company.

I just don’t get it. Really. On any level.

But I think it’s stories like this that might make us into mystery writers, and readers. Because the really frustrating thing is that – we’re never going to know. This whole mess will remain a mystery. On the other hand, the ironic and truly satisfying thing about a mystery novel is that at the end – it’s not a mystery at all, anymore. Everything has been examined, clarified, and revealed. You know EVERYONE’’s motivation. You understand EXACTLY why, how, and when things happened, and in what order. It is such a relief and release to KNOW. So very much more satisfying than life.

I’m sure I’ll use some piece of this case in my own work, eventually. It will probably be something about the daughters. (Can you imagine finding out that your mother poisoned your father? Or that your father killed himself after he’d helped poison his lover’s husband?)

It won’t look anything like reality, but I can feel it in there, like a grain of sand… waiting to be layered into a pearl.

And so, if you’re inclined… how would YOU treat this story, or like to see it? A thriller? A comedy? THE POSTMAN ALWAYS RINGS TWIICE, or TO DIE FOR? Whose POV would you tell it from?

And for the love of God, Montressor… tell me WHY.

The 4th Dimension

by J.T. Ellison

Last week I talked about tertiary characters, and called them people. I’ll grant you, only a writer can be so self-absorbed that the characters she develops can be considered alive. But there you go. They ARE people. The exist, fully formed in our minds. They live, breathe, cry, eat, feel pain, create mayhem… if they weren’t alive for us, how could they ever be alive for our readers?

I was at my in-laws last week and my MIL asked if Taylor would be getting married. I hemmed and hawed, and while I was busy playing coy, my brother-in-law looks at us both with this incredulous look on his face. "Um, folks?" he said. "They aren’t real."

Oh yes, they are.

I dare any writer to say that their characters haven’t taken on a life of their own in our minds. Haven’t we all been in a situation and wondered how our protagonist would handle it? If you’re me, you wish you could handle life the way Taylor does. She’s stronger than me, less black and white. Things that freak me out don’t affect her in the least. (Except spiders. Spiders freak her out too.)

I bet I’m not the only one. Honestly, if I were Lee Child, and Reacher was my character? Whoo-boy, you can bet I’d be mentally mowing down annoying people left and right.

And of course, since I have a vivid imagination, that train of thought leads me to…

Can you imagine what it would be like to see your favorite literary character with their hair down, at home, so to speak, doing the everyday things we do without threat of murder and mayhem looming over their heads? What do they do when they aren’t on the page? Do they go to concerts? Sporting events? Read a book on a Sunday afternoon? Go to the beach, not get enough suntan lotion on and burn in embarrassing places?

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that I need a 4th dimension. In genre fiction, thrillers especially, there’s rarely time to develop the outside interests of a character. Do you honestly think a reader would sit through four quarters of a Titans game with Taylor? Now granted, if Reacher wanted to go to a Yankees game, I’d be all for that, but I’m probably in the minority.

It’s another case of how well the author knows their characters, and how much of that information needs to be shared with the reader. Yes, Harry Bosch has bitchin taste in music. But isn’t that a device like any other that we use, something to set the mood, to warn the reader that Harry’s getting in a funk, is probably going to get drunk, bed his latest love, and get called out on a case at 2 in the morning?

It enriches the experience for the reader, absolutely. Barry Eisler is the master at this, letting us have glimpses into John Rain’s head using music. (Why is jazz so favored among us???) But can you imagine Rain waking up one morning and thinking, hmmm, I’d like to go to a soccer game. Maybe he’s a huge soccer fan and we just don’t know it because that’s all in Barry’s head. Yes, extreme case, but I’m trying to make a point here.

While our characters are alive for us, we can’t let too much of them onto the page. We have to measure, and hold back in order to further the plot along. Taylor spends time at the Exit/In and Mercy Lounge, her favorite places to see bands, but that doesn’t make it into the story, because when there’s a murder case popping and a limited time to solve it before whatever crisis will occur, she doesn’t have time to go play.

I’d love to hear from you guys on this. For the writers — what’s something no one knows about your lead character’s life? And for the readers — what do you imagine your favorite protagonists do in their time off?

