My First Dead Body

By Louise


Deadbody


I came across my first dead body when I was sixteen. I don’t remember his name and I’m sorry about that. Especially because I had so much to do with killing him.

I was cheerleader-fit that summer, and as callous and superficial as only a teenage girl can be. My mind was on high dives and bikini lines. Kevin and Eldon and Keith.  Not on the job at hand.

I was the rent collector at my mother’s rooming house and I wasn’t happy about it.

Color219south4th

The boarding house had a proud past and a dissolute future. It was built in 1888 to house the engineers, conductors and brakemen from the new transcontinental railroad that had just reached territorial Arizona, and was both the first-built and the last-standing two-story adobe building in Tucson.

By 1967, the time of my story, its decline was complete. The two-foot thick adobe walls were crumbling. Mice and mosquitoes used the sliced screen doors as grand promenades. There were only three hallway bathrooms left to service the twenty-eight guest rooms.

The clientele was in similar decline. We now catered only to the drunk, the sad, and the desperate. Sometimes they were the same person.

Friday was always a good day for collections. I took in thirty-five one-dollar bills from the Indian in room fourteen, keeping a wary eye on the knife handle sticking out from under his mattress. Lucy, my longest guest-in-residence in number twenty-three, wore only a polyester slip and painted on eyebrows. She had an open bottle of vodka on the bedside table. No glass in sight.

The character in room seven was my biggest problem. A thin, wild-eyed Latino, he’d arrived only two weeks before but was already behind on the rent.

“I have one room left,” I’d told him. “Top of the stairs at the front of the building.”

My brother and I had used plywood and discarded railroad ties to cobble together another two rooms out of the grand old wooden balcony on the second floor.

Splinters

The man had no luggage — that wasn’t unusual for my clientele — but when I opened the door to the porch room, he recoiled.

“It’s wood!”

“Yes, and it’s thirty five-dollars a week.”

“But I cannot …”

“You don’t want the room?”

“It’s the splinters.”

He was haunted by splinters from New Mexico, he said. They swarmed around him and prevented him from leaving town. They even kept him from going to see his daughter for help.

Hauntednewmexico

“They attack. They jab like knives. They try to blind me.”

“Take it or leave it.”

He’d steeled himself and swallowed hard. I handed him the key, but he was still standing in the hallway when I started back down the stairs.

Crazy fucker.

I did have one other room, but it hadn’t been cleaned and I wasn’t about to do that when it was a hundred and ten degrees out. And what the hell, it had a wooden ceiling too.

He’d paid for the first week, but I hadn’t seen him since. I’d squinted through the screen door when I’d come by on Wednesday. He was asleep on the bed and no amount of pounding or yelling could rouse him.

I wouldn’t go away empty handed today. I was hot and tired and angry about having to be a slumlord-cheerleader. I felt almost justified in having sentenced Mr. Cabeza Loca to a windowless, all-wooden room for the week.

But something was different today. The air was not just hot but fetid. There was a thickness to the smell, something that clung to the back of my throat like sewage.

He was on the bed. Dirty gray boxers and yellow toenails. One hand flung sideways off the mattress.

This time there was no rise and fall of his chest. No thin wheeze of restless sleep.

And his fingers were covered in a dark red tint.

The paramedics didn’t arrive very quickly. It was August, after all, and they had lots of dead bodies to attend to in this heat. When they did get there, I heard one paramedic tell his partner, “Did you see his fingers? He tried to claw his way out of there.”

I do not take death lightly now. Not in life and not in literature.

It is never pretty. It is rarely peaceful. And it can be soul rending to those left behind.

And I can’t read crime fiction that devalues that experience. I don’t care if you’re writing about an amateur sleuth who keeps tripping over bodies or the police detective who has to deal with them every day. Don’t make a joke of it. Or, if you do, show me that humor is the only way the character can deal with the death, because his heart is breaking.

Ken Bruen reminded us several weeks ago about the Bossuet quote:

“One must know oneself,

to the point of being horrified.” 

I do, and this nameless man on a Friday in August, 1967, is part of it.

We’re all carrying splinters from New Mexico somewhere in our past.

