Formula for Disaster

by Pari Noskin Taichert

One of the most damning criticisms reviewers and readers can lob is: "It’s too formulaic." The opposite of this dig seems to be the tired "transcends the genre" comment — as if that’s a good thing.

I used to think I knew what these meant. That was in the beginning of my career as a novelist. Those were the same years when I fought the subgenre in which I’d chosen to base my series.

Now, the more I learn, the more I’m confused. You see, I think just about every kind of fiction is formulaic.

First of all, there’s the little question of beginning-middle-end.
Then there’s protagonist-must-grow.
What about there-must-be-conflict?
Could a good thriller not contain hero-must-be-in-danger?
How about dialogue-must-move-the-story-forward?

From where I sit, formulas are everywhere.

IMHO, we bemoan predictability while actually craving it. That’s why genres and subgenres exist in the first place.

We know that in traditional romances, a man and woman meet. They don’t like each other. Something happens to change this initial response. Love blooms. Happy ending (with sex thrown in, please).

That’s why people read romances; they know what’s going to happen. Is there something wrong with that? Does the predictability make the read any less valid or pleasurable? Why does it earn our scorn?

In traditional mysteries, someone is murdered (or there’s another compelling crime). An amateur sleuth rises to the challenge and hunts down clues. He or she figures out who did it. Justice is served. Happy ending.

Opps. Sorry. Too formulaic.

In thrillers, we expect the David-Goliath set up: common man/woman against EVIL. The action, and there’s plenty of it, ratchets up until the breath-taking climax. Little David saves the day, exposes the conspiracy, prevents the virus from being released into the general population. We want that.

In noir, we’re guaranteed that awful things happen in weird ways. They spiral downward and won’t get better (ennui and world-weariness always add good spice here). We want this off-kilter reflection of our world.

Private investigators and policemen (and coroners and forensics experts) take cases and, most often, solve them. We want the experts, the skilled and knowledgeable, to succeed.

Where’s the formula crime perpetrated? In the writing? In the genre? In the plot?

I know that some books, like movies, leave me cold when I can predict the next scene or plot point. For some reason, I don’t want predictability on that smaller level. But if I’m reading or going to a comedy, I sure as hell expect to laugh during the experience.

"It’s too formulaic." What do we really mean by that?

Is there some kind of distinction we draw between micro and macro formulaic-ness? Where, in the work, is the sin committed that merits this horrid condemnation? Why do some books attract that odd praise about transcendence?

I’d love to hear from you about this; it truly fascinates me . . .

I FEEL SO USED

Books

Mike MacLean

I have a dirty little secret.  No, it’s not the man I shot in Reno once just to watch him die.  No, it’s not the "Mayonnaise incident."  It’s much, much worse.

I buy secondhand books.

Of course, not all the books I purchase are used.  When an author I like rolls into town, I always grab something new at the signing.  Or when one of those books come along, one of those intriguing stories that I simply must read, I’m right there with my $25 bucks.

But just as often, I buy used.  It’s not something I’m proud of.

It doesn’t matter that I’m a high school teacher or that my wife is going back to college or that we’re expecting a baby next month.  I still feel guilty buying used books.  I feel as if I’m betraying all those great writers I’ve met over the past few years.  After all, according to both the Authors Guild and the Association of American Publishers the promotion of used book sales, by Amazon in particular, "will cut significantly into sales of new titles, directly harming authors and publishers" (NY Times).

So when you buy a used book, you’re essentially picking the pockets of authors and publishers.  It’s like stealing, right?  I certainly don’t want to steal from writers.  Hell, that’s what I want to be when I grow up–a working writer.

There is, however, another perspective.

At $25 bucks a pop, I’m unlikely to check out an author I’ve never read before.  But if the same book is only $5 bucks, I’ll give it a whirl.  If the novel isn’t for me, I’m only out a few bucks.  I might even give that same author another chance.  On the other hand, if I spend full price on a new book and it doesn’t scream to me, the writer goes on my black list.  More than likely, I’ll never pick up another one of her books again.

What often happens is I take a risk on a used book then get hooked.  Cost be damned, I’m not waiting for the next Lee Child to hit the used racks.  That could be months.  I need it right now! 

According to the New York Times, the sale of used books might have another, less obvious, impact. 

"The presence of a market for used books makes consumers more willing to buy new books, because they can easily dispose of them later. A car salesman will often highlight the resale value of a new car, yet booksellers rarely mention the resale value of a new book. Nevertheless, the value can be quite significant."

Furthermore, despite the comments from the Author’s Guild, I’ve never heard any specific writers speak out against the sale of used books.  Most I’ve met support libraries.  Why not support secondhand book sellers?

In the coming years, the novel will face competition like it never has before.  Low priced DVDs (a new movie is already cheaper than a new hardback).  Video games (which aren’t just for kids anymore).  The Internet (too much stuff).  Who knows what else is coming down the pike.  In the bloody free-for-all for the entertainment dollar, secondhand book sales might just keep a few more readers out there from straying–a few we can’t spare.   

So why do I still feel guilty about buying used books?  Are all the points I’ve explored merely rationalizations?

To published authors out there: What’s your take on used book sales? 

To the hardcore fans: Do you share my shame?               

 

Let’s Talk About… Gender

by Alex

Ooh, scary.   But maybe I can get away with it because it’s St. Patrick’s Day and everyone’s going to be drunk by noon anyway, right?

Maybe I’ve been thinking about gender and writing because there have been some little mini-explosions on the subject on several listserves/message boards I’m on.   Some female writers challenging a list of favorite mystery authors because there were practically no women on the list.  A guy storming out of a romance writers class on “How Men Think” because, from what I gather, the instructor basically said that – well, they don’t.   (That is an argument I don’t intend to touch, by the way…). 

Or maybe I’ve been thinking about it because I made the unbelievably stupid move of writing my second book from the male protagonist’s POV.   Never again, let me tell you.

