Here Be Dragons

Here Be Dragons.

Supposedly, on ancient maps, cartographers labeled sections that were unexplored with these three words. It represents the bogeyman, the deepest darkest corner of the closet, the literary equivalent of Do Not Enter. So I take these mythical words, stretch the meaning a bit, and apply them to today’s post.

I recently came into possession of a magnetic poetry kit. The kind that has a ton of words jumbled up with a magnetic backing so you can write poetry on your refrigerator door. I’ve always had fun with this stuff. At parties, we used to start the night with a single word, and every person who went to the fridge was required to add on. It would start off entirely logical, poetic, meaningful, and by the end of the night, would be nonsensical, string after string on words that were utterly discordant.

At the time, under the influence of mankind’s finest inexpensive beverages, it was a riot. In the light of day, not so funny. There was always the one person who had stayed up later than everyone else, who nursed along a broken heart, or a broken soul, who left the saddest imaginable notes hidden in the jumble.

We’re all poets at heart, aren’t we? I know I am. I’m a terrible, horrible poet. Should burn all but one or two of the idiotic crapola I wrote in college. Yet every once in a while, the spirit moves me, and I try my hand. It’s god awful stuff that I end up deleting.

So I thought it would be fun to have my own little game of poetry on the refrigerator. No pressure, nothing of importance. Just another way to play with words, which is my dearest passion. I break out the kit, tear things apart, careful to keep the three letter words separate from the fours and fives, separate the multiple I’s from the Am’s and Me’s, etc.

Ready, Freddy.

My first foray into this new game pleases me.

Life is a languid symphony of never and always.

Sigh. How pretty. I leave this on the refrigerator and go to bed, a love note of sorts for my husband.

The following morning, I come downstairs, knowing that hubby be playing the game, will have left me a note. Something to compliment my beautiful phraseology perhaps, or an entirely new sentence will have emerged. Maybe it will be romantic, maybe it will be wistful. Maybe it will give me an idea that causes an eruption of like-minded words and similes that will keep me happy for the rest of the day.

I knew he’d leave me a note. And he did. It read, and I quote:

Smell my finger.

Have I ever mentioned hubby was an economics major?

Once I picked myself up off the kitchen floor, wiped the tears from my eyes, called him to compliment his sarcasm and admit he tickled my funny bone, a thought occurred to me.

It’s fitting, really. We can write the purple, flowery prose with a capital P all day long. We can pour our hearts out onto the page, examine and impress ourselves with our imagery, our command of the language. But it’s the short, sweet stuff that makes the most sense, cuts through the bullshit and makes our writing tight and spare.

I’d like to think that I have a literary style to my writing. But I also try to keep the sentences short, punchy, to the point. It is possible to have both. I think. Which is what I mean about here be dragons. As a writer, I feel like I need to get better, to take chances, to work myself to death finding the most sophisticated yet approachable terms and descriptions. I think we all move off into uncharted territory daily, coming up with new, better phrases, finding different ways to relate our thoughts to the reader.

What about you? Are you a slave to metaphor, or do you prefer the slam, bam, thank you ma’am approach? And who does either style the best?

Wine of the Week:
2005 Renato Ratti Torriglione Barbera d’Alba

Plummet

Continuing my month of real life mayhem, here’s how I burned up another of my nine lives…

PLUMMET

A few years back, I was kneecapped playing soccer. I was about to clear the ball when a guy carrying an advantage of 30 pounds and 12 inches of height body-checked me. When he struck, my foot was planted in the turf with my full weight on it. My body twisted, but my foot remained firmly where it was. Something had to give: my knee. I suffered the most intense pain I had ever felt. My leg pointed 90 degrees in the wrong direction. I may have screamed a bit. The upshot was that I couldn’t walk for a few weeks and spent months in physical therapy to heal the damaged tendons.

My knee healed but it was never a 100%. It fatigued easily under heavy usage. I certainly felt all its flaws hiking the descent from the top of Sealy Tarns in New Zealand.

Sealy Tarns was the first major hike of my New Zealand vacation and I discovered my knee wasn’t up to the terrain. In preparation, my wife and I had walked several tough trails in Northern California with similar elevation changes — with no knee problems — but New Zealand was much meaner than California, with steeper inclines, rock-strewn trails, and rapid changes in elevation. The weather complicated matters, too. Although it was summer, conditions were more like winter, with snow a distinct possibility. The wind was severe enough that I had to climb on all fours at times so not to be blown off the mountain. Although the peak provided a stunning vista of a mountain range carved by a glacier, the wind and cold curbed our enjoyment.

Going up hadn’t been too bad — tiring, but I hadn’t felt any ill effects. Coming down was a different matter. A few hundred feet down from the mountain’s 3000-foot summit, I realized my leg didn’t have the strength or stability to support my footfalls. After only 300 feet, I could see the hike down was going to be a lot slower than it had been going up…

Or maybe not.

Rounding a switchback on the footpath, my knee lost all sensation and strength. I pitched forward with my hands out in front, but as soon as I started falling, I knew I was going over the edge. I watched my hands glide past the 18-inch-wide ledge toward the abyss.

Faced with death, you’re supposed to have your life flash before you or relive an old experience. Well, this was my third close encounter with the grave and I’m sorry, but none of the above is true. As I went over the edge, my thoughts focused to a singularity with the coherency of a laser. I developed mental tunnel vision; all nonessential thoughts dissolved into the periphery. Only one thought obsessed my mind: No, not now, not today, I will not die. I didn’t know what I was going to do to save myself, but I was going to do something.

Instinctively, I snatched at everything. To my shock, my left hand latched hold of an inch-thick root belonging to a shrub. My descent stopped dead after a fall of only a few feet. I was left dangling by one arm against a sheer wall of sharp rock and loose dirt, which was held in place by wild grasses and shrubs. If I lost my grasp on the root, my fall would be some 300 feet to the next shelf, but with the severity of the mountain face, the jutting rocks would flick me beyond the narrow ledge. Where I would land next would be impossible to tell — overhangs, terrain changes, and trees blocked the rest of the mountain. I was pretty sure that, once I started falling, there was little to halt the 2500-feet descent to the bottom.

My problems were compounded because my back was to the cliff face. The backpack I wore pushed me away from the cliff wall as my legs flailed to find a foothold. Since I didn’t know how long I could keep a grasp of the root — or the root could keep a grasp of the cliff face, my heart rate went through the roof.

Julie dropped to the trail to aid me. She grasped my wrist on the hand that held the root. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

There was no way I was giving up my only strand of safety. I couldn’t see her, but there was no way she had me. Even though I know she’s strong, she ain’t that strong. There was a good chance I could take her over the side with me.

“Let go,” she repeated.

I didn’t answer. I thrashed my feet against the rocks and shrubs for a foothold. Julie said something else that I ignored. My feet found an edge in the rocks, but kept slipping off because of the awkward position I was in. After several attempts, my heels dug into something solid. I hitched myself up an inch to get the full strength of my legs under me. With three points of contact with the cliff face, relief washed over me. I breathed again, not realizing that I’d been holding my breath. For the first time, I believed I was going to get out of this one.

Julie still fought to take the hand clasped around the tree root. I thrust my other hand at her. “Take it,” I ordered.

She took it.

I was supported, but — with my back to the cliff wall — it was nearly impossible to climb up. To do it, I needed to be facing the other way.

“Pull me up,” I told Julie.