Womancarryingwood

 

LCU

What’s a body worth? Calculate it!

by Pari Noskin Taichert

Bodypinch2Putting on the first bathing suit of the summer can be a traumatic experience. Dimples appear in places they shouldn’t. Untanned thighs look like tapioca pudding. Stomachs pouch. Chests sag. It’s enough to make us pray for winter.

Instead, I’ve lowered my expectations.

Forget the bikinis or tankinis. I’m going for the old-lady garb. You know, the brightly colored suits with the little skirts that take attention away from the lower body. Hey, my arms are still in shape. And, with that low-cut front, you might even think I’ve got cleavage.

I’ve also instituted a better exercise regime. This is especially important since most of my day is spent at home, on my butt, in front of a computer. In addition to Tae Kwon Do, I’ve started swimming. Alas, from all the articles I’ve read — and charts I’ve studied — housework isn’t worth the effort. If it doesn’t burn enough calories, I’m not interested.

I’ve cut down on caffeine and increased my fresh veggie intake. I’m religious about wearing a hat/cap outdoors and no longer sunbathe at midday.

But what’s it all for? We all know the ultimate outcome of every good piece of "healthy" — a.k.a. "cardboard"– food consumed, every extra step taken, every scotch unsipped and every positive thought thought.

Sooner or later, we’ll all end up like Agatha Christie, Edgar Allen Poe and Sir Walter Conan Doyle — in the ground or mausoleum, on a mantle or scattered on a mountain top.

Bodyparts03_2Fear not, my lovelies. There’s good news even as we face this most mortal reality.

I present to you  . . . the Cadaver Calculator. Yes, it’s true. (Mystery writers: I call "dibs" on the obvious storylines.)

Go on. See how much your body is really worth. You just need to answer 20 tiny questions.

I came in at a little more than $4000.

What about you?

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Don’t Forget!!!!! Ken Bruen is on the Late Late Show with Craig Ferguson TONIGHT. I bet this blog is going to be abuzz with delight tomorrow morn.

NO! SLEEP! TILL BROOKLYN!!!

by JT Ellison

A perfect example of how a word can alter a story. I doubt the Beastie Boys would have rocketed up the charts with "No Sleep Till Manhattan," or "No Sleep until July 16th when I get home from the most excellent weekend of the year, THRILLERFEST." Whoops, I’m digressing again. And dating myself. Egads!

Yes, it’s that time of year again, folks. I’m leaving for New York on Wednesday. Last year’s Thrillerfest in Phoenix was my very first large conference, and I had a blast running around with the Killer Year crew, meeting my literary gods, attending the coolest panels, and generally being an idiot. This year will be much, much different. I’m a teensy bit nervous, to tell you the truth.

When I look at my schedule for the four day event, it astounds me to think of how much time, effort, and hard work the organizers of this conference have gone to. I’m on two panels, have a video shoot, lunch with my editor, dinner with my agent, a cocktail party, a volunteer stint on Friday, the ITW general meeting, Author Bingo to participate in, panels of friends and authors I admire to attend, and the most important job: people to meet, readers to hopefully impress — I wonder how in the world the people who are organizing the conference and the headliners have time to think, much less be ON for four days. Mind-boggling, really.

What’s odd about this year is the fact that I’m an author. Yes, last year I got my name tag and nearly burst with pride when I saw ITW AUTHOR under my name. This year, it means something. I have a book to promote. Friday morning I need to introduce myself to who knows how many people, utilizing a microphone no less, and pray I don’t make an ass of myself or turn into a gibbering mess, bumbling my way through my 60 seconds, or pass out when Lee Child asks me a question. (Lee, if you’re reading, be gentle.) Sunday I’ll be on a panel with friends and strangers, answering questions for an audience. An audience, people.

Jitters? Hmm. I do and I don’t. I’m never thrilled to have to be the center of attention. Sure, I like attention as much as the next person, but I’m more of a one-on-one kind of girl, because to be honest, I like to hear about the other person more than I like to talk about myself. I know I need to conquer this little fear, and I will. But I’ll probably stutter and stammer a few times along the way. And you know what? That’s okay. The world will not end if I say "Um," a couple of times. Will it? On no. Don’t answer that. You’ll just get me thinking.

