The Super Bowl Sucks

I’m sure my title would enrage die-hard football fans, but chances are they’re not reading this anyway. They’re too busy watching eight full hours of pregame coverage. For the record, I don’t hate football, I’m just totally apathetic to it. In fact, unless the athletes are punching and kicking each other, I don’t care about sports in general.

I’d rather talk books.

Months ago, I started working on a novel. Not actually writing one, but "working on" one. Brainstorming. Researching. Outlining. Yada. Yada. Yada.

It didn’t pan out. The story just wasn’t there.

So I started over. Brainstorming. Researching. Yada. Yada. Yada.

"This is it," I told myself. "This is the one." I had a strong enough hold on the story to give a few chapters a try. 20 pages…then 30…then 40…then

My flash drive farted. I lost it all.

Obscenities followed. Loud ones. Nasty ones. I could’ve made Joe R. Lansdale blush. My monitor almost made a trip through the window.

Two days later, I started again. Punching the keys with heat, with anger, with brute determination.

"This time it’ll work."

I had a character I identified with. I had a "big idea" plot. I had a cool ending in mind.
I had…

A load of shite.

Plain and simple, I was trying too hard. I wanted something that would catch an editor’s eye. I wanted to sell a book. Problem is, every time I sat at the computer, my shoulders slumped. I was not having fun, and it showed. The pace slowed. Two pages a day turned into two paragraphs. My mind wandered. I wanted to work on something else, something new.

I’ve walked this road before. My hard drive is littered with the first five chapters of a dozen novels. Was I falling into my old pattern, grasping for the shiny new object? The question left me feeling like an unprofessional hack. Worse than a hack, a wannabe.

I saw my future. Ten years from now at Thriller Fest, I’m telling novelists about the short stories I had published in 2006. Then I’m drinking too much, spilling beer on my silver jumpsuit, dying later in a horrible jet pack accident (because it’s the future, get it?).

So what could I do? Give up on the idea? Or push on through? I want to be a writer, don’t I? And writing isn’t always fun. But then again, how do you keep working on something when you’ve lost your confidence in it?

A few days ago, I made my decision. Out with the old, in with the new.

But this time, there’s a difference. I don’t care anymore. I don’t care about catching an editor’s eye. I don’t care about the big idea. I only care about the words on the screen. The book will be fast and furious with over the top characters and bloody, violent fight scenes. In short, I’m writing the book I want to read. And if someone else wants to come along for the ride, that’s just gravy.

So what do you think? Did I make the right decision, or am I taking the easy way out? How can you tell when I project’s not working? How do you know you’re not just facing another roadblock–a simple challenge to be overcome?

Notes from LCC

In lieu of a real blog, today you get my to-date highly random scattered thoughts live (almost) from Left Coast Crime. It’s only the second official day of the conference, but what else am I supposed to write about with all this joyful madness going on around me?

I have blogged about this before, but the first rule of conferences for me is that the first person I will run into at a con is Donna Andrews.

So I get to my gate in D.C. and who do I find in line waiting to board?

What this means in the grand scheme of things, I have no clue. But it’s nice to have that kind of certainty. And since the Sea Tac airport makes it practically impossible to find a taxi anywhere, it was nice to have a friend to get lost with.

The con hotel, the Seattle Renaissance, is right downtown. I haven’t been to Seattle since my cousin was a surgical resident here, and yes, I did misbehave on a Grey’s Anatomy scale with some of his resident friends. So I think of this city – uh – fondly – but it’s clear I’m going to be too busy here to see most of it, and working too hard to get myself in too much trouble (Famous last words…)

So far I have:

– Been disgustingly good and worked out every morning so far – not so hard to do with such a fabulous view of the city from the 28th floor fitness center.

– Done my panel, “Crossing Over”, on crossing genres, to a standing-room-only house, and as usual learned much more from the audience than they could have learned from me.

– Had an amazingly fun dinner with all the attending Murderati – Pari, Elaine, Louise, Paul, Simon and Naomi, plus Barbara Franchi, Phil Hawley, and Naomi’s very cute husband Wes.

– Not seen even half the people I know are here at all, which leads me to suspect there is a whole other floor in this hotel that I have not discovered yet.

– Not done any sightseeing. At all. Although Pioneer Square is only a handful of blocks away, it is straight down a hill approximately the size of Mt. Shasta, and I have yet to venture forth (plus it’s @#$%^&* freezing out there).

– Discovered that there is a maximum capacity to my e mail box and I hit it some time yesterday.

– Heard gossip – I mean psychological insights – so stunning I have yet to wrap my mind around it all.

– Gotten more sleep than I usually get at home, which is frankly a miracle for a conference.

– Had as much fun talking to people I don’t know as the ones I do know.

– Am having a much more relaxed time than I have had at any of these things yet.

– Attended more panels than usual and am feeling much better about my book. You really do just have to sit there and let all these other authors give you precisely the information – and inspiration – you need.

– Of course there’s so, so much more, but the St. Martin’s party is – yike – now – and I will have to give a more full report next week.

Wish everyone were here.

– Alex

Under the Influence

JT Ellison

When’s the last time you wrote drunk?

There seems to be a perception, propagated by such literary
heavyweights that are famous for exploits, like Hemingway, that one can create a masterpiece while under the influence.

I’ve been asked more than once if I drink while I write. It
seems on par with asking a heavy machinery operator if they’ve taken a few nips
off the old flasks prior to firing up the Cat, or pouring an airline pilot a
few draughts of Guinness whilst awaiting takeoff.

So my short answer is no, I don’t drink while I write. I
don’t drink before I write. If I am clumsy enough to get near a keyboard after
imbibing, I tend to warn people in the subject line – JT’s EWI (emailing while
intoxicated) – so I won’t be taken seriously nor made fun of for my
extemporaneous riffing.

You see, I CAN’T write under the influence. Of alcohol, that
is.

