Murderati Rocks the Anthony Award Nominations

HUGE congratulations to our Murderati brethren nominated for an Anthony!!!

It’s humbling to work with such talent! Good luck to all of you, and all the nominees.

ANTHONY NOMINATIONS, Bouchercon 2007

BEST NOVEL:

ALL MORTAL FLESH, Julia Spencer-Fleming, St. Martins
THE DEAD HOUR, Denise Mina, Little Brown & Co.
KIDNAPPED, Jan Burke, Simon & Schuster
NO GOOD DEEDS, Laura Lippman, Harper
THE VIRGIN OF SMALL PLAINS, Nancy Pickard, Ballantine

BEST FIRST NOVEL

A FIELD OF DARKNESS, Cornelia Read, Mysterious Press
THE HARROWING, Alexandra Sokoloff, St. Martin’s
HOLMES ON THE RANGE, Steve Hockensmith, St. Martins
THE KING OF LIES, John Hart, St. Martin’s
STILL LIFE, Louise Penny, St. Martin’s

BEST PAPERBACK ORIGINAL

ASHES AND BONES, Dana Cameron, Avon
BABY SHARK, Robert Fate, Capital Crime Press
THE CLEANUP, Sean Doolittle, Dell
A DANGEROUS MAN, Charlie Huston, Ballantine
47 RULES OF HIGHLY EFFECTIVE BANK ROBBERS, Troy Cook, Capital Crime Press
SHOTGUN OPERA, Victor Gischler, Dell
SNAKESKIN SHAMISEN, Naomi Hirahara, Bantam Dell – Delta

BEST SHORT STORY

"After the Fall," Elaine Viets, Alfred Hitchcock Mag
"Cranked" Bill Crider, DAMN NEAR DEAD, Busted Flush Press
"The Lords of Misrule" Dana Cameron, SUGARPLUMS AND SCANDAL, Avon
"My Father’s Secret," Simon Wood, Crime Spree Magazine, Bcon Spec Issue ’06
"Policy" Megan Abbott, DAMN NEAR DEAD, Busted Flush Press
"Sleeping with the Plush" Toni Kelner, Alfred Hitchcock Mag

BEST CRITICAL NONFICTION

THE BEAUTIFUL CIGAR GIRL, Daniel Stashower, Dutton
DON’T MURDER YOUR MYSTERY, Chris Roerden, Bella Rosa Books
MYSTERY MUSES, Jim Huang/Austin Lugar, Editors, Crum Creek Press
READ ‘EM THEIR WRITES, Gary Warren Niebuhr, Libraries Unlimited
THE SCIENCE OF SHERLOCK HOLMES, E.J. Wagoner, John Wiley & Sons

SPECIAL SERVICES AWARD

Charles Ardal, Hard Case Crime
George Easter, Deadly Pleasures
Franchi & Sharon Wheeler, reviewingtheevidence.com
Jim Huang, Crum Creek Press and The Mystery Company
Jon & Ruth Jordan, CrimeSpree Magazine
Ali Karim, Shots Magazine
Lynn Kazmarik & Chris Aldrich, Mystery News
Maddy Van Hertbruggen, 4 Mystery Addicts

In His Shadow

By Dave Zeltserman

I originally wrote my first novel, In His Shadow, back in 1992. My wife was working with someone whose girlfriend worked at Houghton Mifflin, and the girlfriend was able to get it to one of their fiction editors. Houghton Mifflin ended up debating for nine months whether or not to publish it, and in the end decided the book was too risky for a first novel—telling me that as much as they liked it, they needed something more formula for a first novel, and at this point I started sending query letters to editors at the large NY houses. This was at the end of 1992, and editors were still responding to well-written query letters from unagented writers. I ended up having seven editors request the book—and three of them told me the same as the editor at Houghton Mifflin, that as much as they liked it they needed something more formula for a first novel. About In His Shadow—it is no way a formula PI novel, but part deconstruction of the hardboiled PI genre and a large part psychotic noir. The protagonist appears to be a clichéd hardboiled PI, but it’s an act to cover that he’s a pure sociopath. While the reader is led to believe they’re in for standard hardboiled fare, they’re really sucked into the PI’s hellish descent and complete psychic unraveling. No, not at all formula. After striking out with the editors who requested the book, I put it away and focused on my day job, although at this point I had sold several stories to magazines qualifying me for MWA membership.

Skip forward to 1997. I just finished writing my crime/horror thriller, Bad Thoughts, and find that the NY houses have mostly shut their doors to unagented works. I am able to slip through one door, though, with Warner Books. An editor there reads Bad Thoughts, and we end up going through three rounds of editing (and each round does improve the book) before he tries submitting the book to his editorial board, where he gets shot down. At this point I put Bad Thoughts away also, and again focus on the day job.