So why do we do this to ourselves? Being a novelist these days means a full media presence is necessary. You need to be witty, sharp on your feet, willing to step out of your comfort zone and expand your horizons. You need to be able to talk to booksellers and reviewers. Most importantly, you need to be able to talk to your readers. I don’t have any yet (unless you scored a now hard to get galley at BEA) so I’m still in a nice little comfort zone of pitching the story (ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS introduces series character Taylor Jackson, a homicide lieutenant chasing a vicious serial killer through the southeast.) As a debut author, the expectations are two-fold. Be able to talk about your book and your writing in a semi-intelligent manner, and maintain some semblance of sageness and sobriety after hours. The way I look at it, don’t step on your tail, and don’t step on the tail of any other author, and you should be okay.

Toss into the mix that I’m a complete goober fangirl, will be channeling my inner Valley Girl (like, OHMIGOD!) at the mere thought of being under the same roof as the incredible authors who make up the membership of International Thriller Writers (Lee Child! Barry Eisler! Gayle Lynds! Vince Flynn! Jim Rollins! Tess Gerritsen! on and on and on) and Bob’s your uncle.

Bear in mind, you never get a second chance to make a first impression. Thrillerfest isn’t a party. It’s a business meeting. I’m so thankful that hubby will be traveling to New York with me. As my business partner, marketing maven, manager, etc., he is also my rock. Not every author is lucky enough to have such a savvy spouse who can take time from their own important life to support them. I’m blessed in that regard. It’s also great for him to see the inner workings of the conference, to meet the players, to continue learning the industry from the inside. And if I blow it, which I may well do, he’ll be there to hold me up. 

So here I am, on the cusp on another major moment in my publishing career. Not only do we have Thrillerfest looming, the galleys have gone out to the reviewers. With first timer-itis coursing through my delicate debut veins, I’m in that wide abyss of wait and see. Will they love it? Will they hate it? Honestly, I expect to have a bit of both, and hope for a nice showing of middle ground positive. But who knows? Crime fiction is a terribly subjective genre. What rocks one readers boat may drive a hole through the bottom and sink the yacht of the reader next to them. You’ve just got to have faith that your agent and editor aren’t lying to you, that the whole publishing scenario isn’t some kind of big cosmic joke where you wake up one morning having only dreamed you’ve published your baby.

If you’ll be attending Thrillerfest, please, come say hello. I’d love to meet any and all Murderati readers who have been sharing this journey with me. Let’s sit down in the bar, share a lovely glass of red, and you can tell me a little more about you.

And then, I plan to sleep. Wish me luck!

Wine of the Week: Since I’m of two minds about my nervousness, let’s do light and dark this week. A lovely Cusumano Nero D’Avola will address my angst, and to celebrate the book releases of my dear friends, Brett Battles and Jason Pinter, a little bit of fine Italian bubbly, a Zardetto Prosecco.

BREAKING NEWS FROM MURDERATI to All You Naughty Little Monkeys

Don’t forget to watch our own Ken Bruen on THE LATE LATE SHOW with Craig Ferguson July 9th!!!!

How To Marry A Mystery Writer

In his excellent book ON WRITING, Stephen King gives the best advice for a long-writing career: Read a lot, write a lot, and stay married.  As a recently enaged young man, my mind has been on that last partlately.

I’m 30, almost 31 and I think one of the reasons I’ve put off marriage this long is because I’ve known I wanted to be a writer and I knew it was going to take a special kind of person to be married to a writer.  I also didn’t want to be tied down and prevented from doing all of the things, going all of the places, and learning all of the lessons needed for a vital writing career.

But now that I’ve had all of those experiences and I’m settling into a semi-responsible life I’ve been looking for that someone special and it’s been an interesting hunt.  It took me quite a while to realize the best mate for me as a writer is NOT another writer or artist.  I like to be the artsy fartsy one, the tortured one, the irresponsible and dreamy one.