Now before you get excited, I’m not talking about anything
illegal. I’m not a big drug proponent. What you do in the privacy of your own
home is entirely up to you, and as long as no one is in danger and small animals
aren’t being harmed, I couldn’t care less.

But there is a drug that frees my mind, allows me to think
past all the barriers I bump up against in my daily, tethered life.

Nitrous Oxide, better known as Laughing Gas.

You see, my incredibly lovely dentist is new school. He sees
absolutely no reason to torture his patients. When you get right down to
it, a relaxed, calm patient begets a better result. I couldn’t agree more.

I looooove going to the dentist. It’s Fear and Loathing in Nashville.

There’s something about the nitrous that expands my
horizons, if only for an hour. I lie in that chair and flat out create. I have
an arrangement with Vicki, my technician. If I hold up a hand, she stops and
lets me speak. She nods and agrees and promises to “write that down.” Then we
keep going. I’m entirely aware the whole time, just… unrestricted. I’m
brilliant under the gas. Mind-bogglingly inventive. I could probably cure
cancer if given the right components, but hey, I’ll settle for a plot twist or
two.

There’s only one problem.

Nothing makes sense. When you come out of it (takes just a
couple of minutes) all the fire and brimstone and luminous perspicacity is
gone. You’re back to being you.

So I wondered about the rest of you. Do you use artificial
means to further the process? Or are you like me, prudishly making the synapses
fire while decidedly non-juiced?

This post is in honor of all of my wonderful writing buddies
who are attending Left Coast Crime and Love Is Murder, cavorting and imbibing
and networking, oh yes, the networking. I miss you guys!!!

I guess we should skip the wine and go with
shooters. Someone hand me a lime and the Patron, please.

———————————————————-

PS. Feeling creative? Jason Pinter is running a contest over at THE MAN IN BLACK blog to determine, well, what kind of contest to run to promote his debut thriller, THE MARK (Mira Books, July).

I’m A Hero, You’re A Hero

Julie and I have gotten into the show, Heroes. If you’ve not seen it, it’s about the belief that people with special powers exist all over the world and in a time of trouble, these people will form together to rise up against a devastating evil. These are just ordinary people who exhibit the kind of special powers you’d find amongst the Fantastic Four or X-Men, but without the spandex and the need to wear their underpants on the outside. It’s all very thrilling.

The characters in Heroes have the ability to fly, heal themselves, predict the future, read people’s mind and stop time, just to name a few. All very sexy.

But that’s where the show falls down. They’re focusing on people’s super sexy superpowers. They don’t feature anyone with mundane superpowers. Mundane superpowers–is that an oxymoron?

People with mundane superpowers can make a difference too, you know. I suppose I’m a little hurt by the show, because they don’t feature a hero like me. I have special powers. I don’t like to brag about them or anything, but I have them. Sadly, those powers haven’t been incorporated in the show.

Unlike the superheroes in the show, I have two special powers. I’ve had them for a long time and I’ve yet to find a purpose for them, but I’m sure they’ll come in handy some day.

My first superpower is the ability to be ignored by automatic doors. I can stand in front of these things for a week and they won’t open. I can jump up and down and get nothing. I usually have to dart in behind someone before I freeze to death outside.

My second superpower is the ability to buy from a store any electronic or mechanical product expected to perform a function, get it home and find that it’s broken or a part is missing. I can choose from hundreds and still find the busted one. I’m the kind of person who’ll find a needle in a haystack, but the needle will be missing a point.

Yes, yes, these abilities are astounding. They are my gift and my curse. I fear I’ll pass these powers onto my children. I know I’m already passing it onto my pets. I was told my new kitten, Chase, was a boy. He is a girl–who has now been renamed, Chasemina. If I drop Chasemina, she lands on her side, head or back, never her feet.

As a mundane superhero, I fear my superhero name wouldn’t be Batman or Wolverine, but Dud and my trusty catchphrase would be “What are you going to do?” combined with a shrug at the end.

The problem is for people like me, our mundane superpowers embarrass us. We stay at home, afraid of the impact we can inflict on the world. I’m sure I’m not alone in this power. I bet many of you reading this exhibit powers you perceive as crap. I don’t want you to be ashamed of your powers. I want you to tell me about them. Like the televisual Heroes, we too could band together to prevent a mild inconvenience on the world, as we don’t quite have the stuff to avert a global calamity.

So I ask you, what’s your mundane power? Go on. Unimpress me.

Yours, not saving the world,
Simon Wood
PS: This first appeared in my newsletter earlier this month, and appears here by request. 🙂
PPS: I’m not here. I’m in Seattle for Left Coast Crime and if you’re not reading this, you’re probably there with me.
PPPS: Gregory Huffstutter debuts a new column on MJ Rose’s BUZZ BALLS AND HYPE called The Ad Man Answers. Stop by and take a look.
PPPPS: I’m done. You may now go about your business.

Contemporary Pool Table

If I were to list all the credits that accompany M.J. Rose, we’d run out of space. So let’s just remind you of a few, okay? She’s written eight novels-her newest is THE VENUS FIX, has an Anthony nom, contributes to a slew of magazines, has her short fiction published, and is in the new THRILLER anthology. She’s been called one of the reigning queens of psychological suspense and erotica – was profiled in Forbes, The New York Times, Newsweek and more – as the poster gal for e-publishing – which, by the way, was the first self-published novel chosen by the Literary Guild/Doubleday Book Club-and subsequently found a home with a top-rate New York publisher! AND – she has the wildly popular blog – BUZZ, BALLS & HYPE and BACKSTORY. Somehow, she manages to be on the board of International Thriller Writers and is the marketing chair. I don’t know when she has time to sleep, let alone write! You’ll need a good half hour to read all of her accomplishments on her website! And you can do that by clicking on: http://www.mjrose.com and don’t miss checking out her other great sites: http://www.mjroseblog.typepad.com/backstory/ and http://www.mjroseblog.typepad.com/buzz_balls_hype/ !