She heaved on my arm with both hands. As she dragged me back to safety, I turned my body, helping myself up by finding a new foothold in the rock. I never let go of my trusty root. I believed in that root more than anything on earth. Without finesse, Julie hauled me back onto the trail. I let go of my root and clawed at the footpath’s dirt. Once safe, we just lay there, catching our breaths.

Adrenaline coursed through me. My legs had been immensely strong during the rescue, but the moment I was safe, my crippled leg was useless. I could barely stand on it. For the remainder of the decent, I struggled. Where several rockslides had wiped out the footpath, I was forced to butt-scoot across them. I applied a similar technique to the numerous steep drops, where the path fell four or five feet rapidly. Unable to find a makeshift staff, Julie tried to be my crutch, but the needle-thin paths made it impossible. For much of the hike down, I leaned against the mountainside for support. My feeble stamina meant I couldn’t go more than 10 minutes without a stop. It was a torturous couple of hours. Limping back to the parking lot, my knee was mush. I stripped off my weatherproof and thermal layers and Julie bandaged my leg. I hadn’t let her bandage it on the mountain; I’d just wanted to get down.

A few days later, Julie admitted something to me. “There was no way your hand was coming off that root. Your knuckles threatened to burst through your skin. I tried to peel your fingers off, but I couldn’t get one to budge. I couldn’t believe your strength.”

Neither could I. It didn’t feel like I had held on that tight. I know for damn sure I was holding on for dear life. In all honesty, my grip felt light — although in that frantic minute or so I fought to hang on, my hand never slipped a millimeter. To compound my miraculous strength, my arm and shoulder suffered no muscle strain or bruising. I’d had a Bruce Banner/Hulk moment, echoing the belief that we all possess superhuman strength we call upon in times of extreme stress.

It’s not the first time I’d experienced these tendencies. When I raced cars, I reacted quickly to avoid accidents. They seemed to happen intensely slowly to me, but later spectators remarked on the speed of my avoidance. Something sure gets awakened in me at times like this. I’m grateful for this survivor’s instinct. I’ve learned to trust it when it kicks in.

An event like this only reinforces my own belief that, irrespective of technological advances and perceived superior intellect, we humans rely on and use our primitive instincts a hell of a lot. Three millions years of fight-or-flight reflexes are hardwired into our brains and aren’t going anywhere fast.

If you don’t believe me, let me push you off a mountain.

Yours falling to earth,
Simon Wood
PS: I received my Publishers Weekly review for Paying the Piper and they liked it. So I’m in the editor’s good books at the moment.
PPS: I’ll have a new calamity next but I won’t be here. I’ll already be in Alaska for Bouchercon.

High Anxiety

by Robert Gregory Browne

I was a shy child. So painfully shy,
in fact, that before the age of seven, I didn’t have the nerve to
walk up to a checkout counter and buy a candy bar. My sister always
had to do it for me.

At nine years old, after some coaching from my uncle on the ukelele, I taught myself to play guitar, and
within a year, I was in a band and practicing in my friend’s garage.
If not The Beatles, we were convinced that we were definitely
destined to be as popular as The Ventures.

Unfortunately, the first time we played
in public was a personal disaster for me. It was an elementary
school talent competition and we were slated to play a medley of surf
songs, including our two favorites, Pipeline and Wipeout. But as the
curtain went up, I gathered up what little nerve I had, strummed my
electric guitar…

And the amp remained silent. No sound.
Not even a buzz.

Feeling the collective gaze of the
audience on me, I quickly checked to see if I was properly plugged
in, and the moment I touched my amp, the cable jack fell to the stage
with a resounding thud.

This was followed by a roar of laughter
so loud and forceful, I felt as if it might blow me off my feet. The
curtain closed and I quickly replugged the cable, but that laughter
seemed to go on forever as a small part of me shriveled up and died.

That I was able to continue at all was
a miracle. But we played our tunes, got our applause, and ultimately
lost the contest to a seven year-old singing A Spoonful of Sugar in a
squeaky, off-key voice.

Not that it mattered. All I took away
from the night was that moment of utter humiliation.

Years later, when assigned to do an oral report for a high school biology class, I chose to do a talk on the digestive system. But as the day approached for me to get up in front of
the class, the butterflies in my own digestive system got so bad that I actually
stayed home from school — only to be forced to do the report the day
I returned.

I reluctantly got up in front of my
fellow students — one of whom was a girl I’d had my eye on (but was
too shy to talk to, of course) — and stammered my way through the
presentation while my classmates quietly snickered. My teacher,
already a sourpuss, kept frowning at me. And I wasn’t surprised to
discover that my grade for the report was a big fat D.

As I got older, like most young men, I
continued to have dreams of being a rock star. I actually got pretty
good at writing songs and performing them for my friends. But the
idea of being up on stage scared the hell out of me and I never took
my music beyond those private performances.

So I became a writer. A screenwriter,
in fact. I won an international screenwriting competition and the
first thing I had to do was fly to Los Angeles to accept my prize —
in front of an audience of industry bigwigs.

Prepare a speech, they
told me.

So there I stood, nervously clutching a
podium, Jack Lemmon staring up at me with that cock-eyed grin on his
face. Trying not to throw-up, I said, "I’m a writer, not a
speaker, so I just want to thank the Academy for giving me this
wonderful opportunity. It’s an honor to be in such fine company."

Then I got off the stage as
quickly as I could, actually believing the words I had just uttered:

A writer, not a speaker.

Oh, boy, how wrong I was. From that
day forward, a good part of my time was spent speaking, not
writing. Sitting in front of executives, pitching stories —
terrified to be in a room full of strangers.

And it never seemed to get better. No
matter how many meetings I went to, no matter how many stories I
pitched, I never got over that awful, unsettling stage fright.

Years later, I decided to abandon
Hollywood and set my sights on the publishing world. When I got my
deal with St. Martin’s Press, I thought, ahhh, finally. All I have
to do now is write. No more pressure to perform.

What an idiot.

I soon discovered that most novelists,
even mere thriller writers, soon find themselves before an audience.
Be it a conference, a book signing, a speaking engagement. All of
these things come with the job and are an important part of it.

When I found this out, I shuddered at
the idea of once again having to perform in front of people. My anxiety level rose whenever I thought about it.

Then, oddly enough, something changed
inside of me. I can’t pinpoint the moment it happened, but it did.
I participated in my first panel at Thrillerfest and it went quite
smoothly. I’m told I blushed like crazy, but nobody seemed to mind,
and I even got a few laughs.

Several panels later, I almost felt
like an old pro. As if I were in my element. I didn’t love doing
it, still got a tiny twinge of nerves, but I didn’t mind it either.
And I found that people actually responded quite well to me.

When I was asked earlier this year to
go down to San Diego and teach a workshop, I immediately said yes. I
admit I had an attack of panic before it was my turn to speak, but
that dissolved the moment I started teaching. And, afterwards,
several people came up to thank me, telling me they really got a lot
out of it.

Now, just this past Saturday, Brett Battles
and I did a joint appearance, speaking together before the Southern
California Writers Association about writing thrillers. I again had a momentary twinge of nerves, but they disappeared immediately and I felt comfortable and completely at ease.

Brett and I riffed
off each other, spontaneously cracking jokes, sharing our experiences
and offering trips and tricks to a room full of aspiring writers.
And, surprisingly enough, I really enjoyed myself. In fact, I not only
enjoyed myself but was a little disappointed when it was over.

