Why Latkes?

by Pari Noskin Taichert

My kids think Hanukkah means presents and latkes. That’s it. Forget the struggle for spiritual freedom. Forget the symbols of hope. They want loot and fat.

Perhaps my husband and I have gone overboard in our celebration, but we want our children to have happy memories of their religious and cultural traditions. Overcompensation is inevitable when you’re making up for lacks in your own childhood.

So, last Friday night, I peeled the damn potatoes, grated them. Grated the onions. Threw in a bit of this and a bit of that and then stood in front of two large pans half-filled with dangerously hot oil for about 1 1/2 hours to make enough latkes for our family and guests.

Each time I started to feel sorry for myself, I staunched the emotion with images of all those bubbes, like my round-chested Russian grandmas, who grated everything by hand. Rather than worry about empty calories and fat, these ladies grew up in a time when they yearned for the luxury of oil, the abundance of eggs and onions.

How they would wonder at our world today. The internet is filled with recipes for low-fat latkes (oh, for heaven’s sake). "What’s the point?" my grandma Rose would ask. In my local grocery, here in Albuquerque, there are actually instant latke mixes. "Just add water? What are they thinking?" grandma Ann would scoff.

Right here, I could go into witty analogies between making latkes the old way and writing. I could tie-in this post with my Jewish protag’s eating habits. But . . . not today. Here’s the real reason I go to this trouble:

Building traditions for my family is one of the things I take most seriously as a parent because too much of everyday life is too unintentional. Homemade latkes, by virtue of the work involved, force me to slow down, to think about past and present, to connect with hundreds of years of my heritage.

No matter what we do as parents, our children will become adults with opinions and memories over which we have no control. (My husband and I frequently joke about starting a therapy fund for our kids’ future psychological counseling.) If I can nurture at least a few joyful moments on purpose, experiences my children will carry with them through life, my parenting will be worth the hours spent making these traditional potato pancakes. That’s why latkes.

A little fat can be a very good thing.

____________________________________________________________________________________

Okay, here are a few photos from the latke feast.

For those of you who’ve never seen green chiles (YES, they’re spelled with an "e" in New Mexico!) here are a few. I roast them directly on our stove’s gas burners until the skin is black, then put them in a paper bag to steam. When they’ve cooled a bit, I peel and strip out the seeds.

I was going to make chile latkes, but this batch of peppers were too hot for many of our guests.

My protag, Sasha, would definitely eat the latkes with all the fixins’ — sour cream, applesauce AND green chile.

I try to be a good mom, to be mindful of that 5-a-day rule re: veggies and fruits. But it’s difficult when you’re plying your kids with latkes. So, my concession was to have some relish trays. See, I try.

Ugh. I look like I ate ALL the latkes myself. But, no, this picture was the best one to show the regular and sweet potato pancakes. It was taken after I’d made at least three other batches.

So, don’t look too long at the model. ‘Kay?

In the background, you can see a lovely woman. A Shia Moslem, she and her son were among our guests. Cross-cultural understanding comes one person at a time. In this picture, she was getting ready to leave to go to mosque.

Cool, hunh?

Whose POV is it, anyway?

I’m struggling with point of view this week… and realistically I can look forward (!!!) to struggling with it for the rest of the writing of THE TRAVELLER’S TALE, since the POV is so intricate with this one that I have half decided to just bash it out any way I can think of for the first draft just to get the story down, and then start assigning POV in the next pass.

I think writers in general are fairly obsessed with point of view. Like dreamers (meaning, people literally in the state of dreaming) we are promiscuous about jumping from one POV to another because we have to play all the characters in anything we write.

Kristy Kiernan has a great blog over on THE DEBUTANTE BALL this week about her first experience of that kind of real-life POV shift.

I have this sneaking suspicion that those are the moments that make us writers – those moments that we completely leave ourselves and inhabit another human being.

Example. Some musician friends of mine live in this great, appalling house – you know the kind of party house I’m talking about – they’re musicians. There’s a basement with a full bar and a sound studio and all kinds of decadence going on at all hours. The couches in the living room are like enormous Venus Flytraps – people come over for a party and wake up three days later and still have no inclination to leave – and they don’t have to, because no one will mind, it’s all part of the flow.

Their house is the one blot in a very, very PROPER neighborhood.

And right next door to them is a very New England brick structure. SO well tended. Very nice family. Very nice.

Okay, so it’s party season, and this one day not so long ago I stumble out of the House of the Rising Sun at four in the afternoon on the way to some kind of caffeine… God only knows what I was wearing… and here are this very proper father and his maybe eight-year old son oh-so-diligently raking fall leaves off their lawn.

And this little boy looks at me.

Well, so does the father.

And I’m suddenly outside of my own body and inside that little boy, looking at me. And okay, yeah, also inside the father.

And I suppose I keep moving, because I REALLY REALLY need coffee, but I’m not aware of it. The synapses are firing and the questions are popping.

What the HELL is it like to live next door to a house like that, with longhaired great-armed boys toting guitars and cases of just about anything and marginally-dressed women going in and out at all hours, when you’re trying to be an upstanding citizen? And more importantly, whose POV do you tell this story from? Is it a mid-life crisis in the making, or a coming-of-age story, or both? And what about the wife? Who is she? What does she think about all these sexy Dionysian boys living right next door, when THAT’s her husband? How long before one or all of these people snap?