By the way-I’ve been remiss in posting the website addresses of my brave guests. My apologies to you all. But hell, you’re all famous anyway – I just figured everyone knew where to look.

Okay, are you ready for M.J. Rose?

EE: So, M.J. – that was a pretty nifty idea your panel – "Sex in Thrillers, with Booze" (at ThrillerFest) came up with by offering free booze. Uh, think you all might have started a precedent? I hear some of the writers are going to bartender school now to come up with some wild drinks for next year.

MJ: The real idea behind the booze was to get my fellow panelists tipsy so the women in the audience could take advantage of them. But then, who knew how well Barry Eisler, John Lescroat and Steve Berry could hold their liquor? What’s a conference like without some good gossip? Apparently wonderful, because the only hot stuff that happened at ThrillerFest was the weather, the energy-and the couple I saw having sex in the pool one morning at 4:30 AM when the time difference got me up too early. And that scene was before Sex in Thriller panel. And no, don’t ask. I don’t tell.

Not even a little hint? Okay-we’ll pretend it was one of those sorority gals and her boyfriend. I mean, what writers do we know that would indulge in public, huh? By the way, I’ve got a drink you can use next time that will do the trick. We’ll talk, okay?

EE: How hard, M.J., was it to change your protag, Morgan Snow’s profession from a children’s TV program host to a sex therapist? I mean, Morgan really rocks, but readers would love to know what really goes on behind the scenes at those kid’s TV programs.

MJ: You’ve got it wrong. Morgan never had that gig. Before she was a sex therapist, she was a madame at NYC’s only male escort service. And what went on behind those scenes would burn up the pages of a book. Unfortunately, Morgan won’t eve write a non-fiction tome. It would land her in jail and not even Det. Jordain would be able to make the evidence disappear.

You know, I’m gonna fire a few spies! But, oh la la! A madame, huh? Maybe I should get Charlie Sheen on the phone and get the lowdown from him.

EE: Okay, M.J. – time to fess up here – just how much research did you feel was necessary to conjure up the Scarlet Society in The Delilah Complex?

MJ: About five years visiting every sex club in America. You want to hear about it? My lips are totally sealed. They say our country is repressed – the only thing repressed is the reality about what goes on between mild-mannered middle-aged men and women.

Five years? And you want to know if I want to hear about it?? Surely you jest! Egads, woman! I’m all ears! Come on, spill!

EE: Rumors are rampant that Sally Fields wants to option The Halo Effect and play Morgan Snow. You’re not going to do this are you? I mean, I know she offered big bucks…but please, not Sally!

MJ: It all fits into my nun obsession. How did you put this together? Sally has promised to do a screen test for us after which we’ll make the final decision. Personally, it’s much harder to cast Detective Jordain. Finding an actor who can successfully pull off being a tough cop, a Cordon Bleu Chef, a man who listens and a jazz pianist – where is one when you need him?

So true. That old saying – ‘a good man is hard to find’ – ain’t baloney. But I happen to know a few – my secret loves – so maybe we should talk? As for Sally, well…

EE: My favorite spy told me that you dress primarily in black because you’re really shy and don’t want to stand out in a crowd. Come on – with those glamorous eyes of yours? You think you won’t be noticed?

MJ: You’ve got it backwards. I dress in black primarily because I want to be noticed as the one one always dressed in black. No really – the reason is because when I was a kid I planned on becoming a nun – the first Jewish nun – and started the black thing to see if I could deal with the garb. Ever see the DEVILS OF LOUDON? To know that was a seminal film for me – at eight – explains it all. Then I found out today’s nuns weren’t having as much fun, so I dropped the idea but kept the concept of the clothes.

Whew! I’m glad you changed your mind. I mean, that scene when Vanessa Redgrave watches Oliver Reed burn at the stake was demonic! And you saw that when you were eight?

EE: Okay, M.J. – after reading all of your books – I’m dying to know your Walter Mitty dream.

MJ: I want to go back in time to Paris. Be the muse first for Rodin, then for Monet, Matisse, Picasso, Modigliani and Bransuci. ( You do know what the lives of those muses was like don’t you?) Once my looks were shot and my libido exhausted, I’d emerge as a woman of a certain age with the skills I learned from them all and have my own atelier.

Sigh. A bon commencement bonne fin!

EE: Talk around Thrillerville is that your next book will be about a certain best seller who really isn’t a writer, but it’s the only cover he wanted when he went into the witness protection program. Tell me this isn’t true! Leave it alone, okay? We want you around for a long time, M.J.. What would be do without Morgan Snow to guide us?

MJ: I thought about it for five minutes, that’s true, because Morgan is in the midst of an existential crisis and she needs some time off to figure out how to have a sex life herself. Instead, I’ve gone into the witness protection program. It has something to do with that sex scene I saw acted out before my eyes at the Arizona Biltmore.

Holy Moley. So that’s why you’re dressed in lavender? I didn’t want to ask. I mean, I know I’m Evil E, but I’m not rude. But I must say, that curly red wig you have on is most fetching. And I love your snakeskin boots! Feramgamo, right? Just keep the dark glasses on, okay?

EE: Speaking of designers, what’s this I hear about you and Donatella Versace? She’s wining and dining you to come up with an exotic perfume called ‘Morgan’, but you turned her down? What? The condo in Miami Beach for two months every year, the private jet at your disposal and the semi-annual trips to Paris and Rome – besides some heavy duty dough – wasn’t enough?

MJ: I turned her down because I got a much better offer considering my personal preferences. I’m working on it with Karl Lagerfeld instead. I much prefer what he offered. And apartment in Paris, a villa in St. Tropez and a lifetime supply of Chanel bags.