So finally I found my perfect match in a banker named Becky Kilgore who owns a grand total of maybe 10 books.  She doesn’t read much, but she reads my stuff and asks the kind of great common sense questions that only non-readers are capable of noticing.  She has no tolerance for literary flair without purpose and is ruthless in her need to be entertained.  That’s great for me.

Now, to those of you out there with spouses and significant others,here’s a chance to give advice and shout-outs to your own best partner.  What balance of reader/non-reader or writer/non-writer works
for you.  Any advice for my bride-to-be on being married to a writer? And also, tell us about some of the worst writer’s spouses  you’ve heard of.  We want dish people.

Bryon Quertermous
http://bryonquertermous.blogspot.com
http://www.bryonquertermous.com

How I Spent My Summer Vacation

by J.D. Rhoades

 

One of my favorite things about vacation is the amount of uninterrupted time it gives me to read. And oh, boy, do I read. I usually take a Big Bag O’Books with me to the beach, and I start filling it with paperbacks at least a month in advance. See, I don’t speed-read as such, but when I have the time to really sit down and concentrate (and no Interweb to distract me), I plow through books at a clip that makes my wife shake her head in disbelief. My record is seventeen novels in one week (and I’m sure some of our loyal readers out there can top it).

This year, I had a particularly fine selection. Here are some of the highlights:

  • SOLOMON V. LORD, Paul Levine: Ironic, isn’t it, that after my post on why I don’t generally get into legal thrillers, one of the books I fell in love with happens to be just that? Well, that’s summer love for you.  I did say that I didn’t mind the legal inaccuracies when the book was a comedy, and there’s plenty of comedy in SOLOMON VS. LORD. There’s also the fact that, when the characters pull shenanigans in the courtroom, they end up exactly where you would in a real courtroom, to wit: in the little holding cell "backstage". In fact, that’s how this romantic comedy/legal thriller opens: with its bickering protagonists in opposite cells. Now THERE’S  a meet -cute for you! There’s some great snappy  dialogue, some quirky characters, some real emotion, all in all, a perfect beach read. I can’t wait to read the rest of the series.
  • HARD REVOLUTION, George P. Pelecanos: Pelecanos’ Derek Strange is one of my favorite P.I.’s ever, a flawed but, in the end, a righteous man. This book goes back to the time of the Martin Luther King assassination (and the  riots that erupted in reaction to it) to partially explain how Derek became the man he is.  It’s tragic, it’s moving…hell, it’s Pelecanos. There’s no need to say more.
  • PAGAN BABIES, Elmore Leonard: By tradition, I always take at least one Leonard on vacation with me. This one has a contemporary angle, beginning as it does in Rwanda a few years after the genocide. But once the action moves back to the States, the usual Leonard cast of characters manifests itself: the  weary middle-aged guy who’s seen too much, the younger (but not too much younger) female love interest who’s got a past of her own, the wise-ass tough guys, etc. I enjoyed it, because I always enjoy Elmore Leonard. When I read him now, though,  I start to get the feeling about halfway through that I’ve heard all this before.
  • WICKED BREAK, Jeff Shelby: How can you NOT take a book about a surfing P.I. to the beach with you? I thoroughly enjoyed Jeff’s debut novel, KILLER SWELL, and this one is even better. San Diego Private Eye Noah Braddock and his tough-as-nails buddy Carter deal with a missing persons case that turns into a battle with some truly nasty white supremacist types. Shelby deftly weaves the surfing bits and local color into the book without slowing down the plot, and the characters here take on more depth than in the last one. The writing and plotting is tighter, too. This series gets better and better.
  • HEART OF THE HUNTER, Deon Meyer: I finally got around to reading this one, which was in the goodie bag at my very first Bouchercon two years ago. It’s an excellent cloak and dagger thriller with a fascinating protagonist: a six-foot-three African named Tiny who used to work as an international assassin and whose preferred weapon was the traditional bayonet-like short spear known as the assegai. (He’s an excellent marksman, but he likes that personal touch). Frankly, the book had me at this point. I mean, come on. You can’t hardly get more bad-ass than a guy who kills people on streets of Paris with a damn spear. When an old friend in trouble calls Tiny out of  his peaceful retirement, it starts a white knuckle chase across southern Africa. The stuff about post-apartheid South African politics is a little confusing at first, but worth the trouble it takes to puzzle through.