These are the kinds of things that keep writers up at night.

There are stories, and then there’s the whole other issue of Whose Story Is It?

And just when you think you’ve got one of them down, the other one becomes the real issue.

So these are my questions for all you all (I have not been in the South long enough to be able to say “all y’all” with any kind of authority, and to be perfectly honest, I’m not sure I’ll ever get there).

In your own writing, do you favor a certain POV: first person, third person, close third, omniscient? And as readers, do you have a preference? And what, in your opinion, are some great multiple POV books? (especially on the dark suspense side… )

Because I could use some help on this one, for sure.

Alex

Desperation, Desolation

JT Ellison

UPDATE — December 18, 2006
They might have him!

This headline caught my eye for obvious reasons. Hunt For Serial Killer Widens in England. It’s been touched on here and here. The story is terrible, but one that’s become all too common in our society today. It’s interesting that they are billing this as a new Jack the Ripper — it seems every time prostitutes start dying, Jack is the gold standard for comparison.

12/13/06 by Rukmini Callimachi (AP)

Detective Chief Superintendent Stewart Gull of Suffolk police advised Ipswich prostitutes not to go out to work.

"We
have got three prostitutes murdered, now possibly another two. I do not
know what stronger warning there can be to get off the streets as soon
as possible," he said.

Detectives were already investigating the
deaths of three women, whose naked bodies were found a few miles apart.
One body was found in a stream, another in a pond and a third in the
woods, about 30 yards from a road.

The two bodies discovered
Tuesday were lying near Levington, Suffolk, a village about five miles
south of Ipswich. The corpses of the five dead women have all been
found within a few miles of Ipswich.

The killing has stirred
memories of the so-called Yorkshire Ripper, one of Britain’s worst
serial killers. Peter Sutcliffe admitted to killing 13 women, mostly
prostitutes, in the 1970s. He was sentenced to serve a minimum of 30
years in prison.

His reign of terror recalled Jack the Ripper,
the notorious Victorian serial killer who murdered at least five East
London prostitutes in 1888. He was never caught and speculation about
his identity continues.

The latest deaths have drawn intense
media interest, with Ipswich’s afternoon newspaper labeling the
prostitutes’ killer "the Suffolk Strangler."

Creative geniuses, these serial killers. Preying on prostitutes. Women who are desperate for money to buy drugs, maintain their pimps, or simply find themselves in a situation beyond their control.

And now a new report has surfaced. Scotland Yard is "talking" to the authorities in Atlantic City, New Jersey, about possible similarities in the cases. From a creative standpoint, the idea that a transatlantic serial killer is alternating murdering prostitutes in the States and the UK is where a thriller novel is born. (It’s mine, don’t you even think about it.)

But there is a dark, grim reality out there.

I spent an overnight on a ride along interviewing pros. We’d pull them over, take a Polaroid, take down a physical description, noting tattoos and scars, eye color, the unchangeable traits they possessed. We ran their sheets, most of which were fourteen to twenty pages long, with various and sundry charges, nearly all drug related. We took down their information, last known address, anything and everything. None of them really seemed to grasp why.

Why? Because when they were found in a ditch or a dumpster three weeks later, the police would have something to identify them with.

As the sun rose over Nashville and we called it a night, I was devastated. It’s depressing seeing these women, mothers, wives, sisters, daughters, pushed into this life. They aren’t pretty, they aren’t glamorous. They aren’t the version you see in movies with the short sequined skirts and lucite platform FMP’s. They are dressed in tattered jeans and over-sized t-shirts. They are missing most of their teeth. They have lank, greasy hair, haven’t showered for days, and generally are about as unappealing as you can imagine. They walk with a wide gait, arms swinging at their sides — the Crack Walk. It makes a woman wonder why, exactly, a man would pay money to have sex with them.

Yet pay they do. I saw several cross country truckers parked in the back of quiet buildings, men of all ages and colors wandering behind their "date" (you have to stay out of the prostitutes proximity so you aren’t labeled a John and picked up.) Drugs fuel this underworld, and it is depressing as hell to see first hand.

There’s a program here in Nashville called the Magdalene House. It’s a spectacular recovery and rescue run by Reverend Becca Stevens of St. Augustine’s Episcopal Church. Becca is a pretty amazing woman.

"From
my experience the line between priest and prostitute is very small. The
bonds which hold us together are much stronger than the lines which
keep us apart."

— The Reverend Becca Stevens

Magdalene House has grown, and now has a cottage industry called Thistle Farms, where the women who’ve graduated the program work. I’ve met some of the women, both while they’re in recovery and after. There is hope in their eyes, something I didn’t see on the streets of downtown Nashville.

I wish there were a way to talk these women off the streets. The cops in Ipswich, England "encourage" the prostitutes not to go to work. But they can’t stop. They are fueled by addiction, and are therefore something like a herd of deer, being thinned by predators. These women are easy prey, hunted by cowards. We’ll hear these stories again, and again, and again. There will always be desperation, and desolation in this world.