Skip again to 2002. MWA has a deal with iUniverse allowing its members to self-publish for free under iUniverse’s Mystery and Suspense imprint. I do this. I have no delusions of selling any copies, but my hope is to use it as a resume—get enough reviews and quotes from other writers to interest a legitimate publisher in Bad Thoughts, which I consider a better and more marketable book. Basically, I’m looking at it as throwing away In His Shadow to get Bad Thoughts published. So what happens? Pretty much what I expected. Mostly because of my past published stories, I’m able to get some very good authors to read In His Shadow and they end up providing me some great quotes. Which leads us to the Italian publisher, Meridiano Zero.

L’occhio privato di Denver

Not only am I getting quotes from some well-known writers, but people are discussing my self-published book on online forums, including RARA AVIS, which is a discussion group for hardboiled and noir fiction. One of the members of the group, Luca Conti, is translating books for Meridiano Zero, and is intrigued by the discussions around my book. He buys a copy and later contacts me about wanting to submit the book to his publisher. Meridiano Zero is no slouch—they publish top crime fiction writers, people like James Lee Burke, Derek Raymond and David Peace, so my answer to Luca is: yes, please do so. The publisher ended up feeling the same way as Luca and buys the Italian rights to In His Shadow, so I end up selling the Italian rights before the English rights. The book is published with the title: L’occhio privato di Denver.

Fast Lane

Skip ahead to the end of 2003. At this point I have an agent, we’re shopping In His Shadow again now that we have an Italian publisher, and we come close but can’t quite pull it off—we still have that problem that the book is too different, too risky for a first novel, even with the praise the book has garnered. I write a new book titled Small Crimes. This one is again pure noir, but a huge jump up from In His Shadow. With this one I end up with four editors at different houses trying to acquire it, but none of them can get it through their boards. I’m about to give up. A friend of mine, Allan Guthrie, another frustrated noir writer who has since landed a nice book contract with Harcourt, contacts me about a small press he’s starting with JT Lindroos called Point Blank Press. Al has read both Small Crimes and Fast Lane. He wants to acquire Small Crimes. I politely say no, and he then asks for In His Shadow, which I am only more than happy to give him. More than anything I want to escape the stench of self-publishing, and so a new and copy edited version of In His Shadow is born, with the title Fast Lane. So now that Fast Lane is published by a small but earnest publisher, people who wouldn’t look at it before are reading it. Poisoned Pen Bookstore names it one of the best hardboiled books of 2004. Kate Mattes, who runs Kate’s Mystery Bookstore, becomes a fan, reads Small Crimes and Outsourced (a novel I had just finished) and wants to acquire both for a mystery line she has with Justin Charles, but the publisher passes on them. Ed Gorman writes a unbelievably flattering review for Fast Lane, as do others. But I’m still having no luck selling Small Crimes or Outsourced.

A quick note about Outsourced. This book was meant to be a balance between noir and commercial fiction, and a quick plot summary has a group of software engineers made obsolete due to outsourcing coming up with a clever way to rob a bank, and of course, things going very bad. As with Small Crimes, editors were trying to acquire Outsourced, but couldn’t get it through their boards. But I do have a bit of luck with it—the book ends up in the hands of one of the top film agents in Hollywood, and he wants to do something with it. Hollywood can move at a glacial pace, but two years later, and after a misfire in trying to make it into an HBO series, it seems to be on track for a feature film. We have a producer and two very hot screenwriters, and we’ll see what happens over the next few months.

Small Crimes

John Williams, who is an acclaimed writer and also an editor at Serpent’s Tail, is also a member of RARA AVIS. I contact him off list, telling him what Ken Bruen and others are saying about Small Crimes. He’s interested enough to look at the book—with the caveat that they probably won’t buy it, that Serpent’s Tail only buy books they absolutely love. I mail him a copy. Months go by. I’m talking with Ed Gorman at this point about my frustrations with selling Small Crimes and Outsourced. He recommends that I send a copy to Five Star, which publishes a mystery imprint that he started. The thing with Five Star is they sell mostly to libraries, which means no more than 1,000-2,000 copies of Small Crimes would sell, and I had higher hopes for the book. I end up sending it to Five Star thinking that at least I’d get the book reviewed, and maybe that would lead to Outsourced being bought. I get an offer. My agent tries contacting Serpent’s Tail at this point, nothing. An editor at St. Martin’s tries buying Small Crimes—and he’s shot down because his boss decides he has too many dark books on his list. I give up. I sign the contract with Five Star. Five days later I hear from John Williams. Both him and the publisher love Small Crimes. They want to buy it. I want to put a bullet in my head.

Bad Thoughts

Now my agent and I are scrambling. Serpent’s Tail publishing Small Crimes puts me in the game. Not only will the book get good distribution, but Serpent’s Tail is one of the more prestigious houses in the UK for crime fiction. Fortunately the folks at Five Star are the most decent people imaginable. I can’t say enough good things about them. They let me swap Bad Thoughts for Small Crimes—which works out best for everyone since Bad Thoughts is a better fit for Five Star. It’s more of a thriller—which are selling better these days—albeit a very different crime thriller that borders on horror. The book is now getting strong reviews, and Five Star seems happy with it. So that’s my story of working my way up the publishing food chain. Three books, five publishers, if you include iUniverse in the deal. And a lot of gray hairs in the process.