And we were a hit. Afterwards, attendees told us that we
had raised the bar for future speakers and, believe me, those are
words I never in my life expected to hear.

Am I still shy? Of course. But these
days, for some reason, I’m better equipped to cope with the shyness.
I don’t know if it’s practice, age, or simply some strange miracle,
that has changed my attitude about such things, but I’m actually
looking forward to the next speaking engagement. And the next. And the next.

And, hopefully, I’ll always be able to keep
the guitar plugged into the amp.

——-

But now that you’ve heard about my
worst public appearance disasters, let’s hear about yours. What went
wrong and how did you deal with it? And if such things have gotten
better for you, what was the turning point?

——-

P.S. The winner of my Videorati
opening scene contest has been chosen. My favorite opening was this
one:

"At the end, there was so much blame to spread around that we
could all have taken a few shovelfuls home and rolled around in it
like pigs in stink. But that’s not the way it goes with most of us.
Most of us like to think that blame belongs on somebody else’s
doorstep. And I’m no different.

I can picture the way it was on the day everything went bad, just
as clearly as if I still had my sight. Of course, I probably made up
most of it. You know how it goes: your mouth fills in the details
your mind doesn’t catch. And then later, when you’re looking back
over everything that happened, your memory just smoothes out some of
the corners, takes away that metal taste of fear, makes you seem a
little braver than you really were, and then paints in a rosy-toned
sunset.

You’re always the hero of your own story. Even if
that’s not the way it happened at all."

My fellow Murderati-ite, Louise Ure,
wins a signed UK paperback copy of KISS HER GOODBYE. Send me your
address, Louise, and it’s on its way.

Scream

By Louise Ure

When that man pulled a knife and said he would kill me before the sun came up … I couldn’t scream.

When my (then) boyfriend pushed me off the cliff at Seven Falls … I couldn’t scream.

When the burglar broke into my New York apartment and I awoke to find him standing over me … I couldn’t scream.

When the brakes failed on the car and I plunged through the guardrail … I couldn’t scream.

I don’t even think I would scream if I won the lottery.

There must be something wrong with me. I don’t have that girl-gene that allows the emotional release of pent up anger or fear (or euphoria) in a scream.

Pari would probably tell me that in martial arts a good yell releases little green bubbles of endorphins or adrenaline to help you fight. It probably does.

Barry Eisler would agree that screaming is a good thing, but for different reasons. At Left Coast Crime in Bristol last year, I stopped by a self-defense class that Barry was teaching. (The entire audience was women, but I don’t think the subject matter was the only deciding factor there.)

“Forget knives and mace and tasers and martial arts,” he said. “You have to get too close to the attacker to use any of them. A gun is good, but people who don’t know how to use one well, will most likely have the gun turned against them.”

The best protection, according to Barry? “A healthy dose of precaution, good locks on the door, and a great scream.”

To borrow my friend Ken’s Irish phrasing, I’m fooked.

Instead of screaming, I automatically go into this psychobabble of let’s-just-think-this-through-together routine.

Until the most egregious of those examples at the top of the column occurred, I had never found any situation that I couldn’t talk my way out of.

I know better now.

But I still can’t scream.

I’ve often longed to be the Janet Leigh of screamers. Full-throated, no hesitation, and LOUD. Alas, it’s not meant to be.

And here’s the weird thing: I can’t write screamers either.

When my protagonists – or my victims, for that matter – are confronted, they freeze. Total silence. Their inner crisis is huge, their fear beyond reason, but they don’t lash out verbally. They don’t scream.

My characters are getting better at reacting physically, and I think that’s a good thing, although I personally still jump through a set of mental hoops before I can do the same. Should I or shouldn’t I? Will I hurt him? Kill him? Will I wind up in court myself? What if his intentions aren’t as bad as they appear?

If I tried to write about a screamer, I know I would get it wrong.

We all have things we can’t or won’t write about. Things like killing cats. Torture. Hurting children. But what about those other things, not crimes by any stretch of the imagination, but things that are so intrinsic to our own personalities that we could not faithfully create a character who acted differently than we would?

If you hate cigarettes, can you write a protagonist who is an unrepentant chain-smoker?

If you are religious, can you convincingly create an agnostic hero?

If you’re a homophobe, can you paint a positive portrait of a gay man?

If you’re a vegan, can you wax eloquent about a fine meal of veal and liver?

It’s different, I think, than writing about a serial killer when you despise serial killers. Different than just stepping into the bad guy’s shoes, or writing from the point of view of the opposite sex. That’s the accepted norm. We’re supposed to be able to do all that.

But what happens when you’re asked to argue in favor of a person or a habit or a belief that is different to your own? Or, as a reader, you’re asked to empathize with a character that is unlike you in such a visceral way. Can you do it? Do you choose to do it?

We bring so much of ourselves to the stories we write and the stories we choose to read.

I choose not to read Christian-themed mysteries. That thinking doesn’t match my worldview, so no matter how good the writing is, I know I’m going to bristle and gnash my teeth at the thoughts expressed by the characters.

Maybe that makes me narrow-minded and maybe I’m missing out on a lot of good books, but there you go.

On the other hand, David Liss’s Ethical Assassin got me thinking about a vegan lifestyle in ways I never had before.

But I still eat meat.

And I still can’t write screamers.

What about you guys? Have you ever chosen to write about a character who significantly differs from you at a real gut level? And readers, have you ever fallen for a character whose world view was diametrically opposed to yours?

Has it ever changed your mind?

LCU

Mistakes . . . I’ve made a few

by Pari Noskin Taichert

"Mistakes are at the very base of human thought, embedded there, feeding the structure like root nodules. If we were not provided with the knack of being wrong, we could never get anything useful done . . . We are built to make mistakes, coded for error." Lewis Thomas from The Medusa and the Snail

The period between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur is called "The Days of Awe" and is a time when Jewish people are commanded to think about their lives, to make amends, to atone.

I’m not very observant in my religious practice, but I do like the idea of awe and of reflection, peaceful introspection that results in action — in trying to put things right in one’s life.

But this year, for some reason, my pensive time has focused on Lewis Thomas’ quote and the mistakes I’ve made that have resulted in great felicities.

No one advocates taking the wrong path, scraping a knee, or banging an ego against prickly lessons. However, there are times when a decision that seems incredibly knuckleheaded in the moment actually opens a door to wonderful possibility.

These instances crowd my life. (I won’t even talk about all my past boyfriends; those mistakes are too obvious . . . but the end result was a late marriage to the right man for me. )

There was the time in Ann Arbor when I saw a bunch of people walking into a building and decided to follow. I stumbled into a master class on pantomime taught by Marcel Marceau. Yeah, it was a mistake (I should have gone to work and almost lost my job).

But I stayed . . .
Even more incredible, he let me (though there were only fifteen people or so in the class). I spent two of the most fascinating hours of my life in his company.

That was the summer of marvelous mistakes.
Another time, I ended up in an invitation-only (don’t ask how I got in; I still have no idea) press conference Noam Chomsky gave prior to his public presentation at the U of Michigan.

A writing example? Oh, there are so many . . .

When I was working on The Clovis Incident, I based it on a remembered article from the local paper that had been printed years before. Half way through the manuscript, I decided to hunt down that original piece and, after much searching, realized it was about Aztec, NM. Clovis is in the SE part of the state. Aztec is in the NW. Still, that book couldn’t have been written about Aztec and have been nearly as much fun.