I chose to write serial killer novels for many reasons. I’ve discussed my motivations before. I want to give a voice to the victims. In my world, the one I make up and put on paper, I can address the issues. I can catch the bastards who prey on women, and see that there is justice. But every once in a while, I see a story in the news and realize I’m not enough. Programs like Magdalene aren’t enough. It’s sad to realize that no matter what I do, it’s not going to change a thing. Sick minds like the Ipswich Ripper, the Atlantic City killer, the myriad of others who are killing — nameless, faceless — will never stop.

———————————————————————————————–
P.S. MJ Rose is sponsoring a great contest at Buzz, Balls and Hype.
Write YOUR letter to Santa and win $100 for your favorite charity.

If my letter is picked, the $100 will go to Magdalen House.

Iconic

I was reading The Maltese Falcon again. Actually, I was listening to the audio version again. It’s a great book and I learn something new every time I read it. This time, I was reflecting on how The Maltese Falcon wasn’t much of a mystery. It was all about the hunt for the Falcon. Then I realized the book did have a mystery. The mystery was who killed Sam Spade’s partner. Spade getting involved with the motley crew in the search for The Black Bird was a means to an end (and what a means to an end).

I marvel at the power of The Maltese Falcon. The book is as fabled as the fictional bird contained within its pages. Seventy-five years after publication people are still reading the book. People know the story just by the mention of the title. Sam Spade is an archetypal character. He’s the gold standard by which all other PIs are judged. Wow, what a legacy.

I got to thinking how hungry Hammett leaves me. Spade was the kind of guy to get mixed up in a whole bunch of nonsense time and time again. The Maltese Falcon provided the perfect platform to launch Sam Spade as a series character–the same way Raymond Chandler did with Philip Marlowe–but Hammett never reprised Sam Spade. How could Hammett do this to me? What a meanie.

Then again, I can understand Hammett’s reluctance (if he did indeed feel reluctant. I don’t know. I’ll have to do some checking). The Maltese Falcon was Hammett’s third book and his breakout book. How do you follow The Maltese Falcon? A new chase could start for the Dingus but there’s a big chance that it would pale in comparison to the first. Spade could get mixed up in a whole new adventure, but again, the story and characters would have to rival those from The Maltese Falcon. It’s a daunting proposition laced with plenty of downfalls that could lead to tarnishing the Falcon and Spade’s name. I can see why Hammett never did it. Personally, I wouldn’t touch a sequel with a ten-foot barge pole. I know a few weeks ago, I talked about how I’d love to write for Doctor Who and Batman, but I wouldn’t want to be handed the chance to write a new adventure for Sam Spade. The reason is that the Doctor and Batman’s characters are wide open. I’d have room to take chances and even if my story sucked, it would be lost in the wealth stories already written without besmirching those characters’ names, but with Spade’s character, there’s no wiggle room. Screw up and everyone will remember it.

That said, a little while ago, I read that ex-San Francisco PI and writer, Joe Gores was working on a Spade prequel called, Spade and Archer. No better person to ask. Joe is a San Francisco legend and an authority on Hammett, but even so, what a challenge. Joe, you’re a much braver writer than I am. 🙂

The problem is that time and readers have turned The Maltese Falcon into something larger than the sum of its parts. It’s an icon in every sense of the word. That status comes with great benefits and drawbacks.

I think it would be cool to write a book of The Maltese Falcon’s ilk, but I don’t think it’ll happen. Books like The Maltese Falcon can’t just be written. There’s something special that happens that fires the writer and readers’ imaginations. If there is a secret (or a formula) to writing a classic book, I haven’t worked it out yet. If I do, I’ll let you know.

Yours still searching,
Simon Wood
PS: Time is catching up on me. Accidents Waiting to Happen will be out in less than three months. So that means I’m gearing up to do my book signing schedule. I’ll be sticking to the West Coast, but I will be jumping across country from time to time. If you have a favorite bookstore or book club and you’d like me to visit, let me know. Send me details and contact information and I’ll see what I can work out.

ON THE BUBBLE – PERSONS OF INTEREST CONTINUED

When I looked over my new list of interviews today, I realized I should have had more coffee this morning. My head is already pounding just looking at this group. But then, they’ve all been tricky – trying to trip me up – evading questions here and there – leading me down corridors of confusion – but they don’t realize who they’re dealing with. I’ll get my answers one way or the other. So, okay – my window is closed. No problem – it was too drafty anyway.

SCENE OF THE CRIME: ON THE BUBBLE – DAY THREE – 2006

THE CRIMES: Writing some of the best fiction out there.

THE SUSPECTS:

TESS GERRITSEN http://www.tessgerritsen.com

Now, this lovely lady means business. Just check out this photo! You don’t want to mess with her. Besides being an Edgar nominee, she just won the Nero Award a couple of weeks ago. You already know she’s a NYT Bestseller – an international supernova with TEN Medical Suspense novels under belt-but did you know she also wrote NINE Romantic Suspense novels as well? We all know Tess is a physician – but I gotta tell you -that mock autopsy she did with Doug Lyle at ThrillerFest was a show stopper!

Not only is Tess one hell of a stunner – which is easy too see – (so let’s just all get over our envy) – she is also warm, generous with her thoughts (check out her blog) – has a terrific laugh and a wicked sense of humor. I had to keep that in mind whilst I read her latest two books- VANISH – because that’s what she did to my sleep. It vanished. And her newest – THE MEPHISTO CLUB – added more wrinkles around my eyes. But I’ll make Tess pay – she owes me a drink next year at ThrillerFest.