I’ve got to say that with a few notable exceptions (Stephen King, Charles Dickens, Ira Levin, F. Paul Wilson… Shakespeare…)  most of my favorite writers in any particular genre, but particularly my genre, are women.   The Brontes,  Jane Austen, Lillian Hellman, Anne Rice, Shirley Jackson, Madeleine L’Engle.   Current mystery reading – can’t get enough of Karin Slaughter, PD James, Val McDermid, Minette Walters, Margaret Maron.

Well, it makes sense, doesn’t it?   I’m a woman,  I think like a woman, I react to the world as a woman.   Don’t get me wrong, I love men (um… to distraction, is the problem…)

But frankly, they’re exhausting.   And reading men can be that way, too.   I mean, it takes work.   Like, it’s great and exciting and sexy and stimulating to travel in a foreign country, but doesn’t it also feel good just to come home, where everyone talks like you do and dresses like you do and you’re not fighting with the language and culture and mores?   Where you can just relax and be yourself?

That’s what reading women is like, for me. 

I’m not talking about quantity, by the way.  I certainly read just as many men as I do women.   It’s the comfort level I’m getting at.

I think it has a lot to do with the fact that I read and write violence.   Crime, mystery, suspense, supernatural terror.   Danger, jeopardy, death.

And it is so cathartic for me to read women writing violence because women live with the threat of violence so intimately that it’s what I can only call a relief to read it from another woman’s POV  (But I won’t go there right now because Cornelia Read did so well with the topic recently, here.).

So given all of the above, why on earth would I be writing from a male POV with this book  (besides the obvious masochism thing, but that’s another post…)?

Well, it’s simple.   Because that was the story.   He was the main character.   So what could I do?

What I found is that it’s MUCH harder to write a book with a male lead than a script with a male lead, because with a book you have to be inside his head all the time.   Which is just, well, scary.   And like being in a body brace at the same time.

Luckily I have male writer friends coaching me along, for which I am eternally grateful, but it’s WORK, people, doing this male thing.

I was talking about my book, THE PRICE, in a college class I was speaking to and (because I seem unable to censor myself these days) railing about how hard it is to write a man, and one of them quite logically asked me, “Why didn’t you just write it from the wife’s POV?” 

Well, that stopped me for a second.   Had I been ignoring the obvious all along?

But no.   While it would have been easier for me to write from the wife’s voice, and while she actually is the one who goes through the most trauma in the story, she doesn’t really CHANGE.   She is ready and willing to make the big move from the very beginning of the story and she does it without question, while her husband is NOT ready to make that commitment in the beginning and he has far more of a struggle with himself to get to that point.   And that struggle is the definition of drama.

So it was, intrinsically, his story, and I had to tell it from his POV to make it a story.

Maybe I should have waited for a couple of books to tackle something so alien, but the bottom line is, the story is the story.   And I want to be a good writer of men, being that you all are half the human equation, and nothing really makes any sense without you.

So I guess what I want here (besides Guinness, because, you know, because) is some commiseration, and/or advice.   

For writers – how have the rest of you dealt with writing from the POV of that other gender, male or female?    Did it flow, or did you feel possessed by the demon Pazuzu?   And for readers and writers -are there writers you feel write the opposite gender (from themselves) really brilliantly?   

Beware the Ides of March…

JT Ellison

Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. (Matthew 6:34)

It’s in the air. Can’t you feel it? The pervasive grumpiness, the short tempers, the unkind thoughts, words and deeds. It’s everywhere, this unsettled, speculative funk. It creeps under doors in the middle of the night, infusing its victims with an overwhelming urge to scream, to lash out at their friends and foes alike. And it breeds. Yes, it’s that time of year again. One imagines Ceaser might have heeded the warning had he been a scribe rather than a king.

Winter lasts a few weeks too long when you’re a writer.

I know what happens to me when I’m not getting my proper allotment of daylight. I get cranky. And snappish. And when I’m under stress, which I have been quite a bit lately (go figure) I turn into the wild woman of Borneo, replete in my frustration, tearing my hair out at the slightest provocation. This is not me. It isn’t my personality. And from what I know of the rest of the crime fiction microcosm I call home, it isn’t a normal state for any of you, either.

Now someone on high decided it would be a good idea to move the clocks around early, which means I’m doubly frustrated because my body tells me it’s a different time than the clock, and I’m all kinds of screwed up on my schedule. Grr.

There is a cure. Well, there are a couple of cures. One would be to stop going to list serves and blogs, quit reading email, stop the paper for a few weeks, turn off the televisions, cocoon in our little holes, not having contact with anyone or anything until the days are longer, the vitamin D deficiencies are restored, and people can be nice again.

Or, you can join a basketball pool. That’s right. It’s that time of year again. MARCH MADNESS is here!!!!!!

                        20060121insidelofton_2

The brackets save me. Every year, just when I’m starting to think winter will never end and my husband is about to wring my neck, I get the email from my bracket manager telling me it’s time. Woo-hoo!!! I’m generally not a betting person, but I’ve won big in the pool before, and am completely hooked. I do two brackets each year, one of reasonable chance, and one wildcard, with the 13 seeds moving into the Sweet 16, major upsets, and other unlikelihoods. Last year, my wildcard bracket got me further than my mainstream, and I had a chance at taking the whole thing until Florida made it to the Final Four. Whoops, I just thought of a very ungracious word to call them.

My spirits are rising as I write this, because I know once I’m finished here, and I do my 1,000 words for the day, I get to sit down with laptop, ESPN, the newspaper and my gut, and start making choices so I can turn my brackets in.

This is the exercise that works to drag me out of the winter doldrums. What do you do to call a moratorium on grumpiness??? Is it too early to start hoping for a little sweetness and light?

Wine of the Week: Francis Coppola Diamond Series Merlot

I’d tasted this at a festival and wasn’t thrilled. Had it alone the other night at the hockey game and loved it. Apparently my tastebuds are in betrayal mode.