Wine of the Week — 2002 Chateau des Jacques Moulin-a-Vent Gamay

An enjoyable French entry from la Maison Louis Jadot, to celebrate… well…
nothing in particular, except every once in a while, I still have
dreams about my high school French lab. This wine is from the
Beaujolais area of Burgundy. Amusez-vous bien et jouir d’une bonne santé. Au revoir!

————

I’m at Southern Festival of Books today, where my panel on Sex and Violence, moderated by Robert Hicks and populated with the most talented creatures I know, Tasha Alexander and Marcus Sakey, runs from 12 – 1:30. If you’re in Nashville, come by Legislative Plaza and say hello. Tonight we’re all going to the screening of ELIZABETH: THE GOLDEN AGE, which will be introduced by Tasha, the author of the companion novel to the movie (which is incredible, by the way). Tomorrow is the lunchtime panel slot again with our own Toni McGee Causey, Derek Nikitas, and Marcus Sakey, moderated by the lovely Tasha, on Insider Tips to Getting Published. So I’ll be bopping in and out depending on the wireless capabilities of Legislative Plaza. Play nice!

Fun Facts!

I’m feeling frivolous. I hope frivolous doesn’t mind. Anyhoo, very few of you have met me, so you haven’t gotten to see or know me in all my splendor. To remedy this, I thought I’d share a few facts about me.

1. I wear mismatched socks. I don’t “bunny ear” the pairs together (who’s got time for that). Instead, I tug the first two socks I grab. My socks are usually of the cartoon variety, so I get away with the mismatch. I like to think of my socks as entertainment for my ankles.

2. I like being short and wish I was shorter. I’ve always been small. I’m used to being small. Small looks good on me. But at 5’-4”, I think I’m a tad too tall. It puts me in that tall-short category which is no place to be.

3. I find toilet humor damn funny. A good poo-poo joke will have me laughing like a drain.

4. Not a day goes by that I don’t miss racing cars. I raced single-seaters from ’90-’93. It remains the best and worst thing I ever did. The highs can never be matched, neither can the lows. It made me a tougher, stronger person.

5. If I could be any fictional hero, I would be Dr. Who. I’m a lifelong Dr. Who fan. I think he’s the greatest superhero ever created. I still hope that one day my parents will tell me I’m adopted and I’m really a Timelord. It could happen.

6. Most things scare me from heights to buying coffee in Starbucks. I see the worst in everything. If it’s going to go wrong, it’s going to wrong around me. I have a talent for disaster, so everything worries me a little. Add to that a wild imagination, and within a handful of seconds, I’ve foresee a dozen outcomes.

7. I’m short-tempered–it’s a height related thing. I have a short fuse. I like to laugh and joke and not take the world too seriously. If you ruin that for me, you’re going to hear about it.

8. I’m a bleeder, not a fighter. Pari has her brown belt in Tae Kwon Do. My fighting technique extends as far as the windmill.

9. Julie has longer legs than me. We’re about the same height, but if I have to get in a car after her, I have to scoot the seat forward. This amuses her.

10. I’m dyslexic and it took me 5 goes at spelling the word correctly. My reading age is grade 5 or 6, I think. Someone can read a book out loud faster than I can read a book with my eyes. This is a reason I listen to a lot of audio books.

11. I believe dessert isn’t food, but a way of life. Let them eat cake, that’s what I say.

12. I come from a massive family. Just going back two generations, my family is into triple-digits. We could have our own phone book. This contrasts heavily with Julie who only has one uncle and one cousin.

13. I am not the voice of the Geico gecko, although we are of similar height.

14. My favorite cereal is Special K. I know it’s a “lady’s” cereal, but I think it tastes good. When I was little I used to steal my cousin’s Special K before she got up in the mornings and hide it under a layer of cornflakes so she wouldn’t know. Sorry Hazel. One the plus side, I always fit into my jeans.

15. Despite being allergic to cats and dogs, I adopt defective animals from the pound. I have a longhaired dachshund that is allergic to people and about a dozen other things. I have one cat that can’t metabolize cat food, so I have to make my own. I have one cat with extremely long fingers and I do mean fingers. One cat insists on coming on walks with my dog. One cat is a dwarf because it was very sick during its developmental stage.