Dave Zeltserman

Dave Zeltserman is the mastermind behind Hard Luck Stories. Dave lives in the Boston area with his wife, Judy, and when he’s not writing crime fiction, he spends his time working on his black belt in Kung Fu.

Wednesday, July 25, 2007 at 03:32 AM

by Robert Gregory Browne

Remember me? The crazy guy on the freeway? The one who promised to slow down?

I
have a confession to make. Although I’ve slowed down in some respects —
I’ve temporarily retired my own blog, have carved out time every night
to read and have tried not to be in such a hurry to put the days and
weeks and months and years behind me —

— I haven’t slowed down on the
freeway.

It’s a habit. An addiction. I like to drive fast. And I
love to maneuver my rocket in a way that allows me to reach my
destination as quickly as possible.

So.

I’m on the road
the other day, headed toward a doctor’s appointment, and it suddenly
struck me how much driving the freeway is like plotting a story.

That’s right. You heard me. Just think about it:

You
have a goal. You want to get somewhere. Getting there is important to
you. And even though you’re going in straight line, more or less, your
progress is constantly blocked by other drivers.

This, in turn, creates a series of smaller goals for you. You
keep looking ahead, watching the road, seeking out the empty and free
flowing lane that will allow you quicker passage. If you make it to
those smaller goals, one after another, then the overall goal — that
final destination — doesn’t seem quite as daunting.

Problem is, as you’re headed for that space in the traffic,
some idiot decides to change lanes right in front of you, forcing you
to hit the brakes or cut into a different lane. So then you’re
thinking on your feet, changing your strategy as you go.

And, of course, there’s always one driver who seems to be in
just as much of a hurry as you are. He may not be headed to exactly
the same place, but he’s in your way and his goal is get wherever he’s
going ahead of you. The next thing you know you’re in a kind of race
with the guy and your emotions are rising, you’re beginning to hate the
sonofabitch so badly you want to bash his car with yours.

And the other characters around you either help you or hurt
you. Some block your progress, while others kindly get out of your
way, making room for you to move. There’s the lady on her cell phone
who’s paying more attention to her conversation than the road. There’s
the GM truck with the ass so huge you can’t see past it, whose driver
has decided to go 50 MPH in the left lane. There’s the old couple in
their motor home, and the gardener pulling a trailer full of rakes and
lawn mowers and leaf blowers.

The drivers around you begin to take on their own
personalities, some you like, some you hate. And just when you think
you’re about to make it, everyone suddenly slows down. There’s an
accident up ahead, or another idiot like you impeding the flow of
traffic, so as the clock continues to tick, road rage begins to set in
and you find yourself quickly reaching that good old boiling point.

But wait — there it is: a gap in the traffic that leads to another free flowing lane. And by god, that’s your exit up ahead!

With
a quick and decidedly clever maneuver, you just barely manage to cut
off the jerk you’ve been competing with and you’re on your way down
that ramp, headed for your final destination.

You’ve made it. You’ve succeeded. And while you may be a little rattled, all is good.

Helluva plot structure, eh?

Okay, okay, I know. I’m a strange guy. But these are the kinds of things I
think about when I’m driving. And I’ve decided that if I base my
plots on my driving experiences, nobody will be able to put the damn
books down.

Letters Home

By Louise Ure

“Throw forty or fifty loose tampons into the box. That way, they won’t go through it.”

I first met Maya eighteen years ago, when she was seven. She was crying. She and her nine-year old brother, Brian, had been unceremoniously dumped at my house for the weekend. Their grandmother had taken ill in Louisiana, and their single mother had to return home to take care of her. They didn’t know anyone in San Francisco. And my husband had just hired their mother as a receptionist.

Maya hated everything that weekend. The chilly temperature of my house. The lack of a cartoon channel on TV. The way I made hot chocolate. I thought we’d never make it to Sunday night.

“There’s no running water or electricity where I’m staying, but I do have a pump out in the yard, so I’m one of the lucky ones. Others have to walk two miles to the river to get water.”

Her world was alien to me. Wiry black hair while mine was straight, dishwater brown. Chocolate skin versus my winter-in-San Francisco vanilla. She had never seen a horse except on television. She lived in a basement apartment and could tell the weather by the shoes that filed past.

“They don’t believe I’m an American.They’ve never seen a black American before.”

After that first meeting, stayovers became routine. Their mother needed time to herself, and Bruce and I thought it was the perfect way to have kids: borrow them for the weekend. We spent our Saturdays and Sundays together for the next ten years.

I taught Maya French and her brother Spanish. When we played Scrabble, I was only allowed to use words in English.

She usually slept until after noon, rising only when something on the stove smelled good or her brother sounded like he was having fun. She had the attention span of a flea, and was guaranteed to lose something on every visit.

“I had some kind of allergic reaction to the napia grass while we were planting trees today. A couple of Benedryls did the trick.”

I taught her to ride a horse – Western style, of course. We’d gallop right into the flocks of seagulls on the beach, her stick-legs flapping like stunted wings.