——-

Late breaking update:

The brackets are submitted and I’ve taken few chances this year. Florida takes it all on sheet 1, Georgetown on sheet 2. If either of them lose early, don’t blame me.

Prepared

I’m ready for the big one—even if I don’t know when or what that is.  Maybe I should explain.  Last week, I qualified to be a disaster relief worker in California after a number of training classes held over a few weeks.    Because of my day job, this was compulsory for me, but at the same time, I was interested in taking part.  When unusual offers fall in my lap, I want to learn more.  The course covered basic fire suppression, first-aid, search and rescue and running a shelter.  The classes were taught by firefighters, the Red Cross, rescue workers and nurses.  It was a little overwhelming.  I feel we only scratched the surface, but at least I have an idea of what to do now.
 
I think most of the people taking the course (me included) had a lot of preconceived notions.  These were dispelled very quickly.  It ain’t like a Hollywood movie.  Nobody runs into burning buildings without a moment’s thought for themselves and others.  There is a method—a whole bunch of it.  It was surprising how callous the decision-making has to be when it comes to search and rescue and first-aid.  Save those who can be saved and do what you can for those who can’t.  Save yourself first.  These were all tricky pills to swallow.  In the simulations, it was surprising how many people forgot that it was all make-believe.  People did what they could for their fellow man and ignored the training.  It was quite reaffirming to see people react this way, although it wasn’t the right thing to do.  I, myself, was blown away by the situation.  I forgot some of the key things told to us and what to look for.  The situation dictated that we had under one minute to diagnose someone’s condition and react accordingly.  With a dozen or so people all screaming at you at once, it’s easy to get swept away.  The simulation helped a lot.  I’d certainly be stronger next time around.  I found I could make a decision about someone and move on to someone else.  I just needed to be better at diagnosing someone’s condition.
 
No wonder there was a part on therapy for the rescue worker.  Although unlikely, I and others could be faced with some very difficult decisions.  There could be a time where the rescuer will have to walk away leaving people behind.  Survivor guilt is a big killer.  It was surprising to learn how many of the people involved in Timothy McVeigh’s arrest and prosecution committed suicide shortly after.   
 
Seeing as my home has been rocked by four small but very noticeable earthquakes over the last three months and there is a prediction of the “big one” in the next eighteen months, I’ve starting viewing things with a worried eye.  Should disaster hit, what is my preparedness?  It doesn’t look too good.  The things recommended seem like overkill—but my preparedness doesn’t even cover the basics.  I have to admit the paranoia has hit and I will be putting together an earthquake kit should we be without power, water and TV.  A hand crank DVD player is essential.
 
It’s been quite a sobering experience and will continue to be.  My training won’t stop here.  There are a number of other areas of disaster training still ahead.  My disaster worker pack sits in a secure location.
 
Regardless of the scenes witnessed in New Orleans, a lot of smart people have put together a well-thought out plan that will save lives and keep the world turning for us.  My only hope is that my training never needs to go into practice.
 
Yours cautiously,
Simon Wood

I Know I’m Good Because…uh…

 by Gar Anthony Haywood

 

Like  everyone else here (I’d be willing to bet), I have a Manuscript In a Drawer.

You know the one I’m talking about.  The orphaned child that Cannot Be Published, because it’s too flawed or too violent, too personal or too counter to the market decrees of the moment.  It shames you, and yet it calls to you.  It is useless because no one else wants it, and yet you have a love for it that will not die.

 

In my case, the  MIaD is 140 pages of a standalone thriller that has never found a reader who didn’t prove to be indifferent to it.  My agent didn’t get it; my former editor passed on it without breaking a sweat; and the two or three other people to whom I’ve shown it over the years have all responded to it with a collective shrug.


It’s gotta suck, right?

 

Well…

 

I still can’t wrap my head around the idea that it might.  It is going on seven years old, and the idea from which it sprang is much, much older than that, but here I am, as convinced as ever that this is one great book.  A modern classic of noir fiction that if I don’t write, some other smart bastard eventually will.

So help me God, I have tried and tried to believe otherwise.  I take the manuscript out of its musty hole every now and then and scour its pages for that thing, that big, ugly wart of mediocrity that everyone else but me can see—lousy prose, phony dialogue, a plot that just drags on and on—and I can’t find it.  It isn’t there.  My instincts tell me again and again that I’ve got something here, something special that a large audience would embrace if they only had the chance to discover it…

…and yet I won’t go back and finish it.

I’ve got better things to do, bigger (read: more likely-to-be-profitable) fish to fry.  It is my baby, and yet I fear that to devote any more time and energy to its care and feeding would be an inexcusable waste of however many days I have left to write on this earth.

In other words, I’m in a long-standing state of paralysis where this book is concerned, and the reason is quite simple:

I don’t trust my own judgment enough to fight for this thing.

 

And I know what you’re thinking: Who the hell does trust their own judgment?  The writer has yet to be born who isn’t shackled to some extent by insecurity.  Self doubt is as much a part of our makeup as a need for wide-spread acceptance and, yes, the cash to pay our mortgage in perpetuity.

Nevertheless, it seems to me that the people who achieve large-scale success in our business tend to have a very healthy appreciation for their own work, if not a downright, pathological determination to see it take over the world.  You talk to these people, you read and/or listen to the interviews they do, and what you hear is someone who doesn’t give a rat’s ass what their agents, editors or critics have to say, and probably never did.  Their inner-voice has told them that their stuff is worth every penny of a six-figure contract and a fifteen-city book tour and, by God, they aren’t leaving the room—or sticking their manuscript in any goddamn drawer—until they get it.

Man, I would love to be one of those people.

But I read my work and I just don’t know.  I like it, some of it even makes me proud as hell, but is it great?  Even when it feels great, when I read it and re-read it and keep coming away with the same conclusion—Damn, this is some good shit!—what is that but just one man’s opinion?  The feelings of a father who can’t see anything but beauty in the (quite possibly homely) child he’s created?