Oh, and what about my new book, The Socorro Blast, that’s due out this coming January? I wrote the entire first manuscript and thought it was so bad, I threw it away. Yep. I’d call that a mega-mistake. Three hundred and seventy pages gone. Kaput. So, I wrote it all over again. I believe that first mistake has made the second iteration far stronger.

Bone-headed career decisions? Oh boy, let me tell you . . .

My first agent was unscrupulous (really). My second one was mediocre. By the time I searched for the third, I’d learned from those mistakes and got a winner.

Some might posit that writing the Sasha series in the first place, setting a series in New Mexico and insisting on it staying there, is a mistake. But, I’d counter that my experience with the University of New Mexico Press and all it has taught me about the business, distribution, bookseller/reviewer strengths and biases — everything — will serve me well for the long haul.

The examples just keep piling up. My life has been filled with wrong turns, ruts in the road, and missed goals.

Thank goodness for most of them.

How about you? What are some of your happiest mistakes?

BTW: L’Shanah Tova (Happy New Year!)

diagnostic vs. prescriptive

This has been making the rounds lately–what work-in-progress feedback can sometimes look like:

Which is a radically different experience than what I have now in publishing. (Thank God.)

The best way of phrasing how to deal with notes that I heard once was given by a young writer, a big 6’6" football-player-sized man who’d just had his first hit movie (an Adam Sandler comedy) and was one of the featured authors at the Austin Film Festival–Steve Franks. Steve sat sprawled in a chair clearly not designed to hold a man so large and I half-expected to hear him discussing the shot-gun formation or defensive end stats. The other members of the panel Steve was on discussed receiving notes from studios: how they dealt with the hell of having sometimes upwards of twenty execs and assistants hand them copious notes, many contradictory, often not clear as to who gave what note (so no way to put them in a hierarchy). They commented on how the studio expected the writer to incorporate all of the notes. Steve laughed, a little embarrassed, and when they asked him why, he explained he hadn’t realized at the time that the studio had expected him to do the notes. Instead, he thought everyone was just trying to be helpful when they first gave him the piles of suggestions. He’d never received studio notes before–he’d been working at Disneyland the day before his script sold as one of the "ride engineers" — the guy who made sure you were buckled in before hurtling you past your own brain cells.

He had looked through the notes they’d given him and, since they were contradictory, realized there was no way to do all of the notes. And, since these were relatively smart people, he concluded (you’ll see how naive he was) that they clearly hadn’t meant for him to do them… they were just trying to give him the tools to determine what needed to be done. He decided that these notes were diagnostic tools, not prescriptive. He mentioned, for example, how several people noted the story slowed too much in a certain section and wanted him to change only that section. Others had wild ideas about how to change the beginning of the story which resulted, ultimately and most specifically, in that slow section being changed. Others had problems with the characters or reactions… somewhere a little after that slow section.

Steve, though, used the notes not to change the section, but to analyze what was making that section slow to begin with. And the problem, he discovered, had actually occurred in a decision he’d made about twenty pages earlier. The readers hadn’t realized this, because it took them a few pages for the cumulative effect of that one decision to start resonating through the story–and the readers were reacting. Had Steve made all of the changes they requested–which was impossible anyway–he’d have had a mess and they would have ended up having the same disquiet, only now they would attack something else (probably whatever he’d changed the section to). Instead, Steve changed the earlier section, left the old one as it stood, and when the execs received the script back, they were enthusiastic (it was greenlit at that point) because they were convinced he’d done all of their notes. And he’d done almost none of them.

Now, I’m not claiming Steve’s a great writer–I’ve never read anything of his, and judging a writer by the finished product of a movie is a bit like judging an alligator by the shoes a woman’s wearing. He did, however, manage to stay on the film, get the credit, get the back-end production bonus and start his career. Not bad for a guy who’d been pushing a lever to send people up a rollercoaster just a few weeks earlier.

One last (possibly apocryphal) story. John Sayles has had a quiet-but-successful career in Hollywood as a script doctor and (from what I was told) often did not ask for arbitration in order to take credit away from the original writer; he would, instead, just ask for a fee, do his job, make the original writer look better in the process, and walk away so that the writer got the credit (and back-end). An exec who worked with him closely on a couple of projects told me the following story, swearing it was true.

One day, John was hired to fix the characterization of a woman. This character, let’s call her Mary, came off as extremely bitchy and unlikeable, even though later on, the audience was going to have a great reason for liking her and rooting for her. The problem was, the execs couldn’t get any actress of any stature to read that far because the character started off so mean. They hired John to rewrite the beginning of the script, (with permission to toss out everything there), and to change her character throughout so that she was still the tough-as-nails type of character she needed to be to accomplish whatever it was that was her goal… but to be more approachable and likable. So John took the script, kept it about a month, and turned it back in. The execs loved it. Raved. He’d solved the problems, they were ecstatic. They paid him and went on their merry way.

Now the executive telling me the story said he’d had a copy of the original script and when he started reading John’s rewrite, he couldn’t see what was different between the two versions. (He was not an exec on the project.) Since John was a friend, and since his curiosity got the better of him, he called the man and asked him, "What the hell did you do here? It works, I like Mary now… but I can’t see any major changes."

John (reportedly) said, "Notice when you first meet Mary?"

The exec flipped back to the beginning, and read the line (something like): Mary, a stubborn woman, sometimes, bitchy, but you’re really going to like her later…

And that was it. The first few times Mary was introduced, he simply changed her description, point blank telling the reader what their reaction to Mary was going to be. Clearly, that bit of directness won’t usually do in prose, but it amuses me that he dealt with it so simply, instead of tossing out the script. He went to the root of the problem: Mary hadn’t been introduced well.

Sometimes, we get feedback during the writing process and it seems on the surface to not be helpful. Maybe like the YouTube example above, it’s so contradictory as to lead nowhere. Sometimes, the person reading just does not like the genre of your material and when that’s true, that’s just all there is. There’s almost nothing a writer could have done to change that sort of natural individual preference, and the writer shouldn’t try. (You cannot please everyone, nor should you.) I respect reviewers / commenters who shy away from something that they know ahead of time just isn’t their cup of tea because they don’t wish to do harm to a work-in-progress.

If the response you’re analyzing is true of only one person, and everyone else universally feels differently, then toss the aberrant opinion as just that–a random opinion–and go with the general responses. But if the general consensus is confusion–when it’s clear that the note-giver means well, likes you, likes the story, but has vague or non-helpful or even contradictory suggestions–line those suggestions up and use them as a diagnostic tool to see if you can’t ferret out the real problem.

I have been exceptionally lucky with my editor–she’s smart, funny, and thorough, and it is crystal clear from everything she does that her goal is to help make the book–my vision of the book–better. She asks questions, doesn’t impose (except when I’m loading the gun to shoot myself in the foot), and her ability to push me to be a better writer is one of the single finest gifts I’ve received. That isn’t to say I agree with her 100% of the time, or that I always accomplish the ideal, but she’s a joy to talk to and receive notes from because I know I’m going to come away with a better book.

Then again, I love the editing process. For me, that’s when a work really starts to form into a whole, a final image.

What sorts of helpful advice have you ever received when editing your manuscript? Or, heavily disguised as to the culprits if you like, what was the worst advice?