No one was more surprised than I when she said she wanted to be a lawyer. Studied debate had never been the way Maya won arguments. She was a pouter, a thrower of chess pieces, a disengager.

“I’ve got the pedal powered generator set up now. With any luck I’ll be able to power up my cell phone and laptop for at least a few minutes at a time.”

She gave one of the keynote addresses at her college graduation. And there, at the podium, she introduced me as “my other mother.”

“Today, for the first time, I know why I’m here. And I’m making a difference.”

Last year she decided that The Law could wait, and she signed up for the Peace Corps. She’s been in a small village in Kenya for a month now, tasked with educating woman barely younger than herself about AIDS and sexually transmitted diseases.

And we just got her first letters home.

“If you send me anything, be sure to draw crosses everywhere and write ‘Jesus Is Watching You’ all over the box. It’s no guarantee, but it’s less likely to be stolen that way.”

Travel well, Sweet Girl.

I’m no longer a religious person, but I’ll write “Jesus is Watching You” all over those boxes.

And I’ll mean every word of it.

LCU

Comments from a reader

by Woodstock

(Hi all. I’m on vacation with the family this week and invited a devoted suspense reader to guest blog. "Woodstock" is the pen name for a retired tax acountant who lives and reads in the suburbs of Colorado’s Front Range communities. Give her a warm welcome. PNT)

I’ve always been a reader, and suspense fiction has been my first choice since I was about 9 years old and read THE SECRET OF THE OLD CLOCK — Nancy Drew, of course. With my current day in, day out, level of responsibility, I read at the rate of 2-3 books/week. At least two members of a book discussion group I used to attend thought I was strange because I read so much! Believe me, I’d read even more if I could.

Many people have observed that there are only a few general plot lines. I agree. The action in a book, while certainly important to holding my interest, is not the first thing I think of when I ponder what makes a "good read." How a character acts and/or reacts is what will hold my interest and bring me back to that author when another book appears.

Suspense fiction has it all. Do you like romance? The title character in T. Jefferson Parker’s SILENT JOE planned the first date to end all first dates. What about humor? Janet Evanovich had me wiping tears of laughter from my eyes when Stephanie Plum delivered a chocolate pie to the wrong face in FOUR TO SCORE. Would you enjoy a tragedy of Shakespearean proportions? Pick up Kent Harrington’s DIA DE LOS MUERTOS, Ken Bruen’s DRAMATIST, or Chuck Hogan’s PRINCE OF THIEVES. Is a tightly woven plot more your style? I’d recommend Stephen Booth’s BLACK DOG or IMPULSE by Frederick Ramsay. Do you enjoy a strong sense of place? Check out Donis Casey, Adrea Camilleri, James Lee Burke, the Scudder or Bernie Rhodenbarr series by Lawrence Block, and books by Donna Leon, Daniel Silva or Tony Hillerman. If you are interested in history, there are dozens of mysteries set in other times and in other places. I usually don’t pick up "historicals" but have enjoyed Rebecca Pawel’s series set in Spain in the 1940s.

I could probably keep going for billions of bytes of bandwidth, but I think you get the idea. I find in suspense fiction more variety than I can begin to catalog.

The biggest change in bookselling I notice now as a customer is the huge increase in author appearances, booksigning events, poetry readings and the like. In the few months I worked at an independent store one Christmas season, a signing occurred perhaps once or twice a month. Now, that same store’s weekly newspaper ads list an event almost every day of the week, and sometimes two or three on the same night, in each of the three store locations. This means that more and more authors have the opportunity to meet more and more readers, and I regard that as a very good development.

Another change which impacts my life almost daily is the role of the Internet in creating readers’ communities, connecting these communities with other similar groups, and providing word of mouth recommendations to those who like to read.

Websites maintained by authors can be treasure troves of interesting information and sources of community as well. A website given only sporadic attention by an author or a publicist can be a huge disappointment and can limit my interest in that author. Do it right, or don’t do it at all, would be my advice.

Because of my participation in a couple of Internet based reading groups, I learned about book conventions. I’ve been an eager participant in every Bouchercon since 2000. Left Coast Crime will be held near my home in 2008, and I regularly cast longing eyes over the schedules for Mayhem in the Midlands, Thrillerfest, Magna Cum Murder, Love is Murder and The Great Manhattan Mystery Conference in Manhattan, KS which is held annually less than a day’s drive from my home. I really wish I had the resources to attend every convention I can find. Alas, not just yet.

Conventions have introduced me to new authors, given me face-to-face contact with people I knew through Internet communications, and raised my confidence as a participant in what is truly a world-wide community.

I could not support my reading addiction without a public library. I’m fortunate to live in a lively, well funded, expanding district. Keep in mind that library patrons sell books, too. I have filled out a form at more than one library indicating interest in a specific title, and my libraries have purchased at least one copy. Librarians tell me that word of mouth for books like THE KITE RUNNER or THE BOOKSELLER OF KABUL sends them off to the wholesaler to order more copies and keep up with demand. And the guys who used to run the small press Uglytown told me one time, "We don’t get remainders back from libraries." When a library buys a book, it stays sold.