Hey, I always knew you were a smart cookie! Good for you! Uh, I love Chanel bags. I mean, I thought I’d let you know in case you come across one you don’t care for.

EE: Your books have been touted as having characters so real they step off the page. Uh, M.J.? do you really know people like this?

MJ: Don’t you? Oh, you poor dear, you haven’t lived! Come to New York for a few weeks and let me introduce you to some of my friends.

I’ll be there next July for ThrillerFest, chickie! Set up the schedule.

EE: Time to get serious. What writer would you love to have all to yourself in a cozy corner of the bar at the next ThrillerFest? You can have more than one, but then I get to sit in too, okay?

MJ: I had them. Two of them, at once, in fact. And I didn’t invite you because I don’t share. There were no pictures and since I was all in black no one did notice. (See, sometimes it does work that way.)

Two? All at once? Oh, my.

EE: Between us gals, (I still adore you even if you don’t want to share) who’s that guy with the hat and dark glasses one of my spies saw you with at the Arizona Biltmore pool (in the afternoon, by the way) at ThrillerFest? You know, the one who had orchids sent to your cottage every day? I’ve been told it was Dan Brown – and he wants you to co-write the love life of Michelangelo with him because he needs some legitimacy. Care to comment?

MJ: No-I already turned Dan down. Michelangelo was gay. (Not that there’s anything wrong with it.) But Dan apparently, had missed that in his research. Or maybe Blythe cut Art History 101 one too many times. I explained that to him and he’s moved on. Besides, I’m all into collaborations but not when it comes to writing. Not to mention that while Dan is a nice guy, he doesn’t have the savoir faire to pull off that kind of wooing – too into albino’s to think of orchids.

Someone else suggested the mystery man was Janet Maslin in drag begging me to give her the news mss of my next novel so she could review it early. Maybe, maybe not. I don’t like to give away too much. I do write suspense, you know.

What? Janet Maslin? How the hell didn’t my spy know that? That’s it! I’m done with that guy. Sayonara. Adios. Au revoir. Ciao. I’m gonna fire that puppy. Glad to know you nixed the idea with Brown, though. No sense in working with a guy who doesn’t bother with research.

EE: I understand you’ve been swamped with requests to help organize sexual therapy institutes ala The Butterfield Institute. Has this impacted your writing time much?

MJ: I’m teaching a class in how to set one up – it’s online of course – six weeks in email and at the end everyone can set up their own institute. Writing time? Come on – I don’t write those books – Morgan does – I’m just fronting for her because she can’t publish under her own name. She’s afraid of all the lawsuits from her patients who would claim she didn’t disguise them well enough in the books.

Note to readers: You can reach M.J. from her website for information on taking the course. The first fifty responders will receive a substantial discount.

Note to readers: I know the real identity of Morgan Snow. I cannot be bought, swayed or influenced in any way to divulge that information. Unless, of course, you’re a high-flying editor dying to see my new character driven suspense standalone.

EE: Back to writing questions: You’re moderating a panel – you get to select the panel members. Give me the name of six of your ‘most wanted.’

MJ: I’m sorry – trying to be creative here, but I can’t imagine a panel that would ever be better than those ‘Sex in Thrillers with Booze’ guys.

Oh. Well. Okay. But if you ever want to add one – I mean, I could be available. Remember, I’ve got a drink to tell you about.

EE: You’re having a dinner party for six. Who would you invite, and what will you serve?

MJ: Pauline Reage, the author of ‘The Story of O." Georges Sand and her lover, Chopin, Alfred Hitchcock, Ayn Rand and Carl Jung to make sense of them all. I’d serve lobster paella because I know you can make it before hand and not fuss once your guests are there – and with these guests – the last thing I want to do is be in the kitchen.

Ayn Rand with that group? Oh, please invite me. Please, please, please. I’d be your best friend forever and ever. Honest I would. Cross my heart and all that stuff.

EE: Damn, M.J.! You’re so much fun – I can’t wait to find out which historical figure you would have loved to be. Oh, yeah – and why.

MJ: Anastasia. I’d have a fascinating childhood, get to wear all those great Russian jewels, find out who really helped her escape and what happened to her after Yekaterinburg – and settle down in my old age and write the definitive story including divulging the real scoop on Rasputin.

Oh, now that would be a read! And what a movie that would be. Yeah, yeah-I know it’s already been done. But not from Anastasia’s point of view. Think of it, M.J. You can still do it. I mean, Rasputin and Morgan Snow together? Zowie. It’s got legs.

EE: Okay, last probing, take-no-prisoner question: What is your greatest extravagance? And don’t tell me designer sunglasses!

MJ: A single one? C’mon Elaine. I don’t believe in moderation when it comes to living well being the best revenge.

Spoken like a true woman!

Many, many thanks to you, M.J. – for being a great guest and for taking the time to chat. As I always say – I only invite the best and the brightest – and you’re certainly one of them.

Note to readers: Get thee a copy of THE VENUS FIX! Just be sure you keep the lights on.

Another note to readers: I’ll be off next Saturday. The Husband is getting ready for surgery. Gotta be there, you know? Do drop by though – you won’t be disappointed. But miss me, okay? I’ll be back the following Saturday with a sassy new writer who is taking Horrorville by storm. I’d tell you who it is, but you know me – I love surprises. Don’t you?

ON THE BUBBLE WITH BOB LEVINSON

Bob Levinson is living proof that it’s never to late to follow your dream. Bob Levinson is living proof that one can have multiple careers – excel in each – and still tackle another with resounding success. Where he has found the time and energy to wear so many hats, is astounding. Six acclaimed books, short stories, an active member (and often holding board seats) of MWA, ITW, Writers Guild of America, Academy of Television Arts and Sciences, SINC, Private Eye Writers of America…and besides a host of others…Bob was a six-term president of the Hollywood Press Club -which later voted THE ELVIS AND MARILYN AFFAIR – ‘The Best Novel About Hollywood’ in it’s annual HPC Awards of Distinction. AND THEN…he produced one of the absolutely BEST entertaining awards gala evening EVER at last years ThrillerFest in Phoenix. I mean, he had a packed room stomping their feet and clapping until it hurt.