Patti McCoy-Jacob Interview with Paul Guyot

(I was going to interview Guyot on his own TV career (or better yet, have him interview himself) to round out this series on television writing, but it just so happened that a pro did this very inclusive interview this week. So much the better! – Alex, returning next week)

The following is an interview with Paul Guyot, conducted by Patti McCoy-Jacob, book critic for the Yorba Linda Star newspaper, and http://isurfoc.com. The interview took place on September 13th, 2007, at the Island Hotel in Newport Beach, California.

I met Paul Guyot on a bright afternoon at Fashion Island in Newport Beach, California. He was dressed casually chic, and had an immediate affability about him. Though self-deprecating at times, one can tell he’s loves his work. He has a passion for the written word, and his eyes light up when he talks about the craft, and his admiration for those that do it well.

PMJ: What made you decide that writing was the way you wanted to make your living? Was it a decision that came gradually over time, or did you have some sort of epiphanic moment?

PG: I’ve been writing since Mrs. Parker’s 3rd grade class. How old is a third grader? I wrote parodies initially, then moved on to westerns in Mrs. Shattenberg’s 5th grade class, and finally to crime fiction in 8th grade. I can’t remember my eighth grade teacher’s name, but she kicked me out of class. Out of school, actually.

PMJ: Why do you prefer writing crime fiction over other genres?

PG: I think the mystery/crime story offers a built-in spine that’s attractive to me. A crime’s committed, there’s an investigation, and a resolution – good or bad. It’s clean. That’s my writerly answer. My personal answer is I have a very nasty, very dark side. I’ve walked a lot of places I never should have been. Writing about crimes keeps me from committing them.

PMJ: I assume your favorite television shows consist of cop or crime series?

PG: It’s certainly my favorite genre, but I’m a huge fan of THE OFFICE, and TWO AND A HALF MEN. For drama, I think hands down the single best thing on television is THE WIRE. Nothing else comes close. Season three of that show might have been the best single season of any television series in history.

PMJ: What are the major differences when you write for television as opposed to the printed page?

PG: Well, I have very little experience with prose, let’s make that clear. I’m a TV writer by trade, and have done that for years, my published prose is limited to several short stories, which have been published in anthologies, or original fiction web sites. I’ve had good response – a story I wrote for Bryon Quertermous’ outstanding Demolition site was chosen as a notable short story in 2006.

PMJ: Do you have plans to ever tackle a novel?

(Guyot grins) PG: The one question I was hoping you wouldn’t ask. Yes, yes, yes, I, like every other poor slob in this country, am working on a novel. I was scheduled to be done the second week in August, but my day job got in the way, as it always seems to do. But I think, after years of toying with the idea, I’m actually executing it now. I’m past the 55,000 word mark, and it’s still holding up. My goal is to get those last thirty or so thousand words down by Thanksgiving. (Laughs) God, I know as soon as Battles and Browne read this, I’m dead.

PMJ: Battles and Browne?

PG: A couple of writer friends – Brett Battles and Robert Gregory Browne – both published authors, who have been on me like corrosion on Britney to finish the freaking thing. I started back in January, just before we all got met at a writing conference in Seattle, and I made the mistake of opening my mouth about it.

PMJ: Speaking of which, do you have a favorite U.S. city?

PG: Chicago, despite the fact Sean Chercover lives there. Sorry, another writer name I’m dropping. I’ll stop. I love Chicago. It’s beautiful, and dangerous, and has amazing food, great architecture, good sports teams, and the people there are – in my experience – the nicest, most genuine people in the country. They’re like Canadians with poorer table manners.

PMJ: Are you working on any television series right now?

PG: I am. I recently sold a pilot to A&E network. It’s a cop show, big surprise, set in St. Louis, another shocker. It deals with the themes of idealism versus pragmatism in our country today. The whole red state-blue state thing, does idealism even exist anymore, all done inside the world of a cop show.

PMJ: Sounds intriguing.

PG: I’m really excited about it. Peter Horton’s directing. He did the pilot to Grey’s Anatomy and a bunch of other stuff. He’s great. He and I actually came up with the story together. And he loves the idea of it being in St. Louis. We haven’t seen a cop show set there, and there are a lot of crime stories we can tell that wouldn’t be part of a cop show set in New York or LA.

PMJ: Now, you live in St. Louis, right? Did you place the show there because of the familiarity?

PG: It’s funny, in the last four years I’ve written four pilots – all set in St. Louis. The first two pilots got made, meaning they were actually filmed, but I was forced to rewrite them – to change the location.

PMJ: Why?

(Guyot pauses before answering) PG: Well, the first one was because the Missouri Film Commission dropped the ball – I had a studio willing to go to St. Louis, but the film office was, let’s just say, not paying attention. And the second one was rewritten for New York because of an idiot producer – who had more juice than I did – was on the project. He lived in New York, and literally didn’t want to travel anywhere to shoot the pilot. Changing it from St. Louis to New York was like changing The Sopranos from Jersey to Bakersfield – it’s just not gonna be the same show.

But when I write, I don’t set things in StL simply because I know the place, but rather because I love it. I love the town, and think it works on many levels as a setting for stories. But just as Connelly will reveal the ugliness of his beloved LA – and the Bosch novels are love letters to LA – I will show elements of the Arch City that wouldn’t make the Chamber of Commerce brochure.

PMJ: Are all your short stories set in St. Louis?

PG: No. My story in GREATEST HITS (Carroll & Graf, 2005) was mostly set in Scottsdale, Arizona, where I grew up. I did that for my parents, since it was my first published work. And my story for HOLLYWOOD & CRIME (Pegasus, 2007) had to be set in Hollywood for obvious reasons. But the next one I have coming out is definitely set in St. Louis.

PMJ: Out of all of your produced work, both in TV and print, is there any single one that stands out as your all-time favorite, and if so, why?

PG: A story I like quite a bit won’t be out until next spring. I have a short story in the upcoming MWA (Mystery Writers of America) anthology BURDEN OF THE BADGE. It’s edited by Michael Connelly, and the story was chosen from a hundred or so blind submissions and it’s the first prose work that I don’t wince at.

As for screenwriting, I wrote a JUDGING AMY episode that, not only was hardly rewritten at all – a rarity in TV – but it went on to win an award. That felt pretty good. The single thing I’m most proud of is a pilot I wrote for Sony last year called I.D. It’s about a cop deep, deep undercover inside a criminal organization, and the hook is that for the first season the audience isn’t told who the cop is – they have to guess. I really loved the concept and the script came out great.

Unfortunately, due to a myriad of reasons involving politics and paranoia, the script was never really shown to any of the networks. But I get the rights back in fourteen months and I’m going to make it myself. But I must admit, my greatest moment as a writer was when I learned that entry in the Bulwer-Lytton fiction writing contest – for the worst opening lines you can think up – not only won honorable mention, but was chosen to be included in the contest’s newest anthology, IT WAS A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT.

PMJ: Do your have any type of trademark in your stories? Something that people would expect to come across when reading a story by Paul Guyot?

PG: My trademark, or signature, is very mediocre writing. If you read a story, and at the end go, “Eh,” that was probably a Paul Guyot tale.

PMJ: I doubt that. If you had to choose, what would give you greater satisfaction – writing a pilot that makes it onto the air and becomes a series, or writing a number one best-seller?

PG: No contest, writing the book. I recently told a friend – in all honesty – that I would rather make fifty grand a year writing books than make three hundred and fifty grand doing television. I know that statement rubs people the wrong way, but it’s usually those who haven’t ever made that kind of money. I’ve seen both sides of it – I’ve made tons of dough, and I lived off of Top Raman – and I now know the cliché is true: money doesn’t buy happiness. You can rent it for a while, but in the end, we’re all playing with the House’s money.