If I could have one wish granted for those of us who read, write and publicize suspense fiction, it would be to dissolve the divide between "literary" works and "genre fiction."

I’m not sure where and how the divide was created. For a reader like me, who will read just about anything, the distinction doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. I don’t have an easy answer, or any answer at all for that matter. But that would be my wish.

Thanks for the invitation to join you. Happy reading to you all!

Woodstock (read reviews here)

TEXT MESS

She sat, eyes glazed, clutching her cell phone like it was a bar of gold, little thumbs "click-clack-clicking" away. I asked her again some question about old, dead white guys, maybe the Bolsheviks. I might as well have been in another room. Her eyes never wavered from the tiny screen.

She was one of my students, and she was a text message zombie.

I’m turning 35 in a few short months, still young by many people’s standards. I should be hip to the whole text message thing. But whenever I think about this new form of communication, I start morphing into OLD MAN MACLEAN.

Old Man MacLean gets riled up when someone’s car cuts off his driveway. Old Man MacLean wants to call the cops on the shrieking college bimbos, keeping him up with their party. Old Man MacLean hates the rudeness that cell phones have created.

And Old Man MacLean is scared of the impact of text messaging on reading and writing skills.

Apparently, I’m not alone. According to a report from an Irish Examination Commission, "Text messaging, with its use of phonetic spelling and little or no punctuation, seems to pose a threat to traditional conventions in writing." The report goes on to site a frequency in punctuation and grammar errors among 15-year olds who participated in the study. The same teens were also "unduly reliant on short sentences, simple tenses and a limited vocabulary" (Reuters 2007).

I’m no Luddite, throwing my body into the cogs of technology. I realize new mediums often add to the existing language rather than destroying it. In fact, without the personal computer, I wonder if I would’ve ever become a writer (and oh what a loss that would’ve been for the dozens of you that have read my work). But time and time again, I’ve looked at my students’ schoolwork and found the letter "U" standing in for "YOU." One student even drew an arrow pointing upwards instead of writing the word "Up" (It’s a friggin’ "U" and a "P." Come on, how hard is that?).

Now, I’ve got some wonderful students. They’re bright, intuitive, and (hopefully after our school is done with them) well read. But I’m still worried.

It takes effort to enjoy a book. The better the book, the more that effort pays off. Will a generation too busy to write the word "you" take time to read a novel just for fun? Will well-crafted, descriptive language be replaced by long matrix strings of BFF’s, P911’s, and F2T’s?

Or am I just being OMM–Old Man MacLean?

So what do you think Murder fans? Anyone out there share my concerns? What impact will texting have on language and literature?

RIP… not

I suppose everyone’s expecting me to download about ThrillerFest today. And I’d love to, really. I’m sure I will, maybe next week. But this is the truth. How I spent my Thrillerfest was – in mourning.

A very great friend of mine died suddenly the day before TF. I can’t say it was totally unexpected. I can say it was totally devastating.

I did all my Thrillerfest things, and it was indescribably wonderful, as last year, but at the same time, I was somewhere else, somewhere halfway beween life and death, because I do think a door opens in the cosmos when someone you love dies. I so understand why they cover mirrors in the Jewish mourning tradition. For a week or so, the door is wide open, and it’s seductive, the other side. It seems so much more real than reality.

I’d known Q since college – he didn’t go to Berkeley with the rest of my posse but he was part of that extended, incestuous, amorphous, theatrical, Renaissance Faire group we had.

I really started to know him when I moved down to LA.

Q was always, always, outside the box. On and off a professional stage actor, more regularly a fine art photographer, but more encompassingly – he was a master of the art of living. And I mean, Living.

When I think of Q I remember a dashing man brandishing one of those long screen idol ivory cigarette holders – dazzling in an antique red silk smoking jacket – and nothing on underneath.

I remember his gleaming powder blue Packard (“the Paquahhhrd”, we called it) – which was our Cinderella’s carriage to the wildest Hollywood clubs. We could fit a dozen people into that fabulous car, all decked in our thrift store confections and on fire with our youth and imaginations… and when we stopped at traffic lights people on the street would literally throw themselves onto the car and kiss the hood, it was that lovely.

I remember the pool parties in which Q would dress in whatever elaborate theme costume fit the party specifications – then shed all to swim – then return from his shower in a silk slip. He was rampantly heterosexual but there’s no way around it – he looked ravishing in a slip.

I remember the Bickle… that would be short for Cubicle – or Q-Bickle: a completely enclosed, luscious bed that he built into the wall of his living room that was the best night’s sleep I’ve ever slept – and the wildest party I’ve ever been to (which is saying a lot) – and the best dreams I’ve ever dreamed. Practically everyone I know has slept – or not slept – in the Bickle in various combinations, over and over again, and all of that amazing magical energy is there every time anyone sleeps in it. It is extra-dimensional. One windy, witchy night I and six of my best women friends collapsed into the Bickle after, well, enhancements, and laughed ourselves sick for hours and hours, telling stories and playing with each other’s hair, while our boyfriends and husbands sat around the pool drinking and gritting their teeth at each new wave of laughter from all of us female types below and pretending they were having just as good a time as we were.