So there you haven’t it. I make as much as a VCR instruction manual. But these are the things that make me who I am and are the things have a tendency of working their way into my stories.

Now you know a little bit about me, let’s hear a bit about you. Give me a fun fact or two.

Oddly yours,
Simon Wood
PS: I have an article on short story writing in the December issue of Writer’s Digest.

What a Long Strange Trip It’s Been

by J.D. Rhoades

And you may ask yourself, “Well….how did I get here?”

-Talking Heads

One of the blogs I
check out on a regular basis is the one belonging to the wonderfully named
Sparkle Hayter. (Yes, she says it’s her real name, and it’s one of my favorite
names ever). Sparkle wrote a funny, sexy, and smart mystery series featuring
intrepid All News Network reporter Robin Hudson: WHAT’S A GIRL GOTTA DO?; NICE
GIRLS FINISH LAST; REVENGE OF THE COOTIE GIRLS; THE CHELSEA GIRL MURDERS; and my
favorite, THE LAST MANLY MAN. I first encountered Sparkle when we both hung out
in the internet newsgroup rec.arts.mystery. She was kind enough to name a
character in her werewolf novel NAKED BRUNCH after Yours Truly. Okay, the
character was long dead before the book even started, but still.

Sparkle’s been a stand-up comedian, a cable
news reporter, a writer, an artist, and generally a really cool person, so when
I found she had a blog called Moons of Saturn, I subscribed immediately. That’s
where I got hooked on one of her loves: Indian pop music, particularly Bollywood
soundtracks. You may think the whole musical movie thing is cheesy, but I defy
you to listen to something like Chaiya Chaiya
for more than thirty seconds without beginning to involuntarily dance in
your chair.

So I
click through a few weeks ago and find that the blog name’s changed. It’s now
called Bombay Talkies, because Sparkle’s got a brand new bag: as a writer on
the subject of Indian cinema, living in the city of Maharashtra. Kind of a strange place for a girl from Canada,
but as Sparkle says in her profile, “Life is strange and full of lots of twists
and turns. Roll with it, when you can.”

Which
brings me, at long last, to my point. We don’t always end up at the destination we set out for. When I went to college, my major was what at that time was called RTVMP:
Radio, TV, and Motion Pictures. I wanted to be a filmmaker. That is, when I
wasn’t trying to be Hunter S. Thompson. “Hey,” I thought, “How hard can it be?”

Unfortunately, I
discovered two things: first, being a filmmaker meant spending a lot of time
trying to scare up financing, which I loathed; and second, that to be Hunter S.
Thompson, it wasn’t enough to stay loaded and wild most of the time, you
actually had to write something.

So
neither of those dreams panned out. I ended up working in local TV, behind the
camera, working on shows like a locally produced kid’s show called “Frog
Hollow” (which featured a puppet named, I swear, Androgeena), and an outdoor show called “The Southern
Sportsman,” which was a half hour show consisting of two segments: (1) Host
hunts and kills something, and (2) Host shows you how to cook it.

Only problem with
that job was, it didn’t pay squat. So I ended up scuffling around in a variety
of media related positions, including club DJ’ing and ad sales for a country
radio station so low on the totem pole that they didn’t even register on the
Arbitron ratings. Then I started dating this really cute law student.

Now, if there’s a
book lying out, I’ll pick it up and start to read. And when I picked up a book
on Constitutional law that the really cute law student left lying around, I was mesmerized.

See, most law school texts present the
principles of law in a series of written cases–records of court decisions. And every case
starts with a recitation of the facts. In other words, every case tells a story. And
when you’re reading Constitutional or Criminal Law, fairly often it’s a case of
injustice, of some poor bastard getting worked over by the system. Miranda vs. Arizona? Poor
dumb bastard didn’t even know his rights, so how could he get a fair trial? Gideon vs. Wainwright? Poor bastard got
screwed because he didn’t have a lawyer. And so on. Those stories, more than
the legal analysis of the facts that followed, were what made me think that
this whole lawyer thing might not be so bad. Plus, and this was no small
factor, I discovered that people would lend me money to go to law school and I
wouldn’t have to pay it back till I got out. “Hey,” I thought, “How hard can it
be?”