PMJ: Who are your favorite authors, and why?

PG: I can’t say enough about James Lee Burke. Knocks me on my ass every time. Updike, Pelecanos, Lippman, Eisler (though I hate him for his hair), Lehane, Coetzee. For the screen, Chase and David Simon always blow me away. When I go old school it’s with John D., Chandler, O’Conner, Cain. Names not quite as well known (yet) that impress me are Dave White, Duane Swierczynski, Alex Sokoloff – a recovering screenwriter – and a guy named Phil Hawley.

PMJ: Do you try to pattern your style of writing after any of these favorites, and if so, which one(s) and why?

PG: I’ve made that mistake before. I think most newer writers – who are still searching for their voice, or simply lack confidence as I did – do this at some point. The writing will always suck when you’re attempting to emulate someone (consciously or unconsciously), but I think it’s a good exercise in a way, because writing anything – even pure garbage – is better than not writing.

PMJ: Do you subtly or overtly incorporate into your stories people you know personally? Has anyone ever recognized themselves?

PG: I’ve never put someone I know down on paper. I may use a real person as inspiration, or take aspects of their behaviors or attitudes, because I like creating my own characters. As for using real people’s names – I love doing that. In the HOLLYWOOD & CRIME anthology, I have a story called Barry of Hollywood. It’s a goofy little PI romp and I think every character other than the lead is named after a friend of mine, or someone I know.

One of the more unlikable characters carries the name of an idiot producer I once worked with. Then there are several writer friends whose names make appearances. One funny thing – I gave a character the name Swierczynski, after Duane – but changed it when I got grief from the editor, not because it was unpronounceable, but because it was TOO obvious I was using a famous author’s name.

PMJ: I can tell you enjoy your work. What’s your favorite part of the actual writing process?

PG: Yeah, I love writing. I roll my eyes whenever I hear writers talk about how they hate to write, or how they wish they could do something else. Please. They say that because it’s good copy, and it sounds like they’re really busting their ass as opposed to sitting around day making up stories. Yes, writing can hard, excruciatingly difficult at times, especially during deadlines. But any write who says they hate it is full of shit. Writing is possibly the greatest job one can have.

It’s what we did as kids – make believe. And that’s my favorite part, to get to your question. The creation of the characters is what I love. I like telling stories, but I get the most pleasure when I have a guy walk into a room and there’s three people in the room. Who are they? What do they look like? Where are they from? Why are they there? Not only do I get to give them ticks, and weird features and behavior, but I get to decide why they’re there, what they want. I get to play God – I create people. I love that part.

PMJ: You mentioned authors you admire, or who may influenced you, is there anyone you’ve known personally that has had the greatest influence on your writing, and in what way?

PG: I owe Michael Connelly a huge debt of gratitude. It’s been mentioned before so I won’t bore you with it, but he was basically the first writer to ever tell me – you can do this. He also exposed me to Mystery Writers of America – a great organization – and the entire crime writing community. As a screenwriter, JJ Abrams and the Hall sisters (Barbara and Karen), who wrote and produced JUDGING AMY, are others who taught me a lot, personally and professionally.

PMJ: When you are working on a story, do you aim to write a certain amount of words per day or to write for a certain amount of hours per day?

PG: For me, I am at my most productive, and creative best, when I am on a strict schedule. Not so much a word count as a time count. I start at the same time every day, and write until the same time, or until I’ve accomplished enough, either number of words, or development of story.

PMJ: Do you have a set writing schedule during the week, or is each day different depending on the circumstances for that particular day?

PG: I try to write five days a week. Weekends are for family, and I only work if I’m on deadline. As I said, I always try to start my workdays at the same time, and go for the same number of hours. I’ve tried the “just work whenever it comes” method, but that disastrous. See, I lack discipline. This year has been one of the most, if not thee, most productive year of my career, from a word count standpoint. And I attribute that to a solid schedule. Basically since the spring, I have been waking up, going to the gym immediately – I highly recommend working out for writers, we’re all such sloths by vocation – then turning on my computer in the same spot, by the same time, usually nine, every morning. And I write until four.

PMJ: All right, last question, then you can go…

PG: Are you kidding? It’s gorgeous here, I’m never leaving. Even after the interview, I’m just going to sit here. Newport is definitely a place I could write. No wonder Jeff Parker does such good work – doesn’t he write around here?

PMJ: Out of everything you’ve learned about writing over the years, is there any one best piece of advice you could give to others who are serious about improving their writing?

PG: Aw, crap, I hate this question. It’s a subjective subject and subjective answer. I can rant and rant about this. There are so many people that think simply getting a book deal, or a script sold means they are a good writer. It doesn’t. I can’t tell you how many bad writers there are out there making a living. But hey, it’s subjective, like I said. Some people, maybe a lot of people, might think I completely suck. And I’m making a living.

But for me, I can tell within five minutes of meeting a writer whether or not they truly know anything about the craft. It’s painfully obvious when they open their mouths and start spewing their expertise that they are simply a victim (or beneficiary) of timing, and that’s how they got published or got a film or pilot made.

If I really had to give advice – pity the person coming to me for advice on anything – I would say that, for newer writers, folks who think they might want to give writing a try, because it seems like a cool way to make a living, don’t. Because you’ll suck. For newer writers who have a gut-churning desire to write, to tell stories, but feel they don’t know how to go about it, just do it. Start writing anything. Grocery lists, list all the people you want to get even with, list all the Jackson Browne songs that sound the same, write anything. Just write. And read. Reading and writing are the two best teachers in the world.

My advice for those who have already a novel or a screenplay, and are wanting to know how to get an agent, or get published, or get their opus into the hands of Steven Soderbergh, is keep writing. Chances are great that your manuscript or screenplay isn’t nearly as good as you think it is. I always laugh when I meet someone who says they have a screenplay or novel and they’ve done one rewrite on it, or sometimes none! And they think it’s gold. I’m sitting there going, “Okay, people like Cormac McCarthy and JM Coetzee, and Steve Zaillian rewrite the shit out of their stuff, but yours can’t be improved. Uh, huh.” Learn to rewrite. I’m not saying never let go of something, not at all, I’m saying, just as you’re never as bad as you think you are, you are certainly NEVER as good as you think are.

PMJ: Paul, thank you so much, this has been fun.

PG: Thank you.

Paul Guyot wrote and produced the CBS drama JUDGING AMY for three years. Before that he wrote for shows such as FELCITY and LEVEL 9. He has written pilots for Sony Pictures, Warner Brothers, Fox, TNT, Lion’s Gate, and A&E.

A Glimpse Into The Life (Lives?) of M.J. Rose

by JT Ellison

My
guest today needs little introduction. MJ Rose has become an icon in the
publishing world, a true success story, starting with her first novel, LIP SERVICE, which
she self-published as an experiment, to her ninth, the amazing and complex THE
REINCARNATIONIST.

I
found it difficult to be objective in this interview – MJ has been more than
just a writer to look up to in the past year – she’s given advice and solace,
inspired me to work harder and learn the business, gave me insights into how to become a more disciplined, has shown me how to celebrate
being a writer and reap the rewards when a satisfactory goal is met. There’s a
word for people like this, the ones who profoundly affect your life. Mentor,
advisor, teacher – all these words come to mind when I think of MJ. Most of
all, I’m honored to call her my friend.