It wasn’t all decadence. I often spent the night – um, wherever – after a party and then got up early in the morning to find Q already dressed and caffeinated, and we’d hike with the dogs up Runyon Canyon to the grounds of the Errol Flynn estate and we’d sit and watch LA waking up. He could talk about any and everything – I loved his mind.

And oh, he could dance. Not cotillion-style partner dancing, mind you, and definitely not for the faint of heart – I mean, you could start a dance with Q in a tango clinch, complete with rose in teeth, and end up rolling around on the floor like Martha Graham at her most dramatically modern, but it was unforgettable, for you and for everyone watching. It was art.

That was what Q was. Art.

Coyote, Trickster, Loki, The Fool.

There are some people who just open that door – to creativity, to possibility, to chance.

I’m blessed to have had such a teacher and friend.

– Alex

St. Francis’s Fire

There have been many roundups of the past weekend’s festivities in New York, so I’m not going to rehash the event. It was all that, and then some, let me assure you.

Instead, I’m going to wax poetic about friends. And Toni Causey is going to give you her feelings.

JT: I was struck by a phenomenon over the weekend. Because of the size of the hotel, the allure of the city, and the panel scheduling, many people found themselves out and about, wandering the halls, slipping into Grand Central to have a bite to eat, running across the street to the fabulous diner that serves brunch all day. And in these broken up groups, a strange thing happened. I’m going to refer to this phenomenon as St. Francis’s Fire.

For those who don’t know, St. Francis is the patron saint of writers and authors. I love how the church makes a distinction, but it’s simply to designate journalists versus book authors. I’ve called on him from time to time to help with blocks, or to say thanks when something goes especially well.

Show of hands, how many of you have seen the movie St. Elmo’s Fire? I saw it Tuesday night, late on TBS, and was struck by the similarities to our group of writers. The allegory fits Killer Year especially. This weekend marked the first time our merry band of debuts were all under the same roof. (We were minus one, but that’s still an accomplishment in this day and age.) As I watched the movie, I was reminded of our past year. In the movie, the characters have all just graduated from Georgetown. Some are finding great success, some are finding it not as easy as they anticipated. A fitting description of what the debut year is like. There are huge highs (starred reviews, second printings, general consensus that the writers will go on to something great) and lows (PR failures, problems with mailing, and yes, even mutterings of favoritism.) But all in all, a success.

Most importantly, we have each other. A cohort group of authors who started together. We were 22 2007 debut authors strong at this conference, 12 of us Killer Year. We were honored at a breakfast on Friday morning, each allocated time, introduced by the ever gracious Lee Child. We know each other. We’ll support each other. But it wasn’t just the debuts.

In New York, Killer Year drifted together. Not surprising, we’re intimates at this point. What I found so wonderful was how many people drifted right along with us. In the bar, in the hallways, there were loads of other writers and readers who stepped in to the flow, got caught up in the camaraderie of the event, smiled and laughed and enjoyed themselves. The future was there, the books that come out in 2008, the writers shopping manuscripts, looking for agents. Old, young, established, debut, reviewers, writers, readers, the media, all worked in harmony. The bar staff, on the other hand, hated us.

I didn’t see the genre specific clans that sometimes pervades these cons. There was a strong feeling of togetherness. In the bar, in the halls, arms were opened, chairs drawn up. Every small group opened to allow more people in. There was a true sense of friendship among all the writers there. St. Francis’s Fire. And that’s what’s going to serve us all well as we combat the perception that crime fiction and thrillers are just junky beach reads. The collective wisdom in the Grand Hyatt was stunning, and New York noticed.

So let’s see what our guest blogger Toni McGee Causey thought.

Toni: There’s something inherently intimidating about walking into any sort of convention where several hundred people are attending and you won’t know if you’ll know anyone or be welcomed. There’s something amazingly comforting to know that you’ve made friends the last time and there will be smiles and recognition and welcome and hugs. The thing I found, though, that set this convention apart from any other I’ve attended was that the "welcoming factor" happened last year, the first time we met in Phoenix, and that warmth and friendliness just seemed to be amplified this year. Old friends (of course) met up and there were some pretty enthusiastic smiles and hugs. But I was also so pleased to see that a tremendous number of people introduced themselves to someone new and I’m so glad to have met so many new people myself. Many pulled back chairs, as J.T. said, finding a way to include anyone who wandered over. All weekend long, there was an attitude of "hey, we’re hanging out, come on over, you’re wanted."

I think it’s the best thing we can do for each other, as authors, this inclusion. I felt like, as a unit, we were recognizing that our competition isn’t each other–it’s apathy and other media options.

We win the battle when we convince people to pick up a book when they’re confronted with so many other choices; we have a real victory if that enthusiasm spreads and more people start turning to books as their first option. I know that having a fun weekend isn’t going to solve the declining readership problem, but I’ll tell you this–I came away from there having met some amazing people and I’ve already been by a Barnes & Noble and have picked up several new-to-me authors that I wouldn’t have known to get. I either heard them speak or heard someone speak highly about their work. I’m the kind of reader who’ll tell people when I’ve loved something… and I know that I’m already looking forward to next year.