Perhaps if every writer of my experience who exhibited the kind of unassailable self-confidence I’ve been talking about was as good as they think they are, I’d be more inclined to follow their example and go balls-to-the-wall for something I’ve written when my gut tells me I should.  But too many of these people—in my judgment, anyway—are completely clueless as to the quality of their work.  Even those who have made it, and who have the sales figures to prove it, aren’t all that.  I’ve read them and I know.  So this listening-to-your-inner-critic business is not exactly an exact science.  Sometimes she’s right on, and sometimes she’s about as trustworthy as a dime store compass.

 

Let me tell you a little story to illustrate my point:

Years ago, I attended a Writers Guild screening of “The Sixth Sense,” which was followed by a Q & A with the film’s writer and director, M. Night Shyamalan.  “The Sixth Sense,” you may recall, was Mr. Shyamalan’s breakout hit; he was a relative unknown prior to this point.  Yet he told the WGA audience that, upon completing the film’s screenplay, he gave his agent instructions to shop it to only a handful of major studios, making sure each understood that bidding for the script would start at one million dollars.  Then he locked himself and his family up in the most expensive hotel room he could find in Philadelphia and waited for the offers to roll in.  Which, needless to say, they eventually did.

 

Nobody had to tell Shyamalan he’d created something extraordinary.  He knew, and he behaved accordingly when he took his script to market.  The man got his money, and the rest is history.

Now personally, I think “The Sixth Sense” is a pretty damn good movie, so if any original screenplay ever deserved a million-plus writer’s fee, that one probably did.  Meaning M. Night’s supreme confidence in its worth was arguably justified.

But…

Anybody here see some of the man’s more recent films?  “Signs”?  “The Village”?  “Lady in the Water”?

They stink.  Hoo-boy, like the month-old tuna sandwich you just found in the pocket of your kid’s windbreaker.  A million would have been about $995,000 more than Shyamalan should have been paid for writing the screenplay to any one of them—and yet I have no doubt that, had he written “The Village” first, he would have given his agent the very same instructions he issued for “The Sixth Sense.”  His faith in his own talent is that unbreakable.

(Get it?  “Unbreakable”?  Forget it…)

Anyway, Shyamalan is a prime example of how unreliable an author’s assessment of his own work can sometimes be.  You’re so close to the material, it’s invariably so saturated with those things in life that you find wonderful and scary and important, that of course it strikes you as genius on occasion.  But is it?  Or is its brilliance just another figment of your hyperactive imagination?

This question is on my mind right now because, just in the last two weeks, I’ve finished a novel it’s taken me almost three years to write.  I think it’s the best thing I’ve ever done.  It’s big, smart, complex.  But it’s not particularly commercial. Almost every character in it is black, and few of them are women.

 

I don’t care.  I read it and think, “Big Time, goddamnit.”

Still, the novel’s not going to my agent until I’ve gotten three or four second opinions from a select group of readers I trust.  Because I’m the guy who wrote the Manuscript In a Drawer, remember?  The “modern classic of noir fiction” that’s never raised anyone’s pulse but my own?  What the hell do I know about the value of the book I’ve just written?

Is this a problem you can relate to?  Or are you one of those rare birds who always knows immediately when they’ve written a winner or a stinker?  Maybe you have a Secret Reader locked up in a room somewhere who has impeccable intuition about such things, someone you can always rely upon to give you the straight scoop about your latest masterpiece.

If you believe yourself to be a great author—and come on, people, some of you do—where does that belief come from? 


And how do you know you’re right?

 

MANY THANKS TO GAR FOR GUESTING TODAY.  IF YOU KNOW WHAT’S GOOD FOR YOU – GO TO:

http://www.garanthonyhaywood.com  and tell him Evil E sent you.

 

dfg34hdb

Elaine Flinn

Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer,
The slings
and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And
by opposing end them?

Damn, but that ole’ Will had a way with words.  And what, pray tell, is Elaine Flinn doing
here on Friday – taking J.T. Ellison’s day on Murderati?

Well, I’ll tell you. I’m here because J.T. and my terrific blog mates have asked me to
address a problem that has sprung up recently – and that is the volley of ‘slings
and arrows’ aimed at the award judges for International Thriller Writers on a
popular blog.

The target for these arrows is the judges themselves (we
were all named) and the short-list of honorees that have been designated as the
best from their respective committees. To be blunt – and have you ever known me not to be? – NO WOMEN.

No women. And why,
they fervently lament, is that? Were
the judges biased? Are they
bigots? Do the judges think women can’t
write a thriller good enough to make the short-list? If you think I’m making this up – think again. All these ‘arrows’ were shot off
clearly. But, they missed the mark. And I mean they were way off.

And let’s get one other thing out of the way – I’m not here
to disparage anyone’s right to complain – it’s a healthy human trait – and
thank God we live in a society where we can do so – and that includes
Mystery/Thrillerville. But to even
suggest any of us were gender biased, or bigots – is unfounded, insulting our
integrity, and patently childish.

But the real raison
d’etre for this post is to address the dilemma facing those asked to a serve as a judge for an award. It
goes without saying it is a daunting task. In fact, it’s much like being asked for jury duty – to sit and decided
the fate of another.

And being a judge for a literary/mystery/thriller award is
not much different. Besides the fact
that you are bombarded with books, (often several dozen to even hundreds) which
you must read and not ‘skim’ – you have your own writing to do, or maybe you’ve
got a slew of signings to travel to – or maybe (if you’re one of the lucky
ones) – a publisher paid book tour. Oh,
and then there is your family, your life, your leisure. It’s gone baby, gone. It’s gone, because you have pledged to honor
a commitment that can often make fabulous giant steps for someone-other than
yourself –and their career. Throughout
this process, you will spend much time e-mailing back and forth with your
fellow (not being sexist here) committee members. You will be discussing the merits of a certain book, wondering if
a particular book really fits into your category, telling your chair you
haven’t received a book on the monthly update, discovering a submission was
published in another country prior to the year for which you are judging. Oh, there are many more reasons for
communication – but I don’t want to bore you.