SO, COME JOIN OUR CONVERSATION AND MEET A GENUINE DYNAMO – A MAN FOR ALL SEASONS – I GIVE YOU BOB LEVINSON!

BOB LEVINSON http://www.robertslevinson.com

EE: Rumors are rampant, Bob – that after producing that rollicking ITW Gala last year in Phoenix – Hollywood is making overtures for a nod for next year’s Oscar party – but you’ll only agree if you can bring the dazzling Killerettes along. So, what’s the scoop on that?

BL: Well, if you insist… Truth is – the Killerettes started that rumor – originally talking about performing at the Hollywood Foreign Press awards banquet. Alex said later they were inspired by Heather’s Golden Globes (Harley said I’m the one said that, not Alex. If the gag just got a laugh, Harley’s correct. No laugh, what does she know anyway?)

There are times when even moi – Evil E – leaves answers alone.

EE: And isn’t it true that John Lescroat is demanding to go along with you as chaperon for those lovely ladies, but F. Paul Wilson and Michael Palmer are flipping coins over who will watch Lescroat?

BL: Those guys rock, but absolutely not. I work alone.

Wise move – I know those guys, and well…

EE: Most writers I know have a quote or two they keep by their computer. Do you have one, or do you write your own? Can we steal them?

BL: There’s a quote I’ve kept close going back decades, to my years on a Selectric: "Im ain, mi li? It’s from the Talmud and translates as – If I am not for me, who is? And this one from Marcel Duchamp: "Don’t let yourself become hypnotized by the smiles of yesterday; rather, invent the smiles of tomorrow"

One of my making has been quoted for years: Don’t give up the quip. (And you can’t imagine how tired I am of going around quoting myself…)

Damn, those are all so good – I’m not sure which one I want to steal!

EE: Besides writing, Bob – what would you be doing if you weren’t writing?

BL: I’d be struggling as an actor instead of struggling as an author.

I doubt it would be much of a struggle! You have a knack for making dreams happen.

EE: "Write what you know" is what new writers are always told – so I’m wondering here, Bob – (and it’s been rumored) – if those letters between Marilyn & Elvis in your debut book – THE ELVIS AND MARILYN AFFAIR – were really letters Marilyn sent to you. I think it’s time we knew the real skinny on this.

BL: Get real, my darling. If that first novel had been titled THE BOB AND MARILYN AFFAIR. you really think it would have found a publisher? However, I do remember bumping into Marilyn once and for some reason was immediately struck by thoughts of the Hollywood Foreign Press awards banquet.

Uh, I think I’ll pass on this one too. 🙂

EE: As a seasoned and popular panelist – we’d all like to know who would be your ideal panel mates at the next con?

BL: Any on a long list of those whose talent I admire and opinions I respect, who welcome opportunity to educate and inform an audience based on their practiced knowledge and experience, especially the authors with a natural, spontaneous wit, able to spice their serious observations with a bit of humor. Happily, they outnumber the authors who hijack a panel and use it to promote themselves and their latest book exclusively, motormouths too self-absorbing to realize the good will and sales their showboating is likely to cost them.

Yep – I’ve seen a few of those hijackers…and I don’t buy their books. And – you’ll never see them here at OTB.

EE: What advice – if any – would you like to offer writers these days? I don’t mean just new writers – all of us.

BL: Hmmm. I suppose something along the lines of "Don’t be discouraged." For new writers, it’s by those rejection letters from agents and editors. For published authors outside the safety zone of the NY Times bestseller list, it’s the sense of gloom and doom caused by corporate mergers, a shrinking market place, indie bookstores going out of business, and, of course, the fear of falling off the mid-list as the mid-list shrinks into memory. I believe resiliency is the key to success and survival. I also believe for every drop of rain that falls a flower grows. And to all of us, I say – nay, I sing (everybody join in!): When you’re down and out, lift up your head and shout, "There’s gonna be a great day!"

Great advice, Bob. I wonder how many terrific books are still languishing in a box somewhere because rejections from agents and editors were just too much to take. One should remember the number of rejections The Godfather and Catch-22 encountered.

EE: You and Sandra are having six guests for dinner. Who are they – and what will you serve?

BL: Since our dining room table can seat twelve guests, we’ll go with some of the usual crowd: Gershwin, Jolson, Merman, Berle, Eddie Robinson, Hitchcock, Wilder, Hemingway, Truffault, Lennon, Audrey Hepburn, and reserve one place for you, dear Elaine.

The dinner, as prepared by our Chef Sandra: Assorted cheese and crackers; a salad of mixed baby greens with balsamic vinaigrette dressing; Cornish game hens with Dijon walnut sauce served on wild rice; baby artichokes; lemon gelato and cookies for dessert – coffee and appropriate dinner and dessert wines.

Moi? I’m invited too? With that bunch? My heart is jumping here. Can I sit next to Eddie Robinson (I can talk art) and Berle (maybe he could help me develop a sense of humor) – and oh, Audrey Hepburn? Maybe I should just help Sandra? I mean, that’s an awesome group, Bob.

EE: Which best selling book do you wish you’d written? Just PLEASE don’t say that DVC book! Ah, hell – go ahead if you must.