EE: Okay, here’s an easy one: What is your favorite retreat? And what do you do there?

TG: My own head. And I do everything there. Not all of which I can talk about.

Really. Hmmmm. Oh, we’ll really have to have that drink!

EE: Everyone has a Walter Mitty dream, what’s yours? 75,000 words or less. I normally say to keep it clean, but after that last answer-I’m intrigued.

TG: Brad Pitt decides Angelina Jolie just isn’t hot enough for him anymore, and then his gaze meets mine across the room, and… No, honestly, I’m already living my Walter Mitty dream. I still can’t believe I’m getting paid so well just to make stuff up.

Aw, shucks – you had me going there. But hey, if you’re happy?

EE: Word on the street is that Orlando Bloom is after you to star opposite him in the next Pirate’s of the Caribbean: The Quest for Tess’. When do you see your calendar clear to begin?

TG: Five minutes ago. (Will I get to keep the sex scenes?)

There’s a slight problem – it’s a bit iffy at this point. But I think I’ve got everyone convinced as long as you promise to get back to work on your next thriller. See, the powers that be are afraid you might run off with Orlando…but not to worry, okay? I’m on the case.

JIM ROLLINS http://www.jamesrollins.com

Jim Rollins is one of the few men I take to bed who can keep me up all night.

Well, it’s true. His chapter endings are such cliff-hangers, I can’t let go of my anxiety. But then, what can you expect from this best selling author of SEVEN pulse racing thrillers? Oh, and then he’s also a best selling fantasy author of THREE different series under the name of James Clemens! And then of course, he also has a Ph.D in veterinary medicine, his undergraduate work focused on evolutionary biology-he’s an amateur spelunker and a certified scuba diver. Other than that, he’s just your ordinary regular guy. Yeah. Right. A super human dynamo is more like it. Lest you think me gaga, be sure to pick up his newest – BLACK ORDER – and see for yourself.

Jim Rollins is the newest member of my secret loves club. p.s. I have six now, and room for one more. And I’ve got my eye on a few candidates. Keep tuned.

EE: Let’s try the ‘lighten up’ thing, okay? Who would you love to do a book tour with?

JR: Only you, El…can I call you "El"? Think of the lonely road together, the whispers across late candle-lit dinners, debating the works of Proust, Shakespeare, and Lemony Snicket…then the occasional longing glance out of the corner of the eye, the sudden smile, the laughter that hides something more. Where might it lead? More than just the New York Times bestseller list?

OHHHHHH….HELP! I’M MELTING FASTER THAN THE WAX ON THE CANDLES AND IT’S NOT HOT FLASHES! DARLING! OF COURSE YOU CAN CALL ME ‘EL’….JUST CALL ME!

EE: Whew! I’m not sure if I can go on here. Pardon me for a moment whilst I fan my face. Okay, I’m fine now. I can do this. Other than writing two series (!), what do you consider your biggest challenge?

JR: It has to be my role as an international man of mystery. It gets so tiring doing all those quick changes in disguise: the modeling clay, the fake teeth, the tinted contact lenses. The dry cleaning bill alone ate through my last royalty check. But at least the world is a much safer place.

The hell with the world, where shall we meet?

LAURA LIPPMAN http://www.lauralippman.com

Great talent, beauty, brains, her warmth, crackling wit, generosity and welcome smile – all wrapped up in one long-legged supernova is just too damn much for one woman to have – but this lady has it all. And then some.

And then there are the books. Oh, boy. Fourteen books and a combination of damn near every nomination and award that’s out there. Laura has won the Edgar, Shamus, Agatha, Anthony, and the Barry – and nominated for Best P.I. from Romantic Times. And there is little doubt her latest – NO GOOD DEEDS – will most likely bring more nominations and awards.

EE: Okay, Laura – I’m going to start off the bat with one of the hottest rumors running around Mysteryville. In fact, it’s so hot – cell phones are sparking. Can it REALLY be true you’re not taking Jude Law’s calls anymore??? And all because his so-called excessive craving for Greek food at midnight was the last straw?

LL: More his excessive cravings for nannies.

Huh? That’s it? Nannies? But…but…I heard he swore on bended knee that he was cured. Well, okay. But hey-that does leave him open ladies and I’ve got his private number. Email me -but be warned-the highest bidder, okay?

EE: My spy in Vegas (no not that Elvis look-alike that stalked you at Bcon/2003-he’s not working for me anymore. But that’s another story) – tells me that you’ve instructed your publisher not to give into the threats from that mega rich casino owner who is claiming you wrote NO GOOD DEEDS in his coffee shop. And – that he was so taken with you, he personally waited on you! All the poor man wants – he claims – is to be acknowledged as your muse, but you won’t even send him an autographed copy.

LL: I love you, Elaine, but you clearly have the worst sources in the world. Who are you talking to, Jayson Blair and James Frey?

Uh, no – it was…well, I can’t really say. My lips are sealed. I mean, I have to protect my sources. Surely, as a former journalist – you understand that, right? But he had gorgeous hair and the dreamiest blue eyes…and…and…well, never mind.