Next thing I
knew, I was in law school.

Fast forward a few years. I married the really
cute law student, who quickly decided that the practice of law wasn’t for her.
I’d hung in there, but it was finally beginning to dawn on me, after a
disastrous stint with one of those personal-injury law firms that advertise on
late night TV, that I wasn’t loving it either. I moved back to my home town, but law practice still got on my nerves. An editorial I saw in my local
newspaper tripped a switch in my head. I wrote a letter to the editor asking
“Mr. Editor, what color is the sky on your planet?” Another editorial sparked
another similarly snarky letter. So the editor in question , a classic old-time
newspaper guy named Brent Hackney, rang me up and asked if I wanted to do a
regular column. “Hey,” I thought, “How hard can it be?” Next thing I knew, I
was writing a weekly column. The answer to my question, of course, was the same as always: “a lot
damn harder than it looks.”

After a couple of
years of this, Brent said to me, “You know, you’re a pretty good writer. You
ought to write a novel.” I thought about it. “Hey,” I thought, "How hard….”
Well, you know the rest. Call me a slow learner.

I wrote a novel.
It sank like a stone. I wrote another.
It got picked up, along with another I hadn’t even written yet. I started
meeting people who wanted me to come and talk to them about my books. I wrote a
third novel, then a fourth. And here I am. It ain’t India,
but it’s sure not where I expected to be.

So, writers and readers: what destination did you start out for? What strange
places have you ended up along the way? And how did you get here?

Sand and Water

By Ken Bruen

Greg came into my life late. I’ve known his girlfriend Julie since she was a child and regarded her as family, she baby sat my daughter and I was there when she graduated from college. Her father, like so many of our generation back then, had to take the boat to England, there was no work here. And, more’s the Irish-ed pity, like so many, he disappeared, maybe he met someone, or died from drink, which was common, or who knows. She never heard from him again and it’s unlikely he’ll show now. I’m not suggesting I was a father figure, but I was there during the important events in her life.

First Communion

First Dance

First heartbreak

Four years ago, she met Greg.

She was working in a small coastal village near Dingle. Like me, she had a fascination with the sea and was never happier than when she was within hearing distance of the waves. Joyce was buried near the zoo because Nora Barnacle said

“He liked to hear the lions roar.”

Same gig, sorta.

Greg was a national school teacher which meant he taught Irish and that certainly endeared him to me, for openers. Anyone who helps with the revival

of our language gets my vote

and that part of the country, even the road signs are in Irish, confusing to tourists but joy to me

Claiming our heritage back in all the ways that matter, inch by slow inch.

Greg also worked as a diver for the Coast Guard Sea and Rescue.

When Julie introduced me to him, I could tell she was smitten.

She was so damn proud of him.

Is there anything better than to see a person take pride in their partner?

She gazed at him with such tenderness.

I once saw Bruce Springsteen in concert, the Barcelona one, he did all the brilliant songs from The Rising, but what struck me most and still does, was the way Patti gazed at him, pure love and delight and I said to my friend

“God, to have a woman look at you like that, Jesus Wept, that is true grace.”

He was singing along to “You’re Missing.” And didn’t answer me.

Not that there is one, an answer that is.

Julie had that look for Greg.

She headed off for some, as she said, retail therapy.

That was to wind me up, she knows I’m an American devotee but that I hate Irish kids aping the language.

Greg said

“I was a bit nervous meeting you.”

“Why?”

“Cos Julie thinks so highly of you and if you don’t like me, I’m fooked.”

I said

“I don’t know you yet but that’s a real good start.”

I used to sail, I know, doesn’t fit me image, and once we got talking about boats, we were signed sealed and delivered.

He read a few of me books

Well, two ……….. which is 2 more than any of my family and he said

“If you don’t mind me saying ……………..”

In Ireland, this is the intro to a very subtle put down and god knows, I’m accustomed but still, I gritted me teeth, smiled, asked

“Yeah?”

He considered, then

“Lot of rage in there.”

And before I could respond, he added

“And you seem very mellow, not angry at all.”

I said

“You fook with Julie, you’ll see.”

He laughed, said

“Are you codding, if I did, she’d kill me.”