So, is it any wonder – that after months of honoring your
commitment – for being flattered to have been considered qualified, objective
and NOT gender biased to judge your peers – that it’s damn hard to find
yourself a sitting target from those who have no idea what being a judge
entails? I’m still amazed, even after
being an Edgar judge a couple of years ago – that this post is even necessary.

Guess you know now why it’s so hard to find someone who is
willing to be a judge. Who the hell
wants to spend all that time, questioning and double questioning your decision,
set aside a well written book that simply doesn’t meet the criteria set out by
your organization, wonder if you’re going to be vilified because of gender
cries, hope to hell you won’t get raked over the coals because the books you
and your committee choose won’t be popular choices?

See, here’s the thing: a book is judged by certain standards. Not that it’s a big seller, not that the author is one of your
favorites, not that the author is a friend, not that the author gave you a
blurb for one of your own books, not that the author missed out on another
award you felt he or she should have won – but BECAUSE the book meets the
standards you’ve been asked to use. Which is basically excellence of execution. In the case of ITW, it had to be a thriller. Now, that didn’t mean it couldn’t be a
medical thriller, or a legal thriller, or a P.I. thriller, or a cop
thriller. It had to THRILL.

Oh, there’s another subject I want to add – and that is –
all judges were asked to voluntarily sign a confidentiality agreement. This agreement bound us not discuss any
aspect of the judging process – communications, decisions, comments,
deliberations, disagreements – and so on. Sadly, one of the ITW judges apparently ignored that pledge, and that –
besides the gender/bigotry charges – created the firestorm that is hopefully on
the way to being extinguished.

I’m not going to offer you the percentages of books
submitted by women, or how damn hard it was to even get them in. I’m not going to tell you about the hours
Jim Rollins – our awards Chief – or the other judges, including myself, spent
tracking down editors, agents, publicists and writers to get their books
in. Gayle Lynds, ITW’s co-president,
has written a wonderful letter detailing all the specifics – and you’ll find it
on several blogs.

But do you want to know what I’m really ticked off
about? Only a small handful of posters
on that popular blog (after I offered my comments) realized the one thing they
should be complaining about – was missed. And that was the lack of ethics of the judge who broke the
confidentiality pledge and blabbed about the ultimate decisions being
‘sexist’. To me, that is more important
than whether or not a woman was short-listed or not. I mean, if your word means nothing – then what the hell are you? And guess what? They still didn’t get it.

So now I guess you’re wondering if I’ll ever be an award
judge again, huh? Especially after the
Edgar brouhaha I was involved with – and now this?

Okay – here’s my answer. YES. And it should be yours too
– if you’re ever asked.

Sunday Morning Coming Down

I had a post all ready for today… okay, no I didn’t. I had nothing. I’ve been too consumed with my own crap lately to worry about you ‘Ratians. Or is it ‘Rati-ites?

I’m no fun right now. I have "Writer Face" as we used to call it at Judging Amy. I have a lot of junk on my mind, and 96% of it is writing related. But it’s all getting jumbled, convoluted. So, instead of posting some salty, crusty whiny writer thing here, I thought I would dust off one of my more positive posts from INK SLINGER.

See, a long time ago I used to have a weblog of my own. Then I stopped. Sink hole, baby. During Ink Slinger’s brief life, it had a small, but loyal (read: slacker) following, and one of the more popular posts I made was one Sunday morning – this was in the fall of 2005 – when I awoke early, went for a walk, and remembered why it’s so freaking great to be a writer. Here it is, in its original entirety (did I just write "original entirety"??? God, I do have Writer Face).

Sunday Morning Coming Down

Woke up at 5am. 2 days of rain was finally gone but everything was still wet.

I haven’t been up before the sun in a while. Let me qualify – up and outside before the sun. I’ve had plenty of up-before-the-sun moments with small children.

So, I’m walking through my wet neighborhood. And it looks different. Everything looks different just before dawn. Better. I head about a quarter mile south, to a wooded area with a railroad line running through it. Start walking along the tracks watching the eastern sky turn from gray to bronze to orchid and finally blue. Sky blue.

I hear birds singing and think, they really are singing. As if they’re just happy to be birds, I guess. Or happy for the day. I think about my iPod back at the house, realize I’m glad I don’t have it.

I see deer. Three, grazing up on a hill above the tracks. They stop and we all just look at each other for a moment.

I keep going. There’s a ton of stuff running through my mind – my pilot (plot possibilities, character arcs, tone, does the production designer get it, the way it needs to be shot, asking Dweezil to do the music); my book (character, underlying theme, is it really a book?); the short story for Dave and Bryon and whether it sucks; this P.I. I met whose career might make a cool series; another TV series idea I have; and a short story idea that suddenly pops into my head almost fully realized.

And yet, with all that, my mind feels more clear than it has in weeks. Everything is clear and in order. I seamlessly roll from one thought to the next, sometimes one idea giving aide to another. I don’t lose track, don’t get confused. I’m not trying. I’m not forcing it. Just letting it all come to me. The Flow as I’ve called it. I don’t even pull out the pen and pad I always have when I leave my house.

I start heading back west. My Hamilton chronograph says I’ve been out over an hour. Feels like ten minutes. I think about how lucky we are to be writers.

Whether you’re having to struggle through a "day job" that you hate, writing late at night or whenever you can find time, or whether you’re making a fat living off your words, or whether you’re somewhere in between, thank God or Buddha or L. Ron or whatever for smiling down and turning your heart and soul into that of a writer. We’ve been around almost as long as whores and shepherds. And we’ll be here till the very end. By then we may be writing… God knows what we’ll be writing by then, but we’ll be doing it and loving it. And probably still not getting paid enough.

I wanted to get this down in the Bog before I open my WORD doc and go. I love this feeling – just before you begin, when you know it’s going to be one of those great days, where it’s pouring out of you. The Flow.