DYLAN SCHAFFER http://www.misdemeanorman.com

I was prepared to remind you that besides being a criminal defense lawyer for the past fifteen years, Dylan was also a guest blogger here at Murderati, AND he writes an absolutely terrific legal thriller series – MISDEMEANOR MAN – which won Mystery Ink’s 2004 Gumshoe for best debut, and the second in the series – I RIGHT THE WRONGS, was a Booksense selection. Oh, so was MISDEMEANOR MAN. And then I was going to tell you that his next book, LIFE, DEATH & BIALYS: A FATHER/SON BAKING STORY (which made me laugh, smile and cry all at once) came out September 6th. And…ta da…is a Barnes & Nobel Discover pick.

Anyway, God help me, I still don’t know why I asked Dylan for some additional info, but I did. I mean, I know him, okay? He’s a pal. I know that a mischievous monkey resides in his cranium-so I shoulda been warned. Fasten your seat belts – here’s what he sent me:

Dylan Schaffer was born Hilda Nihelitheg in 1912. During WWII she served as a factotum to the Emperor of Jerusalem. Ms. Nihelitheg disappeared from the political scene until 1974 when, having shed his female skin, he took a position as Gerald Ford’s manicurist. After careers in journalism, plumbing, and phlebotomy, Mr. Schaffer settled into the final chapter of his life as a writer. His comic legal thrillers, MISDEMEANOR MAN and I WRITE THE WRONGS were both well received in the Japanese religious community. The well known celebrity chef Mario Batali called Schaffer’s new memoir, LIFE, DEATH & BIALYS: A FATHER/SON BAKING STORY, "a book."

See what I mean? But, not to worry, it gets better. Well, sort of. But be warned –

EE: Somewhere in the night, Dylan, or at what point in your career, did you find it necessary to stop after each chapter draft to go outside and stare at the moon? I mean, to know you is to love you, but what?

DS: Elaine, Elaine. You’re amazing. I haven’t thought of that weekend in New England in years. It was fall, Saturday, 1970. I was taking a few days away from my job trading zero coupon bonds on the Street. My pockets were full, but my heart was empty. I parked in a shuttered seaside town. The fog slithered over me, its chilly fingers sneaking behind my collar and up my pants legs. I ducked into a dive, Avenue C. The barmaid was called Mandy. She looked like Terri Hatcher, only blond and tall, with Streisand’s nose and a chest that would have hooked Johnny Depp. She fed me near beers and laughed at my jokes about Jewish cannibals and David Hasselhoff. By the time her shift ended I swear I couldn’t smile without her. It could have been magic. But around daybreak, during some romantic gymnastics, I tripped and spent the next six hours in the emergency room trying to get the feeling back in my left foot. Mandy said she was going out to find some Chuckles. I never saw her again. To this day I’m running too hard, chasing that feeling, saying these words, "Like a good neighbor, State Farm is there."

Gosh, is that all it took? Uh, Dylan? Don’t turn around. There’s a duck chasing you yelling, ‘AFLACK!

EE: Please don’t be scared, or take offense, but I’ve got to ask this next question. You do thoroughly scrub your hands before making those famous cookies you give out at book signings, don’t you? I promise not to turn you into the Cookie Police if you just rinse them, but I’ve been asked to ask you.

DS: Thanks for asking. You’d be surprised how many people don’t know what a bialy is. I suppose you can’t really blame them. I sometimes think that bagels are the insecure bread, couldn’t tolerate sharing the Jewish breakfast food arena. I suppose we have Noah to thank for that. You don’t see that dude pushing bialys on bus stop advertisements, do you? Anyway, I suppose by now it’s pretty obvious that bialys are like bagels – round, baked, made with flour, good for spreading cream cheese. But unlike bagels, they don’t require boiling to taste good. If you ask me, only narcissistic bread feels the need to sit in a hot tub before baking. A hot oven is good enough for bialys, and bialys are good enough for me. There’s a good bialys recipe (http://bialybook.com/bialy_recipe.htm) on my site.

Where’s my Advil? Never mind, where’s my Jack Daniels??

EE: Could it be magic, or can you really complete a first draft in two weeks?

DS: Magic. Please. Magic? I don’t think so. I’m not trying to embarrass you, but magic? If someone’s magic, it’s you, Elaine. Your books? Incredible. The awards? Deserved, deserved, deserved. I remember watching you eat your Kung Pao shrimp in Chicago last year and thinking to myself, "Magic. There’s really no other appropriate word." Listen, if I’m Magic – and I have my moments, sure – well, you’re triple super-duper magic. Seriously.

You’re a darling to say such wonderful things about me, but lean closer and I’ll let you in on my secret. No, closer. That’s it…a few more inches. Okay, just between us, right? I cast a spell, and it worked. I have all these dolls, see, and at midnight at every new moon, I…well, I’ll have to show you. It wouldn’t have happened otherwise. I mean, a gal’s gotta do what she can, right? So I used magic. They don’t call me Evil E for nuttin’.

ALEX KAVA http://www.alexkava.com

Six blockbuster books – over three million books and published in twenty-two countries – could it happen to a nicer gal? If you don’t believe me – just pick up Alex’s newest – A NECESSARY EVIL and when you can’t turn off the lights when you go to bed – just don’t blame it on me.

EE: Other than writing those mega-best sellers, which talent would you most like to have? Don’t tell us you’re still hoping to go on the poker tour either, okay?