So what are you guys reading this summer (other than SAFE AND SOUND, the third Jack Keller novel, available July 10th)?

Photos

By Ken Bruen


One of my favourite photos …….. a long shot.

The tide is out on Grattan beach, a long way out.  The sun is bouncing off the barely visible sea. You can see two stick figures, clearly dancing

Like Zorba

The figures appear equidistant from the water and the photographer. My wife took that snap

We were happy then

Grace and I danced on the beach like seals. My daughter was six then and I can hear her laughter still


One of my perennial books is Hemingway’s, A Movable Feast

The Paris days

He writes how happy he and Mary were and he wrote, there was wood all around them and he never knocked on it, for luck

I’m sure there was lots of driftwood on the beach that day but it never occurred to me to touch it, my other daughter, gone 2 years now, and she wasn’t in the photo, she is always in me heart


I have a magnificent shot of my close friend, a poet, perched on a Harley Davidson in The Grand Canyon. He looks free, as if the good times were hovering all around him

Before the poems darkened and  before the funerals.

Before he took his life and it took me so long to forgive him, god forgive me for being angry so long


Another photo of Grace and I, looks like we’re wearing identical sweatshirts and it seems almost sepia in tone, we’re staring off to the right, in wonderment, as if something magical was at hand

Most of my friends remark on the spirituality of the picture and ask what on earth we were watching

Sesame Street


I have a photo of my Dad when he was in his thirties, it hangs above my desk, he looks nothing like me and I don’t know now how I feel about that.  His suit is circa George Raft and he had the mandatory cigarette of the times, his hair is black and shiny and what I love most is the expression in his eyes, reads
                                                
                            “Take your best shot.

When I visit his grave, and realize yet again that he is truly gone, I whisper

“You were able for the best."

He was

That Noel, my beloved brother, and my mother lie each side of him is mixed comfort.

And 2 months ago, I added me only gorgeous beloved sister to the plot, fookit, I could weep but us Irish guys, shite, we don’t weep, we talk about hurling and women we had………..

Jesus wept


Photos, all I know of heaven and hell

Somedays, I derive scant comfort therein and others, I can’t look at them at all

I carry a photo in my wallet that I never…………….ever look at, it’s there, I know but I’m adept at using my wallet frequently without ever seeing it. She is smiling in the picture and I must have been too though I forget now but I know she has an expression of such longing, such………..yearning in her eyes and I still wonder for what?

Now of course, I’ll never know

I should have asked

You think?


In my files the other day, a snap fell out of an old notebook, in the days when I thought I might be a poet, god bless my ignorance, and it shows me on top of the Twin Towers, dressed in my security uniform. I had a job minding the North tower, I was Nineteen and could barely mind myself and they thought I could mind The Towers. I don’t recognize that person, I know it’s me but it’s not anyone I know, not any more. That person has a face full of such hope and anticipation, and almost, happiness.

God in heaven, if only that poor soul had any notion  what was coming down the pike, he might

Well………… have jumped……………….. sometimes I wish he did……………..

jump that is

When my beloved brother Noel died, a vagrant alcoholic in The Australian Outback, we received his body home in a sealed casket

The night before the funeral mass, as the coffin lay in the church, I placed a large framed photo of Noel on the coffin, when he was in his prime, his smiling face fills the whole space

A week after the funeral, I ran into a friend of mine who asked

“Why did you use two photos of Noel?"

“What?"

“On the Sunday, we thought it was great that your dad was standing behind Noel in the photo and then on Monday, at the mass, it was just Noel alone.”

I swore it was the one picture, I hadn’t touched it or used any other. He gave me an odd look and moved on

My Dad, in one of those awful ironies, had died a little over four weeks before Noel

Photos never lie

Do they?


The photo of my late sister, shows me giving her her first  puppy ………… Jaysus, I’m sounding like freaking Bobby Goldsboro and how the feck old am I if I remember

Honey”?

She has the most radiant smile you ever saw………………..