I imagine it’s like an athlete – just before the gun sounds or the match begins – when they just know that today is going to be one of those days because they’re in the zone, doing whatever it is as fast, as strong or as best they can.

I love writing. I love it when it sucks as much as when I think I’m freaking Steinbeck. As much when it’s not coming as when it’s flowing. I am very, very lucky to do this for a living. Sometimes, especially on the blogosphere, we get so caught up in the business of it. And so much negative shit is written – PODs and vanity presses; "instructors" who have no idea what they’re talking about; who blogged about whom; poseurs; critics; agents; whatever – that we forget.

It’s nice to have Sunday mornings to remind me.

/Guyot

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Denise Dietz

                                               QUIBBLES & BITS

I have an editing service called STRAY CAT PRODUCTIONS. You’ll find a link on my website. I don’t advertise — 95% of my clients are word-of-mouth referrals. The other 5% kind of stumble into my site.

TWO "FUNNY" EDITING STORIES:

A woman said she wanted me to edit her husband’s "adventure novel." But she would NOT pay me more than $100 because … are you ready? … her husband had used spell-check.

More on spell-check later.

An arrogant attorney [is that redundant?] wanted me to ghost-write his legal thriller. "The concept is better than anything John Grisham ever wrote," he bragged. Rather than paying me for my ghosting, he’d pay me 50% of the royalties [hee!] When I tactfully turned him down—without telling him that Grisham had already "borrowed" his plot concept—he became agitated. A Hollywood producer was about to sign on the dotted line, he told me, and there were "dozens of writers" who’d gladly ghost his book. Well, shoot. Obviously, I’d let a golden opportunity slip through my fingers.

I get way too many editing requests from people who can’t write. I’m being brutally honest here. I told my husband Gordon that it’s like American Idol. During the [endless] auditions, there are kids who can’t carry a note in a bucket. But in a heartwrenching way (at least to me), they honestly believe they can sing. Because they can’t hear themselves. Furthermore, their best bud, mother, sister, boyfriend/girlfriend told them they were terrific.

If a query begins: "My best bud [mother, sister, boyfriend/girlfriend] says my book is the best thing they ever seen, better then gone with the wind even," it’s a red flag.

Recently Jason Printer wrote a brilliant, tongue planted firmly in cheek blog called: 20 Surefire Tips To Get Your Book Published. In it he suggested the following: "Call every editor in the publishing industry and tell them to publish your book. If they refuse, call again five minutes later. If they still refuse, send a dead animal to their office. You’ll have a deal before the janitorial staff disposes of the carcass."

Some of the blog comments were ALMOST as funny as Jason’s blog. Here’s the comment I posted:

"The dead cat didn’t work for me. The phone feedback — as far as I could tell, since the editor’s bloodcurdling screams predominated — was that dead cats are a no-no for crime fiction fans. Go figure! Next time I’ll try an armadillo."

In a more serious vein, I’m now going to give you a half dozen incredibly relevant submission tips:

1]  An editor will NOT read your brilliant first chapter, get hooked, and say, "I don’t care how many typos and formatting problems this manuscript has, I’m buying it!"

2] An editor is NOT paid to correct your typos, grammar, formatting, and POV goofs. This might gobsmack you, but it’s easier to turn the book down.

3] Spell-check will NOT do your work for you. When the first line of a manuscript reads: "Hot tears ran down her checks," there’s a problem [unless she’s paying her bills on a slant]. And while your high school English teacher might have allowed you to spell phonetically, 99 out of 100 editors won’t.

4]  "That" and "who" do NOT mean the same thing. An editor has pet peeves, just like anyone else. Mine is "that" for "who" [or whom]. I also wish writers would learn the difference between its and it’s.  And If you tell me she dropped her eyes, I am not amused.

5]  Changing your 12-pt Times New Roman to … oh, say 22-pt Broadway Bold … to emphasize the letters on a sign, or the words in a ransom note, will NOT impress an editor (that Stephen King guy can get away with it, but you’d better wait until you’re earning his paycheck). An illustration for a chapter heading — or even worse, cover art — submitted with your manuscript won’t impress an editor, either. A non-pub was puzzled by that advice. "But it makes me stand out from the pack," he said. "Yep," I replied. "It sure does. It brands you AMATEUR."

6]  And last but not least, do NOT write XXX or ??? for information you plan to look up later. Or if you do, look up the information before you submit. I tend to use yada-yada, but if I forget to fill it in, I’ll always find it when … are you ready? … this is the most important piece of advice in today’s blog … here it comes … WHEN I PROOF MY BOOK BEFORE SUBMISSION.

Yep, I proof my manuscript, even if it’s better than gone with the wind and my best bud tells me Yada-Yada [working title] is neater than sliced bread and hip-hop dancing put together.

And, of course, I read it out loud — to my dog Pandora. She’s a good listener, most of the time. But she runs and hides [and sometimes howls at the top of her doggy lungs] when an American Idol wannabe sounds too "pitchy."

Quote of the week:
"I got stung actually pretty bad across my back. There’s sort of a remedy that we’ve all heard … urine. It’s the remedy if you have a bad sting. So I asked Dylan if he would pee-pee on my back. He looked at me like he’d gone to heaven. He was like ‘This is what I call a good summer holiday! Pee-pee on daddy’s back!’ I don’t know if it helped at all, but my son was happy. We’ll work it out in 20 years when he’s in therapy!" Michael Dougas. [Dylan is five.]

EYE OF NEWT’s Davy St. Charles hopes last week’s buried bean remedy removed any unwanted warts. This week Aunt Lillian has a Household Hint for you:

"Ants are said to never cross a chalk line. So if you have ants, get your chalk out and draw a line on the floor, or wherever your ants tend to march — and see for yourself."

Over and Out,
Deni

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INTO EACH LIFE SOME RAIN MUST FALL.