So
sit back, glean, enjoy, and learn. For those are the gifts MJ gives us every
time she writes a single word.

————————

Thank you for taking
time out of your insanely busy schedule to talk to us!

ITW
(international Thriller Writers) has been a shining beacon for both the most
established bestsellers AND for new authors with no track record. What do you
think is the common denominator?

ITW
had two goals when it began that were slightly different than the goals of
other writers organizations: to help
raise the level of awareness of the genre and to find a way to help get books
in front of readers even if it meant creating those ways. That made us outer
directed. We weren’t just saying join ITW. We were saying join ITW and let’s
attack the problems we’re facing as authors and try to do something about them.

That
gives us a common ground whether we’re starting out or high up on the ladder
because even the most successful author among us has to take on a lot himself…
or herself… just ask James Patterson.

You’ve been an
inspiration to all us this year. You are a writer, a marketer, an all-around
business guru, a friend and a mentor. HOW in the world do you fit everything
in?

Thank
you, I’m flattered. I just got asked that in an interview that’s posted at
January Magazine.
The answer is I don’t. This last year I took on a bit too much and found I gave
up almost all my free time. My work didn’t suffer but I fell behind in movies,
art galleries, museum exhibits, dinners with friends. I don’t sleep a lot, I don’t
have kids, and I love to work, but still… this was one crazy year.

I’m
working at balancing things better now that ThrillerFest is over. I’m staying
on the board of ITW for another year but the amazing Jon Land has taken over as
head of the marketing committee and I feel like I can breathe again.

Many new authors are
getting small advances. What’s the most important marketing aspect for a debut
who is looking for bang for the buck — website, advertising, book tour?

For
a debut my advice is learn as much as you can about the business of being
published. Then keep your day job – or get one – and spend as much as you can
on marketing your book.

But
don’t do it alone.

Sit
down with your publisher – specifically ask your editor for a meeting with him/her
and the marketing and pr people. Be a grown up, tell them in the meeting you’re
a realist, you know not every book can get everything… but they have 100 books
coming out and you only have one and you need to do everything you can to
ensure that one succeeds. To do that you need their honesty.

What
are they doing for your book? What aren’t they doing? What can you do? Can you
work as a partner? What don’t they want you to do?

If
you do this right, they will be thrilled to have you as an author and they will
give you an idea of what they’re doing and what you need to do.

In
terms of money: the website should be simple and inexpensive. Readers don’t go
searching for websites for authors they never heard of anyway. You need a
website like you need a business card. But no one buys a book because of a fancy website.

A
tour is great if… and there are a lot of ifs.

You
don’t just want to fly around the country and show up at bookstores, sign some
copies, and fly out again. It’s cost prohibitive.

The
goal is to go to bookstores in cities where you can get media coverage. You
can’t get an article in the LA Times if you are a New Yorker staying home in
NYC. But if you are going to be on tour
at Dutton’s and you have a good publicist who has a great pitch, you might be
able to get in the LAT.

Ideally,
a ten city tour with ten bookstores would include ten TV shows and ten radio
shows and some book reviews in those local cities and stock signings that would
get autographed copies of books on the front tables.

But
very few debuts get that kind of tour. Or anyone else for that matter except
for the mega sellers.

But
you can get a few cities like that if you work it right with the right people
helping.

Another
kind of tour that works well is the mystery bookstore tour. Get to as many as
you can, get to know the owners of the stores. Most of them have newsletters or
write reviews. A lot of these folks can help more than anyone else in the biz
to get your career started.

Then
there’s the driving tour you do on your own. Get in the car and meet as many
booksellers of all kinds as you can and sign as much stock as you can. That can
work too, if you’re the kind of person to charm and engage.

But
I’d never spend all my money on a tour and not do any marketing.

The
problem is it takes more than 12 times for someone to see the name of your book
or your name before they remember it. So you have to do a lot of things – some
in person, some on line, some off line – before you even start to get any name
recognition.

No
one thing works when it comes to selling books. Reviews, interviews, websites,
ads, pr, TV, radio, magazines, appearances… they all work, but it’s better all
together.

That’s
why it’s so damn hard.

You’ve been getting
amazing reviews and press coverage for THE REINCARNATIONIST, it seems to be the
ultimate break-out novel. What did you do to make this happen? How much of your
publicity campaign is from you, and how much is from Mira?

I
have a wonderful relationship with my publisher. We’re definitely partners in
this. They knew who I was when they bought The Halo Effect in 2003 (the first
book of mine they published) and have been great to work with ever since. This is unusual, but it’s also unusual that
before I was an author I was the creative director of a top NYC ad agency, and
that since ‘99 I’ve been creating some solid marketing solutions for authors
and publishers.

I’m
very grateful they treat me the way they do and I’m very proud to be published
by a group of people who care so much about what they do and have put so much
faith in my book.

As
for who did what, we did a lot together like the TV commercial that’s been
running. For the price of a 1/4 page ad in a national newspaper, I produced the
spot (co-written with Chris Grabenstien and produced by Expandedbooks.com) and
Mira bought the media and ran the spot on national TV, reaching over 2 million
people in the exact targeted audience we thought would be interested in the
book.

You
can see the commercial and read all about that at my blog – Buzz, Balls and
Hype.

As
for what I did on my own – I’ve used every single service that I sell through
AuthorBuzz.com (my marketing company) for this book plus have done a few new
ones that if they work will be part of AuthorBuzz.com next year.

Where did Josh Ryder
come from? Do you like writing in the male POV?

Josh
was born in New York City – his father was a photographer and his mother was — but
you don’t mean that do you?

When
I first thought about writing this book the main character was an entirely
different person. As I started doing the research and thinking about the book
the original character started to morph. I don’t remember when exactly he stopped being the other person and
became Josh.

And
I loved writing from this very different point of view. It was a great change
for me and a great challenge.

Reincarnation is a
fascinating theme. You’ve talked about your past having glimpses of the
possibility of reincarnation. If you were to forecast a future you, what do you
think you’d be like?

I
think I’d like to be pretty much who I am except more inclined to go to the
gym…

What inspired you to
put your successful Dr. Morgan Snow series on hold to do something new? And is
it on hold? Do you plan on returning to Morgan?

It’s
on hold. And I want to return to Morgan. I have a contract for three more… but
I’m not sure when I’m going to go back to them.

For
those who don’t know, Dr. Morgan Snow is a NYC sex therapist and the books are
psychological suspense. Very gritty. I
wrote three books in that series and each of them required extensive research,
a lot of which haunted me. But the most disturbing was the third, The Venus
Fix. I worked with a lot of teenage boys who were addicted to internet porn and
the girls who interacted with them and it was heartbreaking.

I
wanted to take a break after Venus and wanted to write something else. So the
idea was I’d do two books a year. One Morgan – in paperback – and one in this
new reincarnation series – in hardcover. And then I started writing the
Reincarnationist and realized that it was a crazy idea.

I’m not a fast writer to begin with and the
historical research I needed to do for this new series was very time consuming. As it turned out, the
Reincarnation took almost two years to write.

It
was time to take a break.

If you had a full day
off, with no deadlines, no expectations, no interviews or commitments, what
would you do?