Her name was Jess and she was truly, one of the sweetest girls but life, life was too much for her

By an odd twist of  fate, I Heard Janis Ian recently………..singing, Jesse, come home……….maybe she’s home now

I had pledged to write a happy post this time and trust me, soon as I get it, happy, you’ll get the post

Only a few days ago, my late daughter’s husband sent me a photo of Aine on her wedding day

Am I going to look at that

Am I fook

K.B.

Three Qualities of the Best PR Pros

by Pari Noskin Taichert

Though Murderati focuses on the writing life, this article can apply to any PR situation or business. It’s part of an ongoing series I’ve dubbed PR 101.

Any novelist will tell you: Flashes of true creativity are few and far between. The real stuff of successful storytelling and prose comes in the daily butt-in-the-chair exercise of drafting, writing, editing, refining, editing and editing again.

The same holds true for PR. It’s hard work. At its core, public relations is about building relationships and most relationships take energy, time, consistency and effort.

While there are PR wunderkinder — the ones that make our jaws drop with their innovative techniques and staggering vigor — don’t let their zeal paralyze you. The most effective PR pros I know aren’t loud or in-your-face. They’re mostly modest, quiet, ego-less people. They spend much of their days with the nitty-gritty — licking envelopes, sending emails, searching for media outlets, calling, following up, being true to their word, showing up at events and practicing the three qualities below:

Empathy
Product Empathy: In PR, you need to understand, and be able to articulate, the nugget that captures the essence of what you’re trying to "sell." Without this sensibility, your pitches and angles will be hackneyed and ineffective.

Audience Empathy:  If you can define and key-in on what motivates your audiences, what they care about, you’ll be able to better wow and move them.

Sympathy
You know what it feels like to be overwhelmed by information, to feel inundated with trivia, to be so busy you want to break down and cry. You know what it’s like to feel pestered by phone sales calls, direct mail campaigns, and fliers stuck in your screen doors and on your windshields.

Most other people feel the same way. If this awareness informs your PR work, you’ll win friends everywhere you pitch.

Smart Determination
When you set goals, be ready to do what it takes to attain them. If you want media hits, work with several outlets — that way you’re bound to succeed with some of them. If your angle isn’t generating enthusiasm with any of them, go back to the drawing board and rework it.

If one organization isn’t yielding the results you want, find another.

Be persistent but don’t bang your head against a wall. Don’t annoy people who reject your spiels; find others who are receptive.

And, even if your pitch is brilliant, if it’s nixed by the people you need to impress . . . Abandon it and start over.

Remember, this isn’t about your ego. It’s about reaching your goals. Practice empathy, sympathy and smart determination until they become habit. They’ll serve you well in business — and in life.

Yada, Yada, Yada: The Role of Dialogue

By Mike MacLean

Dialogue_ctr_2 Working on the screenplay got me thinking about the nature of dialogue. 

It can be argued that dialogue plays two major roles in storytelling. 

First, it may expose something about a character–their background, personality, temperament, etc. 

Secondly, it can be a means to move the story along, revealing important details about the plot.

But is one of these more important than the other?

Those who write character driven stories would likely argue that dialogue is best when it helps paint human portraits.  When done well, slang or accents are like brushstrokes, adding layers of color and depth.  They wrap the raw bones of a character with flesh so they read like real human beings.

However, when not done well–when reduced to the level of stereotype–slang and accents can have the reverse effect.  Hit a false note, and you risk making your reader cringe.  Instead of ringing true, the character’s voice sounds like a construction, and the character then becomes merely a plot device.  Nothing pulls me out of a story quicker.

Even if dialogue rings true, too much regional flavor can wear thin.  The British pulp classic Yardie is a prime example. N69468_3  

I admired author Victor Headly’s ruthless, stripped-down prose.  His dialogue, however, was so filled with Jamaican and British vernacular that I got lost in all the verbiage. 

I didn’t doubt the authenticity of Headly’s characters, and their words added spice to the story.  But all in all, I would have preferred to know what the hell they were talking about.  At least once in a while. ‘ere da ting star, guess me no boo-yackiest!  (For the record, I still give Yardie a thumbs up and would like to see more of his work hit the States)

Those who see dialogue primarily as means to move the plot along face the opposite problem: creating dry, inhuman voices.  Sure readers will understand every word uttered, but we won’t care because we won’t identify with the characters.  We won’t feel they are truly human.