BL: Ragtime by E.L.Doctorow. Talk about storytelling at it’s finest and making every word count. If you were asking for a list, I know I’d include Gatsby, just to give me some credibility, and something by Hemingway and a couple by Ira Levin, and, oh, yeah – Catch 22, and I suppose The Catcher In The Rye (or J.D., if he reads this, will never speak to me again), and Time and Again, and early Harold Robbins (Never Love A Stranger, A Stone for Danny Fisher), and Robert Traver (Anatomy of a Murder) and Evan Hunter/Ed McBain and Joe Wambaugh, and who or what am I forgetting? Yikes! Ray Bradbury! Philip Roth! Oh, and Freddy the Pig by Walter R. Brooks…DVC? Nope. Haven’t read it…

Ragtime! Absolutely! Oh, J.D. said he might drop in-he’s not mad at you,okay? And as far as Robbins goes – I’ve always felt he was a master.

EE: We’ve had some pretty interesting Walter Mitty dreams offered here at On The Bubble, Bob – what’s yours?

BL: I’ll level with you…My dream was to write a novel and get it published. I got lucky and pulled it off. Other than that, it’s been to write a play and get it performed. I’m sort of on that road now. "Transcript", a one-act I wrote a few months ago during a breather from the novels and the short stories, is on tap to be staged during the International Mystery Writers Festival at RiverPark Center in Owensboro, KY – June 12-17. (Subtle how I worked in the plug, eh, Elaine?)

Congrats on the play! And Bob? You don’t have to be subtle here – this is about you…so thanks for letting us know what else you’re up to.

EE: You and I have seen a lot of changes lo these past decades in Bookville – what trend or which writer stands out in your mind?

BL: Judge Traver for sure. With Anatomy of a Murder, the novel I credit with inspiring lawyers to leave the courtroom where they belong and invade the wunnerful-wunnerful world of fiction. Joe Wambaugh, of course, brought realism to the ranks of fictional cops and perhaps single-handedly created a breed of writers who’ve been following his lead ever since.

A trend that stands out in my mind? The rise of the small press, where new homes and hopes have opened up for both new and established writers.

Couldn’t agree more… And yes – a round of applause for small presses!

EE: Other than your own – which series protag do you most identify with?

RL: According to a just-this-minute tour of authors and titles on my bookshelves, hunting for an answer: Nobody. (I’d love to say Sherlock Holmes, but I still haven’t figured out why that damned dog didn’t bark.)

Maybe someone out there can tell us why the dog didn’t bark?

EE: Your favorite non-writing quote?

BL: "In spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart." Anne Frank

Lovely – thank you for reminding us.

EE: How would you like to be remembered?

BL: Fondly

Count on it.

EE: What writer or book has influenced you the most?

BL: The Kinsey Report

I wasn’t ready for that, Bob…but, uh…what the hell, huh?

EE: Are the rumors true that you were the one who killed Paul Guyot’s blog – INK SLINGER – and do you have plans to convince him to leave Murderati???!!!!

BL: First, understand I was among the first to pronounce his name correctly (it rhymes with Gaul) – and yes, ‘mdear, I plead guilty. I screamed at him for wasting his time and considerable talent blogging, using his blog as his time-crunching excuse for not writing the novel he wanted desperately to write. So, Paul – quit the blog – and the rest – as they don’t say isn’t history. Not yet, anyway… (Paul, you reading this? Paul?)

Okay, just wait a minute here… We’re all for Paul working on his novel…but we ain’t letting him leave Murderati! So – as much as I love you, Bob – knock it off, okay?

Meanwhile, you won’t catch me blogging. What I have to say, I say on (wait for it) (here it comes) (another subtle plug) – my website: http://www.robertslevinson.com And, in response to invitations to Q & A visits on wonderful blogs like yours, sweet Elaine…

All of us at Murderati appreciate your compliment – and want you back again. So consider this an open invitation.

Okay, are we done? Is it a wrap? If so, thanks for inviting me; thanks to all who’ve read down to here; and please join me in pausing for a moment in fond memory of the indomitable Barbara Seranella.

A wonderful exit from a terrific guy…

Love Affairs

I love movies. For a long time now. So much so that I am one of those really annoying people who don’t say movies. I say "film."

I love film.

Film was and always will be my first love. Since that April night when I lost my virginity to film – sitting on a camping chair in the bed of my father’s pickup truck at the Frontier drive-in in Arizona… watching Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.

For the next twenty years film would consume me. It was the love of my life. The love I lost my virginity to. The love I tried exotic new positions with. Explored things I’d previously never imagined. Years later, I would get into television just so I could always be near film. Be at the same parties, in the same room. But film never loved me like I loved it. And in the back of my mind I always knew it. But you know how when you’re in the most erotic, passionate, intense relationship of your life, you tend to overlook things like… common sense?

Eventually, as in most all relationships that have nothing but raw passion as their foundation, I started to want less flash and more depth. My love of film, while pure ecstasy at times, became… I don’t know, tiring. Sometimes I’d have a headache. Or want to talk. Or just not be in the mood. Or when I was in the mood, film wouldn’t return my call. It was always on film’s schedule.

Then I met books.

Books I could talk to. Books I could sit in a coffee house with for hours and just chill. I could be in bed, on the can, even driving, and books were always there. Anytime I wanted them and regardless of my mood, books were the Holly Hunter to film’s Angelina Jolie. It’s not like it was with film, but it’s solid, fun, honest, and every so often we get freaky.

So, I’ve been in this monogamous relationship with books for a while, and then the other night, totally unexpectedly, film shows up in my living room in the form of Brick.

Brick is a film made for just under $500,000 by a passionate USC grad named Rian Johnson. The film is classic noir; an American private eye story, containing all the elements – the smoky and at times ironic score (which I’ve already added to my iTunes), the beautifully noir cinematography, a story almost too complex at times, and a screenplay worthy of Hammett, Mamet, and the Coen brothers.

And it’s set in high school.

Yes, that’s right. The entire story takes place in and around a high school. In fact, I think there’s maybe two characters over thirty in the whole thing. But this film is so good it could have been set in pre-school or anywhere else for that matter.