Wine of the Week: (Tasted in New York) Caymus Napa Valley Cabernet

Motorcycle Accessories

By Louise

I’ve been ignoring writing in favor of watching cooking shows the last couple of days, hoping that mindless viewing of celebrity chefs and exotic ingredients would spark an idea that would get me past the big dime I got stuck on in this third book.

No big ideas yet. That dime is as sturdy and immovable a K-wall roadblock.

But I did get a kick out of my weekend-long immersion in the Food Network. In fact, I found a whole new way to categorize the shows: celebrity chefs as crime fiction writers.

Cozy chefs: Semi Homemade’s Sandra Lee. Robin Miller. The diet conscious Ellie Krieger. And the big sister of them all, Rachel Ray.

Sandra Lee, a willowy blond whose curtains and dish towels always match her menu, began as a purveyor of craft, quilting and scrapbooking supplies to Target and K-Mart. (And if I ever use the phrases “tablescape” or “cute little accessories” in public, just go ahead and shoot me.)

Robin Miller (Quick Fix Meals) can show you how to stretch a meal over three days. Ellie Krieger (Healthy Appetite) will tell you how to cut calories so that it tastes one third as good.

The ubiquitous Rachel Ray has taken over the cooking universe, with at least three shows running on the Food Network, and one on NBC, along with a whole line of books, cooking utensils and videos. If I ever wind up in a white-tiled room like that in the denouement of “The Devil and Miss Jones,” Rachel Ray will be my companion in that room, and I will be doomed to an eternity of her vapid ejaculations of “Delish! Yum-oh! It’s a stoup! Thinner than a stew, thicker than a soup. Just add E-V-O-O!”

I do not mean to cast aspersions on cozy writers with this list. I enjoy a good cozy as much as I enjoy a home-cooked meal. But none of our cozy writers misuse the word “nice” like these women do on their shows. “Nice and spicy.” “Nice and cold.” “Nice and tight.” “Nice and brown.” When did “nice” become an adjectival replacement for “very?” Herewith, I’m asking them nicely to stop it.

The Researchers: Think Tom Clancy. Ridley Pearson. Any writer whose book can teach you about cavitation on a nuclear submarine or how to uncouple a train car with one hand.

Their cooking equivalent is Alton Brown, a man who takes the mystery out of food by explaining the science of oxidation or the thermal dynamics of cooking in a pouch. Alton’s an egghead, and if he were a writer, I bet he’d be an outliner.

England’s Jamie Oliver gives us the opposite characteristic: a seat-of-the-pants creator. Use a recipe? Measure? Moi? “Just bang a knob of butter in there.”

The Pros: These guys might be the culinary equivalents of our legal thrillers and police procedural writers. Guys who have been trained to get the job done, and have a fine time showing us how. Bobby Flay. Tyler Florence. Mario Batali. Emeril Lagasse. They were trained as chefs. They own restaurants with stars behind their names. They never tasted an ingredient they couldn’t name.

If Mario Batali were writing crime fiction, his character would be a pizza-chomping, orange clog-wearing detective on the Lower East Side. And he’d solve every crime with the help of his Sicilian cousin, Marco.

The Amateurs: Well, they’re hardly amateur chefs, anymore than our characters are really amateur PI’s. They’re the caterers and the party pros. Ina Garten (Barefoot Contessa). Michael Chiarello (Easy Entertaining). Dino’s granddaughter, Giada De Laurentiis.

There may be a crossover to traditional mystery writing here; I see their literary equivalents as the teachers, the veterinarians, the real estate agents and the tarot readers that populate our genre today.

The Regionals: Paula Deen (Paula’s Home Cooking), who never met a pound of butter she didn’t like, could represent every gumbo-eating, sweet tea-sucking, Southern ex-debutante in crime fiction. Her roots, like those of her mystery counterparts, are as important to the story as the crime/recipe itself.

Noir: the bad boys of chefdom. I give you Tony Bourdain (No Reservations) and Gordon Ramsey (The F Word).

I wouldn’t classify Lee Child’s work as noir, but I can’t help drawing a connection between Bourdain’s lanky, smoky, different-location-in-each-episode presence and that of Jack Reacher. And I love spending time with both of them. And Ramsey’s curse-strewn, high-octane approach to cooking mirrors that of some of our darkest writers.

And finally, one of my all time favorite categories: the international chefs. Nigella Lawson. Kylie Kwong. Their exoticism is as important as their food. They whisper words like“cardamom” or “star anise” and I melt. They transport me to another world.

Hmmm … maybe it’s time to order in some sushi and pull that new Natsuo Kirino off the shelf.

Do you have any author candidates that fit somewhere in these categories? Or have I left some categories out? Come sit, have a nosh, and tell me.

EPIC TALE

Forget Lord of the Rings, the Chronicles of Narnia, Star Wars and Clifford the Big Red Dog. This is a real epic story.