In my work, I tend to write lean dialogue with occasional dashes of vernacular sprinkled in for flavor.  When it works, I feel I’ve skated between the two roles of dialogue, achieving the best of both worlds.  When it doesn’t work, (which is more often than I’d like to admit) my characters sound like automatons, each speaking with the same voice.

So let’s hear it, murder fans. 

What style of dialogue do you find most effective? 
OR 
When reading dialogue, what makes you roll your eyes?

So what about self-publishing?

by Alex

This week I’m going to be on a panel called “How to Get Published” on which I am the representative for traditional publishing – as opposed to self-publishing.

Sometimes I’m not so sure I should be doing panels like this until I get another year or two’s worth of experience under my belt – I am still so new to publishing in general and a little terrified of saying the wrong thing.  We are, after all, talking about people’s dreams.

On the other hand, as a lot of you know, I have been OUT there on the circuit a lot this year, and arguably have crammed much more than a year’s worth of experience and observation into that year.

But in this case I thought I’d try soliciting as much information from you all on this subject as I can coax out of you so I can go into this panel at least a little more informed than I am.   Maybe we can all learn something.

In my experience and observation, the steps to publication, likewise the steps to a script sale, are really pretty simple.

!.   Write a great book (script).

2.    Get a great agent.

3.    Agent sells book to great publisher (studio/prodco).

4.    Repeat, hopefully minus step two, since you’ve already got that covered.

Now, of course, none of that is simple at all.   (It’s like Steve Martin’s advice on how to become a millionaire:  “First you get a million dollars.”)

But those really are the steps, and they make utter sense.   First you have to write something good enough to publish.   You have to get an agent because so many people write so much that is NOT good, and agents are one of the key filters for all that bad stuff that’s out there that we really don’t ever want published.   On one very important level, agents are quality control.

A good agent also serves the very important purpose (among many others I won’t be going into today) of matching material to publishers.    Your book has a much better chance of success if it’s placed with a house that is enthusiastic about it and is capable of putting it out to its specific market.

Now, I went the above very traditional route to sell my first script (and each subsequent script) and I went that very traditional route to sell my first two books, and it really never would have occurred to me to go any other way because I always figured those established routes were there for a reason.   Self-publishing perplexes me, because it seems a much, much, MUCH harder way to go, with about a million times more chance of failing utterly in what you’re trying to do.

That was my unschooled feeling about self-publishing even before I started getting out there on the convention circuit and hearing the vitriol directed at self-published authors from professional authors’ organizations and traditionally published authors and booksellers, many of whom will not deal with self-published books at all (“That’s not self-publishing, that’s self-PRINTING.”)  That’s already a huge reason not to self-publish. 

My own impression is that some people self-publish because

1)    They don’t know enough about the publishing business and don’t understand the logic and benefits of following the traditional routes to publication

2)    They’re too impatient or too afraid to follow the traditional routes

3)    They actually have a vision that might be a little ahead of its time and instead of taking no for an answer they take on the vast task of publishing and marketing themselves.

I don’t have any statistics to give you but the anecdotal evidence points to the first two reasons are responsible for MOST of the self-publishing.    And I can’t see anyone who self-publishes for one of those two reasons ever having an actual career as an author.   I understand that there’s an instant gratification about self-publishing, a feeling of self-determination about it – to barrel through and get your manuscript into a book form, choose your own cover, be able to hold it in your hands.

But then what?

Then you have to market the book, and there is no way that most individuals have the same capacity, resources, experience or savvy to market the way a publisher can.   Self-publishing seems like a short cut but in reality, much more often it’s a dead end.

Still, there are situations which absolutely call for self-publishing.   Family histories, local histories, community cookbooks – these are valuable records and resources for limited but avid audiences which a traditional publisher would probably never touch, but which should absolutely be collected and printed, and which might enjoy quite a lot of local success.