AK: Scorpion killer! I actually tried it at this year’s ThrillerFest. (Seriously, I found one in my cottage.) But I was told squeezing a scorpion between a Kleenex with your bare fingers is NOT the way it’s done. In my defense, it was the closest weapon I had available at the time.

You could have shown the scorpion the cover of your new book – it would have keeled over with fright!

EE: My new spy hit me with a real juicy tidbit. He swears up and down he saw you and Tess Gerritsen in a huddle with Dominick Dunne at ThrillerFest. So…what was that all about, hmmm?

AK: For those who might not know, Tess did an autopsy at this year’s ThrillerFest. Now just think on those same lines for next year but add Dominick to the mix…well, I hate to spoil the surprise. As a hint I’ll tell you that Tess needed to use some of my research I did for SPLIT SECOND on putting body parts in take-out containers. Which by the way, a few weeks ago when the New York Times reviewed the ITW anthology, Thriller – that was my short story’s "Pie Topped With Spleen" that made it into the headline. I couldn’t have been prouder.

Oh.

I gotta tell you, it’s been a day with this bunch. A doc who likes to do autopsies in public, a vet who is a master of disguise, a leggy blond who stands up Jude Law, a scorpion killer who can show you how to put body parts in take-out containers and a nut case lawyer/baker who thinks he’s Barry Manilow. They think they’ve thrown me off, but I’ve got news for them – I’m on to their tricks. See, I’m an expert face reader – I can tell when perp’s are trying to give me the bum’s rush. Hey, I’ve been around the block a few times. Okay, so I’m direction challenged, but I eventually get to where I gotta be. And let me tell you, they know I’ve been there when I get there. Never mind – you hadda be there to get that one. My list is narrowing down – two more sessions and I’ll know who dunit.

So, until next Wednesday – stay safe out there people, okay?

The S Word

My name is Louise Ure, and I don’t use the S word.

You know the word I mean.

It’s SERIES.

I don’t speak series.

Lee Child has Reacher. Denise Mina has Paddy Meehan. Our own Pari has Sasha Solomon. Hell, Bill Pronzini has a series character, even though he’s Nameless.

And I love reading series books. They’re like going to dinner at an old friend’s house: you know who’s going to be there, just not what they’re serving for dinner.

But my books are one-offs. (I know. I could call them stand alones, but that’s another S word, and I didn’t want to confuse the issue.) I put characters into as much trouble as possible, cause there’s no way they’re going to agree to come back for more.

Some of my favorite books are not part of a series. Laura Lippman’s Every Secret Thing. Sara Gran’s Dope. James Sallis’ Drive. Books that make you question how they will end, whether the good guy will win, whether there really was a good guy there at all.

In my first novel, Forcing Amaryllis, I got jury consultant Calla Gentry face-to-face with the man who raped her sister and left her for dead. And I didn’t exactly help her get out of it.

In the next book, The Fault Tree, a blind, female auto mechanic is the only witness to a murder. Think Wait Until Dark, with a heroine who knows how to change the oil.

The third book (titled Liars Anonymous, for the moment) brings in a whole new cast of characters since none of the old ones were willing to show up at the reunion.

These books are an invitation to a dinner party where you don’t know either the guests or the menu. Hell, you don’t even know the address.

Or maybe you do.

The only thing my books seem to have in common is Arizona. Arizona, in all its caliche-riddled, sweat inducing, gazpacho guzzling, skinned-rattlesnake glory. They’re my Arizona Trilogy.

I haven’t lived there for thirty years, but it’s the place I turned to when I started to write. The place I can smell and taste most clearly.

Can a place be a continuing character? I’d argue that Florida was as important a character in John D. McDonald’s work as Travis McGee was. And Tony Hillerman has assembled a motley crew of characters to populate his desert southwest.

But maybe you can use place in a different way.

I spent almost three decades in advertising; evaluating 30-second epiphanies for beer, cruise lines, Shake ‘n Bake and the Dancing California Raisins. And for much of that time, those jobs only took me to cities that started with the letter S. Cities like:

Seattle
Sydney
Singapore
Sitka
Saigon
San Francisco

The S train was derailed after twenty years by an eight-month stint working in Denver, but I forgive them for that. I had a great time.

Can you imagine a series where the only common denominator is that the location starts with S? It would be great fun to write, and the research possibilities are mouth-watering.

There are so many other S cities that I haven’t explored yet. Siena. Stockholm. St. Petersburg.

When you think about it, there really aren’t any bad S cities. Except maybe Seoul. And Soweto. And that little S-named suburb I had to commute to for three years, where the employer insisted that I arrive by seven a.m., and that I wear pantyhose.

I may have just found my Series with a capital S.

On the other hand, this may be the dinner invitation from Hell. The one where you don’t know the hosts or the menu. You can’t figure out the dress code. And Mapquest can’t find the address.

P.S. Not only is this my first Murderati post, but it will also be my last post before Christmas, as Paul takes command of Tuesdays again next week. So I leave you with a Christmas cartoon sent to me by a "deer" friend who knows how warped a crime writer’s sense of humor can be.

Merry Christmas everyone!

Blurb me, Baby

Pari Noskin Taichert

Ahhhhh, the sweet smell of imposition . . .

Last week I wrote my first blurb for a book jacket. Opportunities have come up before, but they’ve never worked — didn’t like the book, found the writing painful, couldn’t spare the hours to give the manuscript a good read.