Except, I’m not sure where to start. The beginning would be a good place, but this tale has so many beginnings and even more bad endings. I suppose the problem is that there are so many themes going on here—stick-with-it-ness, bad luck, determination, dealing with setbacks, and never accepting no as an answer just to name a few. I think there may even be an ancient code left behind by a renaissance painter, but I could be wrong. Anyhoo, there’s a lot going on here, so sit back and prepare to be dazzled.

In February 2000, I completed a book called We All Fall Down. It was a suspense thriller based on a couple of news items that I smooshed them together. I didn’t have a track record at the time in publishing, so I went from agents and editors collecting rejection letters with some aplomb. Then I struck gold in October 2001 when a small press publisher picked up the book. Yahoo, I was going to get published. Small presses are delicate creatures and vulnerable. Things looked fine at the beginning, but I’d arrived to the party late. Cash flow was drying up. Delays ensued. The book slipped from a 2003 release date to 2004 and that wasn’t certain. The release was dependent on a number of factors outside of my control. I could feel my story going cold on the shelf. In late 2003, I made a decision that left me sick to my stomach. I asked to be released from my contract. The publisher hadn’t published a book in a year and mine was still pending. It was the right thing to do, but it felt like suicide. I had a book contract and I killed it. What an idiot!?!

The decision hurt and to be quite honest, it left me depressed. It was my fault. My mess. A waste of two years of my life and the book’s life. My funk was reinforced when I tried to resell the book. I came up against a wall. Suddenly, after 9/11, the book was in bad taste. I wrote how easy it would be to launch a major terrorist attack if someone had the audacity. Then one happened. It looked as if I was trying to follow a trend, instead of foreseeing one.

I don’t like the idea of practice books—manuscripts the writer has no intention of selling. Every book is a practice book. I learn from every word I write. But I was coming to the conclusion that We All Fall Down would become a practice book and I would have to consign it to trunk status. But then a miracle happened. I met another small press in the spring of 2003. I approached them on a whim at the beginning of 2004. They loved We All Fall Down and paid me an advance. Lots of good things were happening with them that gave me confidence that this was a winner. I felt like a winner. My confidence returned. My decision to walk away from my original publisher was validated.

Cover art was commissioned. Editing began. A schedule for release was outlined. Then progress slipped. The timeline took on a Daliesque quality. The May release became September, then ’05. All the signs were there that this publisher was going through a familiar crash and burn. It got to the stage where I had to ask point-blank, “is this book ever going to be published?” After some squirming I received an honest answer. No, the book wouldn’t be coming out.

I couldn’t believe it. It was now 2005 and the book was dead in the water again almost six years after I had begun the first draft. My familiar funk returned. I kept on writing other things, of course, but We All Fall Down kept dragging me down. It was a damn albatross driving me onto the rocks. I’d pretty much given up hope on the book, but things were changing. Luck was being kind to me. I’d sold Working Stiffs, so I dusted off We All Fall Down and sent it out to yet another small press publisher who’d expressed an interest in reading something. Around Christmas 2005, they asked to publish it. Finally, the book was going to be coming out, but before the contract could even be signed a scandal hit the publisher. Accusations flew around. The publisher’s rep was toast and the publisher’s elastic publishing schedule was going to stretch even more. The writing was on the wall yet again. The book was dead. Even if they published the book, it would be tarnished by their bad rep.

It’s easy to say, I was pissed off with the whole affair. It’s bloody hard to sell a book these days and to sell it three times and never have it see the light of day is cruel and unusual punishment of the most twisted kind. The publishing gods were just being mean at this point.

But I’ve been riding a wave of good fortune to make up for a number of disappointments over the last few years. Getting picked up by Dorchester has opened a number of doors for me. I feel some real traction at the moment. I’m moving forward towards my goals. If I’m moving forward why can’t We All Fall Down come with me? I dusted the manuscript off and looked at it. It’s now seven years old and it looks it. The prose is a little flaky at the corners. The plot is sun bleached. There’s something stuck to one of the characters and it’s gone green. If I put it on the high seas, it’d sink. But underneath the dirt and grime, there’s a good story underneath. It’s going to take a lot of work to get it looking new, fast and sleek, but it’s doable. I talked to Dorchester about it. And God love ‘em, they said yes. We All Fall Down will appear in mass paperback next July. It won’t look like anything like the manuscript I started work on in ’99–characters, places and motives are different, but its essence and spirit remain.

A happy ending at last. This story is a testament to many things—belief being the prime one. I never stopped believing in the story. I can be flippant, but my stories mean a lot to me. I had a man down and I wasn’t leaving my soldier behind. Finally, I’ve brought him home.

Mission accomplished (for now),
Simon Wood
PS: The lovely Dave Zeltserman stands in for me while I’m away at Comic-Con. Dave has a great compansion piece to this week’s entry. The week after Robin Burcell with a few things to say.
PPS: In addition to finalizing contracts with Dorchester, I’ve swapped ink with Adams Media to write a humorous self-help book.