And there are those breakout exceptions, like THE CELESTINE PROPHECY, which really was a landmark New Age book that traditional publishers didn’t “get” at the time the author, James Redfield, shopped it.   But he had a vision, and the requisite passion to market it himself.   He self-published, got the book into New Age bookstores himself, and the book became an international phenomenon and cottage industry (over 20 million copies sold worldwide, translated into 34 languages, independent film adaptation, workshops, classes, lectures….)

And bestselling fantasy author Sherrilyn Kenyon started in e publishing with a series that was ahead of the paranormal curve – and got picked up by St. Martin’s after she clearly demonstrated that there was a huge audience for what she was doing.

And I can imagine that if marketing is a forte of yours, you could self-publish a specialty book (on, for example, ordinary household spells and love charms) that you could market online  to a target audience and make a bundle.    If you’re willing to work it.

I believe success in writing has a great deal to do with being very specific about what you want and about what you yourself are willing and capable of doing to get it.

I don’t think I have the skill set to succeed as a self-published author, but I’m quite sure there are some people who do.

Now I’m interested in hearing other perspectives on self-publishing, pro and con.    Scourge of the industry or viable option?   Any other examples of great – or moderate – successes, or great failures?

VIRGIN WRITERS

By Chris Grabenstein One of the most interesting panels at this year’s MAYHEM IN THE MIDLANDS out in Omaha was one moderated by William Kent Krueger called “The Me You Never See: The Secret Life of Your Favorite Authors.”

When he asked, “What’s your sign?” I thought at first that Mr. Krueger, apart from being an Anthony Award-winning author and all around great guy, was a time traveler from a 70s Single Bar. But, when about half the writers on the panel responded Virgo (or at least some Virgo influence), I knew he was on to something.

What my wife and I call Virgosity.

You see I was born on September 2nd. I am a Virgo. This explains why I eat the same whole grain muffin with peanut butter and honey every day at 9:32 A.M. Why I have two mugs on my desk: one for black pens, the other for red. Nothin’ but Sharpies.

Wait. Looks like someone snuck a baby blue ball-point into the red mug when I was in the other room preparing my 3:30 p.m. cup of coffee.

The ballpoint is dead to me.

Yes, to create the chaos of my mystery and thrillers requires lots of order and structure. Not outlines. More important stuff like two coasters: one for the coffee mug, one for the bottled water. Always to the left of the computer screen. The right is where the note pad has to sit.

Here’s what one Internet stargazer said about Virgo, the Virgin, the only female sign in the Zodiac: “Virgo wants to make sense out of the world, and will observe, study, research, compare, and record. Virgo likes paper, where ideas are presented in tangible form. In fact, an ancient picture of the Goddess shows her with a papyrus headdress. Virgo is often a fine writer, or poet, or critic.”

I’m ordering up one of those papyrus headdresses, pronto. And a rhyming dictionary so I can move into my poet phase.

Agatha Christie was a Virgo. J.K. Rowling has some heavy Virgo influence. Theodore Dreisser, D.H. Lawrence, Lilly Tomlin, Leonard Bernstein, BB King, Sean Connery and Sophia Loren – Virgos all.

But then again, so was William Howard Taft, America’s 27th (and fattest) president. WHT probably could’ve been a writer if he hadn’t been so busy doing other things such as consuming mass quantities of mutton.

Virgos crave routine. Be it regular servings of mutton and hash, or a daily writing schedule that begins to resemble the Bill Murray movie Groundhog Day.

The major pitfall of Virgo is worry.

I was afraid of that.

It’s why we Virgo writers never think we’re finished rewriting even after the hardcover and paperback have already come out. When I do a reading from one of my books, I always see words I should’ve changed, sentences I could’ve cut.

We always want to make things better. Maybe it’s why so many mystery writers on that panel were Virgos.

In mysteries, order is, typically, restored at the end. The loose ends are all tied up. All the pens are in their proper containers.

Now, if you will excuse me, it’s 4:30 p.m. Time to take my dog Fred out for a walk, the same walk we took yesterday at 4:30 p.m.

Fred, the dog, has a schedule, too. We suspect he may be a Virgo and is secretly writing a mystery where the cats don’t solve the crimes but are the victims.

Chris Grabenstein