True

He knew I’d been a teacher and said

“I hear you were pretty good, what do you think made you good?’

“Patience and encouragement.”

He mulled that over, then

“I’ll remember that.”

We didn’t become bosom mates or hang out a lot but we had a few brews together whenever he came to Galway and I liked his company.

He found a rare bootleg of The Clash and I gave him a copy of Yeats’ letters.

He said

“Even steven.”

Just before B’con in Alaska, he was part of a team searching for a lost fisherman, the weather was fierce and Greg never surfaced.

They found his body a few miles down the coast.

Julie was devastated.

Last week, she came to me home, weeping most of the time and that evening, I made some hot Toddies, heavy on the Jay and let her come to it in her own time.

She asked

“Will you play some David Gray?’

I did.

First track, This Years Love

Fookin killer

She had the heavy tumbler in her hand, I’d added cloves, brown sugar, and she was stirring the mix then began

“Greg was cremated, there’s a wondrous crematorium built into the cliff and then we went out on his boat with the urn, we had a 25 year old bottle of Black Bush, his favourite, and up on the cliff were his extended family and they sang Amazing Grace

Her eyes were huge as she added

“The song carried right across the bay and Greg’s sister opened The Bush, poured one for us all and we drank to him, then we poured the rest on the water, just before we scattered his ashes.”

I knew there was more and waited

Said not one bloody word

She gave a deep sigh then looked right at me

Those brown eyes, full of pain and wonder, she said

“When we scattered the ashes, there was a blue tinge, like a mist just above the surface and then it floated upwards, like a beautiful feather, the sun came out and bounced off the water, giving that mist a sheen and ………. Oh Mother of god, a radiance."

She wiped at her eyes, then asked

“What do you think that was?’

I had no idea, tried

“Maybe a hint of a miracle.”

She smiled for the first time in ages and asked

“Do you really think so?’

“Yes. Yes I do.”

There is a haunting song by Tommy Fleming titled Sand and Water

There’s a line in there that goes

“I will see you, when my time is done, Sand and Water, and a million miles from home.”

Julie has gone back to the small village and me, I’m listening to The Clash, but I’m thinking

Sand and water ………………….

Just Rewards

by Pari Noskin Taichert

There’s an envelope in my bedroom with a gift certificate to a local day spa. It sits on a table, semi obscured by unfolded laundry and skittery mounds of mismatched books, waiting. Dust films its creamy beige exterior.

When my husband bought it for me last Feburary, I thought I’d use it right away. Instead, I kept it, wanting to accord it even more value than the glorious realization that he’d finally gifted me with a true indulgence (this, after 14 years of hiking boots for Valentine’s Day and bags of flour when I complained that he never bought me flowers. Yeah, he’s a real joker . . . ).

This week, I’m going to call that spa and make an appointment.
I’m going to drink a shot or two from that bottle of O’ban in the cabinet.
I’m going to buy a dark chocolate bar — one of those 70%ers — to nibble along with it.

You see, I want to celebrate. I’ve now written well past page 200 in the draft of the first book in my new series. And, Friday, I handed in the final page proofs for THE SOCORRO BLAST. After two years, that book is out of my hair and on its way to publication. The next time I’ll see it is when it’s in ARC form. A couple months after that, it’ll be in hardcover. Hallelujah!

There’s even better news. Whatever stasis seemed to be gripping my life has begun to recede. The Muse and I have been hanging out, lifting weights at the gym, going for Vietnamese food at the little restaurant near my house. I’m feeling happy, like I’m accomplishing things again.

I’m ready to play.

Marking victories, small and big, is tremendously important in a life. The mere act of stopping to say, "Yes. I did this!" keeps things in perspective and grants a different experience of the day-in, day-out frenzy of existence. Taking the time to pat our successes on the back keeps the demons at bay.

Along with this active pausing, sometime in my late 30s, I began to practice gratitude and joy. These two emotions take work; they weren’t found in abundance in my childhood home. So, I started looking for minor blessings and tiny beauties.

Just the simple acknowledgment, every day, that my life is damn good . . . makes it even better.

So my question is:
How do you reward yourself for goals met, for kindnesses extended, for stretching yourself into a better person?