Do
I get to magically wake up somewhere and get that day? I’ll assume yes. Paris.
Get up early. Go swimming at the Ritz hotel. Then go shopping on the left bank all morning. (I assume on this day my
wallet is constantly replenished.) With lots of shopping bags in tow, I’d meet
my husband for lunch — sitting outside at Café Deux Magots. We’d spend the
afternoon at a museum, whichever has the exhibition I’m most anxious to see.
Winding up at Café Palette at five we’d have a glass of wine and then wander
into the wonderful art galleries there. Later we’d have dinner at Chez L’Ami
Louis and then take an endlessly long and magical walk by the Seine watching
the city of lights reflecting in the river.

What an amazing day!

MJ, we know how busy
you are. Thank you for taking the time to answer these questions, and for
always being the most graceful and gracious author we know. And if you missed my post at Killer Year Wednesday about seeing MJ’s review in People Magazine, click on over here and read it.

Wine of the Week: Wink, wink, nudge, nudge…

Angoves Nine Vines Rose 2007

GROUND RUSH (Part 2)

Continuing from last week’s piece. The story so far–I’m a student pilot, I’m lost and I’m panicking…

The October day had been a dull, overcast. Not the best conditions for flying but flyable. As if on cue, the sky darkened, squeezing out the late afternoon light. The cloud base descended and a mist formed. Just to complicate matters, air traffic couldn’t switch on its runway lights to help aid my return because they’d been affecting repairs all day.

If I didn’t get a handle on my bearings soon, I’d be lost in a big way. My mouth went dry and sweat poured off me. Fear strangled my good judgment. I still had the plane in a slow descent. The plane’s altitude was only 300 feet and I was heading for a crash landing in a field strewn with power lines. But that wasn’t such a bad thing. At that moment, I didn’t have the courage needed to get me out of the situation. It would be so easy to take a chance on crash landing the Cessna in the field. There was a good chance I’d be injured or killed, but at least I would be on the ground and that was all I wanted–my feet on the ground again, at any cost. It sounded like a plan and I let the plane drift downward.

I was down to less than 150 feet when I realized this easy answer was insane. I had to fight my fear. I hit full throttle and put the plane into a climb. Taking this action gave me no pleasure. With the mist closing in, I didn’t know if my ascent would fly me directly into someone. That very much in mind, I leveled off at 400 feet safe in the knowledge that it was unlikely that anyone else would be flying that low.

I told air traffic that I was totally lost. They admitted they didn’t have visual contact and told me to work at it. That instruction felt like a kick in the guts and as much use as a chocolate teapot, but I did my best.

Still nothing looked familiar. Twice I blew over the runway from the wrong direction. Both times my sudden discovery of the airport came as a surprise. I tried to maintain a visual lock on the runway, but with panic running riot through my brain I lost visual contact with safety within seconds. It was a miracle that I didn’t crash into someone flying like that. Air traffic admitted they were struggling to see me beyond the end of the runway because of the mist and that they were clearing the runway and other aircraft until I was down.

I checked my gas gauge. I still had half tanks, which was good enough for another couple of hours of flying time. A couple of hours? The plane might be able to stay aloft for that long, but I knew my nerves wouldn’t last. Stress would kill me long before then. I really had to get a grip and get the plane down.

I knew why I was so panicked. For the first time in my short flying career, I’d lost my safety tether. As a student pilot, I wasn’t much different than a baby bird that doesn’t venture far from its nest. I’d spent so much time in the circuit that it had become my beacon, my safety blanket. If I ever needed to feel safe, I knew where to go, but not anymore. By getting lost, I’d broken that link. I was flapping around in the breeze with no hope of ever getting home safe. I flew aimlessly in circles draining away my fuel and hope reserves.

Just as I was at the point where I didn’t know what I was going to do, a helicopter announced he’d spotted me and had a view of the runway through a pocket in the clouds. Air traffic handed control to him without a moment’s hesitation. He told me to do exactly what he said and when he said it. I told this sky angel I was his to do with what he would.

Air traffic advised they had the on-site fire crew on alert (hardly a heartwarming thought) and they’d managed to jerry rig the electrics to switch on the main runway’s lights (a very heartwarming thought).

The helicopter pilot issued instructions: Turn left now. Stop. Maintain heading. Turn right now. Stop. Begin descent now.

As I crested a tree line over a hill, the runway in all its blazing glory came into view. I was coming in at an angle to the runway, but I didn’t care. I could wing a landing, even if I trashed the plane doing it.
Although it should have been easy to make a landing, it wasn’t. Because of the shallow angle I was approaching from, the runway’s perspective from the air was unusual, making it hard to estimate my descent rate. But I wasn’t about to screw this up, not with the chance to walk away from this in one piece now within my grasp.

I homed in on the lights twinkling in the distance and brought the plane down, making one of the best landings of my flying career. The moment the undercarriage kissed the tarmac my jelly legs and rubber hands regained their strength. The relief was so overwhelming that I wanted to cry. I radioed in that I was down safe and sound. I continued to give an Oscar speech thanking everyone and apologizing to the airport, air traffic, the helicopter and everybody tuned in to the radio frequency.

I parked up and tottered into the flying club’s main office where a number of instructors congratulated me and the chief flying instructor told me, “You just learned the most valuable flying lesson you’ll ever learn.”

He wasn’t talking about losing my bearings, but the fallout from a screw up. When the shit had hit the fan, I’d coped with the stress. Up until that day, I’d been pretty cocky about my flying. I was accurate and adept and never made mistakes, but that meant I’d never having to fix a problem.

On the way home a wave of euphoria swept me away and I couldn’t stop laughing and crying. This passed, but the exhilaration didn’t. My adrenaline levels turned me into a rubber ball bouncing off the walls for the next several hours.

I wasn’t sure I could continue flying. I’d come very close to giving up and the idea of piloting a plane again filled me with dread. I didn’t trust myself not to screw up again. But I persevered and attained my license. I still fly from time to time. Unfortunately, learning to fly never did cure my fear of heights.

Yours still on the ground,
Simon Wood

You Matter

I’m up to my ass in alligators this week, so Stacey Cochran, up and coming King of All Media, graciously steps in…

Hey folks,
I need you.
I have recently started a new television show in Raleigh, North Carolina called The Artist’s Craft. We provide a half-hour interview format that reaches 90,000 Time/Warner subscribers. Additionally, we stream the interviews online through YouTube and Google video.
Last Friday, we had Murderati’s own J.D. Rhoades on the program with Vicki Hendricks as well.

A few weeks ago, we had another Murderati member, Alexandra Sokoloff…

In addition to the TV program, I’m an assistant organizer with the 350-member strong Raleigh Write 2 Publish Group. The group meets monthly at the Cameron Village Regional Public Library in Raleigh for a speaker-centered 90-minute discussion. We’re able to sell books through an independent bookseller (Quail Ridge Books and Music) and can usually draw an audience of 50 or more attendees.
Here are some photos from our most recent panel discussion with Dusty, Alex, and Vicki…

For all the writers in the house, I’d love to have you visit Raleigh this fall, winter, or even next spring. I’d be happy to line up a panel with the Write 2 Publish Group and arrange for an Artist’s Craft TV interview as well. Just let me know that you’d be interested.
And so my Murderati guest blogger questions are as follows:

1) What is the best panel you’ve ever been on?

2) What is the best panel you’ve ever seen?
And

3) if you could see an interview done with any one author of your choice (alive or dead) who would it be?

Sincerely,
Stacey Cochran
http://www.staceycochran.com

Thanks, Stacey!It was a lot of fun.