Now, this is not a perfect film, but what is? And I’d wager most criticisms come from jealous film wannabes who are pissed they didn’t think of the idea. There are few films made in today’s world that one can’t find flaw with. And it being a subjective medium, well, there you go.

Brick is simply an incredibly wonderful way to spend an hour and fifty minutes. For anyone, but especially for those of us who dearly love the genre.

I rented the dvd from Netflix, and it sat in my house for two weeks. I wasn’t in the mood. Literally. Then one night, I was about to go to bed, and I was thinking that I really wanted to see the next dvd in my Netflix queue (a blues documentary). But I needed to send back that Brick film. I couldn’t even remember why I’d rented it. Oh, yeah, it was a detective story or something. I decided to put it in and fall asleep to it, then I’d be able to send it back in the morning…

I stayed up until after midnight, completely consumed from the opening frame. And then I watched it again, listening to the commentary.

Film was back in my life. Now, I know it was a one-night stand, but Good Christ… for that one night, film and me, we did things Jenna Jameson’s never tried.

The great thing is that books understand. Books forgive. Books will always take me back, even when I don’t deserve it. And there will be another night, another lonely, rainy night when there’s a knock at my door, and I’ll open it to find film standing there… wearing black thigh highs and Christian Louboutins, a cigarette dangling from its bee-stung lips. And I’ll stand aside and let film enter.

Guyot

This week’s If I Picked Characters’ Watches:

SJ Rozan’s Bill Smith would wear a 1961 Omega Seamaster…

Angst Envy

by Pari Noskin Taichert

My dear friend Sandra Cline sent me an article about Matthieu Richard a.k.a. "the happiest man in the world."

My first thought?
"He must not be a writer."

As we saw last week in Louise Ure’s brilliant post — and the subsequent comments — many of us ink-stained wretches suffer from insecurities about our craft. You’d think we actually lived the life of those stereotypic souls who huddled in Parisian garrets, their desks covered with empty espresso cups, ashtrays overflowing with spent Gauloises, and only a single candle to provide warmth on freezing nights.

But, wait a minute . . .

Are we really being honest with ourselves when we dive into the depths of despond about our crappy prose? Is it possible we’re actually enjoying ourselves a little, benefitting from the divine pleasure born of an image of necessary torture for our art? Aren’t we noble, grand?

I won’t speak for you — though I hope you speak for yourselves in the comments section — but I certainly relate to this William Carlos Williams poem:

Danse Russe

If I when my wife is sleeping
and the baby and Kathleen
are sleeping
and the sun is a flame-white disc
in silken mists
above shining trees, —
if I in my north room
dance naked, grotesquely
before my mirror
waving my shirt round my head
and singing softly to myself
"I am lonely, lonely.
I was born to be lonely,
I am best so!"
If I admire my arms, my face
my shoulders, flanks, buttocks
against the yellow drawn shades, —

Who shall say I am not
the happy genius of my household?

We writers write for an audience. In truth, I think we’re a rather egotistical lot. This is neither good nor bad . . . just an observation. I mean, we write our stories and expect people to spend their time and money reading them.

Doesn’t that strike you as a bit confident, even cocky?

I don’t question our sincerity when the tremors of "ittotallysucksitis" shake our bodies. The breast-beating we do because our fiction is tripe, is real. And, we’d better step up to the responsibility of making sure our work is as good as it can possibly be.

I’m just saying that we might enjoy the angst more than we’d like to admit.

Here’s a fun last thought:
In one of my favorite episodes of The Simpsons, down-on-his-luck bartender Moe ends up at a writers’ conference that resembles the famous Bread Loaf. The fictional WordLoaf has such luminaries as Michael Chabon, Jonathan Franzen, Gore Vidal and Thomas Pynchon (the elusive writer appears with a paper bag over his head).

When Moe first joins a cocktail party with these literary giants, he pauses, a smile of awe on his ungodly face, and says (verbatim from my sieve of a memory), "Here I am, surrounded by the happiest people on earth . . . writers."

Maybe there’s something to that.

Writers: What say you?
Readers: What’s your image of the stereotypic writer?

_________________________________________________________________________________

Program notes:
Next Monday, Feb. 5, I’ll be on my way to the New Mexico Chile Pepper Conference. J.T. will take that day for me (thanks, J.T.!). I’ll take hers on Friday, Feb. 9 with a LCC 2007 wrap-up. The next week everything will be back on normal schedule.

Dreams of Bloody Knuckles and Quiet Theaters

I want BLOOD on my hands.

It’s three am and the memory of what happened Friday afternoon still twists my gut. God help me, I wanted to beat a man to death right in front of his baby’s eyes. The rage flickered inside my heart only for a moment, but I can’t deny it was there.

Let me set the scene.

My wife and I went to see the new movie "Smokin Aces" with a couple of friends of ours. Being a Friday, there was a good-sized crowd, but the theater was far from packed. Some "gentleman" high in the auditorium seats had brought his baby to the movie and it wailed during the previews. I was shaking my head in disgust, muttering in disbelief, when another single father strolled down our isle and sat down with his infant child. There were more than a dozen empty rows, but he chose to sit DIRECTLY in front of us.

In case you haven’t seen the ads, let me tell you, "Smokin Aces" is violent on an apocalyptic scale. The film is littered with bodies. Men are shot, stabbed, burnt, beaten, tortured, and decimated by chain saws. That theater, showing that movie, was NO place for a baby.

So of course, the baby got restless.

For twenty minutes, she cried and squirmed as the man wrestled her in and out of the stroller. At times, he handed the kid a box of candy to use as a rattle. So when we weren’t distracted by the baby’s cries we got to listen to "RATTLE, RATTLE, RATTLE."

I was about to go to the lobby and speak to a manager when my wife very calmly, very politely asked the man if he could please try to keep the baby quiet.

The man glared at my wife angrily and said, "It’s a fucking baby."