In Julia Spencer-Fleming’s life – it’s pouring awards, accolades, starred reviews, legions of adoring fans clammoring for more, and book sales to make us all green with envy.  But then – Julia has given us four books that have touched us.  Yes, there is murder, yes there is mayhem, but there is faith as well.  Is it any wonder she has won an Agatha, Anthony, Barry, Macavity, Dilys – and was short-listed for an Edgar, Nero Wolfe, Gumshoe and a Romantic Times?  And did you know that her debut book – IN THE BLEAK MIDWINTER won more awards than any first mystery novel? EVER?

I was thrilled to receive an ARC for Julia’s latest – ALL MORTAL FLESH – and while I loved all of her books, I was especially touched by this one.  You’ve heard this before – and felt it  yourself, I know – but I didn’t want it to end.  Oh, and this just in – ALL MORTAL FLESH already received starred reviews from Kirkus, Publishers Weekly and Library Journal!  Talk about a trifecta! 

Here’s Julia:  Oh – me too.

EE:  I was told by someone close to you that you can’t write unelss you’re listening to Cajun music.  Uh, Cajun music in Maine??

JSF:  It’s true I can’t dance unless I’m listening to Cajun music.  It takes a mighty musical force to break the entrenched non-rythmic ways of my people, the Espiscopalians.

Oh, you poor dears.  But then – my people ain’t very rythmic either.  But we’re good with Latin chants and guilt.

EE:  Living in Maine must be bleak in the midwinter, where is your favorite retreat?  And what do you do there besides conjuring your next best seller?

JSF:  My favorite retreat is the Leeward side of Oahu, where I slather myself with SPF 500 sunscreen and sit on the beach watching my children frolic in the warm waters of the Pacific.  Alas, that oppportunity rarely presents itself, so my second favorite retreat is the Salmon Falls Library, where I write while my children frolic at home, completely out of earshot.

I hope you don’t venture out to Lualualei Beach though-da kine beach pilikia!  Mo betta you go Pokai Beach, yeah?

EE:  Ah, now that I know you have the aina of Hawaii in your soul, surely you must have a wonderfully romantic Walter Mitty Dream.  30,000 words or less will suffice.  And please keep it clean.  I mean, it’s best not to get the clergy in an uproar.

JSF:  "Spencer-Fleming jammed her hand in the rock’s vertical crack, ignoring the gasps from the climbers belaying behind her. ‘Don’t do it!’ Kuiper, the Swiss, whispered. ‘Hush, man’, Spencer-Fleming said cooly.  ‘You’ll frighten the others.  Up and over is the only way off this mountain.’  ‘But this ascent has never been done!’  The taut, muscular climber ignored him and proceeded to pick her path across the almost-featureless rock wall.  Above them, the rotors of the rescue helicopter that was waiting for them turned with a lazy ta-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa.  Spencer-Fleming swung up, grasped the final outcropping, and chinned herself over the top, to the cheers of the stranded climbers.  ‘We’re saved!’  Welles, the Englishman, shouted.  In a moment, Spencer-Fleming’s face reappeared over the edge. ‘The pilot’s unconscious from altitude sickness,’ she said grimly.  ‘I’m going to have to fly us out of here.’  She hammered in the belaying pins…

‘Mom? Mom?’

‘Huh? What, sweetie?’

‘Are you going to get that can off the shelf or just stand around on that chair all night long?’

Holy Moly!  You had my hands sweating there for a minute!  I was all ready for some starlight night, gentle swaying palms, the soft sounds of the surf…

EE:  Okay, Julia!  Let’s get serious, okay?  Word on the street is that there is an underground movement among female Episcopalian priests to move to small villages and find their own Russ Van Alstyne.  And – they’ve been contacting you for guidance.

JSF:  Hah.  If they want a Russ Van Alstyne, they’ll have to go out and find him like I did.

Julia!  How uncharitable of you!  The least you could do is give them a few pointers.  Kinda like a trade off instead of a tithe?

EE:  Oh, this is a hot one running around Manhattan!  Rumor has it that Donald Trump is building a chi-chi gated community on Long Island-and he not only wants to call it ‘Millers Kill’ – he’s asked you to pose for a bronze bust to set at the entrance, but you turned him down.  What?

JSF:  I didn’t want my bust to be responsible for a bronze shortage, if you know what I mean, and I think you do.

Ahem.  Well, darling – I’m always up for a compliment, but truth be known – in my case it’s the result of too much pasta. 

EE:  My favorite little spy told me that you have a fetish for M&M’s and you can’t write unless you have the pantry stocked with them.  Not that you have to eat them, just that they’re there.  Like a talisman kinda thing?  Is that it?

JSF:  Talisman? Huh?  I mean – yeah.  That’s right.  I would never dream of touching one of those three-pound Party Size bags.  Uh uh.  Why are you looking at me?  I’ve got candy-coated shell bits on my teeth, don’t I?

Uh, no…not really.  I, uh…well, I thought maybe it was a new trend.  You know…multi-colored caps?  Striking though…I mean, really different.  You could start someting here.

EE:  Mysteryville is abuzz about the rumor that you and Ross are leaving for Hollywood to have talks with an un-named network about a reality show portraying the life of a best-selling author.  Care to comment?

JSF:  I’m trying to picture this reality show.  You’d have a scene of Ross taking the kids to school-and then a scene of me sitting in front of a computer.  Maybe some comical stuff with the kids getting into trouble or with my whacky next-door-neighbor–and then a scene of me sitting at the computer.  A phone call from my agent–and then me sitting in front of my computer.  The big exciting part would be when I make dinner.

Oh, this has got legs!  I tell you, I’m rivited.  Now about that wacky neighbor-has it been cast yet?  I’m free for a few months after October.

EE:  Denise Hamilton told me you’re direction challenged.  And Ross even said you get lost at the supermarket.  How do you cope with this?  I mean, I have the same problem, so any help would be appreciated.

JSF:  Okay, hold your hands up in front of you.  Pretend to pick up a pen.  Shake your writing hand around.  That’s your right.  Write-right, get it?   If you’re left-handed, I can’t help you.