Not this time.

Yeah, I knew the author. But I only agreed to look at her work on the condition of honesty. If I liked it — great blurb. If not, no go.

What a relief to enjoy it so. What a pleasure to craft an endorsement that might benefit this brand new piece of literature (THE GHOST OF MARY PRAIRIE, Lisa Polisar, UNM Press, Spring ’07).

Even though the read took me away from my own writing, I didn’t begrudge a minute of it. This was a chance to return some of the kindness shown to me during these almost three years since my first publication.

Gosh, I still remember reading Tony Hillerman’s blurb for CLOVIS. It took my breath away.

You know what? Doing that for someone else was just as big of a high.

Frankly, most writers in our community enjoy helping each other. When I wrote the blog about that, the response was astounding. However, committing to read someone’s manuscript is a tremendous promise. Perhaps that’s why rumors abound about big-name authors who want to be paid for this gift.

The Pollyanna in me hopes that those rumors aren’t true. If they are, what a horrid taste there should be in our collective mouths. How hypocritical. Even the biggest name writers had to press upon other people’s good will to get blurbs in the beginning, when they were nobodies.

Better simply to have a policy of no endorsement — and to stick to it.

Blurbs have been on my mind because my newest mystery, THE SOCORRO BLAST, has started its long journey through production. Part of the process is getting those praise-sentences to be used for a variety of marketing purposes. Even if I don’t do the ask, my publisher wants me to provide suggestions.

I’ve gone through this twice before. Each time, I weighed the latest discussions on the listservs and at book clubs, the comments from blurb snobs that scoffed at the whole concept and assigned a negative value to each written enthusiasm.

Me? I like to read ’em. At the very least, I get to see what some of my friends in the crime fiction world think of a new work. At best, a hitherto undiscovered writer enriches my life.

I also enjoy getting blurbs. They build confidence at times when my insecurities peak — the months before the book is released.

In the past, writers — famous and less known — have kindly given me their words. How can I thank Gillian Roberts, Elaine Flinn (before we were on Murderati together), Charlaine Harris, Deborah Donnelly, Carol Luce, and Denise Hamilton for their generosity? Tony Hillerman has come through again; he’s given me a blurb for the new book so early that we can use it on the ARC. What words are there to express my appreciation for that?

In the middle of all of this joy, I have to think about who I’ll impose upon for book #3. It’s daunting this time because I now know the effort it takes to consider and write an honest blurb.

Which leaves me with this: I pray never to lose the deep sense of gratitude I feel toward those who’ve helped me thus far.

And, as my own career progesses, I hope to double this benevolence — to pass it on as long as I can.

A BIG ADIOS TO PLOTS WITH GUNS

Sad news to report. Last week, Anthony Neil Smith announced that Plots With Guns will finally go dark tomorrow.

Smith and co-creator Victor Gischler, now both acclaimed novelists, pulled the plug on the ground-breaking crime webzine in 2004 to fry bigger fish. Yet they left the archive up–a virtual noir library of great short fiction. Unfortunately, that library is now closing its doors.

If you think the marketplace for short crime fiction is slim now, in 1999 it was downright anorexic. These days, sites are all over the web dishing out healthy servings of grime, blood, and bullets (Thug Lit, Hardluck Stories, Demolition, and Thrilling Detective, just to name a few). Not to mention a slew of anthologies on the shelves. But back then, if you wanted your stories down and dirty your choices were few and far between.

Thank God for Plots with Guns.

Somehow, I stumbled upon PWG, and knew I had to be a part of it. Here was a place that gave new writers a chance to express themselves. It was crude and rude and beautiful, like a sassy punk-rock girl with a Masters Degree in Literature. I was working on a mystery novel at the time, but the only short stories I’d published were science fiction. I quickly gave up any sci-fi aspirations for hardboiled dreams.

PWG published the first crime fiction story I’d ever written (“Luck and a Gun”) in January of 2001. Seeing my work on screen, I was immediately hooked. I submitted a few more stories to them, which were promptly and politely… rejected.

My first reaction was to say “Screw you pals." Then I had a moment of clarity. PWG rejected my work for one simple reason–it wasn’t good enough. It didn’t matter that they were a website and not a print publication. It didn’t matter that they weren’t a paying market. If I wanted to be included on their site, I had to send my best.

Eventually, PWG accepted “The Revenge of Carlo Pulaski.” Since then, I’ve been able to sell a few stories, hear a few congratulations, but those two PWG shorts are still among my most satisfying accomplishments.

So, a big thank you goes out to Mr. Smith and Gischler, Mr. Maviano and to all the contributors for such great stories. And for such a great place to hang for a while.

Now go take one last peek at the corpse before they shut the coffin.

PLOTS WITH GUNS

Remain sitting at your table…

It seems to be a law of writers’ blogs that you must have an essay on that perennial question: Where Do You Get Your Ideas? So I thought by way of introduction, I’d start with that one, since, frankly, it’s so easy.

Franz Kafka offered this advice to writers (I guess to writers – I can’t imagine who else he would have been talking to):

You do not need to leave your room. Remain sitting at your table and listen. The world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked, it has no choice, it will roll in ecstasy at your feet.

I’m here to say that that Kafka really knew what he was talking about.