He said it so quickly, I can only assume he was waiting for someone to say something to him. It’s a fucking baby. As if my wife were somehow a horrible person. How dare she. A poor, innocent baby is frightened and crying. How dare she ask him to please keep the baby quiet.

By the way, did I mention that my wife is seven months pregnant?

"It’s a fucking baby," he repeated, snarling at my wife.

"Yeah, and it’s a rated-R movie," I responded. "You don’t bring a kid into a movie like this."

The man tore out of seat and gathered up his things. He was a stocky guy with a shaved head and a heavy frame, bulging with fat and muscle–he could’ve been a nameless thug in the movie we were watching. He left, yelling curses while my wife pleaded with me to stay in my chair.

Rage coursed through my veins so hard that I trembled. (In fact, I tremble now typing this account.) And just when I began to calm down the man came back.

He left his stroller a few yards away and yelled horrible things at my wife–a woman with child herself. I wish I could say I took the high ground. I wish I could say that I remained zen and let it slide. But any zen I might’ve had slipped away when he said those things to my wife. I had my own words for the man, and they weren’t pretty.

The man eventually left, and we got back to the film. But the whole time, we had to look over our shoulders, because there is no doubt in my mind that he wanted to fight.

My mind staggers trying to comprehend him. In the end, it boils down to one thing–selfishness. The man thought only of himself. He didn’t care about anyone in the theater. He didn’t care that he would have to knock down a pregnant woman to get to me. And most of all, he didn’t care about his own child, whose safety was put at risk because of stupidity and a twisted sense of self-entitlement.

I cared more about his child than he did.

There were many reasons why I didn’t try to take the bastard’s head off. I didn’t want to risk my wife’s safety. I didn’t want to go to jail over a scumbag. I didn’t know if he had a gun. But most of all, I simply couldn’t beat this man in front of his child. As much as I wanted to feel his blood on my knuckles, it would’ve been wrong. What if the baby was hurt in the scuffle? What would that make me?

In some way, this event will end up in my fiction. It has crystallized at least one motive for all the evil in the world. Selfishness.

If you like a good nihilistic bullet-fest, the movie was great, and I really enjoyed it. Up until the end.

As the climax crested its peak and the bloody action gave way to quiet, reflective dialogue, the baby up in the auditorium seating began to wail. Its father, who no doubt wanted to see the end of the movie, stayed in his seat.

My mind staggers.

Faire Time

by Alex

The year is finally starting to seem underway and the whole madness begins again. Conventions are kicking into gear – I cannot wait to get myself to Seattle for Left Coast Crime next week, where I will be reunited with almost all the ‘Rati and hundreds of other favorite and soon-to be-favorite authors, librarians, booksellers, DLers, 4MAers, MWAers, ITWers, Sisters, and readers.

Authors are strongly advised to go to conventions and festivals to build their careers. There is no question that the networking is gold. And except for having to continuously “sparkle”, as Margaret Maron puts it, it’s so easy to network at these things. All you have to do is relax and walk around and just run into the people you need to run into. Really, it works. Reviewers, booksellers, your publicist, the author whose incredible book you were reading just the night before, extraordinary friends you haven’t seen in ten years – they’re all there in a very contained space and you will drift into them if you just go with the flow.

Some people call that work. But what it really is, is magic. What it is – is Faire Time.

I learned the concept of Faire Time, or Festival Time, over the years of my interestingly misspent youth, hanging out at the Southern California Renaissance Pleasure Faire –a month-long semi-historical recreation of life in an Elizabethan village, except with sex and drugs and overpriced irresistible craftish – stuff.

(Wait, what am I saying? Of course they had all of that going on in those real Elizabethan villages, too…)

Since I am practically dying of flu at the moment, I’ll be lazy. Let’s see what Wikipedia has to say about festivals:

Among many religions, a feast or festival is a set of celebrations in honour of God or gods.

Hmm, sounds familiar, doesn’t it? A set of celebrations in honor of gods – and goddesses. At Left Coast Crime this year, for example, toastmaster Gary Philips leads us in celebrating Gayle Lynds; the late and very lamented Dennis Lynds; Dorothy L founders Diane Kovacs and Kara Robinson. Gods and goddesses of the mystery world? You betcha.

What else?

Festivals, of many types, serve to meet specific social needs and duties, as well as to provide entertainment. These times of celebration offer a sense of belonging for religious, social, or geographical groups. Modern festivals that focus on cultural or ethnic topics seek to inform members of their traditions. In past times, festivals were times when the elderly shared stories and transferred certain knowledge to the next generation. Historic feasts often provided a means for unity among families and for people to find mates.

Now, does that sound like a convention or what?

Maybe it’s that first, religious purpose of festivals but I do notice this unifying principle of “Faire Time” or “Festival Time" in full force at conventions. There is an element of the sacred about a festival – it is out of the ordinary, out of simple chronological time, out of chronos – into kairos (again, from Wikipedia): "a time in between", a moment of undetermined period of time in which "something" special happens.

And here’s an interesting bit:

In rhetoric kairos is a passing instant when an opening appears which must be driven through with force if success is to be achieved.

Synchronicity and opportunity happen with such regularity at these convention things that they’re really more the rule than the exception.

It is my absolute conviction that much more important career business gets done at conventions and festivals than anywhere else because it is being done in Faire Time – a suspended moment of opportunity. And that is not even mentioning the creative and personal inspiration of being in that state of suspended time with so many passionate worshippers of the mystery and the book.
As many of you have witnessed, I love the total debauchery of these gatherings, but no matter how many drinks I am plied with by various unnamed pliers, I’m never unaware of something also sacred under all that revelry.

I’m sure that all of us have stories of improbable connections and synchronicities at festivals, and I’d love to hear them today, to help get me through this lingering plague.

And I cannot wait to revel, debauch and worship with the rest of you at LCC– six days and counting!