Uh, okay.  I think.  But, see – it’s when I get out of elevators.  I never remember which way I’m supposed to go.  What the hell – I’ll give it a try.

EE:  While I try to figure that one out – tell me who would be your ideal panel mates.

JSF:  Why, Jeff Shelby, Peter Spiegelman, Marcia Talley, and Kathryn Wall, of course.  With whom, as chance would have it, I am appearing Thursday, September 28th at noon at the World Mystery Convention in Madison, Wisconsin.

Yes, that is about as blatant a panel-plug as you can get.  But look at us!  It’s the first panel on the first day of Bouchercon!  We’ll be lucky to have an audience of three!  Please, somebody, keep us company.  I’m begging here.

Oh, pshaw!  You’ll have an SRO crowd! The only begging you’ll have to do is ask for a bigger room!

EE:  So, Julia-move in close, and tell me the real scoop about that dinner date with Harrison Ford you refused.  Was it really because he insisted Ross stay at home?  I mean, I know you two are as lovey-dovey as can be, but Harrison Ford???

JSF:  I got all excited because I thought he wanted to fly both of us to Las Vegas and then pay a cool million to spend the night with me.  But then it turned out my cell phone number is one digit off Demi Moore’s, and the whole thing fell apart.

Oh.  Okay.  Wink, wink.  I get it.  No problemo.  Gosh, just imagine.  One digit off, huh?

EE:  On a safer note (?) – which writer would you love to have all to yourself in a cozy corner of the bar at Bcon?

JSF:  Janet Evanovich.  In the shadowy darkness, I would slip an undetectable poison into her drink.  Then, after removing her body under the guise of ‘helping out a friend who had too many’ (an utterly believable alibi at Bouchercon) I would fly to a South American country where a bribeable yet skilled plastic surgeon would give me Janet’s face.  I would then seamlessly step into her life, with none the wiser, except maybe for a few suspicions when in 14 Points Stephanie Plum joins the Episcopal church and developes a hopeless yearning for a married man.

You wouldn’t!  Would you?  Think it might really work?  Tell you what – you give it a try.  I’ll check back with you and then maybe you could help me with…….

EE:  Whilst I jot down a few names for this caper, tell me what – Heaven forbid (excuse me Clare) would you be doing if you weren’t writing?

JSF:  Oh, Lord.  I’d be working in a law firm somewhere, wearing panty hose every day, sucking up to the partners and spending 50-60 hours a week trying to make idiot clients look good.  Thank you, everyone who has ever bought one of my books, for saving me from such a fate!

Funny you should say that – I was talking to John the other day – oh, excuse me – Grisham, I mean – and he feels the same way.  Lawyering seems to do that, doesn’t it?  Is that why so many of them become writers?  Hmmm.

EE:  You’re going on the road – it’s gonna be a long tour – but hey, your publisher is paying the freight – but still, it’s lonely.  So tell me who would be your ideal tour mate.  You can have more than one, okay?

JSF:  This sounds like the beginning of that joke that goes, "I’ve had both of ’em…," but I’ve already found my ideal book tour mate.  Denise Hamilton and I not only have similar tastes, interests and habits, she also makes me laugh more than should be allowed.  When we’re on the road, Denise forces me to eat good food and understands when I drop everything to call my kids.  She navigates, placates, orates and she lets me take the driver’s seat.  Her only drawback is that her wildly successful Eve Diamond series is now on a different publishing schedule from my books.  We have to do something about that.

Uh, don’t get me wrong – I adore Denise – and I love her Eve Diamond series – but, uh, I did say you could have more than one.  I mean, I don’t mind sitting in the back seat.  Honest.  And I don’t hum to myself anymore.

EE:  You’re having six guests for dinner.  Who would they be, and what would you serve?

JSF:  They’d be Anthony Bourdain and five of his chef buddies.  And I’d serve drinks while they cooked.

Now, here is a woman after my own heart!  That’s the ticket, kiddo!  I have a great receipe for Sazerac.  Ali Karim suggests adding a cucumber, but I prefer champagne. Shall I send it on?

EE:  This rumor is burning up the internet, Julia – and an inferno is threatening.  Even Otto Penzler has taken notice!  I really must insist you clear the air.  I’ve been told by Paul Guyot is ready to leave his family for you if you’d only run away with him to watch a Portland Sea Dogs game.

JSF:  Elaine, I know you undestand what it’s like to be the sort of woman men just throw themselves at no matter what you do.  I simply can’t be responsible for every Tom, Dick and Harrison out there who shows up on my doorstep, carrying flowers, threatening suicide, etc., etc.  That being said, everyone knows I’m a big booster of the Sea Dogs, and this August they’ve been wilting like the Red Sox.  No. Wait.  I can’t say that anymore…HURRAH!  The Sea Dogs need energetic cheering to get them back into first place in the Northern Division of the Eastern League (got that?), so I suppose I’d be willing to let Guyot tag along.  He has to buy the Sea Dog Biscuits, though, and get me home at a reasonable hour.

Sigh.  Yes, Julia – I do understand.  It’s something you and I just have to accept and learn to live with.  And, I must say, you’ve done it with the utmost grace.  Nonetheless, Guyot is one persistant, but oh-so loveable devil.  I am sure, however, he will comport himself well, and have you home before the witching hour.  Right, Guyot?

EE:  And last, but not least, Julia – what’s in store for Clare and Russ?  You can tell me – you know my lips are sealed. More or less.

JSF:  The fifth book – ALL MORTAL FLESH – is coming out at the beginning of October, and you can take a sneak peek at my website.  In the meantime, I’m hard at work on the as-yet-unnamed sixth book in the series.  As far as what will happen with Russ and Clare – well, I’d tell you, Elaine.  But then I’d have to kill you.

Oh.  In that case, I’ll just wait and buy the book.  I mean, I’m dying to know (scratch that word), but then – who would do On The Bubble?

So very many thanks to Julia for being here with us today!  And to those of you who have dropped by, I hope you’ve had as much fun as Julia and me.  If not -then, well…never mind.