In one of my multiple, bicoastal lives I own a house in a rapidly gentrifying neighborhood in the South, an historical district with gorgeous old houses (huge wraparound porches, five-story high old growth trees, azaleas, hydrangeas, hyacinths – fireflies, for God’s sake) – some of which have been redone to perfection, others (fewer and fewer) of which are, well – crack houses. Not to put too fine a point on it.

It makes for some interesting traffic on the streets, let me tell you.

My house is between two rental houses – grand old places that were split up some time ago into various small and in several cases, disreputable, apartments. In the house on the right are student types and young recent graduates. In the house on the left are crazy people and criminals.

And all this makes for some interesting viewing, during those long, long days when I’m staring blankly out of whichever window I happen to be working in front of.

There’s a very, very cute twenty-something in the student house. Very cute. Very smart. Long hair. Great, probing eyes. Sits on the porch alone and smokes and thinks. Dead end job. Did I mention cute? And who lives with his very sweet, very straight girlfriend. And I’m very nicely taken care of myself, thank you very much. I’m just saying.

In the crazy house, there is a crazy girl. Young woman. One or the other. You must use words like "spitfire" and "floozy" and "lolls" and "prowls" to describe her. She throws anything within reach when she’s angry, which is often. She screams. She sobs. She constantly locks herself out of the house and asks the nearest passing man to boost her up to the second story window so she can get back in. She is often in just a – very short -bathrobe when she does this. And I do mean – just the bathrobe. I don’t actually think she works, but if she did work, she’d be a "dancer". You know. Not quite exactly the way I’m a dancer. Sex just rolls off her in waves. I’d sleep with her. Well, I wouldn’t really, but I certainly don’t have the slightest trouble imagining it.

Oh yeah, and she’s married. Young husband. Clueless.

Now, this whole situation is ripe. It’s practically oozing. There will be all kinds of sex with the wrong people. There will be scheming, and cross-scheming. Someone will die. Horribly. There will be betrayals and reversals that will make your head spin.

And you know, I don’t have even the vaguest idea what part of it I’ll end up writing. The whole Hitchcockian thing? Or just one character who shows up fully formed in some other story when I least expect it? I have no idea. I just know it’s growing.

I remain sitting quietly at my table, and wait for the world to roll at my feet.

So, brand new Murderati pals – what’s rolled at YOUR feet lately?

(And it goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway – I am just so honored and thrilled to be here! XX)

Tag, You’re It.

JT Ellison

I’m being lazy today. I know, I know, during a brilliant relaunch week, I should have something magnificent to contribute. But I’ll be honest with you, I’ve just had a really (really, really, really) long week. A great week, but long. Some of the highlights: Finished a solid first draft of book 2, did a read through and got it to my beta readers. Met with my new publicist (okay, I just like saying that because it makes me feel special). And got a HUGE sneak peek at something from the fine folks over at MIRA Books that literally took my breath away. The process is beginning for ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS, and it’s crazy fun.

So please, forgive me for being lazy. I’ll try to get it back in gear next week, and bitch about my woeful lack of Christmas spirit. Maybe I’ll get perky about it before then. In the meantime…

I found this meme on Word Nerd who had been tagged by Raspberry Latte. Since we have some new members here at Murderati, I thought this would be an excellent opportunity for all of us to get to know one another a little better. And I thought I’d tag y’all, see if we can’t get a blog roll going. So here goes:

List 5 things you’d like to do someday. The dreams you’d like to realize. The goals you’ve set for yourself.

JT’s List

Have a house in Italy – A place to retreat, to write, to experience another culture. That would also play into another of the top wishes, which is to be able to speak my mother tongue fluently. And would result in another sub-dream…Travel, travel, travel – Experience the Continent, go to Egypt, Israel, Turkey, Greece, Romania and not have the fear of being an American in a foreign clime. Which I suppose means we’d have to have some kind of world peace. But I’ve always, always wanted to travel to Nepal.

Read all the books by every crime master – I still feel woefully unread. I’d like to have the full collection of each major writer under my belt – Ellroy, King, Hammett, Chandler, Burke and all the greats.

Spend an afternoon in an F-15, and another on the track at Daytona in a stock car. – Really. I want to go fast, really, really fast, at least once. In addition to NASCAR, I’d like to take a few laps in any open wheel — Indy, Formula 1 or CART. I ain’t picky.

Make a living as a writer – I’d love to be successful enough that hubby could quit his day job and pursue his dreams. He’s been supporting me for so long, I’d like to do the same for him.

Have a Wine Cellar — A real collection of excellent vintages, more than the casual 91 and aboves. Of course, that means I need to learn a lot more about good wine. And have a house big enough to house the bottles.

And I’m going to add in a question.

Name one thing you’d love to do, but you know will NEVER happen:

Sing the National Anthem at a sporting event – Why will this never happen, you ask? I can’t hold a tune in a bucket, but I spent months singing the anthem in the privacy of my bedroom growing up in the hopes that I could train my vocal chords into some semblance of melody. Not gonna happen.

I am tagging
The Man In Black
The Debutante Ball
The Sphere
Anatomy of a Book Deal
Good Girls Kill For Money

And YOU!

Wine of the Week — Since I’m being lazy this week, why don’t y’all give me your picks? I prefer reds, but white is fine too, I’ll pass those suggestions along to Mumsy.